For this week’s post, I am going to share one of my first stories. It is embarrassing in a lot of ways, and yet I find some redeeming qualities in it as well. Unfortunately, I have never been able to land it. The first rejection I have on record for it was in July of 2010 and the most recent rejection was September 2022. I see nine rejections on record, but probably had more before I started keeping track.

What I love about this story is that it has a more complex structure than I probably should have attempted so early on. I am happy to see that there is an actual story arc and an attempt at a rewarding ending. I am also glad to see that somewhere along the line I changed the title from Things Remembered to That Dirty Bunch. Neither title is great, but Things Remembered is a horrendously vague and terrible title. I have no doubt it was being rejected for that alone. It is also encouraging to see how far I have come as a writer.

That Dirty Bunch, by James A. Miller

My name is Walter Evans. The events I am about to reveal will seem improbable, impossible even, and anyone reading this may think it to be the wild ramblings of an old man. I assure you that I am of sound mind.  My motivation is to get the tale told before my time comes.

Do with it what you will.

The year was 1937, and the day was a Sunday in late summer. I am sure the event is on record, as I remember seeing something about it in the paper, but the event as reported was, of course, nothing close to what actually happened.  Yes, it’s true there was a fire, but that was the least of it.

That day my brother, Adam, and I were sent to Sunday School by ourselves. My mother had taken ill with what was thought to be the Rheumatic Fever and my father had stayed at home to change the wet head towels used to keep the fever at bay and to otherwise care for her.

During church, Adam and I would occasionally look out the open stained-glass window pane to see five kids who belonged to what my mother called “That Dirty Bunch.” From the confinement of our pew, Adam and I would watch those five playing their regular game of baseball in the dusty lot next to the church. We spent many a summer Sunday in the sweltering pews, fanning ourselves with bulletins, looking out at those four boys and one girl playing ball, longing for their freedom.

On that Sunday, we did as we were told until it came time for our expected appearance at church service.  The service, which was held after Sunday school, was geared for adults and quite boring. We instead opted to skip out to get in some time with the kids playing next door.

As we approached, the group looked us over, unsure of our intentions. While we were too young to know words like “class differences”, we felt an obvious social chasm.

As Adam and I walked toward them in our Sunday best, our stomachs still full from breakfast, I noticed how skinny and scruffy the five looked. We crept closer. I expected one of them would say something to break the tension, but they remained silent and still, watching and looking vacantly at Adam and me as we walked right up to them. To see their faces, you would have thought we came in a rocket ship and asked to see their leader.

“You mind if we play some ball with you?” I asked the tallest boy.

He wore bib overalls with no shirt underneath. One strap held in place by a safety pin where the buckle no longer worked.

“You ain’t got no glove,” he answered.

“That doesn’t matter to us,” I replied.

The boy eyed us suspiciously, looking for the angle.

“Come on, let ‘em play, Allen,’ said the girl. Her dress – more tattered than dirty – contained tiny blue flowers faded with time. A head of tangled black hair partially obscured her freckled face.

“You shut your mouth, Cora Lynn,” the boy fired back.

But it was a strong enough suggestion to convince him, and with the relaxing of his expression, I knew we were in the game.

“That there is my sister, Cora Lynn. She gets mouthy but don’t pay her no never mind. Over there is my youngest brother, Michael, and these other two are Joe and Jason. They is our cousins.”

“We knew you’d come eventually,” said one of the cousins.

Joe and Jason were about my age. Homemade clothes hung loosely on their thin frames, both outfits made from the same bolt of fabric, maybe two summers before.  I nodded to the cousins, and they nodded back. Michael – maybe five years old – had deep-set blue eyes in a gaunt face that suggested at something more than a childhood innocence.  I nodded to Michael, but he only stared back at me. I turned to Cora Lynn.

“I’m Walter, and this is my brother Adam.”

Cora Lynn walked up to me, close enough I could smell the natural light apple-sweet scent of her body.

“You can be in the outfield with me, Walter,” she said.

“Don’t you two start to kissin’ out there.”

“Shut up, Allen,” Cora Lynn said.

I wasn’t quite at the age where I was supposed to like girls, but I remember thinking that I wouldn’t have minded it if she did kiss me.

We took our places: Cora Lynn and me in the outfield; Joe, Jason, and Adam on each of the bases, and little Michael pitching to Allen. On the very first pitch, Allen jacked a high long one into the churchyard that bounced and rolled right up against the concrete foundation.  There was no hope of getting the ball back before Allen’s lanky legs would take him around the bases, but being new to the group I had to prove my worth. I ran as hard as my slick-bottomed dress shoes would let me. As I reached down for the ball, I heard electricity, a continuous arcing and buzzing,and picked up the scent of what I now know to be ozone.

I stood, ball in hand, and looked in through the open pane of the stained-glass window to the source of the sound. I am still not precisely certain of what I saw as it was too much for any mind to take in, but here is my best account:

I saw the Reverend Johnson; his arms and legs outstretched in an “X”. Bolts of electricity were coming off of each limb, the arcs dancing, extending out to the walls of the church. The torrents of current appeared to be holding him in in place about three feet off the ground.  At the center of his body was an orange-red swirling mass of fire with a bright white center that hurt my eyes to look at it. The Reverend’s head blurred as it swiveled unnaturally fast, and his mouth kept pace with an incantation not of words, but syllables and utterances in a dark voice that I did not comprehend, but knew I should fear on some deeper level.

I looked at the congregation. Blue flames danced above the backs of their heads as they sat motionless in the pews.

I had no idea how long I was alone at that window, but felt the presence of the others as they joined to see what I was looking at. The seven of us pressed together and watched as the fiery swirling mass at the center of the Reverend grew.

I felt Cora Lynn against me. Even in that state of shock, I still remember the sensation of the cool fresh sweat of her arm touching mine and the warmth of her body next to me.

Out of the bright center of the fiery vortex came a long dark object. The smell of ozone was overpowered by a combination of rotting flesh and sulfur so thick and permeating I could taste it. The object rotated and then opened, maggots dripping, allowing the form to become recognizable.  It was a hand with dark claw-like fingernails and wrinkled knuckles.

“It’s comin’ through! You gotta stop it, Michael!” yelled Cora Lynn.

I didn’t see Michael leave, but moments later he was walking down the aisle of the church, where so many brides had trod.  A bright yellow light emanated from him.

The claw and now and arm were hanging out of the center of the Reverend. A shoulder and a horn had also started  pushing through, stretching the vortex.

As Michael walked toward the emerging beast, I heard him speak in a calm, authoritative voice.

“Now is not your time, Demon. You are not allowed here.” Cora Lynn grabbed my hand and led me away.

“Don’t look,” she said.

She took me to the middle of the churchyard and pulled me to the soft grass with her. The other kids surrounded us, and it was then that we were no longer children, but young adults. I looked down at her and realized that we had both become naked, but there was no shame.  As she pulled me to her, a snow-white haze fell upon us, and I saw that the children had grown white wings and were holding their hands and faces to the sky.  I gazed into her eyes, and felt myself fall into them.  I fell to where I could see what was happening, the sins of the Reverend that caused the demon to choose him as the portal. I fell to where I could see the sins of all mankind, and the burden they created, then on through to where there was hope and eventually triumph. I fell to where I ceased to exist and felt a lightness and joy. I fell to both ends; the beginning and end of all things and felt the intense flash of creation.

I then found myself sitting in the churchyard, back in my Sunday clothes, laughing, although I had no idea why.  Not far from me, Adam was crying. Cora Lynn and the rest of the dirty bunch were gone.

Adam and I walked through the church down the same aisle Michael had walked when he cast out the demon.  Ahead of us a scorched pile of ash that was the Reverend Johnson, to each side and at the piano dead church patrons.  Their eyeballs burned from their sockets. The smell of ozone, rotten meat, and sulfur lingered still. Dead maggots, curled and yellowed, littered the floor.

Adults later came with the fire trucks, followed by the Sheriff and his deputies. We told them we didn’t know what had happened. It wasn’t any sort of plan Adam and I had, we just knew what needed to be said. We stuck to the story even when our parents cross-examined us.

There were more questions for me when I later felt the pull and need to lead police to the bodies of the four boys and one girl buried in Reverend Johnson’s back yard. I told them I didn’t know how I knew what I did; that one of them would be wearing bib overalls and two of them would have clothes from the same bolt of cloth, that the girl would have a tattered dress with faded blue flowers and the youngest one was named Michael.

END

Well, there it is for all the world to see – or at least the few in the world that come across this Blog and take the time to read it.

If you have made it this far, feel free to let me know what you think in the comments below. I am particularly interested in where you think this story fails.

-James