Archive for the ‘Short Story’ Category

Ezekiel

Posted: April 10, 2015 in Short Story
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It can’t be me. My hand shakes as the voice booms in from somewhere. Feels like the voice comes from within me. It frightens me. It tells me things I shouldn’t know, don’t want to know, what can I do about it?! However, it still comes. Tells me to fill these blank pages with ink. I am unable to do anything else, but answer.

The moon shines in full and pregnant. It reflects the sunlight down into my dark bedroom. I dragged my heavy wooden desk across the floor to capture it. It’s whatever, energy, blew my lights, exploded my computer, and stopped my watch. I ware the watch for the weight and as a sign of remembrance. I forget how odd my life has become since it entered.

I am nothing special, never was. I don’t recycle, I don’t donate my time or my money, of course I don’t have any money. I work at a pizza shop and rent the smelly apartment right above it. It isn’t bad, a tiny one room and the owners family live next store. I thought this was perfect, simple. They don’t ask too much of me and I never ask for a raise. I have no car, no debt, and no savings. I merely exist, week to week, day to day.

Nothing special, no reason for this thing to have found me. Wondered here from some distant universe just to mess with my head. It messes with my head.

It’s coming. Like some small creature sensing a larger one prowling near by, I can feel it. It moves into my dark room with a pulse of static energy. I hear the floor boards and ceiling creek with its entry, yet it has no feet, no body, no voice; other than the one it uses inside me. I am not very imaginative either, nor unstable. To think I could imagine it. My hand is trembling. I know it’s real. It comes to me at odd times, but only when I am alone.

I remember now, one day I was hiking in the woods, filling my city lungs with clean air. Hoping it will last me until next time I get back to the mountains. I sensed it then. I think that was our introduction. The birds that were signing so feverishly stopped, the crickets steadied their legs and even the wind became still. But they didn’t run. That was my cue. If those birds and bugs took a sudden mass exodus I would be right on there tails or a few yards in front. But no one moved, they only became silent, as not to miss a second of this event.

The sun seemed so bright and blinding that day. It was as if it grew in the sky and glared white to the point in which I could no longer gaze up. Then it was gone. The birds and insects started their songs up and the wind continued to trim the trees and curve about the landscape. I thought nothing more.

Until the day it returned. Yes, Its bodiless odor tickled my nose as the hairs on my body stood up. The scent immediately reminded me of the wood and of that day. Although until now I never made that connection. It has power and is powerful. I believe if it wanted, it could use me like a marionette, but it doesn’t. It has some sort of code of conduct with us, us, listen to me. I speak for the human race now.

The wind has stopped blowing the curtains. The energy it gives off almost has a soft hum. I can feel it moving. I know it has no body, but I can sense where the center of the creature is. I turn in my chair dropping my blue pen. It ricochets off the wooden floor. I look to the window for fear the wind might blow my papers, but nothing now, nothing, but silence.

It’s in front of me; My eyes fail me, but the hairs on my arm do not. My skin is how I see it, my ability to sense is also how I see it, but my eyes, they might as well be shut. Although that might frighten me even more.

It is actually very kind in a way. Other than its presence. It would be like walking in the city if you were a 90 pound girl and a rough warn 6’6, 300 pound man starts walking towards you – if you had any subterfuge you’d be gone before he even knew you were there, but it’s too late. You don’t know the outcome, he just might need change or might be walking on by, the only thing your senses tell you are your survival rate if A or B or C comes to fruition.

I can’t even think of what A might be in my situation. I am not sure the motives of this creature, if it is a creature. I think all of the people that had ever had knowledge of it burned a long time ago. It speaks.

“We are ready.” It states. The voice is not mine. It is deep and sounds strong, finite. It is an odd feeling. Hearing something without the need for your ears. It feels like I am hearing it as if it is sitting across the room and we are chatting up the evening. Sometimes I forget I am physically alone and speak aloud to it. The owners of the shop have taken note.

It doesn’t give me soft, gentle, fluffy information. Instead it fills my head with darkness, of trials and tribulations ahead. Not for me personally, it offers nothing to me. No great future insight or words of wisdom (lottery ticket numbers), but it sees us as a whole. I am my species and it has something to say. So I write. I don’t go out anymore, even though the colorful city lights beckon and past lovers call. I wait nightly for the being to come to fill these pages. I wait no longer.

“We will end it tonight.” It warns. I am not sure what terrified me more, being responsible for these words trying to get them published or reentering the world. Like some sort of dragonfly larva I hatch back out into the same landscape but with a different view.

“The race of man, that shall suffer greatly, may survive if these words are heeded.”

I reach quickly for the pen and move to turn my chair, but to my surprise it turns on its own. It tucks me close to the desk and then moves the papers close to me at an angle, just the way I like it. I wet the pages.

This voice never has a tone of disapproval nor speak ill of us. It doesn’t tell us how to correct the wrongs we have done. It is more concerned with our survival. I wish I knew why, why waist…

“Those that live past tomorrow’s changes and the renewal’s growing pains shall behold a world full of life, food, and shelter for balanced generations to come.”

I sense a calmness in it as we finish. I had never sensed an emotion before, just its presence. It is filled with relief. I write these final words. My pen lies down next to the 3 inch thick manuscript beside it. My chair moves without my help. It pulls me away from the desk and spins me. I am facing the creature now. I feel the form move into my space, the tiniest of pressure upon my cheek, and it speaks.

“We thank you.” I feel an armless embrace and am filled with love. I feel weightless, almost giddy. It feels like, home, safe. It begins to move away and like a child being put down by their mother I reach up.

“Don’t.” I plead, almost beg. The tornado of pain writhes within. Bring the love back, it is a drug I can not exist without. I need it, I have to have it. Please!

It continues out. My love lost turns to anger. I am now hurt by this contract’s agreement. I have fulfilled my duty and written these words, and now I am thrown to the side. To live here in a world so distorted by opinions and frozen by truth told lies. I feel it move out the window. Silencing the pigeons as it floats away. I reach out the window with my arm as if to grasp the graspless. My watch begins to tick.

I cry aloud, “No!” letting go off all the pain these past few months have given me.

I wasn’t saying, no don’t leave me, or no come back, or no we’re not done, but to the entire book, no.

No! It was as if I was on autopilot when I was writing these words, and maybe after all I was. My emotions weren’t active, in fact they weren’t even on. Just now looking out at that beautiful moon and my city home I understood what was told to me. What is about to occur in split seconds to us all and not to far in the distant future. I will be alive to see this Renewal. I might not survive it. I rush the desk and grab the book. Its flimsy off white paper and my blue inked scratches. I hold it with contempt and slowly stretch my ticking watched arm out the window with book in hand.

I release my thumb, but the wind is still. I drop the book, but it does not fall. I sense something looking at me and I look up. I saw something I am still not sure what it could have been. It shook me. I trembled again, unable to look away and unable to stand. I fall on the floor grasping the sill to keep my eyes on it and I know it sees me. In fact that is the only reason it is peering into the snow-globe I exist in.

This is impossible to say. These images seem too archaic to me, but for the sensations that make it real. Peering into this world, as if to say “I see you” is a large eye. It broke through the clouds and has an eyelid and eyelashes. I think the color of the eye was blue green-ish, but the color moved like a reflected oil spill on water. The eye saw me and made me feel like an ant in an ant farm. Of course odd thoughts such as where is the rest of the body and what is really going on here? Crept and burned into my mind unpleasantly. The eye never blinked, but was locked on my movements as I reached out of the window and took hold of the manuscript and held it tight to my chest. It blinked. My room creaked and I could feel the presence reenter so I brashly turned away to see, nothing. I could sense it was back. I looked back to where the eye had appeared to see nothing. But knowing it was there and how tiny it made me feel, makes me wonder more, the things we don’t know and don’t understand will always far out way what we do.

I turned back to the present and sat on my bed, feeling like a shamed child caught in the unforgivable act of parental betrayal, I wept. I toppled over myself filled with shame, fear, and pain. Not pain for me, but the pain we are all about to go through. The loss my family will suffer, we all will suffer. The words turned into images in my mind as I wailed the moon into the sun. The presence never left me. I could sense it sitting next to me on my hard bed, rubbing my back, as my mother had a long time ago.

mojo-love

Mankind’s ability to warp the purest of intents has been and will continue to be seen at the horror of its children – who whole heartedly participate in ever taught lack for compassion.

As evil is inherited so too can be purity; but only the strong have the ability to hold on.

To lack compassion is evil – to have it is divinity.

This is such a story of warped ideals and lack of basic empathic understanding. The revenge is Karma the cruelty is to be born to your revenge without the understanding of why.

A gangly balding 42 year old man skipped to work.  He wore his trusted black sweater (hides all stains) and over-sized boats for shoes for his gout was acting up.  His right ankle bore the brunt of unhealthy one dimensional eating – even so – he was skipping.

He had the fortune of meeting a witch who promised a potion of success.  This witch was overly humble.  She was divine, made perfect by her constant ability to deny such facts.   Her strength came from her connection to the ALL.  She had never believed herself – special.  She was about to get a lesson in magic.

Jack tromped though the company’s warehouse ready to see what this modern day sage had concocted.  He was having woman troubles.  He had felt love, once, just before cancer took her one quite morning.  He awoke to find her asleep – eternally.  Tammy, the witch, had seen and felt this moment.  She offered help but with one tiny condition.  He had to be objective and critical concerning the results.  She wanted to qualify its potency if any.

Tammy heard Jack toss his stuff down on the other side of her cube wall.  She grabbed the golden bag – filled with a Hodge-Podge of herbs, stones, oil, and magnetic sand.  She spent seven days meditating, focusing, channeling, burning – infusing every aspect of her correspondences to the intent.  She had made three bags – the other two… well… that’s a different story.

The greatest thing about magic is the vial it lifts over this world.  It is anything but mundane and we are anything but material.  We are eternal and home – that temporary vacation between lifetimes – that my friend is perfection.  More than that – more than all this – is magic can be seen by the unseen.  It acts like a flashlight – attracting and detracting what you set the purpose to… the tricky part is… the one thing Tammy tried to warn Jack of – was magic works both ways.  Her spirit is tied to healing energies… so in the end – even if her intent may be evil – due to the overriding strength of her soul – her abilities will always result in healing.  The problem or success of Jack’s request was first he requested it.  Now he’s on the hook.  Second he was warned – meaning Tammy’s off the hook, and thirdly his request was broad. Meaning the bored unused energies can try and join in.

Jack tossed his leather jacket on the chair as Tammy wondered around the corner of the isle.  He peeked his head out to see her lovely smile beaming good morning.  God he wanted her, but she did not want him and he knew it.  She saw him as a brother from another mother and he began to see her as the same.  Even with her busty buxom build that was anything but mannish, the curve of her wide hips and large backside made his mouth dry; she was a late 30 year old tom-boy.  Her lack of parental upbringing left her to figure out how to grow and in doing so she leaned more towards the ways of gentleman than woman.  She was as vulgar as any man except when in mixed company.   She even stood when a lady came to sit at their table.  The men laughed at her.  She just shrugged it off.  There was so much she didn’t understand concerning gender roles.

Jack found her fascinating. If they couldn’t be wed then best friends for life – he decided.  Tammy bounced over and Jack tried not to stare too much.  Tammy had become accustomed to men staring at her weighted chest.  She never thought she was even remotely attractive – she couldn’t have been anymore wrong.  She wasn’t white, blonde or blue eyed but she was a looker, with a personality to kill for.

“You got it”  he leaned in with his halitosis ridden breath.

Tammy smiled and tried not to pull back.  The sourness of the air was wretched, but she couldn’t insult her friend Jack.  She pulled a small golden bag from her side pocket.  Quickly the air switched from the scent of living rot to a perfumed sweetness she could stand.  Jack grinned.  His eagerness forced him to grab for it.  Tammy was far too fast and pulled it away in time.

“Now listen.”  She paused.  Not for effect but to wait for his mind to quiet down.  “I made yours a bit different.  Not only did I build it to attract love, prosperity, and security; but I also built it to ward off crazies, negativity, and anything harmful.”

“perfect.”  His blue eyes sparkled with the possibility of freedom.  “Goodbye Robin.”

Two years after Jack awoke to find his Hope dead – her old friend called on him… called on him and then moved in.  She practically suction cupped herself to him.  He couldn’t go to the bathroom alone – no joke – the door had to be open.  After two dates she had moved her stuff in and Jack was trying to figure out how to move her stuff out.  He was too polite.  Tammy advised him to be honest and upfront but the holidays were around the corner and he didn’t know what to do – which is where the bag comes in.

He fell in love with the scent and asked after the ingredients.  Tammy told him all and reminded him of the objective promise.  He was so happy and promised to carry it with him everywhere.  All Tammy could do was smile and return to her work on the other side of the cube.  The scent of the bag wafted over the high dull colored walls and reminded her of home.  Her own heart was breaking but that is also another story.

 

elephants-in-black-and-white-johan-elzenga

It has been the hottest and driest summer to date in Kenya. There isn’t a creature alive not feeling the pressure to adapt or migrate to gentler lands.  The wells have been drying over the decades, but this summer, some springs have completely quite.  The land cracks under the sun as stinging sand is picked up by the violent winds.

A young boy looks to his mother for food and nourishment as she moves the tribe from plain to plain.  Theirs is a matriarchal society and his mother is their Chief. She is the wisest and strongest of their clan, not to mention the most stubborn.  Some say she charges forth when we should run, and her raids on neighboring farmers have become too constant.  They fear her boldness will get them all killed.  It is a hard life for a nomad, but the climate won’t allow them to stay still.

Amboseli has found a small open spring deep enough to bathe in.  She alerts her tribe as they gather.  Few take point as they listen for lions and the deadly Maasai.  Mara, the young boy looks to his mother Amboseli as she gently sprays him with water and for a brief moment, they allowed themselves to play.  Amboseli slowly rose, mud covered and cooled to take point as another took her place in the water.  She sniffs the air.

“Mom,” Mara, the young inquisitive asks, “what are you smelling?”

Amboseli’s heart swells with pride as she cuddles up next to her beloved son. Her large deep brown eyes are shadowed by her long thick lashes.  She blinks away the dust. Her husband died a long time ago, leaving her to raise Mara.  The Maasai took from her husband his very bones, they wear them like trophies, sell them to others who do the same.

Still holding Mara she replies, “The Maasai, smell.  If they have become angry, if they think our tribe has stolen from them – they will hunt us.  So I sniff the air to see if they come from the direction in which it blows.  We most always have eyes from where the wind does not come.”  She nods her head towards the other sentinels guarding the tribe.

“Why do they hate us so?” Mara continues.

“We all fight to live. We drink water, they drink water, but there is only one spring.  We eat, they eat, but there is very little to forage.”  She strokes his back.

“Do you see the light in the sky, there?” She nods to the sun and Mara nods in recognition back. “It wakes us every day and allows us to sleep every night.  We travel in one direction.  We make sure as it wakes we travel towards it, but we do not follow it as it grows old and dies across the water above.”

Another slowly stomps closer.  A large elder male, weak from age and lack of sustenance  inquires when they will forage again.  Amboseli knows there is nothing to eat, nothing that could feed her entire tribe without having to raid once more.  An ominous feeling grows in her stomach.

“We should raid tonight.” Amboseli announces to fearful moans from the tribe.

Even Mara knows why as he argues back, “We can’t!  The white ball is full, we will be seen!”

Amboseli hears the fear in his voice as she reaches down and continues to stroke his back… soothing him as best she could.  Mara is correct; they all knew this, even Amboseli, but they needed to eat.  The break of water has given them all enough strength and hope to steal from even the Maasai.

Mara watched as the tribe drew straws to see who amongst them would raid and who would stay to defend.  The weakest of them did not participate in this ritual.  Amboseli did not draw for it is a given that she will lead the raid.  Mara monopolized his mother as best he could until the light in the sky died and the ball floated towards its death.

Amboseli released her sleeping boy as another childless mother slowly slid into her place.  She placed her forehead against the surrogate, eyes watering.

“Love him as I have.”  She begged.

Ma gently squeezed Mara as she pressed back, agreeing to obey with every cell – Amboseli’s request.  She watched as Amboseli gathered the raiders and disappeared into the blue lit landscape.  Mara wrestled slightly as his mother’s scent disappeared from the air.

Mara dreamed of his mother.  He dreamt of rolling green grass waving across the plains; playing hide-and-go-seek with his mother.  The grass was so tall, but he could sense her as he crept.  Once he was close enough to tag her she would popup scaring him.  Mara would scream and run away as she launched at him.  His tiny legs were dwarfed by her stride as she would scoop him up and cuddle and nibble him until he choked with laughter.

As the sun warmed his skin forcing his dream to fade, Amboseli smiled “Be strong Mara, you are my sun.”

Mara awoke crying.  The tears had stained his cheeks attracting the dust to the trailed edges.  He did his best to wipe it away as Ma looked on.

“Let us get some water before we move.”  Ma recommended.

The sentinels were in their usual position; some were being relieved and slowly waded in the ever lowering pool.  Mara looked back, looking for a glimpse of the party, for a heat warped shadow that looked something like his mother; there was nothing.  He knew they would have to move on without them, this had been done before but Amboseli’s nose was always so keen they managed to find each other.  Mara had little hope this would occur. He had no proof one way or the other; he just knew he would never see his mother again.

Ma, the next in line for Chief studied the position of the waking light.  She looked back over her heavy shoulders and saw Mara pensively staring at the final footprints of his mother stamped into the ground.  As the light moved further and further across the water above Ma called to her tribe to prepare to leave.

Mara sill frozen on his mother’s final steps, managed to break free.  He could hear his mother’s voice asking him to be strong as he pulled away.  Ma waited until he fell in line.

Suddenly a large cry was heard from the south.  It was one of their own, but Ma knew it wasn’t Amboseli.  The few that returned were bloody, but dragged stalks of corn and bamboo behind them.  Ma stopped the migration and allowed the tribe to regroup and feed before moving on.  A large warrior walked to Mara and sat down before the young child. Mara could see the flesh of the warrior was spotted with large long scars and a chunk of his ear was missing.

“Amboseli, your mother, led us in to the village.  She made no sound as she led us to the fields.  We gathered as much as we could, but as we were trying to leave the Maasai men were ready.  They wore flowers to hide their smell as they came at us with black leaking sticks.  She fought proudly so that we may eat.  She will always be remembered as a great leader.”  The strong warrior rose to bow to Mara.  He gently stroked him as his mother had and then turned to wade into the water.

Ma slowly moved in. “You must eat.” She pushed some morsels in front of him.  He turned away.

“Your mother… I am now your mother.”  She pushed the food again and turned around to leave.

Mara struggled to eat as his throat worked against him.  His heart was broken.  Tears flowed heavy and dampened the food as he brought it to his mouth.  Ma called again for the tribe to move. They all obeyed.  She waited for Mara to sobbingly join the group.  He always followed behind his mother and took up the rear in her absence. Ma called for him to join her.  Mara didn’t hear her at first, lost in the wanting for something he will never have again.  Eventually he trotted up to her.  The tribe bowed and moved out of the way as he went.

Ma reached down and gently ruffled the hairs on his head.  “I love you Amboseli-Mara.”

Amboseli-Mara, he thought, I will honor her life.

A hundred moons past and Amboseli-Mara has become full grown and started a family of his own.  Ma was aging fast, but still led the tribe from water hole to hole, from plant life to plant life, and raid to raid.

The large warrior that had delivered the news to Mara as a child had taken the long walk to the grave not long after that. Amboseli-Mara’s wife was strong and in training to become the next Chief.  They had one large male child, almost full grown and a new young baby girl.  Mara named her Amboseli.

As they were migrating towards where the light wakes Ma suddenly jerked her body and froze.  The others raised their noses to the air.

Ma roared, “Flowers!”

The scent was on the wind.  Ma moved silently but fast across the plain trying to distance the tribe from the masked scent of the Maasai.  They moved as a flock of birds staying in front of the wind.  Suddenly one of the large warriors roared as he saw the red cloth of the Maasai male robe.  They were led, herded to their end.  Ma turned away, trying again to lead the tribe out until another Male was seen on the horizon.

“We’re trapped. This is a trap.”  Another warrior roared.

Amboseli-Mara nudged his loving wife and held his daughter for as long as he dared.  He started to move away from the tribe.  Ma called for him, but he would not turn around.  Ma called again as he refused.  His son tried to join him but his wife moved in the way.

“Protect them. Defend them. Keep them fed, keep their mouths wet.”  Amboseli-Mara called to him.

Now he did turn around.  He saw his son standing fast to his mother, weeping, protectively.  Ma roared again and the dust flew as the tribe tried to find a way out.

Amboseli-Mara, slowly walked towards the standing Maasai.  The Maasai male was quickly joined by many others.  Amboseli-Mara marched slowly, waiting for the Maasai to gather, hoping he has distracted them all.  They are a tiny people, but their tools and team work make them deadly.  Amboseli‑Mara had never seen, smelt, nor faced a Maasai warrior.

It’s about time, he thought.

His ears wiggled and stuck back as he roared. “Amboseli!”

The tiny Maasai grabbed their spares jabbing them at him as he came.  The tiny warriors did not move or budge as he charged. Amboseli-Mara felt the first spare in his side as he threw the tiny holder to his death.  He then stomped out the five others before him; hearing their bones crack and pop through the flesh as blood filled the air.  Mara had gone berserk.  The dream from over a million years ago reentered his mind, his loving mother, her warmth, her charm, her love.  He crushed them all.  Those he did not flatten he tore apart, slamming them into the ground like rag dolls.

Amboseli-Mara tore the red fabric from their bodies to dob at his wounds.  He was out of breath as he surveyed the dead.  A Maasai male’s chest was rising and falling, Amboseli-Mara squashed him before moving on.  He stole the food and water from the dead for his tribe.  He began to feel dizzy as he tried to return.  The light soon died and the crescent rose to take its place as Mara trucked back.

The light from the crescent wasn’t enough to make out the shadows, and the air around him was still full of blood and poison.  He could not locate his family.  He struggled further and further, growing heavier and dizzier with each step.  Before the light could wake, Amboseli-Mara fell hard to the ground.  His breathing became labored as his large eyes slowly blinked.  He felt the warmth of the waking light before him.  He saw Ma charging towards him, alongside his wife, son, and tiny Amboseli.  He exhaled.

Ma leaned down and took the stolen goods for the tribe; she called for them to move on for she knew the Maasai would be right behind Mara.  Mara’s son tried to refuse, but Ma spoke sense.

“He died protecting us, as his mother had.  To leave him exposed will slow the Maasai.” Ma tried

“Then I will great them as they come.”  Enya demanded, consumed by his juvenile anger.

“You will rejoin the tribe.  Mara-Enya, you will live today.” Ma instructed.  “Let them take your father’s bones, eat his meat, cut off his nose.  This is a body, not your father.”

Ma escorted Mara-Enya back to the tribe.  As they moved on Mara-Enya saw far off the red garb of the Maasai swarming about the body his father once inhabited.

The Maasai, still grieving over their lost, cheered at the site of the dead Amboseli-Mara.  They rose their machete’s and took from the dead warrior, his ivory, his trunk, and his meat.

Daemon waits

Posted: June 19, 2013 in Paranormal, Short Story

Portrait of a boy with the map of the world painted on his face.

I’m not sure the time. Oh wait, there’s a clock. 12:01 am it blinks. I don’t think that’s correct but the sun always tells me true – once it rises. I’m waiting. I feel like a waiter. I’ve got nothing to serve but this soul coming down the pipe. This soul has been thwarted three times now, but it looks like it will take hold. The mother is fat and ready to burst. She is a strange sort of mother. Not like any of mine have ever been. She is the sort that should have a nurse made or a governess that cares where she can not. She twitches awake, skinny mother, except for her belly. Her lips are stained white as her child kicks. Strong soul this one, will have to be.

I don’t have a name. But for this I should probably find one, make one up maybe. I’ve lived a thousand times or more, born and died but I never seen such hopelessness as I do now. Animals, living on top of one another, eating poisoned food and breathing poisoned air. They have no control over their situations and every time they try to stand someone goes out of their way to knock them back down, for their own good of course. It’s like looking at cows in line for slaughter. These people cry out, they even fight back, but their enemies are everywhere. Their neighbors, their rulers, and the ruling guards – think you call them po-pos. All of them ready to slaughter none of them willing to care. An odd sort of man these people of this time. Glad I am a Daemon as the Greeks would call me. So there it is then, you may call me Dae.

The mother stirs awake. She rises for very little and lives for less. She picks up a glass pipe and places a tiny crystal in the end. She burns it long with the flame and inhales the smoke deep into her. She does this until the rock is gone, and then she hunts for more rock. She is what we Daemon’s call zombie or the living dead. Her soul is trapped until the body dies. This would be what we call Hell. The body is used only to numb itself, find pleasure anywhere, and then die. No great feats will this woman perform, no words of wisdom will she pass down to this child, nothing. I have never met a life that was worthless, but the more and more I wait and see, I know they were created. These souls be as strong as any other: Stronger, to know what they have survived.

This woman could fix the worlds economic woes to watch her find fifty dollars in the air. She manages to buy this white laden crystal daily: Even more than once a day. She has no money to speak of, but for some sort of hard card she buys food with. Although she managed to use that card for more than food though, a great deal more now that she can’t walk the streets as she had. She lost the child three times now, three times: To men, her lover who makes her work in the pitch of night when all right people would be asleep. She wears scares on her face, hands, legs, and well, everywhere. A man bit off her left nipple six moons past. That was when she started this immediate decline. Her sisters in the trade tried to paint one on for her but it looked so mangled and disgusting she found she had to lower her rate.

The child kicks again. Strong healthy child, protected child, I am hear always near, so no fear because they won’t dare. I had visited whores in my day, many, and in one life I was even a whore myself. Karma isn’t as fun as it sounds. I swear, every misgiving I may have ever done to a women was visited upon me in that one lifetime. I guess looking at them all I am glad for it. As my other lives as women were less interesting. I like dull things. I recall now. These lifetimes of mine come back in waves. Like memories to a living body. This poor mother knows not what she numbs. The greatest and third most frightening joy was when I was pregnant. Not the birthing mind you – never the birthing, but the belly growing and form within you the connection. There is no word for it other than God. The Gods can not so easily produce as we can, nor do they have physical bodies to enjoy it and in being a woman the joy was so much different. As a man, it was all about conquering, questing, and penetrating, but as a woman, it was more about choosing, learning, and simply being. Of course being the weaker of the two sometimes men want to conquer too much. They had scared some of my womanly forms as I know Karma has made them pay for it. I hold no emotion other than love for them. Odd I know, but it is what this form is constructed of. I have very little choice in the matter.

As for this mother, smoking away her life and weakening her seed and all or any future seeds. She will have no future seed however. This child will be her first and last.

I find Gods to be most annoying and well needy. They demand a lot of us, and we demand the nurturing and suckling of babes. To get what you want – consequences to that. Unseen yet there. This babe I await is from the highest stock and to accomplish her goals she will need to be born to the worst of you. No self respecting God would ever be born to a wealthy person. Wealth is acquired, stolen in my days, shifted by ancestors and made legitimate by governments. Yet the petty thieves, they will always lose a hand. This one, her, she is to bring freedom to these forgotten people. She will destroy the place and rebuild a new. The people on the streets call this revolution. I love that word. It has never failed to make the world a better place. One thing this time needs is a real hero. I tell ya. If I could I would have slain most of the people here already, but for I can’t. I am a Daemon. Not good or bad as some I heard claim, just a spirit all the same. I wait. I wait for this large breasted woman to crack open and deliver me into power. I am a protector and have been given certain rights by these Gods of men. They instructed me or rather the ALL instructed me to watch over this mother and if she was to die to prevent it. She is scrappy enough and has managed to kick, bite, claw her way out of every mess this cruel insane society had pummeled her with. I found myself wishing she wasn’t as resourceful. That way I could do somethings. Scare the crap out of these dumb beasts who have completely forgotten where they came from. Other than the crystal she uses her body is strong and hard just like a good warrior mother should be. The child’s father. Well, I almost had to kill him. He managed to over power her in the middle of the day as she was trying to make it back from the grocery store. She cried more for the lost groceries than herself. But then again she had been through this so many times she just shut herself off until the deed was done.

The man was massive. Six foot maybe seven, but not lanky, no, thick, fat with power. He looked like he might be slow and lazy but under his layer of fat was a tight muscle structure born of battle and tempered with the hate only man would know. He grabbed her and dragged her into the alley just a half a block from here. I would call here a home but I can’t. I’d rather sleep outside a top a landfill, less bugs fighting for your food. None of those po-pos to be found, none of them ever cared either. They never hunted the man down or even opened a file. They wrote her off except when they needed to put on a show for the rulers here. That’s when they showed up arresting anyone tan or overly south American looking and if they could they also beat and raped, even killed. Karma will come in their next few lifetimes – only karma can teach an asshole to be kind. But these beasts are more than assholes. I’m not sure how to call them, cannibals maybe. Feeding on their own to impress. I’ve known many races that have done this. Their reigns end with revolution. That beautiful and most magical of words whispered here by every little bird. So I wait. I guess as they do too: For this child to be born, to tear aware and rip this ruler from these grounds. 

The Prude

Posted: July 28, 2012 in Short Story
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“What the Robot Chicken was that?” whispered a terrified high school senior, Tom.  Blood had spattered his letterman and began to dry on his dark brown hair.  He reached out for his girlfriend through the open door. She wasn’t the one he had wanted but she was the one that would put out. He was tired of being picked on and wanted to know what was so awesome about sex and she, Sandy, would let him uncover that. He pulled her close to him allowing her hard nipples to write across his chest. He slammed the half rotted door shut and they all began piling anything they could against it – securing it.

“Tom man. I think Chris… I think…” Chuck, started weeping. His nose became a thick runny faucet that ran towards the ground at great speed. “What is going on?” Chuck whined. Tom turned to see the blotchy face of his friend.
He’s losing it, he thought.

He tossed his jacket over the shivering Sandy and moved to lay a hand on Chuck. He only recoiled into the corner.

“I don’t know man.” Tom leaned up against the only door in – assured that whatever killed Chris would be there soon. They weren’t professional ninjas after all. A blind person could have seen and can now hear where they are. The house was old and rotted out. They could see the floors below them through the missing boards. Tom held no illusions.  He hated himself now more than ever.

It was supposed to be a night to remember. Loose girls and jocks, an old abandoned house, who knew it belonged to Mike Myers, or Freddie, or Jason, or leather-face, or who so ever! This stupid meaningful sexy night has turned into hell on earth and Tom blamed himself. He picked the place after all. How was he supposed to know it was inhabited by a serial killer. Granted they’re a dime a dozen now a days but wow.

Tom looked over Sandy as she huddled around his legs.

While you’re down there. He thought. He smirked suddenly.

“What’s so funny?” Sandy scratched. Her voice was like finger nails on a chalk board. Every time she talked it made him miss… well, the real love of his life. The prude.

He could feel the door behind his back. No one pushed against the other side and no footsteps could be heard. Once Tom could move without shaking he started looking for another way out. There were two windows to this room and he ran for them both at the same time. After an awkward half step he picked one and tried to open it. It was nailed.

“Was that, who was that…” Sandy began to sweat as she pulled Tom’s letterman tighter around her. Out of the corner of her eye she spied something on the shoulder and did her best not to scream as a fragment of skull and hair cleared in her view.

“Come here.” He whispered waving them on. Chuck wiped his snot on his jacketed arm. It glistened in the moonlight shining in through the grimy windows.

“Can we pull this up.” Tom grabbed the end of a nail. He growled as he squeezed his fingers as tightly as he could together. As he pulled up on the rusty fine head of the nail he sliced into his fingers opening them up and painting the window with blood. Sandy began to scream.

“Ouch.” He recoiled sticking the wounded appendages into his mouth sucking down the iron. Sandy grabbed his wet hand and wrapped the bottom of her shirt around his fingers and put some pressure on them. She was oddly focused.

Chuck ran to the other window. He grabbed the nail with both hands and squeezed as tight as he could. Blood ran down the window and dripped onto the sill. Suddenly the window broke. Glass cascaded down through the floors shattering. Tom suddenly felt dumb.

“Great idea.” He whispered. Chuck turned grasping at an arrow that had buried itself deep inside his chest. Tom caught Chuck as he was falling backwards and laid him on the floor.

Sandy came crawling over. Tom had to fight back a few nasty thoughts. She grabbed the end of the arrow and counted to three with her fingers. On three she pulled. Tom wasn’t sure he ever knew Sandy. She was calm, quick to respond, and her voice didn’t seem so painful.

Chuck screamed as it took two hands and all the strength Sandy could muster to remove the arrow. She tossed it out the open window.

“Wait.” Tom moved to grab it but Sandy was to fast. “break it first.”

“I’m using your jacket.” She spoke mechanically.

“What?” Tom asked feeling even more confused.

“I have to put pressure on the wound!” Sandy yelled. Her hands were shacking.

Tom helped Sandy off with the jacket and helped apply pressure. As their hands met blood pooled up over the yellow letterman.

“You’re going to get blood on it!” Sandy yelled and tossed the jacket out the window.

“What the…” Tom yelled. “Why did you just throw it out the window?”

“We need to go.” Sandy stood up as Tom pulled her down.

“The windows” Tom whispered ducking past, “and Chuck!”

“We need to go!” She yelled again standing up but this time eluding Tom’s grasp. She ran over to the door clearing a path and opened it. Tom was up, no longer caring what may fly in from the window. He was more concerned over what might walk in through the door. Sandy was frozen. Tom shoved her and grabbed hold of the door and was ready to slam it when he saw Michelle, the prude. She was still wearing her cheerleader outfit from the game. Tom was relieved to see her.

Finally the woman I’d rather die with, he smiled. Her mascara had run and her lipstick was smudged, but she was still everything Tom ever wanted, or needed. Her dark curly hair was made curlier by her sweat and her yellow cheer-leading outfit seemed to be a bit tighter.

“What are you doing here.” Tom yelled grabbing the letter on her chest and getting his first feel from her ample breasts. He could have lived in that moment forever.

He pulled Michelle into the room and re-secured the door. He found it difficult to let her go as she slowly looked up at him.

“Stay away from the windows.” He told her and forced her to get down. He had waved to Sandy but could care less if she went the way of Chuck or Chris.

“I, I,” Michelle started to speak, “your ring.”

“My ring?” Tom was at a loss for words. He had forgotten to take his class ring back after they broke up. In truth he didn’t want it back. He wanted to experience Sandy and then run back to Michelle for the happily ever after.

How did she know I’d be here, Tom wondered.

“Why would you come he…” something sharp was pressing into his yielding stomach. In Michelle’s dainty manicured hands was a black double edged blade with his ring barely fitting over the point. Sandy moved behind him gently grabbing his shoulders as Michelle leaned forward and pushed the metal into his soft stomach.

“Here.” Michelle said as his flesh spread open for her, wet and pulsing.

Traveling

Posted: June 6, 2012 in Short Story
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ImageI always wanted to fly. Of course the landing is the thing. Hitting the ground is inevitable with gravity looming about, so why dwell on a guarantee.

Funny, well not really, but all I could think about as I body checked my swollen wooden door was how much I hated my life. How much I hated work. How my part time job, road warrior/masshole, turned me into the darker side of goofy; which isn’t me or not someone I want to be. I tailgate an 80 year old woman and then had to stare her down as I cut her off after passing. I am not that person. How even when my back foot slipped on the step foreshadowing a caution, I continued to pound. Rage consumed me as the inanimate taunted. I see twelve-hour LCD staring eye numbing, sore backside days, five days out of the seven enslaved, for what? A door that won’t open!

I feel I need to set the scene. I live on the second floor of a three family home. The door I am wrestling with is unwisely set at the top of a flight of ten steps, landing, another five, then the front door.

I unleashed a kick, shaking the door. It does not satisfy me as the knob turns but the door remains. I haul out and kick again. I hear the crack of wood yet see no damage. I grab the knob and check again with my left shoulder. I was filled with rationale hate and taking it out on my front door that apparently can fight back. Its first jab came in the form of slipping glass. Genius! The glass is inserted through the back so you can imagine my surprise. I looked on in shock as the glass window slowly slid down aiming for my left arm. I jerked it out of the way in time and accidentally sacrificed my right. The glass shattered on my wrist slicing deep into my flesh. As the glass fell about me I was transfixed on the wound. I never noticed the door slowly opening; my path now made clear. I was in shock as my body revealed its inner workings. The white chunks must be my fat and that ivory stone must be the bone. I was some what outside of myself. Unlike now as I tumble turn and thwack.

When the crimson came, no not crimson, fire engine red poured out of me with a ferocity I know I don’t have. I found myself trying to rewind the moments before it came but as it spread over my arm and covered my left hand I began to come back to myself. “This is my blood”, suddenly downed on me. My body, I can’t… I need… My mind spins faint, but I remain steadfast and awake.

I jerk my body and turn sharply slipping on myself, launching into the air. I reflect on my long lost dreams of NASA and how they might have counted this one down. I can see them now with their tight haircuts and clean pressed shirts. Sweat dripping from their brow as they tapped on screens and spoke into microphones. I fall back just grazing my skull with the top step. I must be ten feet above the landing moving in parallel with the steps. I have never wondered how this world might look if I walked on my hands, but here it is. My feet are sailing. I see my porch and my second level view of the inner city. My years of playing hide and seek ducking behind cars. Running home as the street lights turn on. When was I ever so little. Step, crack goes the left forearm as it smacks against the dry wall denting its fragility. I reach for the iron rial with the wounded right painting the wall with my temporary permanence. I start to laugh. I don’t know why, but I am hysterical as my cranium christens each brass crested plank. I’m an artist and here is my final work. Brilliant really. I white washed the walls and primed them approximately two years ago for this blue paint I never managed to apply. The red just pops practically 3D. I almost wish I had more time. I giggled feeling happy as my body retains damage. Sadistic? Most likely, but it suddenly occurred to me. I didn’t want for more time to edit medical documents. I didn’t want the traffic, the clothes, the dinner parties, the stress, or the truck. I wanted for something simple, honest. I wanted to live. I will quit my needy job and make way for another to their abuses. I hoped not to lose my courage with my momentum.

Ah, the landing. I manage to somehow right side myself. I see an opportunity to catch the landing with the left foot and perhaps just bounce back off the wall and rest bruised on the stairs. I flashed back to my more physical days reminiscing over how limber I once was. However I did have a nemesis and that thorn in my side had always been my left knee. I tore my ligament (MCL) when I was younger. They treated it with a brace for 6 months and PT. I think now they perform surgery. No matter what I did in life the knee always reminded me it had been injured. Why would now be any different? But, I had to try.

My left foot connects to the linoleum floor. I shift my weight, but my body turns. I refuse to let go of the one still thing and cause my knee to dislocate violently to the left. I feel nothing as I drop sharply. I crash, ear first into the wall. The reverb is amazing as it vibrates in tune with the beat of my heart. A sharp ring cut off the momentary beauty as my yard long arm slams against splattering the walls, reaching as far as the ceiling. My left leg turns. I grab it preventing its further damage, but lose my one chance to stop. Now in the fetal position I began to perform a perfect reverse swan dive, but was interrupted by the front door, which yielded to me easily opening, releasing me from the confines of the sunless hallway and out into the world. The warm rays hit me as if my skin had never tasted anything so sweet. The radiant heat and nutrition giving me hope. A blank canvas pops up in my mind as I dream away these last few moments. I see the work perfectly. It will be my feet in the air with the sky, electrical wires and city in the background. The colors will be thick and vibrant. I see another, mimicking the contrasts of my hallway. The sharp downward lines with accents of north moving freckles. I get it, I will call it the fall! Headfirst I skid across the patio bouncing down the cement blue steps; mocking my painting procrastination. I roll out of the front gate crashing into my beautiful black truck and lay on the cool cement fading.

What a trip.