Author's Bio.

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Mushroom Montoya circumnavigated the globe aboard the USS Trippe DE1075 after killing soldiers, woman and children in Viet Nam. Now, as a shaman, he heals the planet one person at a time. Mushroom Montoya has an active shamanic healing practice in Long Beach, California and he teaches at the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at Cal State Univ. Long Beach.

Friday, January 12, 2018

Part of Chapter 36 - NO! NOT JEREMY!



 I strolled along the water's edge, enjoying myself, kicking the cool and ultra-clear water onto the sand. The sea salt wafted in to my nostril as the early morning sunshine warmed my cheeks. Looking up from the water, I saw a tall and very beautiful Vietnamese woman walking out of the jungle. She wore a shimmering green tunic with gold trim and matching pants. Three teenage boys, wearing only shorts, were laughing and talking to each other as they walked along a short distance behind her. I recognized them. My eyes grew wide. I held my breath. Those were the boys we killed on our first day.
       “He was watching us. He let us die,” one of the boys said to the Vietnamese woman as he pointed at me with his left hand. His words came out of his mouth like ship's ropes, wrapping around my stomach and squeezing all of the air out of my lungs.
       The Vietnamese woman walked up to me, her gaze warm and caring. She asked, “That wasn't you. Was it?”
       I knew that she knew that it was me. She wasn't trying to find out. She was addressing the man I was supposed to be. I wanted to say that I was sorry, but no sound came out of my mouth.
       “Look how beautiful they are,” she said as she turned and pointed to the boys. “They make their mothers proud. Why would anyone want to hurt them?”
       The tone of her voice was firm yet nurturing, giving me the courage to say, “Yes, that was me watching. I am so sorry that I made their mothers cry.” Moisture left my throat making it hard to swallow. “I didn't stop the killing.”
       “Look into their eyes,” she said. “They do not hate you.”
       Trembling, I turned my head towards them. The boys came closer, becoming younger with each step, until they became toddlers. The Vietnamese woman took my hand and said, “See how beautiful they are.”
       The boys began running toward me, their arms outstretched and their faces aglow. As they ran closer to me, each of the boys looked exactly like my two-year-old son, Jeremy. I stood, mesmerized. They ran by me toward a church on my right.
       The heavy rumble of machinery behind me made me tremble. I recognized that sound. I turned around and saw the 22 foot long gray barrel of my ship’s five inch gun turn toward the church. I turned back to the toddlers, who all looked like my son. I wanted to run after them to make them stop, but I couldn’t get my feet to move. I shot my hands up, yelling, “Wait! Wait!” The sound of my own voice echoed and raced back to our first day on the gun line. I tried to scream louder but they kept running toward the church. BAM! I jumped. Sand, dust, smoke, fire and body parts flew at me from the blast knocking me over. “Oh God, not Jeremy. Not my son! Noooooooooo!” I cried.
       The Vietnamese woman knelt beside me and wrapped one of her arms around my shoulder. She wrapped her other arm around my head, pulling it into her bosom. She stroked my head, as tears slid down my cheeks and snot oozed out of my nose. Her hands were soft and warm, like my mother's hands.
       “We must do what we must do,” she said. I began to fall asleep in her arms. “We must do what we must do,” she repeated, her voice fading. “We must do what we must do.”

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