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Cover photo, “Biblios” courtesy of Guy Laramee
Portal
The cold December wind was blowing around the first few flakes of snow. It was a bitter 28º outside the home of Herbie J. Wryter and he could not wait to get inside and enjoy a hot cup of his favorite coffee; a French vanilla, mocha mint something or other. Something out of the left corner of his right eye caught his attention and he stopped to see what had injected itself into his field of vision. There it was, cold and hard and approaching very fast. Herbie swayed to the left and avoided the certain collision with the object. However, by doing so he placed himself directly into the path of the other three objects that were sailing towards the other side of his head. He tried to duck and roll as his combat training had taught him but he was either too old or slow to miss the barrage of snow balls that intercepted his body.
What a way to be greeted by those off-springs that he had carefully planned to have with his darling wife Amaretto. That was nearly twenty years ago when the first one was born into this world as Jim D. Wryter. Now he was the leader of the assault on the father of the Wryter family; and the other two boys Carl and Henry; fourteen and twelve looked at him with a look of absolutely true incorruptibility; their snow covered fingers pointing accusingly at the ring leader. “Nice try but that won’t work,” Herbie said to the three soldiers that were trying to defend the family stronghold. “You didn’t give the password.” The leader called out. “I don’t need a password I am your father,” Herbie called out. “Hey, that’s the password,” exclaimed Henry. “No, that was the password for last week, Carl said as he picked up another snowball and waited for the command to fire again.
In the meantime Herbie had managed to scramble behind a nearby Maple tree and was straining to hear what was happening at the front of the house. Those boys had to pick today to be adventurous of all days. What was this meaning of a password? Herbie didn’t recall learning any passwords and surely if they expected him to participate in this little game of theirs they could make it fair and let him know what he needed to know. Three more snowballs whizzed past his safe haven and nearly the third one knocked his hat from the top of his balding head.
“Two more hits and your dead,” sounded from somewhere out in the snow that was now falling with blizzard force. In moments Herbie was being covered with a thick blanket of the frozen white stuff. He wondered how something so small and artfully intricate as a snow flake could be so damaging to his person. Then he remembered each of his three sons as they were babes lying in his arms with a look of innocence and their adorable little smiles; a perfect picture. Now they had joined together just as those individual snowflakes to cause him pain and suffering. This was his day of victory and they could not have it; they would be defeated.
Herbie waited for the next volley of shots to sail by and then he moved outward. First Herbie advanced to the left and then to the right and then he repeated the moves over and over again. Outside it may have been below freezing and snowing like a blizzard from the netherworld; but inside the mind and heart of Herbert J. Wryter it was Friday night and he was the runner carrying the winning pass toward the end zone. The snowballs were just defenders from the other team trying to steal his thunder. Herbie leapt in the air over the wall of linesmen that had surrounded him and just as he was falling into the end zone he heard the sound of a whistle; only the sound of the whistle was different. “That’s two more you’re dead,” the whistle said loudly. Herbie may have been dead but he took out two of the three boys defending the fortress of Wryter. The third defender had turned tail and was running away screaming, “I’ll get you next time.”