Selected Samples from

The Mad Tales by Pi Kielty

Excerpt from: The Imaginatives

They lived not in a physical community but connected like many sharing brains, all the parts extended from the central nerve, operating according to the prime impulse. As their psycho-spiritual leader, Todd Wilcox thought that morning, "We rule each other strict as a holy order, and serve the whole knowing that belonging, we no longer find ourselves lost as 'schweep.' " Such a thought he gave them, and many similar, during the meditation time. During that time, each one imagined themselves located in the peacock room of Todd's house. There they heard the Will.

Late in the morning congregation, Fred wandered into the meditation the way the others found it--through a strange accident: Todd's mental aura found Fred. The youngster, a very mature 15 year old Boy Scout, trained in camping, fieldcraft, and shooting, and the like, asked the others, "How can so many people fit into such a small mind."

Julie Hayes, #22, the welcome committee chair, replied, "Don't be silly. It is because we will it."

"Then how can I wish my body out of this classroom?"

Debra, Imaginative #35, the assistant to the High Priest for plights and queries, responded to Fred. "You can't have that unless you choose to leave."

"What is your name?” Todd asked, not able to penetrate the newcomer’s mind.

"I'm Fred."

Along Superior’s Northwest Shore

Along Superior’s northwest shore, the challenge of walking invites us.

The first step on the dirt path, or up the rock steps,

or along the corduroy logs over musty smelling mud, frees me.

I can’t see through the side of a thick grove of pine

in which a tunnel points straight through to the light

on the other side of the morning ‘s lower mist.

The water of recent rain–it always seem to rain–lies in slog

and the puddle seeps through my boots,

never proof enough against the stepping on the early dew.

My socks soak and introduce my feet to toil.

On the trail I have traveled–five or six miles on a day

Up along the bluffs, hoping to catch a whiff of air on a scorching,

wet summer afternoon, so windless that the great lake looks solid-smooth

and steams off water in a haze through which I cannot see.

Or I walk along a cliff free of trees and I can see the marsh below

surrounded by pines and ash, filled with pads and lodges

Made by nature’s great engineer on top of whose dams over laid with boards

I cross streams filled on one side into a pond.

I journey for days with a bag of home on my back, a climb straight up the Drain Pipe

or Wolf’s Rock to camp at Palisade Creek or Gooseberry run

or Split Rock flow, or in passing the power of nature

thundering over Baptism’s Falls.

I walk on web shoes in snow on the switchback sides of Leveraux on a clear

blue day in winter and ascend Trudee above clouds that sweat.

I see the startled deer.

I cross the bear paw print in spring goo.

I hear the flutter and briefly see the alarmed wings of grouse.

I touch the yellow leaves of an autumn turning maple.

I smell the pollen of a thousand cattails.

I see the green carpet of blades of grass among the nettled statues

atop Christmas Tree Ridge.

I hear the trickle and trackle as the stream beneath the covered foot bridge

runs into the miner’s shaft.

Through the leaf-less birch frosts of morning I see the big lake miles away from my hill.

When done walking I lay down my bronze-headed cane.

I feel the tight and sore of my calves and thighs, the rest of easy breathing,

the ache of my shoulder under the rubbing and chafing of a strap relieved.

My friend and I pitch our tent in the woods.

We boil and perk our kettle of ashened coffee on a fire whose sticks we have gathered

and snapped with our hands.

We cook our salty noodles or plain rice or spuds on a stove, garnishing with bread,

dried, tangy venison, sweet water-free fruit, nuts, and chocolate.

Sitting there, with my shoes removed and my socks airing, I read Thucydides

on the ground or sitting on a carved out bench.

I serenely hear and see and smell and taste and touch-- thoughtlessly feel the place around me.

I write in my orange bound journal–“I’ve come back to the woods. This IS living!”

Excerpt from: The Honor of Owning Billy Bill’s Bones

After the service, Tom approached Karl and Linda. "So what's science going to do with Billy's body?"

Karl looked at his wife. "Well," he stammered, "you might as well know as everyone will find out about it later. Billy's vitals and organs were given to science. His body, however, is currently being cleaned."

"What the hell did you do to him?" Tom asked.

Linda's face became very long and her eyes widened.

"It was his dying wish. Next week, his bones will be bathed in acid and bleached."

"Why would he want to do that to himself?" Linda wondered aloud.

"Where's he gonna go?" Tom seemed disbelieving.

"Well," Karl stammered for a brief second, "he wants me to put his high school letter jacket on him, put a can of beer and a cigarette in his hand and stand him up in the corner of our basement so he's there when we party."
"Are you sure that's what he wanted?" Linda demanded to know.

"It sounds like something Billy would want," Tom said, appearing comfortable now that he knew the whole plan. "We'll have to have a party when you set him up. When will that be?"

"The guy taking care of it all said about a couple weeks."

Tom walked away to tell the others. Linda whispered loud and indignant, "There's no way, Karl, that you're bringing Billy's skeleton into my house. You should have talked to me about it before you agreed to do it."

"I agreed to it three years before we met. And this isn't the place to discuss it. And there's no discussion. It was his dying wish."

"Uh-uh. No way, absolutely not. I don't care if he was your best friend. We're not doing it."

"We have to," Karl said. "And that's final."

Excerpt from: The Evil of the Sub-Demon

"There's a bunch of noise outside my room," he told the man on the phone. "The sirens, voices, screaming, and shouting. Tell them to please stop it. I can't handle it. It's driving me batty."

The night manager said he would investigate.

"Thank you," Brad said, turning his body to replace the receiver.

When his arm reached the night stand it lost its strength as it limped and rested on the fake wood. His head burrowed the pillow and he sat breathing the carbon-dioxide. When he picked up his head, the wetness remained on the pillow. At once, though, the sweat built on his forehead and moisture further dampened his already greasy black-dyed hair.

With great assembled strength, he drank some ice water. Holding the glass to his brow, the coolness removed some of the heat swirling in his body. Outside, he could hear the voices. The sirens bellowed, sounding just feet away from his first level window.

"Good Lord," he said.