A TASTE of "The Amish vs. The Zombies" (Sample Ch.)

5 GELASSENHEIT

How could you feel all peaceful like and panicky at the same time? 

That was how Hannah felt around Zephaniah Miller. Sometimes she wondered what made him stand out in her mind at all. In many ways he was like every other unmarried Amish boy she knew. He dressed in black pants, vest and shoes, a blue ‘button-up’ type shirt (that really didn’t use buttons), suspenders, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. He lived on a farm with his family and worked from dawn to dusk most days. He went to church every other Sunday, drove a buggy instead of a car, didn’t go on dates, didn’t go to college (or even high school), and didn’t have any ambitions outside the expected Amish life. 

So why am I attracted to him? Hannah wondered.

Zephaniah stood at about five feet seven, had brown hair that covered his ears, brown eyes—nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it’s because he simply pays attention to me, when no one else does. But why pay attention to me?

It was an off-Sunday (that meant there wasn’t church that day) in early September. A warm breeze scuttled dry, dead leaves of red, orange, yellow and brown into a clear afternoon sky of cornflower blue. Hannah sat in the wicker rocker on the front porch hand-stitching a quilt in her lap. Zephaniah, nearly eighteen years-old, sat on a stool not six feet away. He whittled at a small hunk of wood with an Old Timer that had been his grandfather’s before he’d passed away.

Zephaniah had been calling lately—well, calling more often—usually with some excuse to help around the place, but he’d always came around once in a while. After all, he lived just next door—which meant he was only about half a mile away, but still in the next district. Therefore, they’d not really grown up together—in the same school or church—but their families had long interacted with one another since they shared a fence line and both ran dairies. She and Zephaniah often mended fences together, chased stray cows, and shared thoughts—like today. 

“The way I figure it,” said Zephaniah, “we’ve just pulled over off the highway. No one’s going anywhere important anyway, but they seem in an awful hurry to get there. We Amish, well, I guess we realized that, so we pulled over.”

“And stopped moving all together,” Hannah sneered.

“No, just moving at a slower pace, that’s all.”

“So we’re going the same direction? Nowhere important?”

“I didn’t say that. I think we’re moving in a different direction, too. Maybe headed somewhere…”

“Where?”

Zephaniah stopped whittling and looked up at Hannah with his dark eyes. He shook the penknife between his thumb and forefinger, “A place called Gelassenheit*.”

“Phwesh! I know that place.”

“Do you, Hannah?”

Hannah looked up from her work and stared at Zephaniah for a moment, thinking. Gelassenheit, calmness, composure, placidity, peace. Maybe. Well, sometimes, or maybe it’s just boredom.

“No, no I don’t,” she had to admit, “except when… No, I wish I did.”

“When? Except when what?”

“I, I can’t say. How about you Zeph? Do you feel at peace with…” she swept her hand toward the horizon, “with all of this?” Farms dotted the golden fields that lay shorn under the blue and white sky.

“I guess I do.” It was said matter-of-factly, no hesitancy, no question, no doubt.

“Why? Why!? How can you, when there’s so much to see, to learn, to do? There’s so much more than working day in and day out on the same parcel of real estate that was worked by your father, and your father’s father and his father before him. There are things to discover—new things, Zeph! And I want to know them.”

Zephaniah hung and shook his head, then, looking up he smiled at Hannah, tipping back his flat straw hat. “You and me, we’re different, Han. Well, you certainly are.”

“Is that, like, a compliment or a criticism?”

“Neither,” he answered, standing to his feet and folding the pocket knife shut, “I guess…I guess it’s just what I like about you, that’s all.” He slipped the knife into the pocket of his pants and stared at the toe of his shoe. “I got to be getting on, Han. Daed wants me to stack the cordwood before supper tonight.” He turned toward the steps.

“Wait!” she blurted. Too earnest. “Wait a moment,” she said softer. Zephaniah turned back toward her. “Zeph,” she said pausing, “sometimes I am at peace. It’s when you’re with me, but I…well, I don’t know if…” Oh! Why is this so hard to say? “I just don’t think I could, you know, be, be…”

“Married to me?” Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “Not what you were going to say. I’m, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m flattered, but, you’re right, that’s not what I was going to…”

“I do like you Hannah.”

“I like you too, it’s just that, well, I’m not sure I want to settle down. Here.”

“Yah, the Amish way, doesn’t set with you, does it?”

“I don’t think so.” She cocked her head.

“I figured as much.”

“It shows?” she said with mock disbelief.

Zephaniah laughed. “Yah, it shows.”

After an awkward pause, Hannah broke the silence, “I couldn’t think of a nicer man to marry though. You’ve always been kind to me.”

“Why, thank you. But, you are easy to like.” He walked toward her. Oh no, he’s going to kiss me, she thought, but, maybe that would be nice. But wasn’t that only for marriage? She didn’t want to appear loose, but then again she wondered what a kiss would be like. She’d never been kissed before. He extended his hand.

“This, this is for you Hannah.” She reached out and took the little carving and he closed her hand around it, held it a moment then turned and walked down the stairs turning back on the last step. “If you ever wish to talk, Hannah, I’m here for you. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Thank you Zeph.” He continued back to his buggy, climbed aboard and clicked for the horse to get along with the snap of the reins. Hannah watched him go off into the sunset toward his home and sighed. After a moment, she looked into her hand at the small figure he’d give her.

It was a car. She smiled and a tear formed in her eye.

Marching Along with "Marsh Monster"

Over four thousand words on MARSH MONSTER today! Great start. Here's a tad of what I wrote:

Chapter 1: Rumor Has It

“Whataya mean?” asked Dallas.

Dad drove the rental van down Hwy 59/20 just south of Birmingham, Alabama. A gentle hum from the tires on the pavement came in through the windows, which were cracked to let in an evening breeze—a futile effort to quell the lingering southern heat and humidity. Dad was into fuel economy and only used the AC on rare occasions—like on days when people were known to spontaneously combust, which was extremely uncommon.

“I mean…well…I don’t know what I mean,” he said looking at us in the rearview mirror, “That’s just what the reports are saying.”

“You’re telling me,” I said wiping the sweat from my forehead with my T-shirt sleeve, “that now the reported sightings of a ‘swamp monster,’” indicating quote marks with my fingers, “are more frequent and..”

“Yes, Pete, it appears so.”

We were on our trip back from DC and Langley. We’d been up to the capitol to attend Acquire the Fire*—an awesome youth event—and we’d had the opportunity to tour the White House and CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia. We’d been invited after Bart, my best friend, and I had uncovered and thwarted a biological terrorism plot in the bayous near our hometown of Houma, Louisiana.

Carla sighed, crossing her arms. I put my arm around her and pulled her closer, away from Reed who was sleeping with his head against the van’s door window, drool seeping out of the corner of his mouth.

Bart’s dad, who was a game warden, turned from his captain’s chair on the passenger side of my dad, and assured, “I just need to stop in near Honey Island Swamp and see what’s up, okay?”

Reed sucked in on his drool with a snort and a twitch.

“Ewh!” exclaimed Carla. I chuckled and, lifting my hand from Carla’s shoulder, smacked Reed on the back of his head.

“Aliens!” awoke Reed with a start.

Everyone laughed. Reed was known for his obsession with UFOs and other odd non-existing stuff, like zombies, vampires, ghosts and werewolves. I think he watches way too may reruns of The X-Files on Netflicks.

“Another nightmare?” asked Keilah poking him in the back from the seat behind.

“Ah, yeah,” Reed answered rubbing his eyes, “I guess so.” Everyone laughed again as Reed looked around furrowing his brow.

“We were talking about the Honey Island Swamp Monster,” I offered.

“Oh yeah,” said Reed, “they’re probably aliens.”

“Probably,” chimed Carla with a wry smile and a roll of her eyes. Everyone laughed again.

“You’re crazier than a fox in a hen house,” said Dallas, a Louisiana transplant from rural Texas. He was always saying hick stuff like that.

“Look who’s talking about monsters, cowboy,” retorted Reed.

“T’ain’t no such thang, nor little green men, flyboy.”

“Might be, ya know.”

Dallas guffawed and Dad piped in.

“This probably has whole lot more to do with earthlings than extraterrestrials,” he said, “and nothing to do with monsters either in spite of the myths.”

“Even though such rumors have been floating around even before the infamous Harlen Ford sightings in 1963 and 1980,” added Bart’s dad, “Besides there’s never been any real evidence—everything that was said to be evidence turned out to be a hoax.”

“But, that’s the strange thing about that digital picture a tourist snapped last week,” replied my dad, “it was still on the camera; no Photoshop involved.”

“The marsh monster was photographed!?” mocked Keilah, “Again? So what, there are lots of supposed pictures and plaster casts of footprints.”

“Marsh Monster,” Reed pondered, “I like that.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” I said turning to Keilah, “What? Pictures in comic books?”

“No, seriously,” continued Keilah, “they’re at the paranormal museum.”

“Yeah,” I replied, “and fuzzy pictures of ghosts and zombies; and they’re all over the Internet, too, but that doesn’t mean…”

“That they’re real,” Keilah cut me off, “I know. That’s what I’m saying.”

“This one, they tell me, looks pretty convincing,” assured Bart’s dad, “it was taken with a professional camera, quality zoom lens and all, at 2400 dpi.”

“Not even blurry,” added my dad, “even though it was taken from a moving airboat—which was full of eye witnesses, by the way. Saw the picture last week before we left. Awfully clear. Looks like a genuine Bigfoot to me—more organic than synthetic.”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s not a fake,” assured dad.

“Oh, it’s a fake,” said Bart’s dad, “no matter what it looks like. Even though every neck of the woods—or swamp—has its legends, there’s never been convincing proof that there’s any kind of cryptid in existence.”

“Cyptid?” questioned Bart, rubbing his temple.

“From the Greek krypto meaning ‘to hide,’” Reed instructed, “it’s a creature—

or plant—whose existence has been suggested, but is unrecognized by scientific consensus, and often regarded as highly unlikely, though it’s possible...if it hides.”

“Where do you get this stuff?” I exclaimed.

“Wikipedia.”

“You are such a geek, Reed,” said Bart. Reed shrugged his shoulders and leaned once again against the door. “Wikipedia,” mumbled Carla laying her head on my shoulder...