Edmon Furcelli

So this was Hell! It wasn’t at all what Edmon had expected. Not at all. The line was moving slowly so Edmon had time to let his eyes wander. He wondered why anyone would want to go to that other place. Look at those huge, deluxe houses! All with swimming pools and tennis courts. And the girls! He’d never seen so many young, sexy girls in one place. Yeah, this could be really nice.

“Move along now and stay in the queue.”

“Yeah, yeah…it isn’t like I’m going anywhere now is it?” replied Edmon with a laugh to the guard who was trying his best to keep the line moving in the right direction.

“Oh, you’re going somewhere alright mister…and you can bet it ain’t gonna be a nice one if I get any more of your lip.”

“Oh, please. What are you going do? Kill me?” said Edmon as he burst out laughing again.

“No, I won ‘t kill you. But you will want to kill yourself…and I promise you’ll try to do it…over and over and over again. Won’t do any good though.”

“Who? Me? Try to kill myself? Not likely. I mean look at this place; it’s better than any place I ever saw when I was alive. No, my good man, I have no intention of trying to kill myself again. I tried it once…that was enough. You know Heathcliff, I believe you need to lighten up a bit…get rid of those fire ants in your pants…and maybe change some of those red duds you’re wearing for something more mellow. Blues or purples, for example.”

The guard, who had been standing stiffly, almost at attention while Edmon continued his rant, finally grabbed him by the arm with more force than Edmon thought possible in a man that size and started to drag him out of the line and toward a small building to the left of the main road along which the crowd of newcomers had been lined up. The building stood out because, unlike all the colorful buildings around it, this one was painted pure black from top to bottom.

“Hey, no need to get rough. I was just joking with you…having a little fun. Hell should be fun, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t. What did you say your name was?” asked the guard.

“Can’t say that I did say,” replied Edmon, “but I’m not averse to given that bit of information out. I’d kind of like people to know who I am. The name is Edmon…Edmon Furceli. And what might yours be?”

“Well, Edmon…it’s not Heathcliff. But I don’t intend to tell you what it is. I will, however, share one bit of information with you: believe it or not, I do have fire ants in my pants. Everyone down here does…sooner or later. So will you. But I also have a very low tolerance for pieces of cow dung like you, so I hope you enjoy your stay.”

The guard said this as he was opening the door to the small black building. He dragged Edmon inside where a musty, dank smell filled a small room lit only by the light coming in through the door.

“Got another one for you Lon! Make sure you introduce him to all the crew.”

With that he flung Edmon onto the hard cold floor. Edmon glanced up from where he had landed and, in the dim light of the room, saw a long scaly arm reach down, grab his right foot and lift him up until he was dangling head downward from about six feet off the floor.

“No need worry much ‘bout that, Boss Man. He meet ‘em all. Big Lon make sure that!”

“Good.”

The door to the black building shut as the guard went back to the line of newcomers. It left Edmon, however, in the dark with some kind of giant scaly thing holding him upside down. Lon, the guard had said…Big Lon.

“Lon, my friend. Is there any possibility you could set me down,” said Edmon. “I don’t want you to think that I don’t appreciate your concern and consideration for my well-being—picking me up off the floor and all was a nice gesture—but I really think I should be running along to rejoin the queue outside. I was hoping to get set up in one of those nice places with a swimming pool and lots of girls…you know the ones I speak of, don’t you?”

Lon didn’t respond, he just began to shake Edmon vigorously up and down as if he were a yo-yo.

“Oh, Lon…I do wish you would stop this up and down business. It’s giving me a bit of a headache,” said Edmon. “Could we please take a short break? I’m really not a bad sort of chap, you know.”

“No Lon to you…Mister Big Lon. Say right or no stop.”

“Right then, Mister Big Lon, sir. I do apologize for the faux pas. But keep in mind that I have only been here for a short while and have not had time to get all the rules memorized. So please, Mister Big Lon could you put me down…and perhaps a little light wouldn’t be too much to ask for?”

“Big Lon no need light. But you like light? Good. Lon know place for you. Lot’s of light. Put you down now…way down.”

For just a moment before Big Lon let go of Edmon, he wondered what the big brute could mean by ‘way down.’ Edmon was working up a thoughtful question to pose to Big Lon on the subject when he felt an odd sensation…the darkness had begun to rush by him…and he could not feel Lon’s iron grip on his leg.

“Big Lon? Still there old chap? Hello!”

But Big Lon did not answer. And the sensation of falling continued. Several minutes passed as he continued to fall into the darkness before Edmon noticed something different. There seemed to be a flicker of light up ahead…yes, there was definitely a light…and it was getting brighter quickly. There was something else as well…it was getting warm and, in addition, there was this smell. Oh dear, it wasn’t just warm, it was getting downright hot, and that smell…peeheuw! It was growing stronger by the second. The light up ahead was also starting to come into focus and Edmon could see that he was rushing towards the source of that light at an incredible speed. It was an inferno.

Well of course this was Hell…so it should be an inferno. But surely, this free-fall elevator will stop before I land in that mass of flames.

But Edmon did not stop. He slammed at full speed into the flames, and into something else he had not noticed—the floor of the inferno was covered with sharp pointy iron bars, a number of which skewered Edmon. One went right through his open mouth and out through the back of his head. The pain was excruciating. But of course, Edmon did not die due to that little problem of already being dead. He was surprised that he could still feel the pain, but there was no question about it…pain was everywhere. His skin would burn completely off and then reform and burn again. The spikes in his head, arms, legs and body were exactly as he imagined they would have felt if he had been alive. And the smell… that may have been the worst of all…was as if all the dead, rotting animals in the world had been dumped in this place.

The pain, heat, and smell almost immobilized Edmon, but eventually when he saw that they were not going away, he started to carefully lift himself up off of first one spike and then another. He tried to be careful not to step on or touch any additional spikes, but unfortunately he ended up with a few more poking through his feet and hands before he finally was able to stand up between them. Slowly, Edmon made his way across the flaming spikes to what appeared to be a door on the far side of the furnace. He grasped the handle and turned it, hoping they had not locked him in. It was difficult, but Edmon resisted the urge to scream as the red hot handle burned into the flesh on his palm.

The door did open. A poorly lit corridor stretched out in front of him, but Edmon did not move. There was someone else in the corridor as well. Someone who Edmon had never wanted to see again. Someone who made his blood run cold even in this overheated place. He tried the door behind him thinking that he would prefer the flames and the spikes, but the door was now locked. There was no escape.

“Get your butt in gear, Furceli. And follow me.”

It was Mrs. Magnolia Hoppswitter, his sixth grade teacher. This time Edmon couldn’t stop the scream from coming. All those horrible memories flooded back. The endless story problems, the two hours each day of French immersion, the wickedly long and tricky lists of spelling words, the countries and capitals that no one else even knew existed. And all the time, Mrs. Hoppswitter marching up and down each row of desks, a fiendish smile on her face, rapping students on the back of the head with a long ruler if they dared to even look up from their work. Edmon had already been to Hell once…and it had been that year in sixth grade.

His screams echoed off of the walls, getting louder and louder as they bounced along the corridor. Mrs. Hoppswitter turned back towards him, her lips pursed tightly together. She walked stiffly back toward Edmon, pulled out her ruler, and began hitting him on the top of his head.

“Stop! Please stop…I’ll do anything…anything, but please, not Mrs. Hoppswitter.” He said this to himself more than to anyone in particular, but as he said it, the darkness, the heat, and Mrs. Hoppswitter with her ruler all faded away.

Edmon opened his eyes. He was in his room with the early morning sunlight filtering through his bedroom window. It had been a very warm night and his sheets were drenched with sweat. What a nightmare! Edmon rolled out of bed and glanced at his alarm clock. 7:05 am. Lingering flashes of the nightmare crossed his mind. Why would he be dreaming about that old witch Hoppswitter? Must have been the twenty sliders along with the big slice of pecan pie he had eaten right before bed last night. Yeah, that was it. People always said you shouldn’t eat too much right before bed.

The clock now read 7:12 and Edmon knew he needed to get going or he would be late for work. He stood and moved toward the bathroom. As he passed his nightstand, a long thin object caught his eye and he froze. There next to his alarm clock was Mrs. Hoppswitter’s ruler.

The Book Report - Les Miserables

[The following account is fiction. Any similarities to real people are purely coincidental.]

I guess it really hit me when I told my sister Shirley that I wanted to go to France. She didn't understand that at all. 

"I just don't even have a desire to go anywhere else. Why...all there is to see in Europe or Asia are some crumbly old buildings that smell like dirty socks or moldy cheese. Can you imagine having to raise a family out there among all those non-Mormons?"

This came from someone who had never gone farther from home than southern Idaho. I suppose her visit there left a nasty taste in her mouth for the rest of the outside world...all those potato fields can be hard on almost anyone. I tried to convince her that Twin Falls was probably not the best place from which to judge the rest of creation.

"If you've seen one place out there you've seen them all and you're better off not seeing them anyway and staying put where your children can grow up with other children of their own faith. Besides don't you remember what happened to Mac Norton last year when he went off to New York to work for the summer?" added Shirley.

"No, can't say as I remember that anything happened to Mac", I replied.

"Well, he came back with that awful looking beard and wore sandals to church until the Bishop talked to him about how he was having the wrong kind of influence on the young boys."

I didn't say it to Shirley, but I really liked Mac's beard and I was sorry he'd shaved it off. That's not the main point here though. The point is that Shirley was just saying what the rest of the ward members would have said. They were good people, in fact they were exceptionally good people, but they didn't have the same vision of the world that I did. I just knew it. I was the only one that really understood the world. I wanted to go places and see different people; I wanted to walk where Shakespeare and Dickens had walked; I wanted to climb the tower of London and walk through the halls of Notre Dame; I wanted to see the view from the top of the Great Wall and gaze out across Athens from the Parthenon. And then I wanted to write about the places and people I had seen.

It would be a great novel, one that would touch the lives of millions of people - and, of course, sell a million copies. I would use the money made from the book for charitable causes, since it's a sin to daydream about getting rich unless you plan to use the money for charity. Yes, I would write a great novel, win the Nobel Prize and maybe the Pulitzer Prize as well and then give it all to the poor. That's what Jean Valjean would have done.

You know Jean Valjean...I'm sure I've told you about him before.

Dad...is this going to help me with my book report?

Of course, just hang with me for a couple minutes here son. Let's see, where was I...oh yes, Les Miserables.

No book...and I had read quite a few for an almost-sixteen year old...no book had ever, nor do I think another will ever, affect me as deeply as Les Miserables. I read it as an assignment in English class. We had to choose a book from a list of 20 or 30 approved books given to us by Mr. Mohr. Almost everyone in class did the same thing; we went to the library, looked at all of the books to see how many pages they had, and then picked the book with the fewest pages. I think I picked out The Old Man and the Sea and figured I could read it over lunch one day. No one even thought of trying a book with more than 150 pages...well almost no one. I wasn't going to be different, but then Darcie made some rude remark to me in French class like:"Oh! Is that your book for English? I'm sorry, I thought it was my bookmark."

I couldn't think of a really appropriate response because she was reading a book with at least 500 pages and because I always got a little flustered around Darcie, but I made a lame attempt anyway.

"Oh, this is just my warm-up book. I plan to read a couple more books on the list as well. I hope you haven't bitten off too much with that book of yours, Darcie. You'll have to read faster than you usually do to finish it before graduation two years from now."

You really said that dad?

Yeah, not one of those really snappy comebacks that I was known for around school, but, nonetheless, it had an effect.

Darcie gave me a squishy look and ignored me for the rest of the class. I went back to the library the next day and checked out the longest book on the list - Les Miserables – 1,259 pages. I carried it around school for a couple of weeks just to leave a deep impression on all those who were reading The Old Man and the Sea and to make sure Darcie saw it. I didn't really intend to read the monster, it was just for effect. But then Mr. Mohr saw me with it in class one day and he made me come to the front of the class with the book. It was horrible!

He smiled and held the book high for everyone to see and said: "Class, I have been noticing the books that all of you have chosen to read this term. Brian is the only one who has the drive and courage to tackle a book of this magnitude. I wish you would all be a bit more adventurous, for this is truly a great book. Thank you, Brian. You may return to your seat."

That was when I realized how clueless teachers are. I hope I never do something like that to you son. It was embarrassing, humiliating, and degrading! I'm sure he meant well, but teachers simply have no brains at all. They drag you out in front of everyone else and make you out to be a complete idiot under the pretence of giving you a compliment.

I don't think I would have minded it too much, dad.

Well, just wait a couple years and you'll understand. Anyway...

When I returned to my seat I couldn't help but notice the cheesy grin on Darcie's face. She knew I had no intention of reading that book. I went home that night a bit dejected and feeling very much like the title of the book. I knew I would have to read Les Miserables now and I really was miserable as I opened the book and began to read. I didn't realize that no one ever reads the whole thing. What they do is go and find one of the many shortened, condensed versions. Why, if I had only looked, my mother (your grandmother) had the Reader's Digest condensed version sitting right on the shelf at home, all 250 pages of it. Well, I never knew about them and I'm glad I didn't. I read every one of the 1,259 pages, and by the time I reached the scene where the Bishop gives Jean Valjean the candlesticks and redeems his soul, I was lost in a magical world from which I would only surface occasionally for food and sleep. I couldn't think of anything else for weeks even after I closed the last page. I couldn't even think about Darcie, although she was all I had been thinking about before. I felt like it was my book, my personal treasure that no one else would ever quite understand it. I was glad that all the rest of the class had not read this great book. They didn't deserve to be a part of this new world that now was mine.

I read it again before our assignment was due and wrote a report that got me the A grade I wanted, but I didn't really care about the grade. And I certainly didn't want to talk about the report or the grade with anyone, like I usually would have. I couldn't. It was too personal…too sacred almost. But, of course, Darcie couldn't let it slide.

"What's the matter Brian?"

She was trying to get a peek at my paper. And she was using that sweet sarcastic voice that normally would have had me primed for a sarcastic comeback.

"Oh, dear. Did wittle Bri-Bri not get the highest grade in the class? That is so tragic."

She puckered her lips up into a pout, but I just sat there, my eyes gazing off into space. How could she not understand? It was all so clear to me now. I was Marius...and Darcie...she was Cosette. I'd guess I'd really known it for a long time, but before reading Les Miserables I'd ignored it. I couldn't ignore it anymore.

Darcie leaned closer over my desk and grabbed for my report, but as she did it her long dark hair brushed against my arm. I don't really know what came over me then...everything happened so fast that it's kind of a blur in my memory...but as she grabbed for the report, the next thing I remember is that I had pulled her face next to mine and kissed her. But the best part was that she was kissing me back!

So, you may or may not believe me, but if I hadn't read Les Miserables I would have never kissed your mother. And if we hadn't kissed, you wouldn't be here today.

But dad, I'm only in second grade...Les Miserables isn't on my reading list. I've got to choose between Rah Rah Radishes, Junie B. Jones, and Splat the Cat.

I see...perhaps you should go ask your mother. Just don't tell her about the whole Les Miz thing. Her version's a little different than mine.

So you think you want to write a book?

A couple of years ago, I got the strange idea that it might be fun to write a book. Everyone does it, so why not me? It couldn't be that hard could it?

My inspiration came from having been invited to speak to a group of writers, artists, songwriters, and others at a workshop held at Aspen Grove in the beautiful Wasatch Mountains of Utah. Apparently this group, had the tradition of inviting an unsuspecting individual from outside their specialty fields to speak to them during their workshop. Geology, which is my specialty, undoubtedly sounded about as far afield as you could get. And, although it's hard on my ego, the real reason I received the invitation is that my wife just happens to be good friends with the wife of the organizer of the workshop.

So, there I was, trying my best to pretend to be artistic and musical and creative. For a guy who thinks that a good time is when you get to spend two hours trenching a hillside to look for a two-inch, 170 million-year-old, volcanic ash bed, this was a different experience. I'll admit it was fun to rub shoulders with some really interesting people and act like I knew what they were talking about, but I knew I wasn't one of them. I hadn't created anything artistic. In fact, my last experience with art was in Junior High School.

When I was a kid everyone had to take art in Junior High. I was confident that art would not be any more of a challenge than any of my other subjects. Science, social studies, history, English, German, even choir, were easy. I was getting A's in all of them. Art was different. I only just muddled through the first few assignments. My grade was not going to be an A unless I finished the class off in a spectacular way.

Fortunately, we had a final project and after thinking about it for some time, I decided that I would make an artistic candle. It would be so impressive that my teacher would ignore all the other mediocre work and give me an A. I am sure that I must have put all of my 12-year-old heart and soul into the project. It was white and big. Big was always impressive, and white was easier than trying to mess with colored wax. I melted up several blocks of kitchen wax and poured them into an empty milk box. When it had cooled, I ripped off the box to reveal a tall, square tower of wax. I was probably getting chills just thinking of what the final candle would look like. But it did need something more. So, I whipped up some frosting and covered the whole thing with white foam. To finish it off I added silver glitter, a few red hots, a couple sprigs of fake holly and stuck a stiff piece of twine into the top as a wick.

It was a thing of beauty. There was no doubt in my mind that this was an A project. My mother, who loved to paint with oils, smiled and sent me off to school, proudly carrying the finished project. Even to this day, I can't believe that my monster candle barely earned a C-. It was much better than all the sketches and carvings and things that the other kids brought. Besides being functional, if you didn't mind a little silver glitter, you could still eat the icing.

Well, you get the idea. My art skills were, and still are, pretty sub-par. But writing now, that was something I thought I could do. I actually had co-authored a book and written chapters in other books. True, they were not the kind of books anyone would sit down to read for quiet relaxation, but they were still books. And, the final thing that pushed me to try and write a 'novel' was that at the workshop I met Stephenie Meyer, James Dashner, Shannon Hale, and a bunch of other published authors. They all seemed like pretty regular people. I was regular people! As regular as they get (that is as long as we aren't talking about intestinal regularity).

After the workshop, I set my course. First I attended a couple of writing workshops. They were fun, and I met a ton of other published authors. But...I also discovered that novels didn't just flow easily out of the pen. It might take me more than a few weeks to crank out that blockbuster. I did meet up with some other aspiring authors and we formed a 'writing group.' Initially we had about fifteen, but now at our monthly meetings we are lucky to have three or four of us. Still, undaunted we plow ahead.

I've started five or six novels. I even made it all the way through one of them and gave it to my wife to read. After a couple of weeks, when she hadn't returned it and did her best to pretend that I had never given her a book, I realized that it was my art project all over again. I could see it's brilliance, but probably no one else would.

Still, I'm determined to write. I've just revised Chapter 1 for the one hundredth time and now maybe I can move on to Chapter 2. I'll keep you posted.