Carotid Artery

Wreath

2012-01-29T01:19:00.001-05:00

Joan

And as I take my first step
Launch myself across the parapet
Take sword in hand and fill my bones
With a cry that turns my hand to stone
Where now I go to meet her
And though I long to lay her low
A part of me whispers...no.

Later I awake from the dark
She is pleading like a supplicant
Begging me to give my sins
And thanks me for my diligence
So that I may now find piece
As I cross beyond this veil
I have never known such love in life
But I now know it, here in hell.

Owl Head

2012-01-05T11:26:00.002-05:00

The Lump In My Throat

Small and round
About the size of a lozenge
Shaped well to fill

A ball of muscle
Surprisingly firms
Tampers down

Your scent triggers
And when you make eyes
I am stopped

By you, and your mouth
And your lips
And your smile.

All You Rounders Take A Whiff On Me

2012-01-05T11:25:00.000-05:00

Conversations Had Between Songs

(At A Wilco Concert, 2004)

And I say
"Where from?"
And I hear you say
"Heaven"
And I say
"Sounds nice. What like?"
and a cymbal crashes
I think you say over (the general noise of the crowd)
"It's okay."
And I reply
"That cool"
And you look at me
Or maybe past me
and the bassists tunes a string
And I go
"Want you drink?"
But Jeff Tweedy starts counting off

And plays I Am Trying to Break You Heart

Smoked Meats and Fishes

2012-01-05T11:22:00.001-05:00

Piecegoods For a Man Named Epstein

I Make
Coats, Hats, Scarves
Aprons, Dresses, Garments
Slacks, Frocks, Socks
Undergarments and Petticoat
For all seasons
and all sizes

I use
The Finest Woolite
The Smoothest Silks
The Thinnest Lace
The Thickest Codoroys
The Most Breathable Cotton
And my stitching is just Divine

Come see my Wares
At my New Store
On the Garment District
Behind the delicatessen

Okinawa Dream

2011-11-16T20:31:00.001-05:00

Two poems for the price of one!

Sleep in Motion
(or I occasionally fall asleep on the train from time to time)

Sleep in motion
Dream in movements
I fade into the car
Steam filling my lungs

To close my eyes
Wake closer to
And farther from my destination
A straight line where to where time suspends

Swept away imagines
Under the tunnels
Inside the ventricles of my dear city
Steady on to home

A voice says
This is...and says the stations name
Always a platform away
At the purposed hour

***

You Have To Read This To Susie

In math I stare at
The back of your head
Waiting for a glimpse of your face
in profile

I think of you

And when we share a desk
In Home Ec.
Your knee bumps into mine
I shutter

How can I tell you this?

True, I am awkward
Not like the other boys who
Are much better at
Swim class

I know I don't talk much, I am
Scared of my own high mousey
Voice, I clam up when you're
Around

I hope you can forgive this

Were I to write this down on a
Piece of scrap paper using
Words I think I know
Will you be impressed?

Or will you just look at me like a
Man looks at a confused
Dog who has spent the day barking at
Himself in the mirror

Recess is starting soon. I'll see you then.

Crafts with Machete

2011-11-05T10:56:00.000-04:00

Imagine that we meet

A party or a meeting

And are introduced by a friend

And you shake my hand

Imagine, in this meeting,

Where we shake hands and we lock

Eyes and we talk and

I make you laugh

Imagine now we meet again

At another party or on the subway

And you think me fondly

And we touch

Imagine, in that moment,

When we touch

Each hair on your neck stand up and

I say something honest

Will you love me then?

Alright, Brass Tacks.

2011-10-31T15:06:00.001-04:00

Ignle was the one with the problem, so he turned to me.

“Thirteen carrots but that’s only a chip and a half. I know there’s more gold down there. I just need a way to get it.”

I nodded my head and pushed the tanker to the middle of the table. I figured it’s on his coppers so he wouldn’t mind doing the ordering as well. He obliged, but not without a look.
Lifting the empty tanker into the air, he continued.

“I got an in with one of the baggage trains heading south. They’ll get ups close then it’s a few days to the site once we split off the wagon herd. The map I got—“

I had my hand raised by then. “Let’s get serious.” I said, lowering my hand to the hilt of my sword.

“How much is this mine worth to you.”

Ignle looked at me with a flat stare and said “A lot.”

“More than I owe?”

Ignle frowned, his black half-man eyes crowned by his thick bushy brow.

“No, but—“

“Then I’m out.”

Ignle face fell as if I had dropped him from a cliff.

“You can’t be serious. This might be the only way you’ve be able to pay back even a quarter of what you owe me. I’m giving you an opportunity to at least get something resembling square.”

“There ain’t no square with you, Ig, just a different kind of bent.”

The serving girl glided by and I snatched a tanker meant for someone else. She wouldn’t stop me. Not with Ignle across from me.

“And secondly, it’s not my debt. It’s my fathers’.”

Ignle grumble, looking sullen. “You long-llimbs are all the same. So sense of history.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the two bruisers near the door and nodded to them. They joined us.

“Fine.” He said as they strolled over. “You do this job and we’re square. But if you turn this up…”

He didn’t have to finish with the hitters at his side. Their presence was clear. Turn this up and I’ll be seeing them again, probably after they'd have raped Kayney and killed everyone else at the office.

Ignle took his leave then and I lingered for a while as his knives scuttled out of sight. I headed out of the kitchen and exited it out the back just to be safe though. I kept my eye peeled for flashes of steel in the recesses of hooded cloaks.

***

In truth, I took the job months ago, when Donal completed his survey of the Gyre and discovered that the next Crucible would be found in Sovaine’s Breach. The Branch had been building up plates, taking odd jobs and doing troubleshooting work for the Low Families, to launch our own expedition into the trenches when Ignle contacted me about an opportunity to lower my father’s debt. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting me to push for clearing the books, thinking I’d be so damn happy for a chance to be rid of that cursed burden, but then again I’m sure he wasn’t expecting the mercenaries that he had purchase to meet with unfortunate accidents within a week of the expedition, leaving the Branch as his last recourse within the city.

It expected it, being the one that asked Sasse to hobble the competition for us. It’s good to have a Secret Hand on the payroll.

So there I was, a full contract for a ludicrously well-paying expedition, a guarantee dominion over this particular sortie, and what’s more my familial debt has been covered. Were the day not the pea-soup constitution of a bowl of smoke-broth, a day common in Drownspot during the harvest months, I would say that the very sun was will me. Still, a victory is a victory, drizzling rain and milky-gray clouds notwithstanding.

I turn into Sow Street in from the thoroughfare and slip into the tangle of side streets that demarcate Merchant’s Valley from the flanking Wardes. I turn into a tenement garden, mud-crusted and thick with weeds and brambles, and head towards the other side. I come to a rusted gate leading down to another alleyway and disappearing into the mouth of Filth Street. I swing the loose gate closed, its rusty hinges giving a cry like small children, and I lock it into place. Holding the bar, I think the word, the sound of the letters in the air, the way my mouth moves as it leaves my tongue, the feeling in my gut as I say it. I take the key from around my neck, open the lock and step through the gate, keeping my eyes closed as a rush of cold air meets me. I open them again only when I hear the creak of the floorboards underfoot.

The door shuts behind me. Kayney is the first on her feet. Her heels snap together as she brings the room to attention. I lift my fingers to the side of my temple and then call them to ease. Kayney comes from around the desk and gives me a kiss.

“How did it go?”

“Great. He bit.”

“You knew he would.” We kiss again and then she unbinds my scarf. “Wish you would have taken Castian though.”

“Castian needs a break. He’s been working doubles this week.”

“Jorguns loves to work like half-men loves to drink. You know he thinks you’re punishing him, by the faith. He’s in his dorm right now, brooding.”

“How can you tell?” I asked, having never seen a half-giant so much as smirk in my 38 years.

“I just know.” She said and headed towards my office.

2011-10-27T10:18:00.000-04:00

What's Your Process?

The next woman was full hipped and bespectacled with a mop of cherry red hair and a big smile. She came up to the microphone holding the new book and her demeanor was that of someone seldom impressed but entirely earnest when enthused. She asked a question in the way that people do when they’re not used to public speaking. It was the question Tim Weatherly knew she would ask.

“Can you tell me about your process?”

Tim smiled and folded his hands.

“Well…”

***

He pulled up and rolled the window of the rental down. She approached, her heels clicking on the payment.

“Yeah, go down the block and take a left at the Walgreens down there. There’s a lot not far. Wait for me there.”

He nodded his head and she stepped away as the windows rolled up.

He drove down the block and into the vacant lot. He gauged the trip would take about five minute, less if she took off the heels, and settle back into the support of the seat as the heater blew warm air into the space between his knees. Tim felt the urge to close his eyes. The book tour was just revving up but he had gone into it tired.

Early reviews were coming in as drips and drabs. The Philadelphia Sun Times were generous. They called The Feeler “Excellent” dot dot dot “A riveting read”. The Literary Review gave him a solid write up. “Sharp, smart and witty” dot dot dot “A real heartbreaker” He could see the adcopy for the paperback in his mind and somewhere in the type he imagined Britney Walsh of the New Yorker’s lancing him. “Tepid” dot dot dot “Melodramatic”. The worst thing she called it was “Boring” which really hurt.

Tim liked to think of himself as the kind of writer that didn’t give a shit, but it always interested him to gauge other’s impressions, to see what “landed” and what “didn’t”. He thought himself a broadcaster, sending out the bad signal to every receiver that could pick it up. Sometimes, he came in crystal clear. Sometimes, his voice was lost to snow. It paid to see who caught what and who didn’t, so he knew what interview queries to have Angela, his publicist, ignore.

A knock woke him up. His head snapped back up and for a moment he did not know where he was. She was smiling thorough the glass, her voice muffled as she said “You asleep, baby?” thorough the window.

He rolled down the glass.

“I’m a little worn out.”

“Heh. Well…” She held out her hand.

He had a small tight wad of twenties and fifties in his pocket. He scrimped off about half (a trick he learned back in Detroit) and passed it to her. She dipped the cash into the middle of her halter top and walked around the front of the car to the passenger side. The halogen lights bathed her white skin, making her glow. He unlocked the passenger side door and she hopped into the rental.

“So, where’s this happening? Right here or…”

“I have a motel not far. We can do it there…” He looked at her. “Anything you don’t do?”

“Just anal.”

“Just anal. Also, no shit stuff. No vomiting, no pissing. None of that.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, as long as it’s none of that kind of stuff, than we’re good.”

“Okay.”

She strapped on her seat belt and he put the car into reverse, then he shifted the car into drive.

“You have anything in mind.”

“Yeah.” He said, turning into the street. “I have something in mind.”

***

“So you travel?” She asked as they stopped at the light. She seemed curious in a polite and indifferent way.

“I’m doing a book tour.”

“Oooh. A writer. What do you write?”

“Oh you know…this and that. Stories. Mostly about people.”

She shoved off her heels and put it between the seats.

“Well, that’s interesting. I used to write a little bit when I was in the shelter. You know, personal stuff and whatever. It was really therapeutic.”

“Yeah, it is. You must have a lot to write about.”

“Heh. If I told you some stories, you wouldn’t believe me.”

There is a moment looking at her as the light shifts from red to green that he doesn’t believe it. She’s small and her face is full, her skin is fair and unblemished. Her hair is a dark blond, matted by clean. Her halter rides down and her mini-skirt cuts into her hips, revealing the supple legs pitted with cellulite but still appeasing. She looked real, like a person. A real human person.

“Is it rough out here?” He said. She put her feet up on the seat and hugged her knees to her chest.

“In this city? Nah, not really. I mean yeah there’s trouble but I’m good at avoiding it.”

“How long have you been out here?”

“Few years. Long enough to know my ass from a hole in the ground, that’s for sure. You should see some of these girls. Green as goose shit and smell just as nice. They don’t know how to take care of themselves?”

This beggared the question “Do you got someone to take care of you or…”

“You mean ‘where’s your pimp?’” And the way she said it made his face flush. She chuckled and pinched her cheeks. Her skin was soft under her thumb. She smiled and put her legs up on the dash.

“I don’t have one anymore. His stupid ass got locked up for some stupid shit. Been trying to get this money before he gets back. Be out of here before November of next year. So you don’t have to get worried about getting your ass kicked if I don’t like you.”

“You say that like I’m not a tough guy.” He said and gave her a slick smile.

“Whatever you say, writer man.”

They drove on. There weren’t far from the motel. He could see it now, coming up from the right, the big neon sign that demarcated it the SEAVIEW MOTEL. The missing “O” and missing “E” of “Motel” turned the ratty tenement it into the SAVIW MOTL. His mouth tightened against the smile growing on his face. He looked at her. Her lips laid flat above her chin. Her head was canted against the glass as she looked out.

She didn’t know, he thought. She couldn’t understand. She had never came across it. She wouldn’t be familiar with it if she saw it.

He pulled up to the drive. “We’re here.” He said.

***

The typewriter was a Magnetic Card Selectric Composer produced in 1978 after seven years of development by IBM. It came in a sturdy hard plastic traveling case and currently it sat alone on the desk in the motel room.

They came in. She passed the typewriter with a momentary glance and walked closer to the drawer.

“Okay, so.” She began to take off her shoes after walking. “Do you have a condom?”

He pointed to the drawer and dropped his key on the nightstand next to the bed.

She took off her other shoe and dropped it in th corner. She came over to where he pointed and was taking condom out of the drawer when he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He kissed her neck and her hand came up the back of his head and he rubbed his hair playfully. She didn’t giggle but the closeness didn’t make her uncomfortable. She was a prostitute, but unlike more girls on the strip she was also a people person. She wasn’t terrified of intimacy, but she was a business woman and she needed to set boundaries.

She pushed him off with a shrug and turned. “No kissing, no hugging, okay? Just tell me what you want.”

He didn’t seem hurt. He dropped his hands.

“I think I want to take a shower with you.”

“That it? Or…” She took the condom packet out of the drawer and drew it to her lips. She made a small nick with her teeth and ripped it open.

“You want to clean me up? It’s extra.”

“I’ll pay. Just get in the shower.”

She smiled and turned, tugging on her clothes as she walked across the room. What she did as she walked over: She zipped down the halter and slides it up, pulling it over her head. She pushes the skirt down and stepped over it. Her cute butt wiggled as she moved. She wrapped her hand around the knob and opened the door.

“Alright, let’s go get clean.”

She stepped into the room where plastic covered everything. Behind the door and over the sink laid plastic sheeting. The shower curtain had been removed and more plastic sheeting tarped the porcelain. She turned just a little inside the door and she jumped back startled. He had crossed the room without a sound and stood behind her.

“ What’s the plastic for?” She asked but he didn’t answer. He just pushed her in and closed the door.

***

“Good.” He said. “That’s works out well.”

***

When he was done, he wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out. He padded across the floor barefoot. The beige carpet crunched stiffly undertow. He knelt under the bed, drawing out the small leather satchel and laying it on the top of the bed. Opening the flap, he got up and walked towards the desk.

On the desk was a stack of 8 ½ by 11 inch typing paper, held together by a thin film of plastic. Snapping the plastic, he drew a single sheet out from the stack and set it in the Magnetic Card Selectric Composer. He swept his leg around the chair and sat down.

He glanced back at the open bathroom door, where a hand laid over the side of the plastic-filled tub, its acrylic nails chipped and broken by the struggle. He turned around in his chair and he began to write.

***

“It’s like anything else, really.” He said. “Your process, whatever it is, is just a focus for your creativity. It breaks down to ritual really. Some writers can’t write at home. Some writers can’t write anywhere else but there desk. Some writers carry notebooks. Some writers keep it in their head. A lot of other writers, when they’re writing, stop writing and do other things. There’s a reason for that. When your mind is churning away, you might in the room but you’re not really ‘present’, you understand? You’re in yourself. So, you can be doing anything and it’s not you doing it. It’s your body, but the part of you that is actualized and aware that one is busy doing other things. You’re on auto-pilot and when you’re not worried about the external world, you’re creating an internal world. And that’s what I think it’s most important about the process.

So to answer your question…like actually answer it…it involves a lot of private ritual. And that’s as far into detail as I will go about how I get my work done.”

He finished and it seemed to satisfy her. The crowd applauded politely and the woman went up the aisle to her seat in the back of the room. Someone approached the microphone to ask another question.

The End

Like Someone Else

2011-10-27T10:15:00.000-04:00

Laser Fields

I dream of laser fields on Mars

In the summer of halogen lights

That gleam off chrome rocket

Ships shooting up thorough the

Sky

I dream of ray gun blasting

Red rock chasms into

Craters where green men

Fight to see another day

Under the bright yellow

Sun

I dream of clockworks whirling

In shining silver streets

Where we are afforded blue

Eyes and blond hair and

Perfect teeth with one free

Purchase of a Brand new

Jetpack

I dream of a star-filled tomorrow

And Ray Bradbury books.

Dancing Half Shadows

2011-10-27T10:14:00.000-04:00

You Are The Poem

Your skin is cursive; it flows under my fingers like ink from a pen, connecting letters into words

Your lips are punctuations; pressed together they are dots at the edge of my thoughts and parting they exclaim loudly with laughter

Your hands are verse; intricate and long, the knuckles interlock and follow one to other, reaching out for me across the bed

You are the poem; written in skin, printed in flesh, spoken by the world

You inhabit my ears and my eyes and my head and my heart.

Two Cars. Lots of Seagulls

2011-08-24T21:15:00.002-04:00

I like my voices
The small one, the tall one
The Lady in Gray and The Whether-Man
Sleepy Tom and Texas Red with
His big voice and southern twang

I like Cockney Jim and The Princess
Father Lore and his impassioned
pleads for silence
Because these things are very
Important, indeed.

I like the Proud Statements
And the Conniving Bastard and
The Harlequin, all lovelorn and lonely
And the Rambler, who goes on and on
And on and on

And on.

Kissing Families

2011-07-23T16:26:00.001-04:00

Trade, Trade

“Trade, trade.” He said from beyond the door. Vanna pulled her face away from the slats and opened the front door.

“What are you doing?” She said.

Skayn adjusted the sack over his right shoulder. “I bring tidings of good cheers and presents for all the good boys and girls.”

She grabbed his sleeves and pulled him in. “Get in here before somebody sees you.” She closed the door behind him.

Skayn was tall and well-meaning with a dopy farm-boy smile and sandy blond hair. His eyes were small and cast together, set like holes in his wide flat face. He sauntered into the inn. The fire still cooked but was tempered by the draining red coals and the occasional crackle of marigold embers.

Vanna had kept the fire stroked at first but as the night dragged on she was content to let the light and heat fade. She had her lantern for reading and only stayed out of the accounts which needed to be done before morning. She was fixed to retire to bed when his knocking came and now she stood, narrowed eyed and folded arms, her pleasant face all points and lines in her consternation.

“Have you lost your senses, Skayn? Why are you at my door?

“I live here.”

“I mean literally. Why are you at my front door. You know you’re supposed to enter thorough the cellar.”

“But it’s such a lovely night. I wanted to see the blood moon turn without having to walk thorough brumbles. To hear the cockcrow sing in the trees without pine needles poking me in the ass.”

“That’s not…” She bit down her words. Anything else would be humoring him. Skayn loved to see her froth. He loved to see her neck veins bulge as she began to rage.

“If anyone saw you coming up the road, or to the door, serious questions would be raised about my maidenship. Need I remind you that our arrangement serves only under the auspice that you don’t exist? I don’t need to tell you that as far as anyone else is concern, I am the sole proprietor of this inn and the only permanent occupant thereof? Has that been made clear to you yet?”

She watched her words wash over him for a moment, and then he dropped the bag and threw a few more logs into the fire. When he turned, the backlight shadowed his features so that she could only see the outline of his dopey smile.

“I love you too dear. What’s for supper?”

***

“So I say ‘Your choice, boy. You can either choose to walk away or choose not to. Either way, I’m getting your coin.’ Well, the boy squares up and he goes ‘You and what host?’ Well, you should have seen the look on his face when Yoan and the boys climbed out of the hedges. Nearly cacked himself he did.”

He fed on the last of the mutton and a half-mug of spice ale that remained. She sat acrossed the table, separating the silver from the copper and setting them aside from the gold in distinct individual piles. She never minded his tall-tales. His teling of them were always fanciful and filled with japes. To hear him barding, you’d think his robberies were all quips and punch lines, written routines recited for stage players.

She never inquired what he did with the bodies and he never told her. “No one important gets hurt” was the lie she told herself. “It’s all for the good of the inn.”

The inn itself was homely but decrepit. It overlooked at hill just off the main road, connected to the thoroughfare by a dirt trail and hidden on either side by thorn birch and black oaks. The only way to see it would be straight on, looking up from the road. By then, most decided to stay on passed the curve of the hill and try to reach Everton by evening.

The few that stayed on were usually families traveling or the elderly, those who chartered one of the minor coaching companies who were contracted to the inn. She treated her guess to a mild stock lamb mutton, sheep haggish and beets, barley and sprouts. The spice ale was quaint but the beer and rum were watered down. The wine was of an even poorer vintage and selection. Anything stout tasted as if it was casked in a show.

It was a hard life getting hader. A new road was being cut through the forest, passing the hills and smaller towns. Travel had lightened in the bleak, long winter and had not returned in the spring thaw.

Thank Avandra for Skayn.

“Did you pay Gassavan before you left?”

Skayn took a swallow of ale.

“Yeh. Gave him two silvers and a tuppence of gold. He wanted more.”

“What did you say?”

“I reminded him that we know where his wife lives and where he beds his whores.”

“I imagine that sat him straight.”

“For the time. I might have to letter his wife anyway. Just in case he smartens up.”

“Hah! Him smart is bread mold.” The thought caught her off-guard and she closed her lip over her teeth to stifle a laugh. “Gassavan couldn’t find his knickers with two hands, two eyes, a map and a compass. He won’t trouble us.”

“No.” Skayn said. “He won’t.” and then he stared off.

She watched firelight as it danced on his face and then silently began counting the coins.

“When you first saw me, what popped into your head?” He said.

“What is this man doing in my cellar?”

He laughed and looked at the mug.

“Besides that.”

“I thought that you were a briggan come to kill and rape me in the night.”

“’Kill and rape’ you? You mean ‘rape and kill’ you.”

“No. No. I distinctly remembered “kill” then “rape”. I was very startled.”

Skayn laughed again, a musical sound common to little boys. He looked up at her with his small, bright eyes.

“You know what I thought?”

“No.” She said, already smiling.

“Wow, what a pretty girl…I’m going to get blood all over her when I die.”

***

The man was still there. The last carriage had set off more than an hour ago. The rain swept across the hill in the interim and he was still here. He had already paid for the meal and he made no mention of staying the night, but when she returned from nailing down the shutters she saw him, helping himself to another bowl of barley broth from the pot.

She removed her slick-coak and hung it up on the hook behind the bar. Thunder rattled outside and the wind hissed between cracks like words thorough teeth. The fire cocked on, filled the in with a pillow worth, and the smell of the soap was still strong even as it cool.

She walked over to the stranger.

“So, changed your mind about leaving?”

The man didn’t look up as he slurped from the spoon. “No.”

“Well, the last carriage is out. If you leave, you’ll be walking in that.”

Thunder clapped for emphasis.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t mind a stay?” She said. “You already paid for the soup. A shilling will get you a room and a bed.”

“No, thank you.”

She glanced at the pack seated next to him.

“He had come early in the evening with the others. He was tall and thin. His face was square and rough, as if hewed from clay and hardened. His nose was broad and flat. A rough beard grimed his face. His hair was shaggy and dark. His eyes, his eyes, gazed out of the world with a wild cunning. They were eyes better suited for dogs…or wolves.

It made her tense to look at him. She turned away and headed around the corner of the bar.

“Well, you better be quick about it.” Said picking up a rag from the counter. “I have to clean.” She saw the man nod from the corner or eye.

She had begun summing totals when the man dropped a quintet of coins on the desk. She jawed openly, her mouth hanged down to her throat. She swallowing forced her lips to close and she looked down at the gold again.

“You…you already paid.”

“For the food.” Said the man. “I seek purchase of something else.”

“Like what? The inn?” She heard herself say. The man didn’t laugh. He simply stared.

“I seek information about a man. He would have traveled thorough here fairly recently.”

“oh. Um…what did he look like.”

The man withdrew a folded piece of paper from his belt and the coin-purse at his side jingled as his hand brushed up against it. On the paper was a quilled image.

“Oh. He’s young.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Vanna stared at the image.

“Who is he?”

“A merchant’s son. Someone who should not be far from home.”

“Hmm. He certainly looks familiar. Hemight have stayed a night but…no that doesn’t seem right.”

Her tongue pushed against her gums and she looked into the boy with big doe eyes and round, full face. She blinked hard and then raised her head. “No.” She lied. “I don’t recognize him.”

The man gave her a look that chilled her. He took the paper and folded it neatly, putting it back into the belt. He looked at the coin at the counter as if deciding something. Then he turned away, hiding his hands under his cloak.

“For the hospitality.” He said. She watched him leave as a draft blew in from beyond the door. When she was certain that he was gone, she went down to the cellar and told Skayn to get his sword.

***

The pieces of the dream were beginning to fade when she reached the door. She remembered her father and something about the price of a bag of grain, she remembered losing the gold to make the purchase and Skayn was there but he had never met Vanna’s father. He was long dead before he arrived, but that didn’t seem that seem to matter much.

Still fogged, Vanna was surprised just how lulled she still was. Fumbling in the dark, she found a lantern. As she lid it, she began forward toward the door and caught the edge of the table with her shin.

She had convinced herself that she would stay up tonight. There was a unease in her as she watched him go. Something about the night and the rain that fell knotted her stomach. The blackness beyond the door seemed unnatural to her. Unnatural and foreboding.

She had been sitting in a chair before a low fire, occasionally prodding at it, causing the embers to crackle and pop like white-hot firebugs. In her boredom, she weaved elaborate fantasies that began as whimsy tales of adventure and took violent turns. She dispelled them as quickly as she conjured them, trying hard to stare at the fire and think nothing at all.

Those feelings must have been subsumed into the very ore of her bones, for the weariness she rose with was that of an lich of her father’s fairy tales and the disconcertion in which she found herself arrested with in the moments before slumber overtook her had now awaken beside her as she walked toward the door.

Here heart thudded as parts of her mind arrange themselves. Something with the appearance of rationality began to offer reassurances. It is Skayn, she said. Back with the gold. But these whispers could not still her beating heart. Her fingers wrapped around the knob and she pressed her face against the door.

“Who’s there?” She asked.

The rain drummed. The rhythm of her heart pounded in her ears. She could breathing beyond the breach.

“Answer me.” She said. “Who call?”

The knob was cold, so cold that it seemed to throb in her hand. The wind bit thorough the slats and her teeth clattered as a knifing wind made her shiver. She heard someone shift and try to speak over the rumbling above.

She imagine Skayn then, wet and shivering, weak from his travels and the fight, hands clutching the purse he would have died for. Just like the first time in the cellar where the young thief stole away behind the turnips and picked the lock around her heart.

“Who is it?” She said over the rain, her face reddened by the fear.

She heard it then. Just under the thunder’s bellow and the percussion of the rain, she heard it. “Trade trade.”

She flung the door open, a breath leaving her teeth as her relief fell upon her like a shawl. She could no longer feel the cold as she began to step forward to throw her arms around Skayn.

The man who stood at the door was not her husband. He said “I’m sorry, it’s late”.

***

The man came in, wet and mud-slick, and stood just behind the door. He dropped his satchel and his travel pack near the door. Strapped to his back was his shield. Across his belt laid a sword. His cloak was grimy and bloodstain. His greaves, the metal of his bracers, the steel of the buckles that secured the scale to his chest, caught the dim and dreary light with a tarnished glint. It gave him an ethereal glow. In his right hand, he clutched a filled rucksack. He went to the table and pulled out a chair.

“May I sit?”

Vanna said nothing.

Quietly, the man sat down and placed the sack on the floor.

His face was rain-streaked. His hair was dripping wet. He looked at the fire for a turn and then he turned to her and bade her over.

“Please. Join me.”

Vanna didn’t move.

His eyes…his eyes caught the glow of the fire and gleamed like moonstones. They beamed bright from the shadows, hot and wide like burning coals. His voice asked her to join him. His eyes commanded her to do so.

She walked across the room and around the table, sitting across from him.

For a while, the man just stared, the way a dog would stare at something it didn’t understand, blending innocent curiosity and quiet suspicion. Finally, he said ”There are about fourteen other inns around the main roads, running east to west, lessening as you head away from the central city. Fourteen stops. That’s more than a few weeks’ worth of travel.

I started by taking an inventory on the boy took with him on his journey; A pack, a bedroll, a map, a few ledgers, a few day books for the travel, a bagful of salt meats and dried fruit. Water to last, a sack of gold. I knew the boy hadn’t so much left Cormyr, so I reason he would be equip only for road travel. I assumed he melded into a caravan or taken a wagon.

The inns, the inns were the hard part. A lot oftravel and nightriding. My horse died two towns back so I took the carriage in which took a day. That’s when it hit me actually. The carriage ride. I asked the driver how much it would take to take a private carriage out toward Everton. It wasn’t that expensive. The boy would be able to afford it.

Now the main road, as you know, diverts at a crossing. If a man were to escape pursuit, they would take the center line and veer off the path into the forest roads. Skip Everton, go down to Highhorn and avoid the bandits in the main roads. But an ignorant boy would take the common paths thorough the village s and mark that way all the way to Sword Coast, flying their down the road for ever brigand and blackguard.

Now, knowing the path he would possibly took, I would have to find the brigand band in question. Knowing outlaw, I assumed that they would be locals, or else how else would they know the road. I wittled it down to two feasthalls and two inns. The Magician, Hawkmoor’s Tavern, The Goat Wench and here. I gave each due consideration. Ultimately, I chose here.”

Vanna stared dull at her hands. Her lips parted, her breath was leaving under her teeth in great whispery huffs. Outside, the rain poured. The opened door rattled on its hinges.

“Why?” She said.

“A man paid me to find his son or the man that killed him.”

She glanced at the rucksack on the floor. He followed her gaze and then he met her eyes. She saw his brow furrow and a line curve down his lips.

After a moment, he stood and reached into his cloak.

He tossed a coin.

“For the inconvenience.” He said.

The End

Assembly

2011-05-25T13:26:00.002-04:00

He had polished the stock in chestnut oil then he put it down to dry. He check the winch, giving it quick rotation of the handle followed by two long ones. He then oiled the gears. He sanded the notch smooth then looked down the barrel when he was done. He cleaned the residue from the frontispiece and then tested the strength of the arms by bowing them against the ground. He unbound a length of coil and cut it to exacting length. He wound the coil tight around the arms and attached the arms to the frontispiece.

He polished the trigger and the release-pick. He gave the trigger a few quick pulls followed by a long one, paying special attention to the pick and how it reared up. He took the forked sight and stared down it before screwing the sight to the top of the frontispiece. He attached the winch to the body of the barrel. He attached the frontispiece to the barrel. He attached the barrel to the stock.

He loaded three clips with twelve bolts each and attached one of those clips to the bolt-well at the bottom. He pulled back the slide which loaded the bolt into the slide and palmed it forward to load the bolt into the barrel-well. The arrowhead flushed straight with the groves of the frontispiece.

He rotated the winch back until the cord was pulled taunt, held in place by the pick. The arrowhead disappeared within the recesses of the deep dark barrel. He affixed a top-cover over the barrel and put the crossbow down.

He inspected a small hand crossbow and loaded it with a single bolt before collapsing it. He loaded a quiver of five bolts and strapped them to the outside of his thigh. He holstered the small hand crossbow underneath his cloak and as his final act he slipped a dirk into his boat.

When he was done, he picked up his new assembled crossbow and walked out of the door.

Rattled Bones

2011-04-14T17:44:00.000-04:00

So this tale is my attempt to mix George R.R. Martin style epic fantasy with pulpy horror. I like the beginning but it the later bits didn't seem to come together in a way I like. I might give it another try, probably with a style that's a lot less " wordy." Anyway, here's Wolves of Highmoor:

Wolves of Highmoor

The gate opened. The men rode in two abreast. Krauser lead them thorough, the first ne in. The servents watched from doors and arrowmen watched from their perches in the corner towers and battlements. The northmen bunched their faces at the company’s arrival, the smallmen stared with deaden, haggard expressions. Krauser didn’t care for them at all. He despised these northmen, with their plan flat faces and dull brown eyes. It was a wonder that he had laid with any of their women.

His horse trotted on mule shit as he entered the courtyard. The smell reached up unpleasantly. He neglected it the best he could but felt it tickling his nose as he turned around to watch his men gather. There were a hundred and seventy in all, mostly back in camp. The fleet he had was fifteen or so, give or take. He was assured that they were the best men but was skeptical. Even the best men at sixty days of march and countless skirmishes could prove to be callow and insubordinate. They all looked tired or bored or both. He knew because he was tired and bored.

“Bring out your king.”

The castle was not a castle in the southern sense. It was not hewed in mason stone and limewood with rising parapets and fortifications. It was similar to those alehouses he had seen plotting alongside the rode northwards. It had a wide domed roof and a set of flat iron doors in the front. The high towers were only about twenty feet and raised up like tent poles, more like chimneys and smoke-vents than proper arrowing positions.

The iron doors swung out slowly, groaning like sleepy children. Two men in leather vestments and fur boots pushed the door from within and Krauser stared down a long hallway lit sparsely by torchlight. Another pair of men walked out, these in heavy leather with mail and studs, on their head sat wool caps with frontispiece hanging over the nose. They each carried in their hands a silver-tipped spear with what appeared to be a whole rabbit on the end of it. Their eyes were dark and hooded and still. Finally came a boy, much unlike the man. He was soft and milk-skinned. He wore a satin robe and doe-skin cloak like a woman. His hands were covered in ringed jewels save for the silver finger-ring of his thumb and forefinger. On his head laid a crown of polished silver.

Krauser regarded the boy with respect and the boy regarded Krauser without expression.

“Morrow and hail, good king of the North.”

“Morrow, conqueror.” Said the king and Krauser smiled. “I, Hermutt Krauser, second in his name, have been charged by the All-King Dalelon, ruler of land and sky whose first name is Bromire, whose tenth name is William of Faragon, to exercise his divine right to reclaim the lands north of the Darthmount, heretofore known as Highmoor, and all pretenses, lands, grains and titles associated with liege thereof. What say you, O’great king?”

Krauser saw nothing in this king of child. Only the plainness of the boy’s round face, the dullness in those dark brown eyes. He saw a plump cheek, full lips and shaggy black hair. He saw nothing of his sister in the boy. He was just another northeron child, one of the legion he had come across in his travel.

He was hoping for cunning or the famed northern fighting spirit. He saw nothing but a lethargic, defeated child.

The boy said “ I, upon the soil of my ancestors, agree upon the terms of my surrender. I renounce my crown, kingdom, title and name, giving all that I have to the All-King William of Faragon, blessed be his name.” The boy let out a breath, eyes down-casted. Krauser wanted to give the boy applause for remembering that speech. The recitation must have been very hard.

“Lay your crown upon the ground and swear fealty to the king.”

The boy nodded and moved displaced as if in a dream. He sunk to his knee and his hand came to the band of silver that adorned his head. His hair fell before his eyes he untangled the crown from his head and laid it on the ground before the foot of Krauser’s steed. For a moment, the boy sniffed and made a face. Krauser turned his head to stop himself from smiling. He signaled to the men.

“Take him to away.” He said and then “ Open the rest of the gates.”

This Fire Grows Higher

2011-04-10T20:50:00.000-04:00

So I wrote this one and sent it out for publications. No one bit, which I can understand. It's pretty weird and pretty funny and not something most publishers can see in print. This story is about marriage and divorce. Enjoy.

Married and Buried

There was a black oak a little away from the hill the overlooked the town. When Daniel was young the oak held mysteries and wonders. Like many things in his youth now, it was old and rotten. He pulled the to the tree and kept the engine running.

He went to work with a mechanical disposition. The thing rolled up in the carpet was laid out in the back seat. He had convinced himself that it was not his wife. The act he had committed was not murder. That was he was doing now was not dumping the body. That he was not a monster.

The shovel bit into the ground and he dug in the dark and in the silence. In the distance a coyote sung a lonely song of dying. The howling brought back memories of when he was once hers.

It was 1984 and the coyotes howled then too. He was 18, a newly licensed driver, and on that night he took her out for a spin in his dad’s old Buick 8. They ate burgers with their hands. She bought him beer with her fake I.D. They drank like rebels and blasted Springsteen as they roared down the avenue. Then they came up to the hill that overlooked the town and he showed her the city. He held her close against the cold and they took each other there for the first time in the backseat.

From here the nights were always black, but when the stars appeared – which was seldom in the winter – they seemed to go on forever. Back then this town meant something. The streetlamps and factories used to gleam like paper lanterns. Now, this place was a cemetery of concrete boxes. This town was an infection. It had gotten to them slowly. It greened their youth and their heart and their love. It corrupted them slowly. Killed them as sure as anything.

He tossed another shovelful of dirt over their shoulder. He wiped his brow with the edge of his sleeve and climbed out of the hole.

“That’ll do”, He said.

*****

He had wept until the tears had dried inside him and when he was done he wrapped her in the spare threadbare carpet they had in the closet. He snuck her out the back and loaded her into the backseat of the Camero.

There was blood on the counter where her head hit and it seeped down into the drawers and the doors and the hinges. The pool of blood that formed had congealed in the time he was gone. It stuck to the floor like water taffy. He took out bleach and gloves and floor cleaner. He got on his hands and knees and began his work.

When he was done, he cleaned the single solitary dish in the sink.

His clothes were slick with blood and dirt. He went downstairs and burned them in an old steel drum then he went upstairs to the bathroom and took a shower. He let the water run over him and he scrubbed until his skin was pink and smooth. When he stepped out, he looked into the mirror, a single thought present in his mind.

Empty.

He tried to remember the beginning of his life with Lauren but he couldn’t He knew there had to been good years in the bygone times but he couldn’t remember anything specific. He tried to remember Lauren, as she was when they first met. He remembered her strawberry hair, her luminous hazel eyes, her slight bubbly girl laugh. He tried to remember the insignificant things about her. The way she drank pop, the way she sat in a movie theater, the way she cleared her throat or folded her napkins into half-triangles. He assembled these disjointed pieces into a picture of her, but the lens cap to his mental camera was on and all he captured was darkness.

All he could think about was the way she seemed in her later years. Her laugh was condescending. Her scowl was permanent. She seemed to loom over him like a shadow. 5’4’’, 119lbs of pure withering stare and malign hatred.

When he killed her, he was surprised to find that he felt nothing. I’m in shock, he thought as he cradled her body and cried low, but ultimately empty, tears. The act of cradling his dead wife’s body seemed hollow. It was like watching an actor on T.V from across a long hall.

After he lugged her to the car, as he buried her in that hole, as he wiped the blood off the floor, as he burned the clothes he killed her in, as he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he realize this sensation now filling him was the only true thing he had ever felt.

Emptiness. Nothingness.

There was serenity in the center of him as he admitted that he felt nothing over his wife’s death. A disquieting peace rang out in his mind.

The singing carried up and up, up the stairs, down the hall.

It wasn’t good signing, it as out of key, but he could pick out the melody and he found it familiar.

As he edged down the corridor, as he stood at the top flight of the stairs, as he craned his ear at the landing, the words became sharper and clearer. He picked them out.

And there’s nothing in it

You will ask yourself

Where is my mind?

Where is my mind?

“That song is so me” She had told him once. “I’d forget my own head sometimes.”

An ice river ran thorough him. He continued on, unconsciously, thorough the living room into the kitchen.

He stood in a silent, clean kitchen. The floor was polished. The counter sparkled. The dish rack housed a single, solitary place. Daniel couldn’t remember the last time the kitchen looked this clean. His numb fear abated and pride took its place.

“Did you do all this?” She said.

She stood there with a bemused smile. Her gaze gleamed with going. Her arms were folded, her hips cocked in a frighteningly human way.

He fell back and began to tip over. He threw his arms out. He caught himself on the counter’s edge and as his hip struck the sides of the kitchen counter a cupboard flew open.

“Look like you seen a ghost.” She laughed. Daniel clutched a hand to his chest.

A look crossed her. Her hand came to her mouth.

“Oh crap. I really scared the shit out of you, didn’t I?”

She laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.”

Blood flushed his face. His heart pounded in his ears. She watched him as he fought to get his breath back.

Her face was wholesome and unblemished. Her eyes were bright. This was not the corpse of the thing he buried. Nor was it his wife. This was something else.

“Honey”

He threw his arm around her and pulled her in. He laid his head on her neck and began to sob. He remembered her head skipping off the counter like a chipped record. Of her death, he thought that it was like someone flipped her on. As if she was a light switch. One moment, alive. Next moment…not alive.

He held her. She stroked his back. She purred in his ear and he squeezed her tighter, thinking, “Why aren’t you dead?”

He stroked her hair until he felt his finger slipped into the hole in the base of neck. The hair clung to the spots where the blood had poured.

She peeled away.

“Tell me about your day…” She said. “I’m dying to know.”

*****

“You’re dead.”

“I am.”

“I killed you.”

“I know. I forgive you.”

She sat down and took a cigarette out of her pocket and she took the lighter from the table and lit up. She blew smoke rings into the air, slow delicate wisp of smoke.

He looked at her. “Am I crazy?”

She shrugged and looked at him thorough the smoke rings.

“Are you asking if you’ve had a homicidal episode or if I’m a figment of your imagination, conjured up by your guilt to torment you?”

His mouth opened and closed but no words emerged. He slumped against the counter.

“The answer is no.” She said. Then: “To the second one. I’m not a figment of your imagination. I am very, very real.”

She always smoked with the urgency of a nervous card cheat, sneaking outside for a quick cigarette before coming back in to explain to the men as to why she had an pair of aces up her sleeves. She stubbed the cigarette out on the table and scooped the ashes into her hand and then dumped them on the floor. She dusted her lap and then looked at him.

“We should talk. I should explain things.”

She stood up, he stepped back. His legs hit the cupboard door. She held her hands out in front of her.

“Look, I know it wasn’t your intention to kill me. It was an accident. Things got a little out of hands. You know you get when you’re angry. I know how you get when you’re angry. But you would never hurt me, right? You love me, after all. I am your wife.”

“I buried you.” He said in a dead voice. His hands were slowly reaching for the cupboard door.

“And I forgive you.” She said. “I know you Danny. I know the man I married and the man that I married wouldn’t kill anyone…at least, if they didn’t have it coming first.”

“I killed you.” He said

“Yes. And we need to move pass that if we’re going to things out.”

His shoulder shagged. He propped himself up on the counter and bowed his head like a man in prayer. His finger slipped down into the top of the cabinet and felt around for a handle.

“Killed you.” He whispered.

She rolled her eyes. A sigh parted her lips. She reached for another cigarette and turned around to light it.

“You keep saying that. It’s irritating.” She said. “You know—“

The frying pan made a ringing sound against the back of her head. The cheap metal dented into a horseshoe shape. He was aiming for hole in the bloody black mess of her matted hair. With one quick swing of the arm he brought it down on her. She fell, didn’t even make a sound, as if she’d fallen into a river of mattresses. He looked down at her, the frying pan feeling weightless in his hand.

He had killed it.

He stepped over the body and opened the door to the basement.

*****

It spoke as he knotted the last length of rope around its chest.

“You know the worst part, Danny? The worst part is that this was easy.”

He went to the table in the back of the room.

“Look at you. Methodical. Calm. All sociopathic. Most people kill their wives and they lose their shit, but you? You probably dreamed about this.”

It looked at him. Its were gray-white with black pinholes. He glanced at her and saw nothing but rage.

“How does this story end, hm?” It said. “You bury me and just walk away with it. What are you going to tell the neighbors? ‘Oh she’s at her mothers. I don’t know how long she’ll be back.’ What were you going to tell them, Danny? That I ran away? Had some guy on the side and just disappeared? Did I run away to Acapulco with one of the bagboys from work? C’mon, you can tell me.”

Danny took the duck tape from the drawer and got a tube of plastic from the table. He took the plastics and cut it into sheets and then went back to the slab where it laid bound, wriggling under the lacework of ropes.

“I thought that after you stopped saying ‘I love you’, it meant that you didn’t have to say it anymore. Just like my parents. They never said I love you, they just knew it. But when you looked at me like I was something you had to wear, I got it. You didn’t love me. You didn’t love anything.”

He laid the plastic down on the floor and then taped it down. He taped the top, the bottom, and the sides. He then went to the tool wall and got some gloves and goggles.

“You liked a housekeeper, a doting wife; you liked having your bills paid on time and your feet washed. You liked the idea of being loved, but actual caring about someone…that’s just so beyond you.”

He stood over he and it bent its head back and her eyes were milk glasses with little black cherry pits. It spat at him.

“You’re dead inside.”

He wiped the spit from the bridge of his nose and walked to the wall. He took the saw off its wall mount and started again towards the table. It looked at her with its demon dead eyes and her sneer and her stare.

“Deader than me.”

He turned on the blade.

*****

He pulled up into the shoulder of the road and he went out turned off the light. The sun was coming soon and the night was the strange obscure black that came with the yellowing of the sky at dawn. He opened the trunk and took the bags from them and walked them over to the side of the road, right to the barricade and dropped them. He saw them roll into the bottom and felt content.

He got into his car and drove home.

*****

And it was there.

*****

“And it was singing.” The man said.

Arthur Jensen looked at him, but the man just looked at the point where his cuffed hands met the table.

Jensen echoed the words, as if tasting the words in his mouth.

“It was singing?” He asked. “Who was singing?”

“Where is my mind? Where is my mind?”

Jensen suppressed a shiver. When he was roused from bed, He expected a homicide. You know, something normal. It was the fifth hour of this and he was starting to feel like a man watching a bad cartoon show. The same joke get told over and over in different ways, each time a little darker, a little less funnier.

He guessed it was to be expected. When a perp came in with a served head in a grocery bag, weird is the sounding gun to the dead races. He looked at the mirror on the wall and shook his head.

The Captain just stared ahead as he came right in. He held a folder in his hand and he had the look of someone who had just been startled and was trying his best to look poise.

“You look like someone took a dump in your cereal?” He said. The Captain just looked at him.

“ Read it.”

The Captain handed him the file and Arthur planned to skim it until he caught the first three words of the last paragraph.

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Arthur said to himself. And it didn’t.

They never found the served head that the desk sergeant and three other officers saw. The body of Lauren Holmes was eventually unearthed underneath a tree in the hill overlooking the town.

The plastic bags that Daniel Holmes claimed to have dumped his wife were found empty off of I-90.

No one could ascertain the lividity of the body. They oft-handled remark was “only a few hours” despite the fact that the Lauren Holmes was killed around six the previous evening. The hole where the body was found was disturbed prior to the unearthing. Detective Jensen reported to have told a colleague that it was as if something barrowed out and then crawled back in again.

Of the body, there was nothing but a faint smile caused by rigor.

The End

Boston Belong To Me

2011-01-28T13:29:00.003-05:00

So this one I wrote on the bus over to my brother's house to babysit my niece. The idea itself is pretty funny, but I felt that it's just been done. If I wrote this like right up to the lead up to the Iraq war, it would have been perfect for publication, but at alas there's something to be said about the relevance of a piece. Still, I enjoy the bit I wrote and I hope you enjoy it to....

Bagram is a shithole of unimaginable beauty. The car-bmbs barely serve to distract from the fotbol matches anymore. People navigate around the gunfights like gazelles in migration.The jihadist are targeted every night by the serving squads for reprograming, filling them up with a headay cocktail of etorphine, sodium amytal and 100% Democracy. The hard part is taking them in alive. That's what I do. I'm a displacer. I move in before the servers and make sure the target comes in breathing and upright toward the forward base. The head shrinkers do the reprogramming.

The whole country stinks of war but things are noticably better. The upgraded electrical grid ensures powers to the mobile cell towers, making this whole damn country a wifi hotspot. The central highway commition have begun weaving together the old communal paths and dirt roads, creating a community along the length of the highway. From Ar Rutbah to Baghdad. There is a Taco Bells or a Chili's every forty miles.

The number one rated show on Iraqi television is the Iraqi version of Glee called Indolent Youth. The main girl wears her hair up and dresses in mini-skirts. She's thirteen...

Yeah. That's it.

Courn

2011-01-28T02:47:00.003-05:00

A while back I read Secret Window, Secret Garden and, like most Stephen King novellas, I enjoyed it until it got to about the last twenty pages and I realize he had no idea how to end it. Anyway, I always enjoyed the stories of fictional writers, at least when they get mentioned, and I tried to come up with the Secret Window, Secret Garden/Sowing Season that appears in the book. I entered into a problem when I realize that there's no way Jim Shooter would write this type of story, because I pictured Mort Rainey as a middle of the road crime/thriller writer like James Patterson or someone equally hacky. The idea is basically that Mort isn't really a good writer at all is where I ran into trouble. Anyway...here's the bits:

A woman who would take your love when your love was all you had wasn't much of a woman, Tod Browning thought, so he decided to kill her. he knew the exact spot where he would bury her. It was the garden when the old and new parts of the house met at an extreme angle. In the garden she loved more than she loved him.

He sat on the porch that morning watching the late summer air whip the great barren pines in the hushed susurrus along the water's edge. Te lake was blamy and cold but the day was a hot and hazy. He wondered if should take a swim to relieve himself of the unfortunate Virginia heat. A car pulled up to availed his thoughts. Andy Harrowed stepped out.

" Good morning, Tod. " Andy said, his big hat framing his orbed dome so tight that his skin formed little furrows where his forehead met the band. The man clantered up the stairs.

" Heat must be gettin' to ya', Tod? " Andy chided as he took off his broad brimed outdoors stetson, crushed gray felt with a tan belt

" I wouldn't think so, Andy. Not just yet anyway. Was about to relieve myself at the lakeside in a bit. "

" Rightly so. " Andy leaned against the bannister and looked out at the great expanses of Northeastern V.A, it's beautiful majesty unfolded before him like a tableau of a simple land in unsimple times. Tod and Andy looked out of the crystal blue water that simmered like tinsel. " Contemplating that myself on the drive. " Andy offered, prefunctory. Tod had the feeling that there was something on his mind. Still, he humored the man. "

"Say Tod, you got by far the best land in Dewford. " Andy fawned. Tod smiled a little and now knew that Andy wanted something.

" Flirtin' a bit early, ain'tcha Andy? What do ya' need? " Tod japed, cutting to the quick.

" Just need you to look at a few things. Mind if we talk inside? "

" No sir. I certainly don't. " Tod Browning said as he staked the knife into the first size of birch he was whittling and lead Andy inside.

***

Andy set the pictures on the burgundy ottoman that rested atop of the small braided rug next to the fireplace. He had fanned them out in such a way so that they edges overlap, displaying them like grisly trading cards. Tod took them, one by one, cupping his chin as he looked at the gruesome scenes therein.

" What do you think? " Andy inquired. Tod licked his bristled tongue against the back of his teeth and said nothing. Andy then began to tell him what happened to the girls.

" First one was Miley Sanders. She's Ted Sander's lil' girl. You know Ted. Works at the grocery story. "

" I know, Ted. "

" Well, she was 'pose to drive back from the Westengers with a friend this weekend, but she didn't make it back. They found the car abandoned in a parking lot outside of a bar offa tha' fo'oh'five. 'bout a half a mile they said they found the body. No sign of the friend. Thinkin' 'es still got her. "

***

Yeah, that's pretty much it. It's funny how close that felt while not being...on the mark 100%.

You Can Call Me Francis

2011-01-09T23:39:00.002-05:00

A Suicide

A suicide woke on the coroner's table under the sterile light of the florescent lights.

" I'm dead, aren't I. " the suicide said and a man in green scrub looked up at him from the desk.

" Oh, you're talking. " He looked back down and started to write.

" What's going on? "

" You said it. " said green scrubs. " You're dead. Coroner ruled it a suicide."

" Yeah " The suicide laid morose. Death was less fulfilling than life. The suicide said " What happens now? "

" How am I suppose to know? " Green scrubs shuffled paper around. A few more reports, he thought, and he continue to write.

After a while. " It wasn't really worth it. " The suicide said.

" What was? "

" Death. Or dying. It wasn't really worht it. I should have just waited it out like everyone else. "

Green scrubs smacked his lips, momentarily flustered be the spelling of the word
" marzipan " and said " Yeah. Things tend to work out most times. Never as bad as you think it is, in retrospect. "

" Yeah " The suicide said. Then silence, the scratching of the pen against the paper.

" Thanks for talking to me. "

Green scrubs looked up at the suicide laying there on the table, saying nothing.

" You're welcome. " He said and finished his work.

Auld Lang Syne

2011-01-01T02:14:00.000-05:00

So I was watching Masters of Horror and the episode entitled Pick Me Up had a really interesting premise. It's about two serial killers, one hitchhiker, one truck driver, who are engaged in this turf battle over victims. It had about three good performances (from Michael Moriarty, Warren Kole and Fairuza Balk) and maybe one believable performance from the bus driver (played by Tom Pickett) at the beginning. The rest was standard horror movie shlock, but Kole aand Moriarty and Fairuza Balk did a serviceable performance by being terrified. The only thing that really bothered me was the ending, which I thought could have been better.

Now, if you haven't seen the series or the episode in particular, be aware that the following is mild spoilers and if you don't want the episode ruined for you, go watch it now.

Go ahead. Scurry along. It's available of Netflix. Go ahead.

Okay, back? Good. Without further adieu, this is Anywhere But Here:

***

He felt the glass crushed under his face, stinging his cheek, but he couldn't move to avail it. He had broken both arms. His legs kicked out like the flippers of a dead fish. He could not open the other eye from where he laid pressed against the ground.

There was a slug in his side and a dull throbbing ache in both shoulders and he was forced to make sense of the night from where he laid on the road. The kid was laying not far from him on the 'top. He hat had flew off somewhere when they were heaved thorough the glass and his sandy blond hair laid naked to the air, flecks of glass shards embedded in his head, catching the gleam of the stars and shimmered like pale balls of cold fire.

He tried to roll over by toeing the ground and swaying his body from side to side but his arms were leaden weights on either side of him and he could get no leverage. Furthermore, every jerk and twitch sent tremors of heart-stopping pain up his back like electric currents, as if his the whole of his body was some conductor of agony, who's pulsated maleficence into the core of him.

He looked at the kid but could look upon his face, for the kid was turned away from him and not moving. He had hope that the kid had not broken his neck, for it would be one final denial too many this night. First his body failed him, and now so would his vengeance. Relief came when he heard the kid utter a groan and begin to lift his head, and then a fear of what that meant, and then relief again as he watch the kid's head fall on the ground unconscious. Good. The kid would snap his neck if he regained his facilities before the paramedics arrive. And he, as defenseless as he was, would have to abide by that. Nature would decree him weaker and therefore his life would be forfeit. Filthy poacher. Would probably start hitching again, killing again, once he got recovered.

The driver let out a sigh into the ground, calm in waiting for the sirens to come. He almost blacked out before he heard it.

Glass crunching on the ground. Of course, the girl. He must have been concussed because he forgot all about her. How could he forget all about her? She was the cause of all this. She was the one that slammed the breaks, made his finger jerk the trigger, made the kid shoot his piece into his side. She was the one that sent them both flying thorough the windows. That little b----. When he got his hands on her....

When he opened his eyes, she was standing over the kid. She had turned him over and the driver realized just how bad the kid had made out. His face was dark and ashen from road burn. The side of his lip had been peeled off into a snear. Glass had cut into his face, slicing off part of his nose and embedding into his cheek and chin. Part of the bone shone thorough the gash above his brow. Blood dripped down the blacken side of his face, little red rivets going all the way into the hole in the side of his face.

She was picking thorough him with a coldness. She eased out his wallet, taking off a tattered swatch of his coat and the whole of his belt. She began off his snakeskin boot, but the foot was jammed in there tight and she soon gave up. As she stood, he began to stir and his eyes began to flutter open as he came to. The kid looked at her and muttered something perplexed. It appeared as if he had regained his senses when she lowered the barrel of the driver's forty-five and blew away what was left of the kid's face.

The bullet entered his cheek and his size exploded like a walnut in a cracker. The kid might had said something like " No " or " You " but the driver didn't quite catch it so he couldn't say for sure. Either way, the kid made no sound as he laid on his back with his brains and his blood slowly pooling out the sides of his head. She turned away from the body and began towards the driver.

He had closed his eyes on her approach but when she turned him over, he let out a whimper and that gave him away. She knelt down and began to rummage thorough his persons, the black metal of the forty-five held loosely in her hand. If only he could reach for it, he'd tuck it in her mouth and pull the trigger.

He found that once on his side he could still not open his right eye. His eye, he had discovered, was pinned close by a sliver of glass that ran parallel to the bridge of his nose. The glass had embedded deep with his eyes and blood had sealed around the wound, allowing him only a bewildered fish-eye stare for which to spy her. She ripped of his adornments, the trophies he had kept from his victims, the various key-chains and buttons and pieces of jewelry he had taken. She must have caught his look, because as she began to undo his belt she said " You forgot one. Predator, I mean. You forgot there's another type of predator out there."

She undid the prong and the buckle and pulled out the leather belt with one long tug and the belt serpentine around his thick waist as she said.

" The ones that use camouflage. Yeah. They're the most efficient. They blend in. Pretend to be something their not and attract other predators. Then, when the time is right..."

She took the belt with one hand and with one ahnd she looped it around her arm. She stood and held the gun to him.

"...Pow..."

The moon filled the sky and he could see the reflection of the stars on the smooth metal finish and for a moment it seemed as if she held the night in the palm of her hands.

" Thanks for the ride. " She said and pulled the trigger.

***

At Dolsville, the rig stopped and she got up to the window.

" Where you going? " said the driver, his beady eyes hungry.

" Anywhere. " Said said, lowering the hoodie and staring up with big, bright blue eyes like rain puddles.

" Anywhere but here. "

The End

Dig'Em Bones

2010-10-11T19:09:00.000-04:00

This is an old one. Very very old. I'm amazed how consistently bad I am.

Strangers That Know Each Other

She wept soberingly into her gloves, her elbows rested on the banister and her head forced down. Her ample shoulders shrugged up and down complimenting the sobbing. Unfortunately for a nearby chair, she wouldn't be sobbing long. Black booted toe swung back as a muscular leg would reel back, turning swiftly as rounded shoulders guided the slender midsection towards it's goal. Ample bosom shook lightly as she stepped forth on her right leg, all of the weight placed upon the smooth, but firm, limb as she bent left leg and like a catapult swung it forth onto the bottom of the seat, sending it flying end over end like some short of misshapen football. It landed a five miles east, hitting a trash compactor on the way down and severely denting it, causing all of the vermin of held resident to complain that the neighborhood sure has gone downhill lately. This action made her feel better as she began to wipe the blood from her lips. Karen Starr looked back out into the city and sighed deeply.

" Glad you did that. " Said a voice from behind her. " I mean, really. He was getting on everyone's nerves with his snarky backtalk and lame stories about how he once seated Jennifer Lopez "

He shook his head, and a small rattle emitted from the ice riddled orange juice he held in his hand. He was a man of striking features, who's face held the potential appeal of a male model, but the general stoop of his character-and his height-was a sufficient deterrent of that dream. He had slight, self-deprecating swagger and held the glass in his hand as if it was Dean Martin. He actually looked Dean Martin-esque, in his burgundy bathrobe and bunny slippers, of which Karen looked down upon. His hair was a bright ginger color, cut short down to his head and combed down. His eyes were a very deep, intriguing green, given the look that he knew more than even he knew. Karen eyes widened in surprised and then twisted in confusion. The man seemed slightly amused, but not really rattled. " Hi. " He greeted.

" Er...Hi. " Karen replied.

The man smirked and then canted his head as he checked the specimen before him. Karen was tall and strapping and all that good stuff, but it was her mostly bosom chest that both sexes focused upon. His eyes moved down to the large oval in the center of her tattered one-piece white uniform for which she had left bare, exposing the top half of her large, spherical breast. There they stopped at there and went no further. She eyed him wearily and cleared her throat. " Excuse me. " She said, folding her arms just below her bosom, muscular forearms pushing them up inadvertently. He stared more intently. She cleared her throat harder.

" Hm? " He said, coming back to.

Two gloved fingers came up and pointed at her bright, sky colored pools. " Eyes forward. "

The man blushed suddenly and looked away. " Er...sorry. "

" Why do people do that? " She said, unfolding her arms, her hand gripping the bottom and pushing them up, allowing him to get a better view if he was looking.

" It's not like they haven't seen a pair of breasts before."

The man flushed a deep crimson and tightened his lips, then looked at her befuddled and shrugged.

" I dunno. Yours are just engaging, I guess. "

She shook her head once more and sighed, folding her arms.

" Yeah, thanks. I'mma go now. "

She began to turn.

" You look like you got hit by a truck. " He said.

She stopped and turned around slowly, her face was unreadable.

Then, something strange happened. She smiled weakly. " Bus, actually. "

He sipped his drink and nodded.

" Well, anyway I can't let you fly off like that. People'll think I did something to ya, and I really have a reputation to think of. "

There was something about him. A comfort in his swagger, and though she felt like garbage, heated and wrapped in aluminum, she found it in herself to smile wider and wider. Still, she had to go, she had to clear her head. She had to think about...things. She'll replace the chair later.

" I doubt you'd have anything that could fit me."

She looked the lean figure up and down. His eyes came just level to the bridge of her nose.

" I should just get going. " she said.

He raised his hand to stop her.

" Nah, don't worry about it. " he replied. " My girlfriend is...er..."

His face cross as he searched for the proper phrasing.

He raised his right hand and quoted his finger."...' zaftig.' " he said finally.

" Wha'? "

" Big breasted. "

" Oh. "

" I'm sure she has something that'll..."

His eyes wandered. She snapped her fingers.

" Eyes up here. "

" Sorry." he blushed, but continued " Er. Something'll that'll fit ya'. "

" No. really. That's okay."

" C'mon. "

" I'm okay, seriously. " She said with bite and leaned back against the wood banister that topped the balcony.

He went quiet; they looked at each other awkwardly. Then he walked over, his hand dove into the pocket of his gray sweatpants causally and he sat down beside her. Their eyes met. Then they looked away. He sipped his drink. The clatter of the ice in his cup, the wind and the life that happen below and rose up into the early afternoon sky. Her brow knotted as she thought of something. She tossed him a look. " It's 3:30 in the afternoon on a Wednesday. "

He quirked a brow. " So? "

" Why are you in a bathrobe and bunny slippers? "

He went quiet and looked away. " My off day. "

" Oh. Okay. "

There was another moment of quiet.

" PG? " he asked.

She gave him a inquerious look. " Huh? "

" PG. " He replied. " Short for Power Girl. "

" Oh. " And that's all she could say. The realization that she had never met this man before and that she landed on his balcony for a quick cry a ten minutes ago didn't quiet register with her yet. It must have been something in his presence.

" PG? " he asked again.

" Yes? "

" What the hell are you doing here? " he asked.

Her eyes widen as it finally came to her that she was on a stranger's balcony.

" Oh, god. I'm sorry. I'll leave. "

" You don't have to. It's all right. "

" I just..."

" Yeah. I saw. " He put his hand on her shoulder. She gave him a look and he withdrew it quickly. "

Wanna talk about it? "

She looked at him blankly and shook her head softly. " No. I don't want to talk about it. "

News got around quick when a super heroine, former cousin of Superman, went nuts in the middle of the streets fighting enemies, when all witnesses had reported that said super heroine was simply punching and yelling at the wind. Her head was spinning from the ordeal and she had to land somewhere, anywhere, to try her best to purge the sudden depression and frustration that had gripped her. To spill her soul through her tears, and as depression turned to fury, she lashed out at the first piece of inanimate furnishing she could find. She sighed once more and looked away. The ginger-haired gentlemen in the bunny slippers sipped his drink and set the glass down upon the polished synthetic wood. He nodded his head and seemed like he was about to say something, but he simply stared at her, expectantly.

She gazed back and narrowed her eyes. Finally she dropped her head and sighed.

" I'm just confused. " She said. " I don't know who I am anymore. I mean...for a long time I thought I was Superman's cousin. For a long time I thought I was some time-traveling sorcerer's daughter. For a long time I thought I was...someone who I'm starting to think that I'm not. "

He pondered this. He pondered this and nodded slowly.

" Well. Are you still you? "

Her eyes narrowed. " What? "

" Are you still the person who you always thought you were? "

She made a move to speak, to yell, to scream, to tell him off. She felt as if she should, but, she didn't know why. She didn't know why she was so angry all of a sudden, but she was, as was physically evident by the death-glare she tossed his way. One of which he took rather casually and looked away.

" I understand what you're going through. Been through much of the same thing myself. "

" Oh have you? " She said sarcastically.

" Yes. I have. Sorry, I don't have a better Yoda-ism for that, but I'm kind of new at this sage thing. I'm usually the answerie, not the answerer. But yeah, I kinda' get where your coming from. "

" Oh? " She asked, folding her arms.

He gave her a look. In that moment he realized how young he seemed. He couldn't have been older then twenty two.

" I was a sheltered kid, you could say. Raised by my dad. When I was eighteen he died and I found out that he wasn't my real father. "

" What does this have to do with me? " She interjected.

" I'm getting to the point. Just, follow 'long here PG. Anyway, I found out he wasn't my dad and that my 'real' ( air quote, air quote ) dad wanted to take over the family business. I can't tell you how much this freaked me out. I meet my cousin who I never knew. I learned of a dad I didn't know existed. And everything I know gets turned upside down. In a less then a week. But I adapted and soon I got used to running the business. "

" What do you do? "

" Well, my real job is freelance web design, but my other job is in...well, you can say law enforcement. "

" Must take a lot of your time. "

He reached for his drink, his fingers however could not grip and with the force exhausted tipped the glass over. He stares at it as his precious O.J spilled across the polish wood. He shook his head. He turn to her and continued his story

" Yeah it does. Plus the pay sucks, the benefits are for beans and the hours are long. But, I help people and everyday I learn a little bit more of who I am, and what I can do." He gave her a sentimental look and smiled warmly. There was another momentary pause.

" I haven't always done it though. There's time when you have to reconnect with yourself, to find out who you are again. What I really find helps is if I go back, retrace my life. Sometimes I go to places. Most times I break out my old address book and call people I haven't talked to in a while. Sometimes I whip out the photo album and take a look-see. But I always do it from time to time, when I'm unsure of my self. When I'm uncertain who I am or where I'm going, I just try me best to reconnect with those things, people and places I know are important to me. "

He turned towards the sky, the heavy golden sun beating down upon the buildings and avenues. He closed his eyes, seeming to bask in the warmth for a second, as if he feed upon it and then exhaled deeply. When he opened his eyes once more he had a light, dreamy quality about him.

" But...Y'know, that's just what I think. " He said and flashed her a simple grin. She smiled back and nodded softly.

" Yeah. " She said softly. " I get you. "

She began to leave, but stop and held out her hand. " Karen. " she introducing herself.

" Ray. " He replied and took her hand.

He watched her go. The door clicked open and slammed closed again. He turned as Dee dropped the groceries on the table, and he followed her eyes. Her fingers canopied, she squinted deeply. " That Power Girl? " she asked.

" Yup. " He replied and looked back out.

" You know Power Girl? "

" No. " He said and smiled.

Her brow furrowed. " You're not cheating on me with Power Girl, are you? " She said, mockingly and approached, wrapping her arms around him lightly.

He reached down and kissed her lips softly. " Why? Jealous. "

" Me? Jealous? Hah. " She replied and kissed his jaw line. She rested her head on his shoulder as the amber light popped in the corner of her eyes. She felt the lightness as her heel left the floor.

" You shouldn't do that while we're out in public, Ray. " She whispered softly, but made no motion to stop.

" Just do what you do best. " He whispered back, and slowly began to fade away into the air. Light bending around them as they twirled slowly into the sky.

You Should Check The Warrenty

2010-10-05T14:10:00.001-04:00

I knew you'd have to get your hands dirty to do this job. Sales isn't an easy business. It was Tuesday night. I was standing in the office staring down at the smashed cherry pie that used to be Drew's face. I had the cellphone gripped tightly in my hand. I could hear the dial tone going beep beep beep. My mouth hung open like a rusted door. I believe I may had wet myself.

" Dolores. " I said over my shoulder, like a nine year old calling for mommy after spilling his juice box. " Can you come in here , please. "

Dolores was a short, plump woman who walked with a limping waddle, hands perpendicular to her hips like she was balancing books on her head. She had served me dutifully these last ten years. She had seen it all. Stains, grime, dirt, unflattering Christmas ties, everything. She could make sense of this. If anyone could, it was her.

" Oh, not again."

" Again? "

She orbited around me like a comet in her powder blue dress.

" It happens sometimes. What did you do exactly? "

" I just came in here to use the fax machine. I was on the phone when...when..."

Dolores nodded dutifully. " Yup. The cell signal must have interfered with their microwave array. Bounces the signal around their heads like marbles in a can."

" His head exploded "

She nodded her head. " Mmmhmmm." She said and turned away.

" I'll get maintenance. " She gave me a look. " And some new pants. "

The Air Above Houses And Floors

2010-09-26T12:47:00.000-04:00

Vena

She stood at the stairs, staring at her can of cope. She really wanted to dip but she couldn’t, not at the scene. Judy cut a clean figure in her three-piece. Tall and slender. Her face was angular and striking, way too pretty to be doing this job. “ I should have been a model”.

One of the techies came up then. “Where she at?” He said as she slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Lord knows.”

“Well, you might want to take a look at this in the meanwhile.”

She raised her hand and waved him off. “Can’t. I leave her out of it and she’ll throw a fit. I’ll wait here.”

The techie gave her a look and she shook his head and as he walked away she could hear someone coming up the stairs.

“Here.” Marley said and Judy half-turned when toward her but was smacked back by the smell.

“You been drinking?”

“Little bit.”

She sighed and turned and she waved Marley on and said “Come on. We need you.” And they walked down the hall.

The elevators were swarmed with forensics and Marley was surprised to see Hobs amongst them, squatting over the body like a scavenger picking at the bones.

“What doya’ got?” Marley blurted out and began to laugh uncontrollably.

“She drunk?” Hob said.

“Little bit.” Judy said and stepped to his right. “About the vic…”

Hob began “White, male, 53 years old. Good shape for someone his hand.”

Marley slumped against the wall and slipped her hands into her pocket, smacking her lips. “You setting up his facebook profile or what?” She said. “Get to the good stuff.”

Judy shot her a look and the mark on her face stopped her. “Is that a bruise?” She asked.

Hob knelt and lifted the white sheet. The vic was once handsome for a man his age but all those movie star good looks were probably faded before his face grew an extra whole. Judy could put the pieces together in her mind and she could tell that he smiled a lot.

“Gunshot to the head, just above the right eyebrow.” Hob fingered the chin and turned it onto its right side and Judy saw the funnel-shaped hole where the back of his brain was leaking out.

“Blood splatter pattern indicates that he was standing to the right of the door. We’ve got the ballistics searching for the bullet but so far no luck. Not even a casing.”

Judy looked at Marley and Marley looked preoccupied with her cell phone.

“Killer picked up after himself?”

“Maybe” Marley said.

“Who called this in?” She asked Hob.

“Cleaning lady.” He pointed to the set of doors down the hall.

“Alright’ She looked at Marley. “Let’s go.”

Marley waved her off as she stared blankly at the screen. “You do that. I’ll hang around here and…” She trailed off for a moment before beginning to titter. “Heh, right.” She murmured to herself and began to bash in the keys.

Judy snatched the phone out of her hand and as Marley stepped forward she held it up over her head and held Marley at arm’s length.

“Give it.”

“No.”

“Give it.”

“No.”

The techies were watching. She was glad, because if Marley threw down she’ll need someone to identify the remains afterwards. Judy put the phone in her pocket and looked at Marley.

“You’ll get it back when we’re done.” And coolly she walked away, never letting Marley see her hands trembling as she headed towards the door.

Marley watched her go and then followed her.

“Fucking dyke.” She muttered.

Ten Thousand Long Words

2010-09-24T16:08:00.000-04:00

So, I got bits and pieces on a bunch of notebooks and I thought I'll just transcribe them so that I have them up. Much of the work is unfinished, half-thoughts and unedited. Bits of mental detritus that comes and goes between writing stories. I don't think a lot of writers like putting that work on display because it's clearly not their best, but I think everything I write is interesting in one aspect or another. So here you go:

Marley

Phil called her “The Problem”. She was 5’8’’, 138lb of carmel-skinned trouble. She drank, smoked, yelled and picked fights. She was also a cop, which made things hard. It wa the weekend so the cage was set up at the back. A good sized crowd cheered and booed the two squaring of. Someone thorough a bottle at the chicken wire and screamed “Kill ‘em!”. It was a typically rowdy night at the Black Addler.

“You got a call.” He said.

She sipped her beer and watched the fight. “Tell them to fuck off.” She said.

Phil picked up the phone. “Yeah, she says to ‘fuck off’”. He nodded his head and then he cupped the speaker. “She says it’s a case”. He said as the fight went to the ground and the spectators let out a small roar.

“Tell them to fuck off.”

Phil sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as the migraine woodpeckered the sight of his head.

“Listen kid, I ain’t your fucking secretary. You tell ‘em. “ He handed off the phone to her and walked away to the other end of the counter, out of the door leading to the back, reaching for his smokes.

“What?” Marley said, her twelve beer forcing a noticable slur into her words.

“I’m off duty.” It sounded like “I’m off dooty”. Someone yelled and she turned around and one of the fighters was twisting the other one’s arm into a J shape.

“I’m off duty.” She said again, straining the syllables. “Get miles to cover it.” There was a pause and she looked over to the cage. Both fighters were blown, moving sluggish. One had a bad cut on the bridge of his nose and it spewed blood like broken faucet. His opponent had his left eye swollen up to the size of a tangerine.

“Write me up then!” Marley said as she swept her leg around, wrapping the phone cord around her slim midsection. “You heard me. Write me up. I’ll take that demerit. Insubordination? Sure. Why not?”

She glanced around but the Phil the bartender was gone. She sloshed her bottle and there was still some backwash beer and so she tipped her head back and drank it down. Half-spit, half-barley ran down her throat.

“Look, putting her on isn’t…don’t…ugh.”

Her head was pounding. What time was it? There was a chalky taste in her mouth and she burped up and it tasted like acid and bile. She was angry that she hadn’t blacked out yet.

“I’m off duty.” She repeated. Phil came back with a bucket of ice and started filling the little well below the countertop and Marley looked at him and gestured with her finger at the empty beer, but he ignored her and he began to fill the bar with ice again.

“No. You’re not going to get me to come down there. I’m off duty. I’m punched out. I’m indisposed. How many ways do I have to say ‘I’m busy’.”

A waving cheer. The sound of something thick and heavy hitting the canvas. The bar rattled with the noise. She cupped her hand over the receiver and looked at the crowd.

“ SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Her voice carried around the bar and everyone went quiet with the suddness of her yell.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

She paused and when she looked up she caught Phil’s eyes and she slid the bottle over to him and he replaced with a new one. All the while:

“What does it look like?” and “How clean did it look?”

She took the beer and she opened it by snapping the top against the lip of the counter so hard that it popped off without breaking the hard neck of the bottle. Marley put the beer to her lips and took a sip of the gold bitter. Marley licked her lip as she soaked in the grisely details

“Okay. Give me a half and hour. Why? Because fuck you, that’s why.” She said and hugn up the phone.

“What was that about?” Phill said and instantly regretted taking an interest in her.

“None of your fucking business.”

She tossed her head back and opened her throat and the beer poured down her gullet like bathwater down a drain. When she finished, she smashed the bottle over her head.

“I’m going in.” She said and headed towards the cage.

This Devil's Workyear

2010-06-22T15:38:00.001-04:00

In celebration of the new Twilight film, here's a story about Edward and Bella on a trip to New York.

Send Your Hate Mail To Me

He can smell me. He pretends he doesn’t, makes believe this is a romantic evening with his girl, but he can smell me. We’re walking down Union Square towards Astor Place. He has one arm around her, holding her hand as they stroll down the block. I shadow them, giving them their space.

At Astor Place, they stop at the Starbucks with the boarded up window. The one with some pithy anti-corporate slogan sprain painted on planks on the windows. I wonder how many times that particular window has been busted out and fixed. I wonder why they don’t just get better glass.

I stand by the six train entrance listening to a black kid playing drums on an empty garbage pail. I ask him if he knows any Tom Waits. He says no. They come out around 7:30. She’s drinking a vanilla bean latte with cream, a lemon scone in one hand. I’m choking on the smell of bake dough as I across the street. God, why did she have to get lemon? They walk towards 3rd Avenue, a straight shot thorough the east village.

I keep the distance at about a block and a half. Still, every few blocks, he turns around, seeing me but not seeing me. When he gets to 8th street, he stretches his arms. He flickers his finger at the construction nearby. His finger indicating a sign that reads CAUTION: Ahead. I know he means that for me. His way of telling me to back off. Cute, but I’m not listening. I got a job to do, like it or not.

Terry tells me that I got a get familiar again.

-What do you mean familiar?

-I mean not like “familiar” familiar. But, y’know, you got to reestablished connection with your community, man. You gotta show that you stand for the cause. You gotta show that you’re with us. I mean, not like it’s us vs them or that there’s a them or anything. We’re all in this together, Joe, you understand? I mean, you need to do some things to help, you know, because that’s how you build bridges with the community, right?

-Uh huh.

I light a smoke. Since I took this job I’ve been doing these “community building favors” for Terry every other weeks. Most of it is just running errands. Getting blood, collecting contributions from The Count, helping out people newly infected by the Vyrus integrate, shit like that. Once in a while, Terry will throw a job my way that he wants to handle “with care”, meaning he doesn’t want Lydia to know about it.

Since Tom got dead, it’s been a two party show at the Society. Hurley was assigned as the third member of the council, but he pretty much does what Terry asks him, so it’s Terry and Lydia running things. They’ve been making moves to reach out to other Clans under 14th street, consolidating power south of the Coalition. Terry’s been meeting discretely with smaller gangs in order to keep the suits at bay, but Lydia has cold feet. If she knows I’m running around, doing these jobs, she might be wondering what else Terry’s hiding from her.

I know what Terry’s hiding. I know where the bodies are buried. I’m the one that buried most of them.

-This bridge you need building…

I ask slowly

-…does it have a name?

Terry looks at me and frowns. I guess he wanted to string this out a bit, lecture me about my responsibility about community, try to sell me on the idea of the Society having to get it’s house in order before they start the process of assimilation with the wider world. I just sit there, smoking, not humoring him. Not tonight. I got shit to do. I got to call Evie later.

-Joe, I’ll be honest with you, I’m kind of hurt that that’s your first question. I mean, I don’t know man, I guess I’m a little surprised by your cynicism, you know. I don’t think all the negativity is healthy, Joe. I mean, it doesn’t help things. But, whatever, it’s cool, Joe. I understand…

He trails off. He gets up and goes to the counter and leans on it. He rubs the back of his neck and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

-His name is Edward.

Terry tells me a story. Edward and his girl, Becky or Bella or something, are a couple of out of towners from out west. Edward is infected, Bella’s not, but they make it work. They come here on vacation, do the tourist thing, see a show, go to Statue of Liberty (Terry doesn’t how he can go out in the sun.), go to a few clubs. Have a good old fashion lost weekend in the city. They go out last night to a club in The Bowery and things get out of hand. They get in a little trouble with the local color and someone ends up dead. Edward screwed his head on backwards, twisting his neck like a bottle cap.

-Joe, I don’t want to tell you how to do these things.

Terry says before he tells me how to do it.

-Make it look like a robbery.

I nod and get up. As I turn to go, he grabs my arm.

-The girl too, Joe.

They’re at East River Park, walking by the water. The air is cool and the smell of the sea makes my eyes water. The virus is twisting inside me. It wants to eat but I’m down to my last two pints for this week. I don’t need to pop those for another day and a half, but the Vyrus is hungry. It gnaws at me, telling me that it wants more. I suppress it and move on.

I hear them talk. She giggles, says something that’s lost as the waves crashed on the pier. A ship passes in the distance, blowing its fog horn. He points to and she laughs.

I feel the metal of the snub nose revolver against my side. I have a switchblade in my back pocket but I won’t need it. I do this quick, I don’t make a scene and I get home in time for Letterman. I should hide my face or wait until they’re apart and do it to him nice and quiet. I think about the girl and how young she is. I think about what I would do to protect Evie, the people who I kill if anyone wanted to hurt her. I think about Edward snapping some guy’s neck for her. Wonder if Terry would send someone after me if I did the same.

I realize that I don’t want to give her a choice. I realize that I want to slit her throat and drink her blood. I realize that the Vyrus is making me want this. I convince myself that she’ll talk if he disappears, tell the world that her vampire boyfriend has gone missing, run crying to Opera for her fifteen minutes. I decide that it’s better with no mask and I walk over.

-Excuse me, do you have the time?

They look at me. She smiles. He doesn’t. I knew it. He knows what I am. I shouldn’t be surprised. He grabs her arm and moves her behind him. He stands in front of her, guarding her, protecting her. He barks at me.

-What do you want?

I look at him, giving him my best innocent guy expression.

-I just want the time.

He steps in front of her. He points at me.

-You’re one of them

I look at him

-I’m one what?

-You’re not going to hurt her.

I put my hands in my pocket.

-I just want the time.

I step forward

-Stay back!

She looks at me then she looks at him.

-Edward.

I stare at her and then to him and I shake my head.

-Look—

I draw but he shoots forward knocking the gun in my hand. He’s faster then me, he’s fed recently. He tackles me, drives me back off the path and into a tree. The back of my head smacks the trunk hard enough to rattle me. I feel fuzzy, numb. He swings a left but I duck and he clears some bark off the tree. I try to roll, get some space between me and him, get to my gun, but he’s on me. He climbs on top and starts raining down lefts and rights. I put my arms up to block by the more he hits, the more I feel my bones start to creek. He locks his hand, planning to cave my head in, but he opens up his midsections and I tune him up with some rabbit punches, rupturing a kidney.

He drops his arms and I grab his collar, pulling him off. I get to my feet and fish out my blade but he’s back on his feet, snarling like a dog, throwing haymakers. His arms are lead weights but he telegraphs his punches that I see them coming. I bob and weave, making him matter. He could end this fight if he kept his head, but he’s trying to protect his girl and he’s getting caught up. I would do the same if it were Evie. I circle right, keeping away from his hand and avoiding the blows. He lunges forward with a cross and grab his arm, pulling him towards me.

I punch him where the elbow meets the joint and feel his arm snap like pencil. The bone pokes out of the skin on the inside of his arm and he falls to his knees. He holds his arms, screaming, trying to set the bone, but with the chicken wing poking out of it just dangles useless. Blood pours out of the wound, filling the air with the stench of virus. I flick my blade and stand over him. He’s crying, mumbling something that I can’t hear. I pull his head back and drive the knife down right between the eyes.

I see the lights go out, flicker and fade, and then I hear her screaming his name. I realize that she’s been screaming the whole time; I’m just now really hearing it. I step aside as she runs to him, sobbing and wailing. She screams his name over and over. Edward, Edward, Edward. I feel the tightness in my stomach and I look at her. I look at her and see Evie. I look at Edward and see me.

I decide to look for my gun. I don’t notice she has it until I hear the click of the hammer. I look at her and she’s got the revolver between her hands, shaking. Her eyes are red but she’s not crying anymore. She’s just looking at me, looking thorough me like I’m not even there. She sees me but she doesn’t see me. She’s looking at a ghost. She puts the gun under her chin.

-Edward.

She says and pulls the trigger.

I don’t bother staging the body. I just dump them. Fucking tourist.

Joe Pitt© of Charlie Huston, all rights reserved Edward and Bella © of Stephanie Meyers, all rights reserved This work is a work of fan-fiction made for entertainment purposes only

Flea Market Story

2010-06-02T11:45:00.002-04:00

I got a story here. Do me a favor, buy an issue. It's five bucks, you bastards and it'll prove that you love me.

Black Law

2010-04-25T00:42:00.003-04:00

I was born in the clouds above mountains,
cold then when my feet touch the ground
My mother was Laufey, who some call Nal

I was small for a jötunn
Smaller and smarter and slender
and sharper, still sharp now.

I changed my shape, blend
I was Loki of flies, Loki of Moths
Loki of the fire, and my name

haunt little night and little
night dreams, for the Aesir
would furrow at schemes

Made known, are known, know
now how I made them laugh when
they needed a laugh, but plans

they drew up I smashed, twist
then and turn them into confections
to play and throw around

Tell Heimdall do not wait, for they
come far and I farther still most go
must come, to a chamber underneath

the earth, where I would shake
Chain cuffed, embrace fate, be
not scare for daughter I come.

Narfi, my son.

See you again where all we go,
A Hel that everyone will know.

Sleeper In The Dust

2010-04-05T18:05:00.000-04:00

This is a short story I've written earlier this year. This is the original version of the story. I wrote a revised edition with the Midwich section removed to make it easier for publication. But, seeing as no one bit, I'll subject you to the original final draft in all it's glory.

Sleepers in the Dust

The tower was the only light in the distance, so they came to it like moths. They walked for miles thorough ash-fog, hundreds of thousands for the most part. They walked alone but there were few of them who journeyed with others in couples or in threes or in fours. There was no one on the road while he walked it. He was all alone.

He came upon the outcrop of rocks at the crest of the hill. The stones were a set of cairns and grave markers. They were arranged haphazardly in a circle. Some lain on their backs, forgotten. One stone stood away from the cluster, further towards the road. It was sheer flat unlike the others, half buried in the ground. The old man sat on it, eating from a bag.

“ You following the road?“ The old man said.

“ I am.“

The old man shuffled towards his right. He patted the empty spot next to him.

“Sit?“ The old man asked.

“I’ll stand.”

The old man held out the bag. He waved it off.

“So.“ the old man said. “Following the road then?“ The old man took a nut from the bag and cracked it with his teeth. The nut fissured and he took it out, dropping the innards into his shivering hand.

“Me too. Heading to the tower myself. You from the plains?“

He shook his head.

“Me neither.“ said the old man. “From the mountains myself. I came down after the tower burned out. Lived in a place called Pots ‘fore that. Near the temple.“

The old man swallowed and then coughed into his hand. He spat the nut into the dirt and tossed the shell after it.

“Where you from?“

“Nowhere“ He said. “I wander.“

The old man nodded his head. He didn’t seem surprised.

“How many towns you’ve been in?“ He asked.

“A couple. Mostly passing thorough.”

“You like any of them?”

He shrugged. “Not really.” He walked over and sat down next to the old man and looked out at the road. Down the slope the road followed the curve of the trough disappearing into the line of trees. Ash fell heavy like fat gray snowflakes. They lay on the ground like feathers.

“Was at a place called vale.” He said after silence. “Stayed there the longest.” The old man threw nuts into the dirt, picked his teeth with long dirty fingernails.

“ What was it liked?” He asked.

“Wasn’t like nothing. Just a town. Same as any other place, I guess.”

The old man smiled at this. “Then what made you said.”

He said nothing. After a while and watching the old man spit out more nuts, he got up.

“ We’re walking to the same place” said the old man. “ We all are. How about you and I walk together? We’ll keep each other company.”

He looked at the old man then turned his head and stared down the road then he started walking. He heard the old man say something to him. He turned his head and listened.

“ It get’s lonely out there, wanderer.”

“ So?”

The old man frowned. “ I don’t got much and I don’t want to beg but I will. Just out past the woods. If you want, I can stay on until the tower. Just be with me in the woods.” He held up his bag. “ I got nuts, salt-treats and bitter candy.” He looked at the old man bony and fragile with his hallow sunken eyes.

“ Do you know any stories?” He asked the old man.

“ I do.”

“ Good.” He said.

Together they walked down the hill.

*****

The old man walked slowly, leaning on his walking stick as they made the turn. When the road level, the old man grunted and stopped.

“ Damn.” The old man flexed his knee and looked up. “ It’s alright. Let’s keep going.”

They were quiet for a long time. The ash fell in bundles. Heavy in some places, light in others. The fields were uncut of their whiteness. The plains remained stilled in the fog. He and the old man came upon a dog in the road. Below it was a man, his stomach ripped open and bleeding. The dog’s snout was ruddy red. Its teeth were slick with blood. It looked at them dispassionately. It’s big, green eyes staring out from a mountain of black fur, regarding them apathetically. It turned away and dug down into the man’s flesh. Its teeth came down around something black and meaty. It reared its head up and tore it loose, the sinew snapped like a rubber band.

They watched it eat and then they walked on

*****

They sat underneath a birch tree at the edge of road as ash drifted down between the branches. The canopy was black and heavy with twisted limbs and they strained with the weight of the heavier accumulations of soot. One could hear the distant snapping of branches and the collapse of older oaks farther in, echoing out from the tangled woods.

The old man had sat on down on log, rubbing his knee. In his left hand was a pipe with wispy smoke emitting from its belly. It had these holes and three caps in those holes. In those caps were dried wood chips, colored black, red and brown. The old man put a light to each of them and inhaled. He went to hand it off but the wanderer ignored him and looked out across the road.

“ What was that thing?” He asked the old man.

“ The dog?” The old man puffed. “ Old soul eater. Used to go by Amaranth or maybe Cerberus. Used to be much bigger back in the day, but it’s got smaller now.” The old man let out a plumb of smoke, fine and misty. It smelled of burned holly and mistle thrush. “It used to be taller than the world, but back then so was everything else. Then it got smaller and smaller. They fed it less and less. People realized that there’s scarier things than oblivion, so they stopped caring. Or maybe they realized that there is no such thing as ‘The end’. Just ‘an end’”

The old man looked at him for a moment and then shook his head.

“ Forgot who I was talking to.”

The old man watched him get up and walk towards the road.

“ Hey! Where are you going?” The old man yelled after him.

“ I see something.” He went to the edge of the road, where the tree line formed, and he looked out to the other side. The old man stepped behind him.

“ I don’t see anything.”

The wanderer shushed him and stepped closer to the road.

“ Do you hear that?” He asked the old man and together they listened. A wind-stirred thorough the trees and a flutter of grit fell on the road.

“ Can someone help me?” said the woman. “ I’m lost. I…can someone help me. I’m so lost.”

She stepped out from behind a tree and turned around. She screamed, a shrill sound like a dying cat, and then she wandered onto the road. Her eyes fluttered like startled humming birds. She looked right at them and then looked away. She took a couple of steps, rubbing her hand like a bashful child then she screamed again.

“ Help me!” She seemed as if she was going to cry, but all she let out was a whimper. “ Please, is someone out there? I know you are. I can hear you! Please, you have to help me. I’m all alone.” She said. “ I’m so alone.”

As she wandered off, he and the old man stepped from the trees into the road. They saw her turn and disappear back into the forest. For a long moment there was silence until the ash took another oak and it fell. The sound echo thorough the woods long after, like a conversation.

He and the old man moved on

*****

They saw the glade from the road and from there they saw the children. There were five of them, eyes sullen and sunk deep. They pushed and pulled and screamed and fought. They gnawed teeth and yelled, little fist busting into hard jaw bones. He saw a little girl’s nose explode when someone bashed her face in with a rock. He saw two boys hop on a third and drag him down, kicking and punching until the boy stopped moving.

“ The children are restless.” He said to the old man and the old man, and the old man laid a hand on his shoulder.

“ We should go leave.”

“ Why do they fight?” He asked as they went. The old man shrugged his shoulders.

“ Why does anyone?”

He stopped and for a moment he glared at the old man> He steeled his jaw and thinned his lips.

“ You know, you promised me a story.”

The old man turned and looked at him. A grimaced crossed his cragged face.

“ Okay.” said the old man. “ While we walk.”

*****

Lucifer was asked by God to guard the gates of Eden, and Lucifer did out of loyalty. One day, while guarding the gates, he heard singing coming from the lake. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. It was so lovely and enchanting that without a second thought he followed it. There in the water he saw Lilith bathing. She was the loveliest creature in creation. Lucifer, who was the sun, fell in love.

God saw this. He told Lucifer to the return to the gates and he told Lilith to stay away form Lucifer, but Lucifer was in love and at night he would come to Lilith. One night he came to her and gave her an apple.

“ With this, you will know all the secrets of the kingdom. All that I know. We will be together. Lilith took a bite and then another and then another. She ate the apple down the core and knew all the secrets of the kingdom, for it was the apple for the tree in the center of the garden and it was in that tree that God kept all his secrets and his knowledge. Lucifer and Lilith made love that night under the eyes of God.

In the morning when Lucifer woke, Lilith was gone. She went back to Adam who she truly loved and though Adam would go to reject her, she would still love. Lucifer, in his anger and his hatred, threw down his sword and called to God, but God would not answer him. It was as God had planned it, all. And Lucifer knew that God had set this in motion and walked away from Eden never to return.

*****

The old man sniffed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The sneezing fit he had was so severe he had to stop and lean on his walking stick. He watched the old man’s sneeze turn into a hacking cough. He watched the old man remove a yellow handkerchief from his pocket and blow his nose. The old man sniffed and looked up at him.

“ Allergies.” The old man croaked. The wanderer looked around at the bare birch woods and the soot covered black oaks. Ash covered the ground. He said nothing to the old man and the two continued on.

As they walked: “ Angels don’t fall in love.”

And the old man said “ Why not? They’re made out of love. Love for God. Love for light and life.”

“ They’re made to serve.” The wanderer corrected. “ Angels don’t love God. Angels don’t know God.”

“ You would know a thing or two about angels, boy.” The old man smiled and chuckled.

“ I’ve seen things.” He said.

“ Like what?”

“ I’ve seen the harpies in the suicide trees. I’ve seen the plains and the drag-feet and the vipers that turned to people and back to vipers. I’ve seen those wind-swept carried along by their lust and I’ve seen the dust-fields, oh yes I have. I’ve seen one of the rivers and the shore across it. And they were people standing on the opposite shore, looking at me from the other side. Just standing on the shore, looking at me.”

The old man looked at him with small narrow eyes and thin beaked lips, and for a while he said nothing. They just walked.

*****

He knew they had come to the heart of the forest, for here the branches formed a canopy so heavy that no ash fell. The trunks huddled close, like pillars to a temple, and rose over high until there was nothing but knitted woods and interlocked branches. The old man slept as if he was dying, with big gulps of breath and a cold inhumanity to his countenance. He never slept and so he sat on the muddy ground and watched the old man. On an overhanging branch, a raven came down and spoke.

“ You can’t trust the old man. He’ll let you down.”

“ I’m only going as far as the river to the Charon’s boat. He can cross on his own.”

“ And you?”

“ I’ll take the long way ‘round. I always do.”

The bird shuttered and opened its wing. It poked and beaked it’s feathers then he looked up.

“ Been traveling too long. It’s a fucking with your mind. You saw the woman in the woods?”

He thought back to the woman, her glazed expressions and her shivers and her fear.

“ She looked right at us.” He said. “ She didn’t see us.”

“ Because all she sees is trees.” Said the raven “ That’s all she could see. Trees, trees and more trees. She won’t see you if you were inside her.” The raven squawked and to him it sounded like laughter. The old man stirred, muttered something incoherent and rolled over.

“ Y’know, she could reach the end of the road if she wanted to. Go until the world end, ‘till she ran out of ground but she’ll never leave the woods.” The raven snapped its beak and dove off the branch. When he came to rest, it was on a nearby rock at the foot of the tree.

“ The secret is anyone can leave. They could take he road anywhere even the end.”

“ Except for me.” said the wanderer.

“ Especially you.” said the raven and flapped its wings. It flew away.

It was a long, long while before the old man woke. So, he spent the time singing.

*****

They came upon a fork in the road. The path divided into three fingers. One traveled east, the other south and then west further down into the trees. The final path, the main road, continued north. He went to walk north when the old man stopped him.

“ You hear that?” The old man said thorough his teeth. The old man notched his head to the side and listen.

He began to say something but the old man threw an arm around his throat. The old man coiled around his body, throwing himself up on his back. His threw his head back to shake him off, but the old man weighed like a backpack of bricks and the suddenness jerked him back off the road. The wander struggled to regain his feet in the moments before he fell, but the wily old sucker had put his bony shin between his legs. When he stepped forward to shift his weight, the old man scooped his legs from under him. They both fell from the road into the trees. He tried to get up but the old man was on him before he could roll to his elbows, squirming and writhing a top of him like a great worm. The wanderer tried to scream, to bark an angry curse or cruel threat that would shatter the old man’s nerve. He struck with elbows and arms and heavy balled fist into the old man’s sides, feeling his old bones jar, but for all his effort he couldn’t dismount the man. Finally, the old man wrapped his thin fingers around his wrist and held them back. The old man sat up on his chest and looked into his eyes.

“ Be still.” said the old man in a terrible voice.

“ Be still.” and it was like glass shattering in his mind.

“ Be still.” said the words, burrowing into his skull like a mouse.

And finally he stopped.
She came to through the road, straddling the white horse. Her hair was gold-spun silk and it had been comb fine and long and straight ending at the small of her back. Her eyes were almond-shaped, the color of caramel. Her skin was dark bronze, the color of gods.

Her voice was velvet rich, sounding like an ancient music box. It jangled with chords that seem artificial but sung with the love and warmth of a human heart. It was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. It was purity, he heard. It was sound of purity. Slightly hollow, but still precious. Unreal but always desired. It was Truth and Love and it was Fear and Justice. It was Mercy and the Collective and the Silent Majority. Mom, Dad and Apple Pie.

He wanted to bathe in it. To be lavished by it when he was inside her and to be made whole again. And he closed his eyes and for a moment he felt nothing. Not the ground or the dirt or the rock jutting out of his back. Nothing at all. Then she was gone, disappearing down the road.

*****

The old man helped him up from the ditch. They stood square and looked at each other, then he wound back and release catching the old man on the point of the chin. The old man fell back. He seemed so weak now, so small. He stood over the old man, regarded him in silence. He knew there was no reason to be mad, but he was. He knew he’ll never see her again.

“ You’ve wouldn’t have convinced her to stop.” said the old man. “ She would have footed right passed you. She’s lost in her own woods, on her own mission, to retrieve her husband.” The old man spat and looked up. He could see the old man’s teeth were dark red with blood. “ She made it thorough the gates, each one, and she will die when she reaches her destination. But it’s something she had to do. She won’t let herself forget ever. Even if she dies, she’ll always remember.”

He looked down at the old man, his face rushed with blood and his teeth clenched out of anger. It would be so easy, he thought, so easy to hit him again. And again. And again. And again. A susurrus escaped through the trees. A branch broke in the distance, cracking with a long yowling strain. He took the old man’s arm and helped him up.

“ I’m sorry.” He said. The old man looked out into the distance and gestured toward the main road.

“ It’s alright. I don’t blame you.”

He took the wanderer’s arm and held up the two halves of his stick. The old man looked resigned.

The old man sighed and threw the two halves away.

The old man leaned on the wanderer.

“ C’mon. I’ll tell you a story.”

*****

It was winter in Midwich. This one would last for years. Days that didn’t snow were wed to clearing the barrows and moving the grains from the silos into the stores. The people huddled close around the fires in the log-houses and many prowled the ground markets after dark. Everybody drank wine.

The nightman was coming soon and Arthur had agonized over which child would be chained to the wood. There had been no disruptors or bad seeds these final years. No out and out miscreants. All the Midwich children were flawed, yes, but all irrevocably good. The witch women called them a “ pure flock”. Arthur had stewed for many nights and finally made his decision. He sat in the kitchen now and ate his lukewarm mutton.

“ ‘s wrong dad?”

Arthur turned in his chair and saw Brown-eyed Paul staring at him, clutching his rucksack doll to his chin. Paul was the younger of his two boy and, to Arthur, the more troubling.

“ Nothing, son. The nightman is coming.”

Paul seemed unmoved by this. His silence was as worrying as the steadiness in his eyes. It frightened him a little. When Arthur was Paul’s age, the nightman had come. He remembered the fear amongst the children beforehand, how it rippled out from them until they all vibrated with terror. He remember the unease he felt falling asleep, wondering if his good deeds outweighed his impure thoughts. He remembered praying to the Antecedents in the under-steeple to spare his life and that of his sister. He prayed to see another winter.

Arthur pushed aside his chair and patted his knee. Paul strolled over and clambered onto it.

“ Do you know about the nightman?” He asked the boy. The boy nodded.

“ What do you know?”

“ Auntie Nem told me that winter is when the nightman comes and he takes one child all winter long to live with him in his castle. And when the summer comes, they come back as the darkseers and protect us from wights and wind-spirits.”

Arthur nodded his head.

“ Do you know why the nightman comes?”

When the boy shook his head, his sandy blond curls bounced.

“ A long time ago, the nightman was a dragon and he ruled the cold waste to the north. One day, the dragons of the east and west went to war with the Gods in the heavens above. It was a long and violent fight, many Gods and dragons died, but finally the dragons relented when the nightman put down his sword. He was the fierce out of all of them, and without him they could never had challenge the Gods. But the nightman had lost all his family and friends and couldn’t fight anymore. He just stopped caring.

The Gods gave him a castle at the top of the world, to thank him and because they were afraid of him. The other dragons never forgave him and sent evil spirits into the world for revenge. The nightman rebuked them all and send them fleeing back into their master. But then something happened…”

Arthur looked up at the boy whose eyes were big and bright.

“ What?” The boy asked.

“ The spirits began to stalk the people of the north. The people were terrified, and called out to the Gods. The nightman felt responsible, so he made a deal with the Antecedents. Every winter he would come and from the towns he would take one child. When the sun rose for summer, he would bring the child back, and they would protect the people. Those are the darkseers.”

The boy whispered, “ What does he do with them?”

“ No one knows.” and he looked at the boy named Brown-eyed Paul.

“ Alright son, it is time for bed.”

“ But I’m not sleepy.”

“ You will be.” He said and he kissed the boy’s curly head. He held the boy up and walked into his room, tucking him into bed.

“ David is going to be a good darkseer, right Dad?”

“ Yes, Paul. David will be the best.”

He put his smock and his coat on and then headed into the center of the drift where the tent stood. The wind howled like a horrible wave. The darkness was full and frightening. He drew back the flaps of the canvas. It was warm inside, in part of the brazier. The coal burned long, slow and hazy, crackling as a flake of snow fell into the pot.

He looked at David in chains. He was sleeping on the floor. He looked skinny and gaunt. No wonder since he refused to eat. His plate of soft cheese and ham remained untouched on the floor next to him.

“ David.” He said. When he touched him, David sprang up with a knife slicing at the air. Had Arthur delayed, he would have lost the tips of his fingers.

“ David. David, it’s me. Put the knife down.”

David looked startled and lost. His breath came out in ragged clumps. He shuttered and dropped the knife.

“ I’m sorry.” He said, hugging his knees.

“ It’s alright.”

Arthur sat next to him. He hugged his son tight. David was had only fourteen years in his life but he looked older. His limbs were toned and thin. His hands were flat and wide. His fingers were long and slender. He had fair-skinned like his mother, with big brown-green eyes. Arthur named him after his grandfather. Paul called him Mop.

“ Are you cold?”

The boy shook his head. “ No. I’m fine.” David looked at the floor between his feet.

“ The nightman comes tonight.” Arthur said. David let out a sigh.

“ I know. I’m not scared.” The boy lied. Arthur held his hand. “ It’s okay.” Arthur said. “ I’m here.”

The wind howled outside, cold and ominous. The boy looked at his father. Arthur choked back a tear as he stared into his son’s eyes. He bit his lip.

“ It’s okay, dad.” said David. “ I know you had didn’t have a choice. It isn’t fair to ask people to break up their families. You did the right thing.” The boy stroked his back lovingly. He pulled his father into an embrace. Arthur felt ashamed.

“ I failed you.” He whispered.

“ No. You did the right thing.”

Then the wind rose again, suddenly and violently. The snow lashed against the canvas. The brazier dimmed and then the gold-fire burn bright white. They could hear over the wind the clatter of hooves galloping, crunching the snow underfoot. They felt Him in their souls before they saw him enter. His black presence announced Him before he arrived. The flap opened wide and He stepped inside. He stood just shy of eleven feet. His robe-coat draped over Him like a waterfall of ink. His features were as if He was sculpted from the ice itself. Though He wore thick boots, He made no sound.

He regarded Arthur momentary, His white-blue eyes settling on him, making his breath chill. He then turned to David, gaped and jaw like a frightened cat. His long thin fingers came under his chin and closed his open mouth.

ARE YOU MINE The words appeared in the mind like cracking ice. David shivered and clung to his knees. The nightman touched the chains and they fell away. Gently, He knelt and took David’s hand. His grasp was bitter cold. He looked into David’s eyes.

FOLLOW

David drooped as if he had fallen asleep. David stood with an eased, jerking motion. David’s eyes fluttered dreamingly. David looked at Arthur and a smiled crossed his face. “ Everything’s going to be okay.” He said. The nightman led David out the door and He turned to Arthur and Arthur could only breath in the cold air.

“ Be fair to him. “ The father said.

The nightman looked at him

I WILL TRY

*****

They saw the demons as he and the old man came to the edge of the woods, where the road turned to run with the river. The demons danced among three towers of black stone at river’s bank. The demons wore tanned horse-belts and stomped their hooves into the mud to a shrill nasally wail. He held on to the old man as the old man guided him to the shoulder. As the road turn to run along the river, the demons saw them and approached.

“ Dance with us.” They said. Their voices sang with the buzz of flies. They opened their mouth and he saw teeth. Sharp needle-like teeth. The demons raised their voices and threw up their arms and danced wild and free. As they danced, they circled the road.

“ Dance.” They sang. “ Dance, dance, dance.”

He and the old man watched the demon’s dance, a dark and menacing thing. He and the old man turned back toward the road.

“ Dance, dance.” The demons sang. The old man turned and his eyes were fire as he stared at the demons. The old man stepped forward, but the wanderer squeezed his arm, pulling him back. He looked at the old man and the old man looked at him and they both decided to continue on.

When they turned back the road was gone. They were surround by the rocks, the black tower of stones. Their feet were sunk in the mud. He smelled sulfur and mashed granite. For once, there was no ash.

“ Let us pass.” said the old man.

The demons ignored him and continued to dance, around and around and around. “ Dance with us.” They sang and when they sang the excrement fell from their mouth in rolling clumps. “ Dance with us.” They sang with hoarse throats, with shit falling out of their mouth.

The wanderer thought their song was filthy and beautiful and he understood the lure though he did not feel it himself. He tightened his grip on the old man who was shaken.

“ Let us go.”

“ But you will not danced.” The flies were dying and falling on the ground in shivering piles. “ So you cannot leave.” The putrid smell of their voices watered his eyes. The demons danced a little closer, a little closer. Their leering eyes were bright like sun-jewels. He looked at the old man who was shaking. The old man’s gaze was like a sword, sharp and steady. The wanderer looked out ahead and the demons were standing. Their yellow eyes were rolled in the back of their heads and their mouths were slacked open, revealing the rows of teeth going down their throats.

The old man shuttered and sputtered. Droll fell from his mouth. The old man held his arm, his knuckles whitening as aged fingers held onto his arms. The air was hot and the sulfur made his eyes water. When he cleared them, he saw the great chasms turning with the bodies. They screamed as they bathed in the molten waters and their rose their hands for salvation.

“ Lastly.” croaked the old man. “ I will leave you names.”

And the multitude echoed as one “ Names.”

The old man pointed and gave the names.

“ You are Moloch, whose black belly feeds the unborn.”

“ And you Mammon in gold and silver.”

“ And you are Baphomet, the lion.”

“ And you are Leviathan, who the sea cannot hold.”

“ You are Baal and Bali and Beelzebub and you are Legion.”

The old man sighed and pointed to the last.

“ And you are Malcuiber, and the towers are yours.”

And the demons raised their voices and made a terrible sound. The wind whipped and the smell of sulfur and the sound of the fire was all there was. The light of the pit seared him. The heat was great and it bubbled his flesh. For a moment, he could see all the great moment before him and they were unspeakable things that he will always remember and never recall. Their sounds echoed on into eternity and soon were gone.

*****

When he opened his eyes, the man was standing in the road. He was leaning on his stick, looking down passed him to the river.

“You found a new stick” He said to the old man.

“Yup. Made out of bone.” The old man reached down and pulled him back up to the road. The wanderer dusted himself off and went on ahead. Slowly, the old man followed him.

*****

The Charon came thorough the fog after awhile. They sat on the docks and greeted him. When he docked the old man handed him two coins. Some old prices never change.

“ It’s the same as it ever was.” The Charon told him as the old man slept. “ No one ever truly changes. People see the branches and not the trees in this case.”

The wanderer narrowed his eyes. He was tired of trees. He looked down at the old man.

“ Who is he?” He asked The Charon, who laughed. “Who do you think he is?”

He quietly thought and the boat pushed on.

“ I don’t know. I think he might just be an old man. But then there are other times…”

He paused and remembered the raven.

“ I saw a bird.” He said. For a moment, The Charon looked surprised.

“ Ain’t no birds.” The Charon said. “Ain’t nothing but the shore and sea”.

The wanderer sat down, his eyes looking out over the river side. He wondered what else was out there in the fog. Ash fell on his lips and tongue as the black river water crest under the hull and gently nudged the rocking vessel side to side. As he rowed, the Charon raised his voice to sing.

*****

On the road there was walking for miles and miles and miles. They stopped regularly and passed a town. He saw only four people, haggard and lost who looked passed them as if they were shadows. They traveled thorough the fog and day by day things got clearer.

It would never be all clear, he realized. Ash would always come, slowly falling down, like hope. The air would always be hazed and the distance would always be vague, black shapes. Most of all, the world would always have a tower, the destination. It spewed bright orange fire against the gray.

On the road, they saw many things. Men in seersucker suits rolling great wheels. Women making babies out of clay. People traveling great hills only to fall. Giants pushing boulders down from steep inclines. They saw man dragging a cross up a hill. The man stopped and leaned on a rock and for the briefest moment looked at them. He took his burden and walked up the hill and disappeared. A serpent found a apple in a rock and swallowed it whole. Insects found bliss and then salvation. They moved on to their prize.

They came to a man who was digging a hole beside the road and when the old man asked him what he was digging for, the man looked up and said “ My wife.” His eyes were pitch-black, color of found coals.

The road let them to a mountain and they followed it up. The ash fell heaviest here of all places. It drifted around to the height of one’s shin, but it was not cold. He and the old man rested a lot. The old man spent his time sleeping, eating from his bag and polishing his stick made of bone. When they spoke, they spoke of the journey and nothing else. Soon, they would be finished.

“ There’s something you never told me.”

The old man ate from his bag of nuts.

“ What’s that?” The old man asked.

“ Why are you going to the tower?”

“ Because there’s light. Because that’s the road. That’s where it leads.”

“ Did you make it?” Asked the wanderer. “ The road?”

The old man shook his head. “ No. No one could make the road. All anyone could do is walk it. We take the paths we want to take. We could walk in one direction or we could wander, but everyone follows their road. Everyone goes someplace.”

He looked at the old man, with his gaunt face and his hallowed out eyes and his pale skin and he knew the answer to his next question, but still he asked “ Where does yours go?”

“ The end.”

*****

She was a black figure in the fog. As she approached, she could see she was a black figure everywhere else. Her skin was pure obsidian. She was 9 feet tall. Her lips were full and red and her eyes were big and wild. Her teeth were long, straight tusk. She was radiant in her particular beauty.

She wore a necklace of skulls and in her four arms she held a sword and a bowl.

“ Going to the tower?” She asked as she stopped to talk.

“ Yes.” said the old man.

“ The light is going out. You better get there soon.”

“ It won’t go out before we get there.”

“ It might.” She looked from the old man to him. “ That’s the thing. As long as you follow, you’re always subject to the curves in the road. Programs are always subject to change, and all that.”

“ There are no changes on the road.” The old man said to him. “ Just the travel and destination.”

She looked at him and then she looked at the old man.

“ The journey is just one part. The destination is another. But there’s much more to everything than wandering. There is living. There are moments. There is chaos. That’s what makes everything work the way it does.”

The old man looked at her and for once the wanderer couldn’t read her face.

“ Chaos is at path.” The old man insisted.

She smiled a toothy smiled. She stroked the old man’s face.

“ Walk. Skip. Dance. Do whatever you want.”

She leaned out and kissed his head with her big red lips. The wander watch as she headed down the road and into the fog. As she was almost out of sight, she began to dance. Then she was gone.

*****

They came to the tower. He looked up. The tower disappeared into the fog. Ash fell in mounds. They were nearly buried in it. The old man looked at him with sad, tired triumphant eyes. He looked at the old man in silence. In truth, he felt a tiny pang of guilt to be leave of him. The cold air rushed out as the large iron doors opened, the wind sweeping into blackness. He looked at the darkness inside the tower and knew there sat oblivion.

The old man came to him thorough the mounds of ash. He came in close and the two of them hugged in the shadow of the tower.

“ No one built the road.” said the wanderer. “ But you built the tower.”

The old man smiled a fragile smile.

“ No. You did. There used to be nothing in the road except the ash and the fog. You built the tower to light the way. Then you walked the road so that others could find it. And you kept ‘em lit when they weren’t out. That’s what happens to you. What happened to me.”

The wanderer looked down. “ The raven said not to trust you.”

The old man smiled and lifted his head.

“ That’s what raven’s always do. He’s right, though, to tell you not to trust me. You aren’t me yet. Not until you walked a little further will you know what I know. Then you will learn how to name and learn how to build. Only when you learn those two things will you learn sleep. And your dreams will be great, for you will be truly tired.”

The old man gave him his stick made of polished bones. As the old man walked away, he could see him moving fine without it. The old man tossed him the bag from his belt. “ In case you get hungry.” He said and waved goodbye. The doors closed behind him and the dimming fire roared, growing brighter for a moment. It pulsed yellow-gold and burned the fog around it. The fog lifted for him and he looked down the side of the mountain at all the roads and where they lead. He turned and headed down the other side of the mountain, following the road.

The End

A Cracked Wound

2010-03-06T03:48:00.000-05:00

What the baby sees

The fire swirls thorough the enter. The tormented wails of those dragged by the undertow swings down and away. The ears bleed with their melancholy songs. The winds are daggers. They shred, they tear, they bore. They run thorough like the lance, the spear, the sword. They pierce the heart like love and leave the body like death. There are horses, as if from a distance, and their skin is black as blood. Their eyes are skulls crusted in ruby. They pull on a chariot of gnashing teeth and sowed bones. And their rider is as dark as they, and he cracks his brutal whip that sounds like every lost boy reaching out for their mother. It rides on and at it's back, darkness awakes.

*****

The mobile spins.

"She's beautiful."

"Yeah. She is."

"Look at her. Like an angel. So perfect."

They smile, looking in.

"I wonder what she's dreaming of."

Things To Do With Cabbage

2010-02-14T18:18:00.001-05:00

I hate Valentines Day
I hate it's queer marks
I hate the " I love you "
And chocolate harts.

I hate Valentines Day
The day that's all cheer
I hate it the most
Out of all the years.

For Valentines Day,
I am something of a shrew
For I sit in my house
With nothing to do.

I sit
And I stir
and gibber and spit
For when it is love, I've have called it quits.

So take your valentines day
My fine feathered friend
And shove your chocolate hearts
Right up your rear end

For Valentines day,
It's easy to see
That no one around
To ever love me.

The Greater Metropolitan Area

2010-02-14T17:33:00.002-05:00

There were great many things Ray never wanted to see again. Keeping Up with the Kardasians, LOLcats, People who say " Looking like a foo' with they pants on the ground ", James Van Der Beek. Among these list of things, the most highest was listed simply as HER. Her was Jenny Jurgen, a tall thin brunette with wiry glasses and a milky complexion. The reason was simple: Ray had once been in love with her.

It was not cold that day. The air was sharp in the way only winter brought and the light was dull gray and dim, but Ray was not chilly in his jumpsuit and jacket. His lips tasted the frost in the vapors that leapt from his tongue, but he had his gloves on and that was alright. He was walking down Fulson street toward the subway when he saw her. She was arm-holding a shopping bag and pushing a stroller with the blissful intent of a busy person. She walked with a happy bob. Her curls bounced with each step. Ray's heart fell out of his chest and landed in his stomach. His brow narrowed and then blood rushed to his face. He sat his feet to move before she saw him. As he stepped off the corner, she called up to him and he turned. He made a show of seeming surprised, acting as if he had not noticed her coming down the street and waited as she approached.

They talked for a whole ten minutes. She talked about her husband. Ray talked about his third floor walk up and his collection of pokemon miniature. She told him how happy she was. How she was a manager at the bank and how Kayla was going to be two soon. Ray listened and said nothing. He checked his watch, made an excuse and took his leave. Jenny kissed him on his cheek before he left and she squeezed his hand. Ray smiled and turned away and when he was sure she wasn't looking he frowned and ducked his hands into his pocket.

She had not done nothing but have a good life and this had crushed him, somehow. He worked the afternoon in a funk until...

" Is that a dragon? " he said as he turned the corner.

And it was.

No Such Thing

2010-02-02T21:14:00.002-05:00

There are stories told, even in trail times. There are stories that memas and old men tell, in front of drum fires as the frailliyah and the overlords and the wont women sleep. These are stories of the world and all things, and that the came before and will come after. These are stories that Nyame, The Father-Sky, passed down to Yambe who was the wind, whose stories were stolen by the raven and brought down to Babitamba who was the rock and who gave them to the First, who some call Ani and others called the Mamibushuu. This is a story of the world and how it came to be:

The Mother Yamai, who was Earth and wife to the sky, was barren and nothing live upon her and she wanted for children of her own. But Nyame, who eye sees all, would not allow her to give children. He would look down and he would burn them with his eye, and so the world was without life. One day, The Mother Yamai went to Nyame and said “Sky, I want children “
“No “said Nyame.
“ Sky “said The Mother Yamai “Give me a child “
“No “said Nyame

“Sky “said The Mother Yamai “Give me a child, right now. “
“No” said Nyame “A thousand times no”
And The Mother Yamai finally fell silence and said nothing more. A year passed and The Mother Yamai did not move, did not stir, did not turn.
“ Wife “ said Nyame “ Why do you stay so still? “
And two years passed and The Mother Yamai did not move, did not stir, did not turn.
“ Wife “ said Nyame “ Why do you not turn and face me? Wife? Why do you stay so still? “
And a decade passed and The Mother remained still.
“Wife “ said Nyame “ Why do you not speak to me? Are you sick? Are you ill? Are you dead? “
And The Mother Yamai still did not move.
A pall fell over Nyame and he began to cry, for he thought his wife dead and gone.
“ My wife, my wife! “ He cried and his tears fell and became the rain.
“ My wife, my wife! “ He howled and his cries became the wind.
“ My wife, my wife! “ He gnashed his teeth and they became the rock.
“ My wife, my wife! “ He scraped his skin and they became the wood
And finally The Mother Yamai spoke and said “ My husband! My husband! I love you so! “
And Nyame, who was covered his eye when he cried, opened it and saw the wonders of the world and the life that teemed upon it.
“ My wife! My wife! “ He said “ I thought you dead and gone!”
“ No, my husband! No! I am here, alive and well. You brought me children and you brought me life! “
And he did, for the sea was born and the wind was born and the rock was born and the wood was born.
And for a while they were happy.

Winter Clothes

2010-01-27T16:59:00.000-05:00

The Lovers

He was beautiful. His eyes were wide and bright. His face was that of a strong, sharp-cheeked African prince. He spoke with an accent and every word sounds like music. He loved to see her smile, so his jokes are always well timed and smart. He wit was charming, observational and good-natured. When she was with him she laughed a lot. A bawdy, hearty laugh. She smiles as his image crosses her mind. It just seemed so random as it happened. A man on the buss offers his seat and it starts a two and a half hour conversation about history. He was so smart, so disarming. Instantly, she knew it. They exchanged numbers. He wrote his digits on a scrap of paper. She wrote hers on his palms.

He promised not to forget it. Home was four blocks southward. It was desolate at this time at night. Buildings were shaded and dark. Shops had laid down their metal faces over the windows, leaving only their neon light on. It was cold but she was not bothered by it. Her skin was always warm. A cat strutted out of an alleyway and looked up at her. She smiled as it got up on its’ hunches. It lout a throaty hiss and stalked off across the street. The only sound she heard was the licking of her shoes on the concrete.

She wondered what he was doing now (He is thinking of her distantly, staring at his cell phone as the bus turns the corner). She wonders if it’s too soon to call and her cheeks flush with blood (He is being silly, he says to himself. He should call first). She looked at the number on the paper (He decides that he’ll wait until he’s gotten something to eat first).

“ Mark “ She said. “ Short for Marcus “

(“ I wonder if she likes Jazz “ He mutters)

Her apartment looms, a short squat box in mud-colored brownstone. Its’ ugliness pierced her mood but she would not be deflated by it. She took in a breath and reached for the door. She hated her building, he druggie infested dump, but tonight she would ignore it. She would ignore the crude graffiti and the smell of piss coming from the stairs and the broken elevator. She would ignore the pimps and dealers who stood outside and watched her like vultures watching a corpse. She would ignore the crushing flickering lights and the smell of weed that proliferated the air. She will go upstairs and run a cool bath, she told herself. She will watch some T.V, snuggle into her bathrobe and make herself something to eat. She will call him on the stroke of midnight. They will talk until she fell asleep or the sun came up. She smiled and in silence stepped int.

She seems him standing in the living room by the window. His face is dark and somber. She closed her eyes and sighs.

“ Could you please close the window? “ She asked.

He nodded his head and obliged.

“ You might want to sit down. “ She said but he shook his head. “ Okay. I’ll stand too. “

He remained still.

“ All I did was love. “ She said. “ I mean, yeah it was wrong. I mean, I knew it wouldn’t end well. I knew she would go back to him, but it was love. I gave her my heart. I promised her that she would be my only one and I kept it. There weren’t any others after. It was only her. I was faithful. Even when she said I seduced her, even when they hung me, I was faithful. “ She said it again. “ I was faithful. “

She blinked back the tears. She would not let herself cry now.

“ What kind of God punishes people for being in love? “

She fell to her knees then. He stood over her, silent and grim. He brought the gun to her left eye.

“ I’m sorry. “ He said. He fired once and the force sent her sprawling on her back. The scrap of paper falls out of her pocket.

“ Tell him. “ She said. Something like pity crosses his face.

“ No. “

******

He rode the bus alones for days. He tried calling a few times, but all he got was the machine. Each day, his heart sunk deeper, but each day he lost a little more of her. Tonight, it would be what she smelled like. Yesterday, it was her laugh. Tomorrow, it will be her name. Then he will hardly remember being in love at all.

Shiny Things

2010-01-16T14:12:00.002-05:00

Chris rolled the tape around his fist. The crowd was hot, or so the angents told him. Not that they needed to, mind you, he c ould hear them from back here. He shared the locker room with Quincy and Mark, and two green boys who dropped their bags outside and were prepared to change. They let them dress with them and the boys introduced themselves at Sven and Howie. They were being squashed tonight.

It was just another night, he lied. Just another day in the office. He smacked his fist into his open palm and heard the satisfying slap of knuckle tape of skin. He cut and rolled smaller strips of tapes around the joints of his fingers and a final loop around the base of his wrist. With a sharpie, he affixed a black cross on the back of his hand. He got up and went to the mirror at the back of the room. He begun face painting when he saw how wrestlers did it in Japan, using art sponges for broad stroke and nylon-hair brushes for accents. He'd learn to design intricate geometric pattern over his face over the years but for tonight he reduced it to a single black bar over his eyes.

He taped two stripes to his face, keeping them parallel and spaced, then passed the black shoe-polish over his eyes. Some use grease paint, but polish was oil based and harder to rub off. Critical when he began to sweat and grapple. It all eventually comes off, someone told him, one way or another. There was a knock on the door

" Two minutes " Someone said and disappeared down the corridor. Chris could hear the banging of the sheet metal signs in front of the guard railing. The crowd was chanting something indistinct, banging on the metal to keep the rhythm. He listened closely and realized it was " Seven Nation Army ", David's music. He smiled and finished up. Standing, he looks at himself in the mirror.

" I am Kira " He said

Announcing! Short Fazed Fiction

2009-12-25T16:09:00.003-05:00

It is my pleasure to announce the beginning of Short Fazed Fiction at Carotid Artery. Short Fazed Fiction is user-generated literary content that allows anyone, anyone, to submit and have posted a piece of fiction or poetry. The catch: It has to be short. Flash-fiction, micro-fiction, vignettes,and short stories are allowed. No novellas, novels, or novelettes. 7500 words and under. Poetry, songs, scripts (stage, screen or otherwise), essays and articles are allow depending on individual length. Anything that's too long for publishing here will probably be linked to. All submissions will be read and most will be excepted (I'm not picky). Any genre or style is allowed. Adult content is allowed, but all submissions will be published with a content advisory warning. All rights belong to all respective parties at all times during submission and publications.

Send all submissions to caroartery@gmail.com

Other news:

The last few weeks I've been silently posting up rough drafts of the book I've been working on. For a while, it's been a little unformed series of ideas and a good writing exercise but over the last few weeks it's crystalized into something more. And so I'd like to announce that I'm going to be pursuing this as a full-fledged novel and I'll be seeking publication of it when I'm done (like you care) and I'll devoting all my time to it in the coming year. The book is called The Hanged Man (for the time being) and it'll be a rip-sorting paranormal thriller about a dead man recruited by the Devil to hunt down condemned souls let loose on Earth. If you heard the premise before (you probably have in the short-lived series Brimstone), settle down. The Hanged Man is a different beast. A darker, more twisted beast that I hope you guys enjoy. I'll be continuing to write short fiction and posting up, but I'm hoping that as I'm writing this board can become a place where people can share stories and expand their creative horizons.

Here's to you.

Benel Germosen 2009

For me, it's in the doing now

2009-12-24T14:28:00.001-05:00

1:5

He wakes to the knocking of the door but he does not get up until the footsteps disappear down the hall. There is a tray on the floor, a plate underneath a dish-cover and a set of utensils. He takes the tray and sets it down on the table. His breakfast is scrambled eggs and bacon with toasted wheat bread and bottled water on the side. He eats quickly, hungrily and retires to the bathroom. He washes his face in the sink, rinsing his hand under the faucet until he could no longer feel the cold water. He is running a fever that never ends. Heat radiates off him like a stench. He lays his cold hands on his face and looks into his deep set eyes. His reflection is gaunt and pay but unchanged from last he looked upon it. He is no more harrowed than a man who lacks a good night sleep. No more dead than a tired man. He undresses and enters the shower. He runs the water cold and washes until he the last of the sleep falls away from him. He turns off the water and takes towel from the rack, drying himself when he looks up and sees a figure at the door. The pale man, now in profile, is a stranger to him. He walks across the room to the mirror behind the door and he traces his hand against the smooth glass. A full length mirror hung from the back of the bathroom door, reflecting a man carved with black runes from foot to face. He put his finger across the skin of his chest and felt the unmistakable bump of ink, but when he looks down at his hands or at his arms he sees nothing but the same pallid flesh that he recognized. He looks back at the mirror, closer at the marks that adorn his body. They are crude pictograms. Jagged, abstract lines form a vague, incomprehensible language. He feels the outline on his shoulder. Five line segments united at a central junction, sharp angled lines spearing in towards it. He looks at the reflection casted in the mirror and to his eyes it looks to be a man being struck by lightning. For whatever reason, this makes him laugh and he shakes his head.

His clothes are on the chair, pressed and folded. He takes the shirt and opens it. It is crisp and white, like new. He gets dressed and finds his coat hanging neatly in the closet, dirty but dry. He throws it on and leaves. Downstairs, light comes from doors and open window. The room is empty save for the fine quality of dust that floats up to the beams of natural light and, of course, the girl behind the counter.
" Morning " He says
She looks up, smiles, nods her head and returns her eyes to the folded newspaper. A silence falls, occasionally broken by the scratching of the pen on the newsprint. He leans over and inspects the lower left-hand corner of the dim-gray page. The crossword is filled in jay-blue pen. She is quickly filling out the Sudoku grid in a festive green ink, the color of lime skins.
" Heading out? " She asks from the page.
" Yeah " He says
She slides the ledger over to him
" Sign the ledger before you do. "
He picks up the pen and he hovers over the page.
" You know, I've notice that there's doesn't seem to be any other guest. The ledger's empty. "
She gives him the same lazy stare from the night before, but she shifts uncomfortably in her chair and this betrays her apathy.
" Yeah. We're not really busy this season. "
He looks around at the dust motes and empty seats and he regards her with a quiet smile.
" Alright " He says and signs his name in blocky print.
As he reaches to the door, she calls to him. He turns and she says " My boss wants to talk to you before you go. She says it's important. "
"What about? "
" Dunno. But you should really go. "
" I'll take a rain check " He says. " Got things I need to take care. Things I need to do. "
" I really think you should go. " She says with a lazy stare.
He shrugs his shoulder. " Goodbye. " He says and leaves.

*****

She takes a breath and opens the door. She steps into the short corridor, but it is dark and there are vague shapes in the darkness. They are stationary articles of furniture that she has seen a dozen time before in the light. The darkness sets her on edge. Her nerves twang like taut guitar strings. Every sound becomes an omen. Every creak of the floor with every steps she takes on a dreadful quality. She walks carefully, hands in front of her to find the turn and once her fingers strokes the frame she carries her self over to the side room. And the darkness stretches out before her and she feels her heart thumping in her chest. She breathes and steels her face and her skin is a brave hard-shell that nothing can penetrates. But she is scared for no reason and this rattles her. She nearly forgets to breath.
" He blew me off. He said he had things he needed to care of. " She says.
And the darkness produces a flicker of a flame.
And the voice that holds that flame says " He will learn "

We Tried To Save Him

2009-12-12T12:40:00.000-05:00

The train rocked slowly into the night as he stared into the dark the Montana landscapes. Lulliper had cramped herself in the corner with her legs up and the side of her head pressed against the far wall. Sam was lucky enough to have two seats to himself, so he slept with his legs slightly pinched, flat on his side. He had converted a bag that he filled with clothes as a pillow. Jack, as always, could not sleep. In the distance, the red lights of a town just across the river came into view, ribboned by the thick black canopy of trees that separated the town and river from the speeding train. He could see the wide tunnel thorough a small past if he pressed his head against the cool glass. It was a clear night. The moonless night would have been pitched black save for the reflection of the stars and cities upon the river, which created a ethereal wave of glittering stardust that seemed unreal. Jack felt the lulling drowsiness but not the eye shuttering exhausting that came with regular sleep. If he closed his eyes, he would simply see the back of his eye-lids, but the oppressive darkness that shielded the view of the river created a strange filtering effect and made his eyes strain to capture the fleeting momentary view. It was the moment after he wiped his eyes when he saw them.

They were four from the count of them, all riding horses. From what Jack could recall from what little esquiterian he knew, they seemed like Fox-trotters but it was hard to tell from the lack of color and indistinguishable shape that came from incorporeality. They rode on near the light of the train, two of them were toward the rear of the cart neck and neck. One was a little farther along from them catching up to the one which Jack saw clearest from his window. Together, the four of them rode like a silent films, there vague forms only hinting at who and what they once were in life. The details well obscured by the poor light and the lack of physical forms. At times they would lose resolution and luster. Other times they were sharp and crisp. A moment later they would blur. Jack took note of their late night presence for one reason. It was the first time he had ever seen ghost horses. It was a sight.

©Benel Germosen, 2008

A Small Intermission

2009-12-12T12:36:00.002-05:00

I had dreams. I don't remember the second one too well. Dick was going away to college and I wanted to throw him a party but I lost the address to the place. I'm losing it now. I can't remember it. The second one is still there though, clear as day. I was trying not to doze off in the cave because I've been up all night. I had knives in the back of my eyes from lack of sleep and my back was on fire. I don't remember getting up, but I must have gone to the kitchen for some coffee and I heard music playing the gallery. When I open the door, my father is having a party. I know it's my father's party because everyone is masks and gowns and suits. Like a mascaraed ball. And I'm standing there and I feel silly because I don't have a costume. I don't have the right costume on, I mean. And I go around the party and I'm looking for my father, but I can't find him. Someone, I think it was Emile Corey, you know him from boarding school? He runs a software company now. I think he tells me that my father was called away. He's at the hospital right now, performing surgery. And then I woke up.

©Benel Germosen, 2007

Bruce Wayne, Batman, Dick Grayson all registered trademarks of DC Comics and Warner Bros.

Black Lions

2009-11-30T14:13:00.001-05:00

1:4

The man went to the fire escape and he joined him. Now, the two of them are standing facing the river. Though the night is dark still, he knew it would be dawn soon. The man reaches into the inner pocket of his suit-jacket and pulls out a packet of smoking tobacco and a sheet of rolling papers. He rolls himself a small cigarette and lights it with a disposable lighter. He turns away from the man's smoke, but the acrid smell of the tobacco wafts up his nostrils anyway. He coughs into his fist and the wind blows cold.

" What do you want with me? " He says.
The man takes a breath of his tobacco and lets out a plume of gray smoke.
" Three hundred and thirteen of the most vile, wretched souls to ever walk the Earth have escaped from Perdition last night. They are confined here to this city. Find them. Bring them back. "
" Why me? " He says
" Because of who you are " The man says.
" And who am I? "
The man takes a drag and releases more smoke.
" You're Detective Caleb August, N.Y.P.D. In life, you were a hunter of men. "
" And now I am a hunter of the dead. " He says and nods and understands the full weight of it. He shoves the weight aside for now, for there will be time to think on it later.
" Why do you care? " He asks.
The man looks at him and his brow raises.
" What? " The man asks.
" You're the Devil " He says. " Hell breaking loose on Earth. Be something you would enjoy. "
The man drops his eyes and he smiles an easy smile.
" You people never seem to understand. " The man says. " No matter how often your told, it never truly sinks in. "
" Told what? " He asks.
" The beginning. " The man says.

*****

In the beginning there was God and only God; And God create the silver city and he craeted the Choirs of Angels to serve him and the most beautiful of all was called Mourningstar, who name is Lucifier and he was light. And God separated the Heavens from the Earth and all was darkness. And Lucifier looked down upon the darkness and said to God to bring the light down from the Heavens and God said let there be light and there was light. God then made man in his image and commanded his Angels to bow down before Man; And all bowed save for The Mourningstar who was name was Lucifer and was called The Lightbringer. And lo' God said unto Lucifer " Serve man as thou serve the Lord God, for Man is cast in the image of the Lord. " And Lucifer said " I, that was made the first amongst the highest of the high, love and serve only that that maketh me and give me form from light and love and serve no other, but our Lord God. " And God cast him down into the bowels of the Earth to make domain over the damned and the lost who know not the love of God, to rule forever and ever.

*****

The man smiles and looks toward the river. The man finishes his rolled cigarette and flicks it down into the wet street.
" I understand. " He says.
" Do you? " The man asks.
And he says " Yeah, I do. You have a job to do. "
" And now, so do you. " The man says.
He looks up and then looks away and then looks at the sea. In the horizon, the first light of morning crowns like a new born. The sky shifts from black to purple to orange to red. Soon, the globe will roost high and the city will shuffle awake. For now, it is still quiet.
He turns to the man and says " When I'm done, will I see my son? "
And the man smiles and says nothing and the man looks out to the river as the dawn breaks. The sun warms his face and he turns toward it and the morning begins then. He looks out to the river and the light is beautiful and he sheds a tear. He breathes and turns and looks and the man is gone. He stands there on the fire escape, leaning on the rail, and watches the sun rise. When the moment passes, he goes inside and sleeps.

You Can Play These Songs With Chords

2009-11-26T20:50:00.003-05:00

1:3

He follows her into the lobby. It is a small room consisting of a counter on the far wall, some lounge chairs and a table to one side, a spiral staircase leading up to the second level on the other. At the far opposite wall there are a set of elevators with a out of order sign hanging on a wall between them. A door to the right the counter reads STAFF. Another door behind the stairs reads BANQUET. He gets the impression that there are a lot of vacancies. She walks behind the counter and picks up a set of keys from the hooks. She slides the keys across the counter.
" Room 303 " She says. She looks down at the ledger and begins to fill it in. He looks at the keys on the counter. He looks at her.
" What is this? " He asks.
" Huh? " She says. She looks up.
" What is this? " He repeats. She stares at him blankly.
" Keys. Those are keys. " She says. She speaks slowly and carefully, like she was speaking to a small child. " For room 303. That's on the third floor. Just take the staircase up. "
He stares at her.
" I've never seen you before " He says.
She looks taken aback and slowly she nods her head. " Are you him? " She asks. Slowly, he nods his head.
" But I've never been here before. " He says.
She smiles and locks her fingers over her head. Her elbows straightens. She lets out a sigh.
" It's taken care of. " She says. She drops her arms to her size and returns to the ledger. She glances up at him. He looks at her and opens his mouth, but the words push against his lips and jam up behind his teeth. Suddenly, they seem childish.
" Thank you " He says. He walks toward the stairs

*****

Someone had made an attempt to turn down the room, and though this attempt was unsuccessful he appreciated the thought. The room is a small and box-shaped. It is sparse, consisting of a single twin-sized bed, a table and a pair of identical chairs, a miniature refrigerator, a wall-mounted television and a night-stand. At the far edge of the room is a door leading to the bathroom. Adjacent to the bed, there is a set of pull apart door that he presumes is a closet. He enters the room and closes the door behind him. It is dark inside but he makes no motion to turn on the small lamp on the night-stand. He takes off his overcoat and throws it on one of the chairs. It hangs off the back like a moist second skin. He takes off his boots and his wet socks and puts them at the foot of the bed. He steps on the cold floor with his bare feet and reaches over to touch the heating vent below the window. Blessedly, no heat emits from the vent and he smile and sits down on the edge of the bed. He listens to the stillness in the room and beings to think. He thinks about time and his orientation to it. He is aware that time has passed him by, but this is a vague and unformed feeling. He wonders to the number of the year. Of the month and days and hours. He wonders how long had he been gone and how much has change since he last saw the sun. He wonders about the boy and how old he is by now. He wonders if the boy is well and if he had been taken care in his father's absence and if so where was he now.
He remembers the boy as he wants and not as he was when he last saw him. He remembers a serious child with a sorry stare and a proclivity for quiet introspection. He remembers short sandy blond hair, a slight and thin frame and bright blue eyes. He remembers pale skin the color of warm milk. He remembers the fields where a snow had fallen a night prior and how the morning sunlight would reflect the sea of white and haze the air. He remembers the drive to school that morning, with the low hanging sun at their backs as they drove across empty fogged streets. The boy looked at the untarnished snow fields with a solemn expression, thoughts deep and profound. He looked at the boy from the rearview.
" What are you thinking about? " He asked.
The boy looked up from his reverie.
" Can we build a snowman? " The boy said.
" Now? "
The boy nodded.
" No. We can't. "
The boy looked at him.
" We can't build a snowman now. You have school. "
The boy said nothing.
" We're going to be late if we stop now. We have to get you to school. "
The boy looked away and his disappointment filled the car like a silence.
He looked at the road. " I'm going to pick you up today. If you've been good today, we'll build a snowman. "
The boy turned to him and smiled.
He looked at the boy thorough the mirror.
" But that's only if you're good. Are you going to be good, today? " He asked.
The boy nodded.

He smiled and pulled up to the front of the school. He unlocked the back-seat and the boy climbed out. He called out to the boy and leaned over the passenger side. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and removed a five dollar bill. He handed it to the boy and the boy looked at it for a moment. The boy looked up at him.
" What's this for? " The boy asked.

" You're a young man now. It's about time you get treated like one. From now on, you'll be getting an allowance at the end of this week. This means you'll have to take on some responsibility if you want to earn it. Do good in school. Do your chores at home and I'll give you another five dollars. Are you ready for that? "
Once again, the boy nodded.
" Okay. Be safe. " He said. The boy turned and walked up the path. He watched as the boy was met at the entrance by an woman and with her disappeared into the school. When the doors closed behind the boy, he drove off. And that was the last time he saw the boy that day. He looks up now and sees the man in the corner of the room. Fear grips him. The man steps further into the room. He looks at the man and the man smiles easy. The man is neither thin nor stout. He is neither short nor tall. He is neither handsome or hideous. He wears an unremarkable suit and hat, the color of old porcelain. He looks on a silence.
" Are you? " He asks.
" I am. "

Well, Look At You

2009-11-19T14:12:00.001-05:00

1:2

He does not turn around until he reaches the adjacent street. By then the diner is dark and the sign on the door that had once read OPEN is now flipped to read CLOSED. The heavy rain has turned into a light and wheezy drizzle. Soaked to the bone, he begins to walk down the street. He turns at Huston and sets north. Below 14th street the city is a dark and foreboding place. The invading rain now is cold. His coat sticks to him like heavy second skin. His breath is vapor in his mouth. He walks and walks and walks and gets no closer to what he needs to find. He hugs himself close against the night and shivers. He slumps against a wall and blinks, looking down the empty street of blacken tenements like stone fingers grasping toward the starless night. The street lamp cast down amber light that reflects in pools of curbside rainwater. To him, they look like bright hungry eyes. They are big black shapes and bright hungry eyes. He reaches the corner and he goes west toward Union Square. He wants to reach the sea for some reason. He wants to reach the bridge. He walks to the corner and shivers and sighs. A hacking cough comes to lips and his eyes flutters. He is tired.
" Hey "
He turns and there she is. Thin and small with hair the color of coppery blood. She has bright green eyes like jade coins and wears a thin stripe long-sleeve shirt against the bare cold. Looks at him lazily like a lizard on a rock.
" Are you him? " She asks
And he looks at her and he knows.
" I am " He says.

If You Are On Fire Running Down The Street, People Will Move Out of Your Way

2009-11-17T14:45:00.001-05:00

1:1

The train rattles to a stop. He disembarks and stands on the platform. He feels the cool air from above. Even down here, he hears the pitter-patter of rain on the surface. He fights the urge to kiss the ground at his feet. Wrestles the urge to put his face down against the dirty floor and feel Earth against his skin once again. He walks toward the stairs and to the surface. It is sometime after midnight. The rain is falling in thick sheets. He stands at the landing and is assailed by the breeze that breathes cold. He staggers toward the rain like a dying man turning towards the light. He turns his head up toward the rain and spreads his arm to embrace the wind. He opens his mouth and the water falls down his throat, slide down the back of his neck, and soak his coat. He has his parched lips, drinking the water down. He does this in silence. His clothes are damp and they cling to him like heavy skin. He opens his eyes and breathes out vapor. He looks out into the night and begins to walk down Canel Street, towards Tribeca.

*****

It takes him a while to find a place that is open late. He walked in and he took a seat at the counter and he ordered a glass of water from the girl there and he drank it down fast. It dribbled down his chin and down his chest and he gagged and coughs and spat it up. He spat, closed his lips around a napkin and caught his breath. Then he finished the glass of water and sat it down. He ordered another glass of water, this one with ice. He drinks it slowly now, taking small and longing sips. His holds the glass in his hand. He slides his finger down the side, feeling the condensation like driblets of sweat down body. He looks at the water like a lover and drinks with a delicate joy. He looks up and sees the girl as if for the first time. Dimly, he is aware that she had been there the whole time watching him, but now he really looks at her. She is young and her hair is the color of chestnut. She has small almond eyes and an angled face. She is very pretty and very young. He smiles at her but she does not smile back.

" Jesus Christ, what happened to you? " She asks.

He looks at her. He wonders what he must look like to her, soaked to the skin and drinking water like there was salvation at the bottom of the glass. How mad as must have seem. He grins.
" What? " He asks.
She looks at him.
" What did you say? " He asks.
She backs away.
" Look man, I don't want any trouble. "
He smiles at her as if he has won something. A great big clownish grin.
" Matter of fact, we're closing. Right now. " She says.
He grabs her arm and pulls her close and she doesn't scream.
" Say something else. " He says. His eyes fall to her.
" Please " He says.
Her face is blank. She doesn't struggle against his grasp. She nods her head.
" Okay. Okay. Easy. Easy. Just...just let me go. You're hurting me. " She breathes out slow.
" Please, you're hurting me. " She says.
He opens his hand and holds it out in front of him. He folds up like a lawn chair. He looks deflated and his eyes fall to the counter. He takes a sip of his water.
" I'm sorry. It's....it's been a long time since I heard someone's voice. "
She looks at him as if he's a wounded dog. Pity brims her eyes.
" What happened to you? " She asks.
" Hell " He says. He sips his water and it is pure and cold and good.
" Hell happened to me. " He says

Forgotten Math

2009-11-12T14:47:00.000-05:00

These are ideas I'm having or have had over the last week:

A sitcom about two straight guys pretending to be gay in order to rent an flat from a progressive hippie couple.

An apocalyptic vampire story

A Kid-Flash story

A musical about a victorian chimney sweep, the ghost of a dead girl, a jewish railroad worker, two serial killers and a horny widow.

A screenplay about Koschei the Deathless.

A comic series about a covert supernatural espionge agency run by the Roman Catholic Church

A comic series about a high school of martial artist.

Dammit, You Crafty Bastards

2009-11-05T14:49:00.002-05:00

When the vampires came, they were not what anyone expected. They were not dashing or debonair, nor where they exceptionally attractive or hideous. They did not turn into bats and they did not drink blood, and by and large, they did not sneak into the rooms of boxom milk-skinned virgins and molest them by niping at the base of their neck (though some did, but they were quickly rounded up and arrested). No, when the vampires came they joined the work-force and quickly rose thorough the ranks to a comfortable mangement position, for they were dependable and capable and pleasent and could get others to work with maximum efficency. They could make presentation and tell dirty jokes at corporate retreats and really wow the board with those numbers, yes they did. And soon they would become our bosses and were given the big office at the third floor and a secretary and a pension and health (with full dental). Soon, they were in our office break rooms getting coffee and asking you to come in on Saturday to finish those quarterly reports and would you be a dear and send those faxes to accounting as soon as possible, that would be lovely.

Soon, they were playing Santa at the office Christams party and carrying around a fake mistle toe and inviting all the ladies to kiss and soon they were drinking too much eggnog and making a pass at Karol, the big-breasted receptionist that you made out with that one time, and xeroxing their bottocks on the copy machine. Soon, they were at company pinics winning the sack race. Soon they were making you go to weekend retreats to talk about team-work and subjecting you to motivational speeches and trust building exercises. Soon they were repeating last night Letterman monologue in front of the company water cooler and messing up all the punchlines. Soon, they was giving you unsolicitated relationship advice. Soon they were at your cubicle and soon you were in their offices and soon you were notified that you were a very hard worker and the company appreciated all that you have done for them and due to some budgetary cutbacks they were going to have to let you go and soon you would have to be out by the end of the day. Soon you were picking up your things and telling your co-workers goodbye and soon the vampires was giving you a firm handshake and pat on your shoulder. And as you walk to your door, you felt weak and tired and twenty years had passed and you were not the young man you used to be. And you turn to look back at them and they looked as young and spry as ever. And they had called Karol over to his office and he closed the door behind them.

© Benel Germosen 2009

Murder in the City

2009-11-04T13:01:00.003-05:00

I'm not going to bother with introductions and junk. My name is Benel Germosen, I'm unemployed and I write stories with the abundant free time I have. Carotid Artery is my place for posting those stories and whatever the hell else I feel like. I hope you enjoy it and are a regular. Or not, either way. Here's the first story. A piece of flash fiction without a title:

When I created the darkness, I thought it best to hide things. The light was so brilliant that something had to go with it.. Something had to exist opposite of it or else what would be the point.

Hello. I am...I just am. I never got around to giving myself a name. Everything else just seemed to do it for me. It wasn't their job, but they did so. Something like acknowledging me. Something about something a name...quantitative it. Trap it in the box. Place a label on it. It's why I created names, y'know. In the first place. For me, it's just sort of a title and it's nice. Who wouldn't want a name?

Now where was I?

Yes. The darkness. It was just sort of...natural. It came about and I just twisted light and bent it around and tucked it in and expanded it, made it bigger and took away what made it light and there it was. Darkness. Pure. Expansive. Everywhere.

But it was empty. Empty just like the light was empty. But empty unlike the light was empty. Empty in a different way. Hallow, I guess would be the term. The light, there was something...a center. It housed a little bit of me, like the dark but unlike the dark. From the light I used to create but the dark, the dark was wider. I didn't use to create. I created in the light.

I created the things that would go in the dark. I formed it. I took my breath and spoke my words and there it was. So when the First listened, when my morning star craned it's head towards the whispers, it was my voice in echo, twisted in the dark, that he heard. And when it fell, it was into my hands, a reflection, spun in the void. And when it took it's new name, and when it twisted the void around it to fit the new vision, it was in my shadow it stood and made it " his ", I guess.

I wish he could forgive me.

© 2007 Benel Germosen