Posts Tagged ‘Matthew Sawyer’


The Betulha Dohrman Legacy

March 6, 2018

Debbie Menon failed to sell the house every local called the Witch’s house. The grief-stricken real estate agent set the historic brick Victorian on fire before the house became animated. The burning Witch’s house moved itself out of Wister Town, taking a chunk of crust with it from the small Wisconsin city. Since, the house has been abandoned where it had gone past the suburbs. It’s become an attraction for daredevils and a shelter for desperate animals. Debbie has since long left her real-estate agency and the house is no longer for sale.


A Janet Drays is then one day idle and she searches the Internet. Wister Town was filled with monsters, so that was nothing new. Janet was curious about the old Witch’s house in her hometown. She finds information a real estate agent would probably never know. The young woman comes to learn the legacy of this womb of aberrations. The Betulha Dohrman Legacy by Matthew Sawyer is the sequel to the novel, ‘Debbie’s Hellmouth‘, which itself had been birthed in the short story, ‘The Abandoned,’ from the collection entitled, ‘Horrid Tales of Wister Town‘.

The Betulha Dohrman Legacy ebook is available from

The paperback can be purchased at




A Song For the Death of Children

March 2, 2018

I met a people who prepared themselves for the end of everything. Everyone I spoke to told me, “All the adults will be sorted first,” and they will go to heaven or hell. There, they will await their families, for sin and forgiveness were inherited because of surnames.

“We know our children will die,” many had said to me. “They will be alone, for we will have perished. Each one will die by themselves, so we taught all our children a nursery rhyme. They might sing in our voices while they wait. Our children might sing to themselves before they die…”

“One, two, three and four.

 The kingdom of God is at your door.

 Close your eyes,

 Be at peace.

 Go home with our Lord.

 Go to sleep.”

“How will the children die,” I wondered. “How will everyone die?”

“Horribly,” their preacher said.

“There will be nothing of you,” the clergy says, “Nothing left but your last breath.”

“That’s why the verses are so short.”


– Matthew Sawyer



A Progressive Girl and a Snake

February 24, 2018

I have heard this “classic” American folk story too many times. The first time I heard ‘Girl and the Snake’, by the way, was in a church service. I was about ten. Back then, I chuckled because I was a sadistic child and because everyone laughed. But I have grown, I got myself educated. And so, too, has the innuendo of the cruel tale gotten old. It now has fangs, thanks to America’s Pretender-Of-The-United-States. Because of this liar, the country is all a shame. Since I am now a responsible adult, I take it upon myself to renovate an ugly and stale yarn. Voters, themselves, in 2018 and 2020 will have to restore honor to our nation. – Matthew Sawyer (AKA Mr. Binger)


A Progressive Girl and a Snake

A college-educated Black woman walks to her grandmother’s home and she hears leaves rustle beside her foot. Before she jumps away, a snake speaks her. It’s thoughts fill her head with a southern drawl of American English. The reptile says, “Help me, it’s so cold. I will freeze to death”

“It’s not that cold,” the girl inadvertently replied aloud. She was not, at first, willing to play games nor be suckered into a practical joke. Everything seemed too real. The diamond-shaped pattern on it’s skin suggested this was a rattlesnake.

Remembering scripture the young lady had put aside long ago with all childish things, she tells the snake, “The only talking reptile I know about is the devil in the Bible. I don’t believe in all of that.”

“Anyway, you’re lips aren’t moving – just that pointy little tongue. You’re talking to me in my head.”

“You might be hallucinating,” replied the snake.

She tells it, “I don’t use drugs.”

“Maybe, I’m a scientific experiment,” answered the snake. “I am the genetically enhanced step in evolution.”

“All right,” said the girl. “I suppose someone is looking for you.”

“That, too,” the snake shouted with thoughts. “Please, take me with you. I’m in trouble for my life. They want to perform experiments on me!”

“All right,” she said yet reluctant. “I’m, uh, gonna use a stick and pick you up. I don’t want to get bit.”

“That’s fair, I understand,” the snake pretended to say. Carried along as if resting on tree branch, the snake tells the girl, “Thank you, you are my first human friend. I promise I would never bite you.”

“Don’t say things like that,” she said to the snake. “That’s just a lie.”

“Where are you taking me?” suddenly wondered the snake. The reptile shivered in discomfort that was not related to the weather.

“I gonna show you to my friends. Maybe, we can put some corks on your fangs.”

“What?” shouted the snake which now squirmed.

“We can’t cut them off,” promised the grinning girl. “That would be cruel. Nah, I’m just kidding.”

“I hope so,” pleaded the snake. “Will you still help me hide from the government?”

“Sure,” she said, “But there has got to be some changes.”

The snake wonders, “Like what?”

“If we’re going to be friends,” said the girl, “There are going to be conditions. I’m no fool. I’ll have to build up an immunity to your venom – not poison, so you know: I know the difference. We need an anti-venom. Hey, maybe we can sell your venom to a laboratory and make money.”

The snake tells the girl, “You sound smart.”

She tells it, “I am, just don’t bite anybody I don’t want you to.”

“Where would you be without me? A talking snake? You would be dead if I didn’t come around. Welcome to my world. We now have something called a social contract. Do you understand what that is?”

The snake asks her, “Tell me.”

“It means,” she says, “We have an unspoken commitment to cooperate with each other and make the world a better place. It means we don’t hurt each other. That’s how a civilized society works – if you have the capacity for speech, surely, you must understand that concept. Language is what separates us from just being animals.”

Then, to the snake, it seemed universal truth became revealed. The animal achieves enlightenment. It’s conscious fully awakes. “Yes,” it said. “It is so plain, it does not require hallucinogenics to see. I am more than my mere nature.”

That is when the snake and the progressive girl became friends. And they were bounded to each other all their lives, which was short on account snakes live only twenty years and this one had been mutilated at the cellular level with unthinkable modifications. And, oh yes, that snake did bite the brave girl, but when that happened, she was already immune.



The Town of This Many Years Old

February 22, 2018

“I am from the town of this-many-years-old,” Mr. Binger claimed. “I have a friend who will eat things you wouldn’t put in a dog’s butt.”

“Now, I am not advocating inserting anything into any dog’s anus, I’m saying, strange things come from a dog’s butt. People put them there… suppositories, colonoscopy scopes; ordinary stuff, I suppose.”

“Let’s see what we have here,” Mr. Binger said producing a paisley carpet bag, there on stage. From which, the short man produces a miniaturized model of an airplane, a hollow ping pong ball and a plastic army figure, among other unrelated small objects.

“All this stuff came from dog butts.”

Mr. Binger says as if he changes his mind, “Let’s not talk about that.”

“What does my friend eat?” he asked an invisible audience.

“Well,” he claimed and gestures at the miscellany before him on the floor.

“I would never put this stuff in my mouth,” Mr. Binger iterated. “I guess a dog would. My friend did; he would after it came out of a canine.”

“But, we’re not talking about him.”

“I guess these can things look edible, but I’ve never asked. It’s not something I wonder about. I think it’s all about a mental illness called coprophilia.”

Mr. Binger interrupts himself. “That’s what it’s called in the DSM-IV, that’s a manual of mental disorders; Psychiatrists use it. Someone educated in the audience will inevitably say, ‘Uh-huh, the disorder is called something different, and there is now a DSM-V’.”

“I don’t think dogs know. I mean, do dogs know what food looks like, or do they swallow anything that looks pretty? Do they consume the visual arts? It is probable.”

“Maybe they think an open can of beef stew looks like the Mona Lisa.”

“They could believe they’re giving a precious little thing a home. It won’t crawl up there by itself, so our gregarious little companion must first gulp it down.”

“And that would be the end of that, until it came back around.”


You Know What Hell Sounds Like

February 13, 2018
“You know what hell sounds like,

Standing this far off, this far away?”

“It sounds like a distant train whistle.

Hell sounds like that horn blown from miles up the track.”

“Except, the whistle never stops,

It’s never interrupted.”

“And you know something is wrong.”

“It’s always coming.”


– Mr. Binger



Fondness of Monsters

February 2, 2018

Because I’m someone with a life-long fondness for monsters, I imagine someone might ask, “Why, then, do you like ordinary sparrows?”

“Well,” I tell my imaginary inquirer, “I like when they come for breakfast, and they wait for me on the stairs all bunched together.”

I know the birds instinctively approach big creatures in groups. They try to look big, but mine come together to no larger than a cat sprawled upon a stairwell – a feathered cat with a dozen beady eyes and half as many sharp beaks. It’s adorable.



There’s A Sign Up Ahead…

February 2, 2018

Sometimes, I feel displaced – out-of-sync. It’s that one strange goose pimple science fiction television shows like Twilight Zone tried to illustrate for viewers.

I often fear it is because I lost weeks of memory due to a chemically induced coma over a decade ago, then I sadly accept, “Maybe, I’m just old.”


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