One more story (Kyle's "Five Secrets That Must Be Told"

In case you missed this in class, or just want to read it again. You can still use this for a critical piece for your portfolio.

Five Secrets That Must be Told

Secret #1: I loved you the very moment I laid eyes on you.
It was a day straight from film noir. Bleak, rainy, dreadful. I was being very contemplative at the time. It was the kind of mood where your eyes focus on nothing in particular, and you absentmindedly scratch your chain or run your fingers through your hair, and think about why everything had to become so wrong. I don’t know what brought my attention to that window. Maybe it was that it was partly opened and allowing small breezes to make the lacy blue curtain flutter ever so slightly. I approached it and got to my knees, pulled up the corner of the curtain so that only a single eye could be visible, and there you were.
You were facing away from me, with your hands on your hips and observing two lopsidedly built movers as they wheeled your possessions to the street from their mini truck. A cab pulled away from the sidewalk. You would occasionally gesture to one of the men and point to some certain end table or some little lamp or who knew or cared what you were talking about, but just the way your hand curved through the air was so delicate and perfect. Every tiny movement you made, from a shift in your step to the slow, steady rise of your shoulders when you took in a deep breath was magical. There was something about you, something I had never witnessed before in my life. And then you turned around.
I had never seen a man as beautiful as you before. I knew immediately I wanted you. Your skin was as flawless as the night sky, both dark and mesmerizing. You were toned, but not in a overbearing kind of way. I watched as you pushed aside a long lock of silvery black hair from your eye to behind your ear, and allowed the hand to continue to run down the side of your face, brushing along your short, lined beard. But nothing was as captivating as your eyes, big and chestnut brown. They scanned across the brick apartment building that you were moving into. My building. For a moment I think our eyes met. I knew that must have been impossible. There is no way anybody could have noticed me, I had just a sliver of curtain pulled up. And yet, I know it happened. And maybe I’m mistaken, but I could have sworn I saw the slightest upwards curl of your lips. But I could, and probably am, wrong. I let the curtain fall and ducked away so fast I could have never known for certain.


Secret #2: I had to know everything about you.
You were my goal for the coming months. Sometimes I would wander around the tenement building absentmindedly, and secretly hoped to catch a glimpse of you. I sat by my window more often, praying I could see you for just a few seconds before you were able to hail a cab and speed off to destinations unknown. I strolled through your floor, even when it was completely out of my way, nervously hoping you would just happen to walk out of your apartment, turn the key, and look left and meet eyes with me. I wanted to meet you. I wanted to love you. I wanted you to love me. But I knew I could never have that.
I discovered the number of your room the very first day you moved in. Apartment 317. I carved it onto a table so that I could never forget. 317’s window’s faced the Maples Bridge. I began to walk across that bridge every night. Did you ever see me? Even if you had, why would you care? Who was I to you? And yet I traversed that bridge anyway. I could never regret a thing I did for you.
I’ll forever treasure the day I discovered your name. I was about to walk down your hallway so that I could look upon your door and those gold plated numbers one more time, only to discover it was wide open! I hid by the door to the staircase. You were talking to a friend of yours. He called you Nuru. Nuru. It was ecstasy to my ears. I let each syllable roll off my tongue a few times in whispers. I closed my eyes and felt the love in my heart blooming. Nuru. My night star. My desert rose. I loved you.


Secret #3: You came to mean everything to me.
It was torture for me to see all those people coming and going from your room. Men would laugh and shake hands with you at your door. Women would hug you, or kiss your cheek, or worse of all, kiss your lips. Those were my lips. You didn’t know it yet, maybe I didn’t even fully realize it at the time, but you were mine entirely. Who were these nobodies to be granted the delight of being able to enter your room and talk to you or hold you. They were absolutely nobody! Nobody in the world should have that pleasure but me and me alone.
317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317. 317.
That number was carved on every wall. That number was carved on every table. That number was carved into my flesh. That number was carved into my heart.
I didn’t leave my room much anymore. I never left my fantasies much anymore.
My dearest Nuru, I didn’t want you, I needed you. I needed every bit of you to be mine. No, you were mine! You would be mine! You were mine, and there wasn’t a soul in this terrible nightmare who could ever tear us apart. I would hold you so tight we would meld together. We would become one, one heart, one body. I belonged to you, but more importantly you belonged to me.
Oh Nuru, we could never be.


Secret #4: I am a monster.



Secret #5: I have murdered you with my own hands.
Oh Nuru. If we could have only ever been. This was my only recourse. This is the closest you and I could have ever been together.
When our eyes finally met after I broke through your door, it was not the reaction I had always dreamed of. Your eyes were wide with terror and you were allotted only a second of screaming before I covered your mouth and tore into you.
I absolutely discovered you. It was so intriguing to see what made little Nuru tick. I felt the heat of your breath as you cried. I could feel your hands as they futilely grasped at my skin. I could feel your viscera slip through the cracks of my fingers. It was glorious. You were glorious. We were glorious.
I stood and admired what remained of you Nuru. Tears welled in my eyes. Even broken and destroyed, you were just as beautiful as the very first time I laid eyes on you. Those big chestnut eyes dully looked up at me without blinking. I finally had you all to myself, just as we were meant to be. I cupped a pool of your blood in my hands and sipped.
Nuru, you are dead.
Nuru, I still love you unconditionally.
You were terrified when you saw me. I am terrified by the fact that I loved you so much. I am terrified by the fact that you were not the first person I have ever loved. I am terrified by the fact that you are not the last.

Goodnight, my night star.

Last Words

Hey, everyone! It's been a great semester and I have really enjoyed your writing and all our discussions (even though they did sometimes take a slightly bizarre turn!)

Here are a few quick links and reminders:

FINAL DUE DATE: Thursday, 12/17, by midnight. Please email as Word, RTF or paste into an email. I can't open WPS files. Use "portfolio" as your subject line. My email is kathrynka (at) yahoo.com.

Quick link for Portfolio instructions

If you have missing assignments, send them with your portfolio. All of them are on this blog, arranged by date.

I'll send everybody an email with comments and your final grade.

If anyone is interested in working on or submitting stories to The Independent Scribe (URI magazine), you can email them at theindependentscribe (at) gmail.com,or visit their blog.

If you want to send your work to Newport Review, guidelines are here. We will be posting a new issue soon.

Everybody, good luck with finals and have a great holiday!

Tori's Story for 12/10

It was the Monday after the Homecoming Weekend at Coastal High School. It was a famous weekend for the school. The seniors ruled the school for the past week during Spirit Week and during the Pep Rally for the football team. It was the most perfect week and into an even more perfect weekend and all of the class of 2005 Coastal Dolphins could not have had a better Homecoming Weekend. The Homecoming Dance was on Friday night where the King and Queen were crowned. Nick Smith and Molly Snow were crowned at the dance and they were loved by all. They were the type of people that were popular but did not know it and did not act like they were. On Saturday, the Coastal Dolphins played against the Western Bobcats in the Homecoming football game. Nick and Molly were there to show their support for the class of 2005. The Dolphins won the Homecoming football game after a three year loosing streak. It seemed like a great ending to a perfect weekend…

“Hey guys, great game on Saturday right?” Tanya yelled to her classmates in the senior parking lot.
“AWESOME GAME, Tanya! Nick and Molly looked great too!” Lindsay said.
“Yes, Molly looked like a princess in her blue sparkly dress.” Said Tanya. “God, what’s everyone’s problem, it feels like someone died around here.” Tanya stated as everyone was moping around walking to class from outside.
“Tanya, haven’t you heard about what happened last night?” Angela asked.
“Ummm obviously not if I don’t’ know what you’re talking about Angela.” Tanya said annoyed.
“Well I don’t know how to tell you this but…but Molly Snow got into a car accident last night on Stick Rd. and she well…ummm…she didn’t make it.” Angela said sobbingly.
“UHHHH…OH MY GOD! You’re kidding right?! Angela, I just saw Molly on Saturday at the game, this can’t be true!” Tanya screamed.
“OH MY GOD…OH MY GOD…THIS CAN’T BE TRUE!” Lindsay screamed too.
“Its true guys, I’m sorry that I had to be the one to tell you the awful news!” Angela said sadly.

As the girls walked into school, it felt like they were in a movie. It felt this way because usually when they go into school, the hallways are obnoxiously loud with their classmates telling what happened the night before or what happened over the weekend or who was hooking up with who, you know high school drama kinda stuff. Well today was a different kind of day for Coastal High School Class of 2005. They have lost a true and dear friend of theirs, Molly Ann Snow. She was a friend to practically the whole school and everyone loved her. She was a kind, smart, funny, beautiful sixteen year old girl. As a matter of fact, newly sixteen because her birthday was on Saturday, one of the most perfect days on the almost perfect weekend. It felt like a movie because Molly just turned 16, just got crowned Homecoming Queen, and just got a new car for her birthday. How could something so awful happen to such a perfect girl…The girls walked into “senior” hallway unaware what was about to happen…

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHH….” Screams coming from all areas of the “senior” hallway.
“Oh my god, this is awful news, I can’t believe this has happened, I still can’t believe it, I don’t want to believe it!” Tanya said shaking her head.
“How did this happen Angela?” Tanya and Lindsay wondered.
“Well I heard that Molly and Caty went for a test drive in Molly’s new car since she just got it for her birthday, and you know that hill that everyone goes really fast over on Stick Rd.?” Angela asked.
“Yea…” Tanya answered.
“Well her and Caty, were driving on that road and decided to go really fast over that hill to get air like everyone always did but they didn’t get air the first time, so they decided it would be a good idea to turn around and try it again…well it wasn’t a good idea. The second time coming over the hill, Molly lost control of the wheel and the car skidded and ended up hitting a telephone pole dead on. Molly was pronounced dead at the scene and Caty was perfectly fine…well as fine as someone can be from a horrific accident…no injuries I mean.” Angela finished her story.
“That is awful…I still don’t want to believe it! I’m glad Caty is fine but how is she fine and Molly is dead?...I don’t know how I’m gonna get through this day.” Tanya said confused.
“Let’s go talk to Mr. Frank, the guidance counselor and see if we can leave school and go see how Caty is doing.” Lindsay suggested.

The girls were distraught over the news about Molly’s death. As were the rest of Coastal High School. They lost a beloved friend that day and the entire senior class did not know what to do with themselves. The guidance office was bombarded with students with post traumatic stress issues and were suggested to go home after hearing such horrific news. The entire school was in an uproar over the tragic happening from the night before. The story was buzzing throughout the halls and in the classrooms and no matter who told the story it was still true and Molly was dead. Tanya, Lindsay, and Angela and most of the senior class of 2005 were dismissed from school that day to go home and mourn over the loss of a loved friend. Bad things always seem to happen to good people…

“Tanya, are you going to her funeral tomorrow?” Lindsay asked.
“Of course I am, Lindsay! We all have to wear Red, White and Blue, her mother has asked all of the senior class to wear those colors. This is going to be the most upsetting funeral I have ever been to.” Tanya said saddened.
“I’ve never been to a funeral before, especially for someone so young. I’m kinda scared, what do you think it’s gonna be like?” Lindsay said nervously.
“Well…it’s gonna be really sad. You’re probably gonna cry and see a lot of people crying. There will probably be people singing sad music and a priest will say some kind words about Molly. I think tonight’s going to be worse at Molly’s wake.” Tanya stated.

The girls attended Molly Snow’s wake that night. There had never been so many people at the funeral home before Molly’s death. There was a two-mile long line out the door and there was an hour wait to pay your respects. Once inside you would pay your respects to Molly’s open casket, which it did not look like her because of the bad makeup job done and the scared look that was stuck on her face. That was the scariest part. Then you had to pay your respects to her family, her mom, her dad, and her little brother. Maybe this was the scariest part…what do you say to someone that has lost everything…

Pamela's story for Thursday, 12/10

Lessons from Losing

My father, a larger-than life figure who dominates the mythos of my childhood, retained that pugnacious character through the slap in the face of his lung cancer diagnosis, to the boxing match of chemotherapy, to his death. To be sure, the power-duo of cancer and chemotherapy left an indelible imprint on his 59-year-old body; transforming the tall, imposing figure to a distorted shell of his former self. But when it came to the battle of wills, it was my father who emerged the clear winner. By never allowing the external changes ravaging his body to dampen his spirit or slow his mind, my father taught me the most valuable lesson of my 20 years of life. Through sheer force of unwavering conviction and will, my father showed me that the choices we make and the attitudes we maintain are vastly superior to any external challenges we may encounter.

My father’s internal struggle of helplessness versus control was mirrored in my own response to watching a loved one suffer and being unable to stop it and having to acknowledge the unbearable prognosis that cancer had spread to his liver. This transition marked the denouement of his cancer struggle; doctors predicted he had at most another month to live. But it also marked a dramatic transformation of my father’s attitude toward the disease. Where it had robbed him of the ability to make the most basic of decisions about his future, treatment and quality of life, the news that he would ultimately succumb to the disease produced a surprising reaction within my father.

With the announcement that the cancer would be terminal, my father began reasserting authority over his life, making decisions that would give him maximum autonomy over his body and allow him to regain the sense of dignity that chemotherapy had stripped from his life. He outlined these decisions and desires to me on a cold morning in December, when I had just arrived home for winter recess. In the faint light of his office, I watched as he told me how he would abstain from chemotherapy, preferring to spend the last month of his life celebrating the winter holidays and enjoying the company of his family rather than hurling at different smells and tastes and wrenching in discomfort. In that vein, he did not want any one crying for him or bemoaning his fate. After all, there were children in his cancer unit who were far unluckier than him. Further, he wanted to die at a hospice, so that he would retain his dignity and wouldn’t taint the house with his death. Life would continue on as normal after he died, with my sisters and me returning immediately thereafter to college. Indeed, not disrupting his family’s lives was one of my father’s greatest priorities during his battle with cancer. Although he was severely weakened by the chemotherapy, he turned down my offer to take a semester off to care for him when he received the treatments. Finally, he did not want a funeral- no fanfare over his death was permitted, just a private burial with immediate family members (so long as no major expenses were incurred.)

As he bulleted the plan, I stood before him, nodding solemnly with every pronouncement, as if to signal my tacit approval. On the inside, however, I was quieting every natural mechanism in my mind that contradicted practically all of his wishes. I shuddered to think of him alone in a cold white hospice, with squeaky floors and a smell of death: a place he would enter knowing he would never leave. I wanted to tell him to let his family care for him and stay by his side and beg him to let his family honor his passing with a funeral. I had not acquired my father’s sense of inner peace and composure, and his insistence that I not dote on him or worry about him, that I carry on life as usual, left me to wonder: What could I possibly do to help? My hero had just been sucker-punched in the stomach by life and would not recover, and I, his 18-year-old daughter whose closest brush with mortality occurred was a fifth-grade bought with mono, felt utterly inadequate for the responsibilities life had thrust on me. But the arresting example of my father, who maintained a stoic demeanor in the face of life’s ultimate emotional and physical challenge, taught me that I could not and would not succumb to fear and helplessness. In trying to follow my father’s example of inner control despite ravaging external forces, I started taking action and making my own personal decisions, most of which revolved around honoring my father’s wishes without forgetting my own emotional needs.

The central emotion that would shape my father’s decisions was the desire not to inconvenience anyone with his death. Remarkably, rather than lamenting his own misfortune, my father was most preoccupied with minimizing any negative impacts of his passing on my family. The most vexing aspect of his death was the impending loss of half my family’s income. To help secure my family’s financial future, my father and I spent the vast majority of his final days in a very unglamorous manner—labeling and categorizing expensive electronic equipment he had accrued throughout his career as an engineer that could be sold on E-bay for thousands of dollars. He felt comforted to know that this money could be used to finance college.

My father deeply wanted a festive holiday season and a strong, united family. My older sister and I, who were both well out of childhood, set to task one night by rummaging through the house for art supplies and spending the entirety of the night crafting holiday decorations. My father awoke the next day to discover his kitchen transformed into a glittering winter wonderland adorned with hanging snowflakes and paper snowmen. We also spent days traversing his favorite haunts, especially the Rhode Island coastline, and having no-holds-bar visits with his friends, one of which involved taking a shot of tequila at lunchtime.

Instead of fretting over his bedtime, we talked late into the night discussing my plans for the future and acknowledging mutual regrets of our contributions to my father and my strained relationship. By accepting the reality of my father’s death, I understood the urgency of honestly conveying all my emotions, positive and negative, to my father. I apologized for things that I wish had done differently, divulged details of my personality that the distractions of life prevented him from understanding, and—most importantly—professed love and gratitude. In a bittersweet admission, my father confessed that he had not fully appreciated my personality until we began having those candid conversations. The same held true for me. Although I regret not having more time to enjoy the newly forged friendship, I am incredibly grateful to have had that momentary convergence.

My father wanted to maximize time with his family and autonomy over his treatment: This would be the hardest of his decisions to accept. Convinced that medication would hasten the deterioration of his mind, my father vehemently resisted any attempts by family members or caregivers to convince him to take painkillers. Instead of spending his last week sleeping comfortably in bed, as I would expect of most terminal cancer patients, my father kept busy and resisted the urge to doze off. Despite my father’s efforts, however, his cancer quickly and aggressively encroached on his strength and physical autonomy. The outward manifestations of the inner battle in his body were obvious. The voice that had once dominated dinnertime conversations, booming out proclamations of Italy’s superiority to the rest of the world and quizzing me on current events, was now gravely and soft. He had to draw in labored breaths in order to manage a few winded sentences. His belly was so distended that he looked like he was pregnant and could only fit into sweat pants and shirts. His feet were so swollen, as a result of his body’s inability to process toxins, that they looked like baby feet. The muscles in his neck seemed to have atrophied, so that it became incredibly difficult from him to hold up his head. And as the days went on, I would notice him stealing a moment of sleep when he thought no one was looking.

Perhaps the most painful example of the loss of physical autonomy cancer wrought on his body occurred during the last dinner we had as a family. My mother had prepared a 10 pound lobster­­­--his favorite food--in hopes of pleasing my father and creating a festive atmosphere that would lead to another happy memory of family togetherness. The mood at the table was anything but. It was not that my father didn’t appreciate the lobster. The physical deterioration of his body was so much that he could not muster the strength to enjoy it, transforming the gesture of kindness into a bright, shiny red reminder of the incapacitating consequences of his cancer. My mother, sisters and I watched on in silent horror as my father fumbled again and again with the lobster crackers, knowing he would refuse our attempts to assist him. “I will not go down this way,” he said. “I will not go down like a sack of potatoes! I am a lion!” His face grew crimson and the veins in his neck bulged as he summoned every ounce of strength in his body to crack the claw. In one agonizingly slow, strained gesture, he clutched the lobster meat roughly in his hand, shoved it into his mouth, and dropped his arms in exhaustion, panting for breath. My father had won once again, in another act of refusal to let cancer stop him from business as usual. But at what cost? As touched as I had been by his efforts to hang on, I believe that on that night my father and I both accepted the inevitable. Our desire for more time was supplanted by the knowledge that my father would not want to exist, nor be remembered, in a state of indignity and loss of control. In the greatest irony of his disease, it was only in letting his body be beaten that his mind and heart were finally set free.

The inner peace that the situation forced me to acquire—I would have only caused my father anguish if I protested his decision not to take medicine—allowed me to recognize and extract the incredible and profound value of my father’s resilience. By accepting a fate worse than death in order to remain lucid for as long as he did, my father demonstrated the unshakeable, immovable and immutable power of commitment. When he drew his last breath, my father, whose body was a frail shell of its former self, who relied on a wheelchair for mobility, whose belly swelled so big he was confined to a raggedy pair of sweatpants, emerged the victor, his cancer beaten. Through his refusal to succumb to the soul-dampening, joy-stealing, fear-inspiring, pernicious and seemingly all-powerful influence of his cancer, my father proved to me that external influences are no match for an unwavering conviction. Because of my father’s bravery, I was finally able to shed all vestiges of the frightened little girl who stood before him in his office the night he uttered his fate. Now, even as I am forced to recognize my impotence to prevent external forces from dictating the outcome of my life, I emerge stronger and more powerful. For just as it did within my father, there lies within me an inner fortitude to against which no force of nature stands chance.

Mike's story for 12/10, Part 2 (Optional)

(NOTE: READ PART 1 FIRST. Click on the archive link to get to the first part of "Voodoo Cowboy." This continues Mike's story. It's not required reading for Thursday, but if you want to see how the story turns out, here it is!)

The air was clean, pure and cleansing tonight. Maybe the earth itself knew that the wrongs that had occurred would be righted. The man inched closer to the bandit’s campsite. They were having a great time at the hard work of others. How many had died the other day for their spoils? How many more would they kill once the treasure ran out? What countless atrocities had these beasts done in the name of their own greed and preservation? Rather than work day in and day out, toiling the very earth for their lives they feasted on others. Well, these parasites would meet other parasites tonight that feed on fear. The man pondered all these things as he moved step by painfully slow step to a large rock, about 4 feet high just a mere few yards away from the laughing drunken thieves. Look at them. Smug, happy, carefree. Now up this close the man finally knew what he was up against. 7. There were 7 of these bandits, and all 7 would die. There were also 4 horses. Luckily their greed would get the best of them. All the horses were loaded up with goods from the village, meaning they had to walk to wherever they were heading to sell the spoils. The man ducked down behind the rock, taking out his weapons. 5 wasps in total. Our hero didn’t know if it was a guarantee that all 5 would kill separate people, but he had to hope. His 5 inch blade that he had stuck in his boot. And his gun. There were only a few rounds, but they would have to do. He had to make the best of his situation. After burying his boy and wife, he searched the houses and the bandits had cleaned the place up. There wasn’t a spare bullet in the entire town.

The man waited, and waited. Was he losing his nerve? No, he had to concentrate. Maybe something will happen to cause disorientation. They were drinking. There was bound to be some problem. The man kept peering over the rock. Drinking, laughing, nothing. Finally, his chance came an hour later. Two of the men were getting into an argument. Our hero listened it but could only hear parts of it, “you think we’re that fuckin stupid!?” “calm down Rich, he said that was only if something happ-“ “I DON’T CARE IF IT HAPPENS! I WANT TO BE SURE I’M NOT GETTING FUCKED ROUND HERE!”

Finally, the chance the man had been waiting for. Two of the men started a fistfight. The other 5 tried to break up the scene. This was it! This was the man’s chance to right the wrongs he had been dealt. The man’s heart leapt in his chest. The wasps started buzzing. “Wait, wait, calm down. Deep breaths. They won’t hurt you. They feed on fear” the man mumbled to himself. Our hero’s palms were sweaty. He slowly raised the jar above his head and threw it towards the bandits. Chaos ensued.

The fight was still going on when the glass jar broke a mere foot away. Startled, the bandits started yelling at what happened. One of the bandits screamed at the wasp that landed on his chest. That’s all the vermin needed. They buzzed wildly, swarming around and flying straight at the screaming man. 1 wasp stung a bandit right in the neck and he started convulsing almost instantly. The two men fighting panicked. The 1st bandit flailed wildly on the ground, kicking up clouds of dust with pink foam pouring from his mouth. The foam quickly turned darker and darker, eventually into blood.

One of the men ran straight away from the main camp and towards the rock our hero was behind. Falling on his ass, the bandit scooted until his back was against the rock. Our hero was right behind him. “No need to waste a bullet on this one” the man said in his head. He pulled the blade out of his boot and stuck it right in the side of the panicked raider’s neck. The bandit’s eyes bulged and started gasping for air. His throat sputtering out little bubbles of air from the blood coming out of his neck. 1 down. The man jumped out from behind the rock and made a mad dash into the fray. By now the wasps had taken out 3 of the men, all of the wasps buzzing and flying wildly, stinging anything with the scent of fear around it. 4 down. The man shot a round into a bandit’s stomach next to the fire. He threw up; his bile and just drunk alcohol being spewed into the campfire. The column of alcohol-vomit turned into a column of flame, erupting towards the man’s face and setting his face and chest on fire. Screaming at the top of his lungs, the bandit crazily started running around, eventually tripping into the fire and setting all of himself ablaze. 5 down. By now the horses were neighing loudly and going onto their hind legs. The man on fire ran towards one of the horses’ cargo, setting that ablaze. The horse had chewed the rope tying it to the tree and took off, flaming cargo lighting up the night sky. A bandit was swatting at the wasps in a desperate attempt to stay alive; dashing away from the camp. Our hero started chasing the bandit down, his hat flying off and landing in a corner of the flames. Our hero threw his knife into the man’s chest and the bandit fell. 6 down. The wasps in their zealotry all had flown towards the bandit on fire; kill themselves trying to stab the screaming man. He must have been in the most fear. 1 left. Our hero surveyed the area. All the wasps were burnt; his hat was on the ground, smoldering in the campfire. The man heard a scrape as the other horses were still neighing wildly. Maybe behind the wagon’s wheel. Quietly, the man got down on his belly and looked underneath the wagon. He could make out some of a leg. Grinning, our hero went back to the bandit with his knife stuck in him. Pulling it out and cleaning it off on his pants in 1 quick motion; he went back to the wagon. Back on his belly, he took aim with the knife. He would throw it into the last bastard’s leg, then sprint around the wagon and kill him.
Just one quick throw…
The knife plunged solidly into the bandit’s leg. As he’s screaming in pain, our hero sprinted around the wagon and for just a split second took pity. Here was lowly scum, writhing in pain, terrified and now knowing he was about to die. Our hero raised his pistol at the curled up man, clutching the blade in his calf. Our hero’s mind filled with the blinding white sun from a desert. His mind was clear and finally ready to end this. 1, 2, 3, rounds go into the last parasite. Blood splatters in a chunky smattering. The wagon wheel was covered in brains and the remains of the last vile scum of the earth. It was over. Our hero was free. The man untied a horse, which was neighing recklessly. He hopped on, grabbing some food and supplies from the wagons. He rode into the dark. Tonight he would sleep without any nightmares. The bandits were all dead, swollen with sores; 1 still crackling in flames. The smell of burning flesh wafted in the cool night air. In the distance, a flicker of light could be seen- the carriage of flames still being pulled by a screaming horse. One look is worth 10 thousand words…



Dear reader, I would prefer this would be the end of our hero, but that is simply not the case. I am a firm believer that once an idea is created, it can only evolve and live its own separate life- regardless if the author wants to kill it. This is not where the story ends for Him, but I felt this was the way I would like everyone to remember him. There is much worse that our hero must endure, and only read on if you want to know the truth of what happens.



The man wanted to do one last thing before he would start a new life- without his wife and child but also without any regrets. He had killed every last one of them. All had gotten what they deserve. But it would not have been possible without Tiaku. Our hero wanted to say his final goodbyes to the bizarre mystic and put an end to a chapter in his life he’d rather not remember. On horseback, it only took that night to reach the town again, but what our hero saw was not at all what he expected.

The man forwent sleep during the night and instead rode. Maybe he was high on adrenaline and the kills he made. Maybe deep down he thought if he went to sleep he would still have his nightmares. Whatever the case, our hero arrived just an hour before dawn to an entire town on fire. “What the hell happened here? Where’s Tiaku?” the man said out loud to himself. Every home was either a pile of ash or burnt rubble. Only the tavern still held some semblance of itself. It was the ‘freshest’ fire. Our hero tied up his horse to a nearby tree and got his gear ready. There was no expecting what would happen. As the man neared the bend to the main square of town he was horrified. Tiaku was on his knees; hovering over a dead body and chanting loudly as the flamed roared. A jar lay open near Tiaku, his flying ‘friends’ were buzzing around him. Suddenly, Tiaku poured a vial of something into the mouth of one of our hero’s dead neighbors. The body started twitching! From twitching came convulsing. And convulsing led to flailing. Finally, the dead body rose. It was Mr. Treecher. Our hero knew him well. He helped deliver our hero’s child into this world. He helped with the building of the tavern. He would drink and play cards with our hero. And he had been dead for days... Now he walked; caked in a mix of dust and blood. His eyes without iris or pupil. Our hero locked eyes onto this soulless abomination who had been his friend. Mr. Treecher howled and Tiaku shot straight up- seeing our hero. Treecher charged our hero and on instinct he fired round after round into Treecher’s skull. The reanimated corpse of Treecher now lay still again, and our hero stared straight at Tiaku.

“WHAT IS THIS!?” the man screamed. Tiaku showed surprise more than anything. That surprise quickly faded to a smirk. “Leestin boy, We helped you cuz We felt bad for what We done. Turn back now or you’ll regret it.”

“You done? What did you do?”

Tiaku’s expression stayed in a state of glee. “Boy, you really think We cared the town was dead? We set it up like dat. Those bandits had no idea this town existed- they came passin’ through and saw ours abode. Dey were gonna steal my tomes. Ours priceless work. We couldn’t be having dat. So We had ‘em spare us. We led em to your town and unleashed em.”

“How could you do that?”

“Not how boy, but why We tink you be askin. You have no idea where We come from. You have no idea what We did before We be comin’ here. Once We went through the portal We decided We was free from those of the Scherain Kingdom. Free to do ours work on necromancy. Free to work on ours alchemy and toxins. We couldn’t just walk into town and kill you all. We didn’t have the numbers- so We worked on ours friends in the meantime. Once the raiders came tho…oh boy, we knew we’d have plenty of corpses. Plenty of bodies to work wit. Plenty of em.”

“W-what portal? What kingdom? What the hell are you talking about!? You let everyone in the town die! YOU KNEW ABOUT THE RAIDERS SO YOU COULD DO YOUR FUCKING EXPERIMENTS!? TO BRING MY FRIENDS BACK TO LIFE? WELL THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU SPARE ME!?

“Easy easy boy, We don’t have all day long. We still gots work to be doing. If you must know before you be dyin’, We mighta got a bit greedy. Once We saw you were alive We had a change of plans. Why finish off 1 and let 7 escape when you can save 1 and get an extra 7 to experiment on?”

“Y-y-you brought me back to health so I could kill the raiders? You just wanted their corpses too…”

“Dat be correct boy; and We even know where dey are. It was a surprise seein you before the dawn like this. Cuz you lost your hat. That marble wasn’t a damn good-luck charm. It was a 3rd eye. We just wove it into your hat so We could see what you see. To know where all the 7 new bodies were. The 3rd eye can pick up electric impulses nearby it- which is why We be putting the ‘charm’ o yours in your hat- right near your brain. We could be reading your thought the whole time you were on your journey. See what you see, remember what you remember. Dats why We don’t even know your name. When you made that mad dash to kill one of dem guys. Ooh boy, your hat went into the fire. We couldn’t see a damn thing. Now that the fire’s out at their camp We can see a little bit, but there smoke coverin some of the view. We juss kinda assumed you passed out or be dead since We heard yellin and gunshots after your hat fell in the fire. Couldn’t see anything in the fire though.”

Our hero sank to his knees. “You ratted on this town so the bandits could kill everyone here. Then when you saw me about to die you nursed me back to health….just so you could read my thoughts and see me kill the raiders…for more bodies in your goddamn experiments? You used me to get more corpses; you didn’t give a fuck about anyone here in this town. You just thought we were cattle for your voodoo shit…”

Tiaku stood there, a few feet away from Treecher’s body, and a few more feet from our hero when the worst was about to come. There was shuffling heard but a couple yards away. Small patting noises like a child was dragging his feet. Our hero looked up in horror.

It was Jake. His own son. His flesh and blood that he buried days ago. Completely covered in dirt. His blond hair was now a pink from all the blood covering it. Jake stopped; wide-eyed and motionless. Heavy eyelids hung over his now pure white eyes. More shuffling. More neighbors….more friends…more of the reanimated. There were 8 or 9 others that shambled slowly in between the burning buildings. Harrison…Gunther…Peter…Maria…everyone there he grew up with. Everyone he cared about having a fate worse than death. “Puppets…” the man said. Our hero stood up and made a mad dash to his horse. The dead followed- Jake being in the front. Our hero pulled out 2 of the bandit’s guns and started firing. Treecher was already dead- our hero having to see his whole previous life right in front of his eyes die again... by his own hands. Down went everyone except Jake. Tiaku hadn’t moved since seeing our hero. He patiently watched and waited. Tears streamed across our hero’s face as he saw his own son, a soulless shell hobble towards him slowly. The man closed his eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry”. And put a bullet into his child’s head. Tiaku started clapping.

“Well well boy, We didn’t know if you could do it. These reanimated are juss a start. Once We get to the raider’s camp We be trying to perfect ours art. We sorry, but you have to go now.”

Tiaku focused all his anger towards the man. The wasps that were buzzing around Tiaku flew straight at the man. “They feed on fear; but I’m not afraid. I’m dead” the man murmured to himself as he saw the wasps. Our hero channeled all his sadness, anger, despair towards the witch doctor he once thought as a benevolent guardian. A helper in a bleak world the man saw himself surrounded by. Now he knew better. The witch doctor had created this bleak world all for some warped experiment. The wasps stopped just a few inches away from the man’s face. He could stare into their eyes. Saw that they were confused creatures right now. There was no fear in our hero’s heart. The one directing them had less anger, less pain…was weaker than this one. The man intently gazed at Tiaku and suddenly the wasps knew… Our hero was the new master.

The wasps turned around and headed straight for Tiaku. Tiaku was surprised, “Wait, what you family be doin!?” There was hesitation; there was fear for just a split second in Tiaku. And the parasites knew it. They swarmed him, stinging Tiaku’s face, stabbing him in the eyes. As Tiaku flailed about, screaming in incoherent jargon, our hero walked up to him. Tiaku’s face was starting to swell up and turn red, as were his arms. Tiaku howled and howled until there was silence. The fires were dying down in the town; nothing but bodies strewn about and dawn was approaching. The man left the town and headed for Tiaku’s laboratory. He set it ablaze and watched it burn as the sun came up. The sheet that was covering a green glow was now scorched away. Our hero looked at it in astonishment. It looked like a portal. Was this what Tiaku meant? He stared through it- it showed what looked to be a jungle. There was nothing left for our hero to do. 2 wasps landed on our hero’s shoulders. He was their new master now. Our hero walked through the portal to a new world. To start a new life and whatever it may bring.


But he don’t tink We can’t find him. Oh yes we can. We tell ourselves dis whole story of our hero…. Our villain. We tell ourselves dis whole story to ourselves to remind us of what we have to do. What our villain doesn’t know is dat he might have our bees but We were stung hundreds of times. We have an anti-venom in ours immune system. The swelling has gone down and We will track our villain to the ends of the earth. What do you think of this Tiaku? We feel bettah. We feel telling this story to ourselves makes us feel alive again and have the new purpose. Well our villain…We will get ours revenge.

-Tiaku journal entry #1

Mike's Story for Thursday , 12/10 - Part 1

NOTE: This is a long story, so only Part 1 is required, but if you want to see what happens next, feel free to read the rest in Part 2!

Voodoo Cowboy

One look is worth 10 thousand words. The aging man stood there over the barren fields. He watched as the sun was setting behind him and saw the faint shadow the hill there was casting. The fields were a stagnant mesh of grey and faded amber. What looked to be years old vegetation still held some shape of what it had been. Our hero knew however, that if he just touched anything in that field, the husks of plants would crumble to dust in his calloused hands. He pointed his head up a little and smelled the air. The winds were hardly blowing, but he calmly breathed in to make sure he could get just a trace of the scent he was looking for. There it was. The scent was of a freshly-made campfire barely stung his nostril. The man took another deep breath, questioning if his journey had any merit, if it was even worth it. If he did accomplish what he was setting out to do in just 1 more evening; he would have no where else to go. No one to go home to. No home anymore. A home was just a dwelling that had love, but they were gone now. The place he called home was just as hollow and empty as these vegetable husks that lay strew about him. He couldn’t feel satisfaction in his mind until he caught up with them. So close and yet so far. The 4 day journey he has been on seemed to follow a repetition, and this evening was no different. The doubt always seemed to creep to his mind at this time, around sunset. Maybe because he knew he couldn’t push himself anymore and it was time to set up camp. The prey being chased would go nowhere tonight. It would only make things worse on himself if he tried to push himself too hard and got too close to the bandit’s camp. He was outnumbered 7 to 1, although he had powerful but stomach-churning allies in his knapsack. He shook the cobwebs from his mind. It was time to scope around the base of the hills to see if there was a suitable spot to set up camp and sleep. Getting himself situated, he took the knapsack off his shoulder and dug around. An old picture of his wife and child, a large knife, food, some giant blue leaves, a polished 6-shooter with only a couple bullets in it...and the cloth wrapped around a large glass jar. A shudder went up his spine thinking about what was in that jar wrapped up tight but had to stifle it quickly before….

The buzzing was maddening. There were large clanging noises in the jar. The sound was almost like rattling an old can with a bunch of nails in it. The loud, furious buzzing kept going- a chaotic hymn as the nails clanged against the glass. He took a deep breath and sighed out loud. The buzzing and rattling stopped instantly. Another long drawn breath came out as he remembered the witch doctor’s words in his head, “Dey can smell fear inssstantly like a pack of rabid dogs. Dey’s alwaysss ready to die...dey alwaysss hungry for emotion and fear.” He took 2 blue leaves out of the knapsack and lit them on fire for a campfire. Yet another gift from the witch doctor. They can create a roaring fire and stay strong for hours without a hint of smoke. He slowly took his beat up cowboy hat off and looked at the strange jewel the doctor gave him. It looked like a bright green pearl that the doctor threaded into the front of the hat. It was a special protective charm. As long as it wasn’t covered up, it would watch over him in his quest. The man leaned against the small pit he would call his bed by the strong campfire and fell asleep instantly, as if he never slept before in his life.

The dreams were troubling. Of course they would be. After all, his whole town in the middle of nowhere was alive just a few days ago. He should have been dead too, but the ‘grace’ of god spared him. Knowing what he knew now, he wished god just finished the job instead. At least he’d be in peace with his wife and child. The raid happened so fast….they were ruthlessly efficient. In just a few moments he was talking to his wife about how there was no way they could live off the meager crops they were growing while his son was playing in the fields and in the next instant….he saw through the slit of 1 eye the marauders galloping away, with his dead son’s bright blond hair mattered and covered in blood making him have hair that was scarlet red.

His subconscious forced him to delve deeper. In his dream state he was forcing himself to try to remember details. He was on the front porch talking to his wife about the crops and what they would have for dinner. He remembered thinking he had to get out of this god-forsaken town. The irrigation was awful. There was no way to make an honest living in this community of only about 30 people. Mary wanted to try their luck out east more, but they needed to be able to stockpile some resources if they were going to make the trip. He stepped outside to get his kid, Jake and get him ready for dinner when they came. There were only 7 of them, but they knew precisely where to strike. Their guns shot went rapid fire, clearing everyone in the street. The people in their homes panicked and ran to get their guns to defend themselves. But it was too late; the raiders split into pairs and hunted down everyone- shooting with pinpoint accuracy. Our hero wheeled back to his home to grab his gun, when his wife ran outside to see what was going on. They shot her right in the chest…gone in an instant. The man sprinted to his door to try to take any of them out, but stood in horror as he saw his wife sprawled out on the front porch, soaked in blood. Jake was in the living room with his father, but didn’t yet see his mother’s expressionless face right at the entryway. He pushed Jake to the floor and screamed for him to hide under his bed. The man only got 2 shots out before the raiders turned around and came back for him and the rest of the scraps. The man didn’t even notice the pool of his wife’s blood starting to form around his boots as he stood at the living room windows taking shots. Blazing by, the raiders got a shot that grazed his right shoulder. He yelped in pain and Jake came running to help. “I told you to stay hidden!” he barked loudly. Jake didn’t say a word, he stood frozen at the sight of his father wounded and his mother lying at the doorway. The marauders would get them both if he didn’t act fast. Maybe he could make a run for the witch doctor. The doctor wasn’t part of the town, but maybe a mile away. He was supposed to be the protector of this town. He was supposed to keep them all safe ever since he mysteriously showed up here years ago. The man grabbed Jake by the hand and pulled him along to the back of the house. They might be able to sprint around the house and hoof it to the witch doctor. One of the raiders saw them and moved in; the rest following suit. They came chasing and shooting wildly, not landing any bullets...until one caught Jake in the leg. Jake cried in pain while our hero started to pick him up. It was too late. Another shot caught Jake in the temple, and he fell like a brick. The man let out a primal howl and emptied his gun. He only grazed one before he was gunned down too. A bullet landed right in his gut. The head of the marauders looked down at the man, still alive and frantically trying to get to his feet. “Sorry buddy,” the raider said, and he punched the man right in the eye and then put another round in his gut. The side of his head slammed against the dark orange dirt and a plume of smoke rose up around him. Through 1 eye he saw Jake motionless in the dirt, blood pouring over his face and turning his hair crimson. The raiders were strolling away from the man and boy, confident everything was over. They started looting all the buildings and heading out when at last the man blacked out from the pain and thought he was dead.

Our hero snapped awake in a cold sweat; the fire still burning. There was the rattling and buzzing again. They were in a frenzy - in that glass jar. It must be because of his nightmare. He was afraid again. Taking a long pull from his water canteen, the man laid back down more calmly and the noise from his knapsack died instantly.

Morning already. It was just a matter of hours until the man would get his revenge on the raiders that killed his town, his wife, his son…and almost himself. It was only the magics the witch doctor possessed that kept him alive after the scourge killed everyone. The man always double checked his supplies before heading out. Campfire stomped out, picture, a couple more leaves, food, knife, 6-shooter, and the soulless parasites in a jar wrapped in cloth. He fixed his hat and headed out. He would gain a lot of ground today, and relished the fact that tonight was the night he just may sleep without picturing the horrors of his long lost family. Staying out of the open plains and moreso in the shadow of large rocks and dead bushes, the man journeyed forward. His nightmare last night was more vivid than the time before. Maybe because he was nearing the end of this crusade his mind finally unlocked all the details of what had transpired that fateful day. Our hero never was one to be brash or loud. He was the kind of man that mulled over a decision over the course of weeks, outweighing every detail and the domino affect it would have later on. He could daydream this whole day, but he had to still keep his eyes all around. If the raiders had the idea for a minute they were being followed, they might backtrack and surprise the man in mid-thought. What help would his precious jar of fear-feeding vermin be then? If he didn’t break open the jar in time, he was dead and his whole journey a colossal failure. He winced with pain. His stomach was still sore from the supposed to be- fatal wounds he had been dealt. This led him back to how the doctor was able to help him. This mystic certainly was a savior because if the man bled out any longer that day, he would have died with the rest of the town. He kept walking and day dreaming. He remembered now, what happened after he was dead…

His non-swollen eyelid felt like it was cemented shut, but when he heard the rattling of bones and cackling, he thought he would awaken to a circle of hell. That was not the case however. When he did manage to pry his eyelid open, he saw the witch doctor slyly slithering around like an excited snake around all the corpses in the middle of town. The witch doctor was tall and lanky, almost looked starved. His ribcage was visible through the shreds of deep dark green clothing he wore. His eyes were sunken in and his face looked scarred- on purpose. Tiaku was the witch doctor’s name. At least, that’s what he called himself in the third person. He always talked as multiple beings- like there were others in his head. Tiaku had a long scraggly staff with him, with all sorts of small animal bones tied to it. It was like some sort of bone windchime. Our hero saw the mystic inspecting the bodies for something, and then Tiaku came up to him. Our hero couldn’t move- he was hardly alive. Tiaku stood right over the man and seemed to be scrutinizing his fatal wounds. “Ahhh, dis is still a bit fresh.” the witch doctor said as he plunged the bottom end of the staff into the man’s wound. The man tried to let out a scream, but only opening his mouth and twisted his neck. Immediately the doctor jumped straight up and started mumbling to himself. ‘Tiaku, We didn’t do anything yet, dis one is still crawlin.’ The man coughed up a trace of blood. He was seconds from death. The witch doctor’s face immediately turned to stone. His brow furrowed and he fell to his knees. He pulled a small vial off of a band on his wrist and poured some sort of liquid over the man’s wound. It was so cold it felt like ice taken from a galaxy away from the sun’s warmth. What little the man would see from his 1 good eye started to blur and was having double vision. And then the icy grip of death was gone. His stomach pulsed with a new throbbing pain, but it was all sealed together. Tiaku placed his thumb on the swollen eye of the man. The one that started swelling when the raider punched him. The same icy stab of pain and then, relief and a dull soreness. The man was alive again. Disoriented, the man struggled to get up. “Ease up there. Dah sap takesss a bit o time.” the witch doctor said. Tiaku grinned, his yellow-stained teeth making him look like a horrid apparition. “Ow you doin boy?” The man finally was able to stand up and looked at the ground. There still lay Jake, his hair caked over in blood. Our hero was able to let out a scream to be heard for miles, when Tiaku slapped his palm onto the man’s shoulder. “Control eet. Feel eet. Wait eet out. We know what you want, and We can’t do dat. We can only help the living. Come wit us.” The man followed Tiaku, tears rimming his eyes.

Tiaku brought the man back to the witch doctor’s den. It was a rather small place, with all sorts of sheets and pewter items and bones adorning every wall. There were tomes, jars, vials, and scraps of paper all over the place. It seemed to have a controlled chaos look to it though. The vials all had different labels and types of putty wrapped around them. Large bones with symbols carved or branded into them lay across all the doorways of the quarters. A large barricaded sheet hung over a side room, with what looked to be a green light pouring through it. Whatever it was behind that curtain, it wasn’t meant to be seen. The man had been to the entrance of this place just once, but never inside. He was terrified at the dimly lit laboratory. Then there was a loud buzzing and scraping of glass coming from somewhere in the room. Tiaku flashed the man another yellow grin and said, “You bettah calm down or our friendsss wont take kindly to you.” The man took a few deep breaths and the frantic clanging and buzzing stopped. “We can see what happened; our new friend and eet don’t look too fair. Come with us, and whatever you do…don’t be scared. They feed on fear.” Tiaku led the man into a side room, past all the books and vials to a room with a few glass jars wrapped in cloth. The witch doctor slowly pulled one of the cloths off of a glass jar and the man stepped back in horror.

There were 5 giant wasps in the jar, stabbing at the glass with their stingers. At least, that’s what they closely resembled. They were a bright neon green and black striped, bloated, as big as a large man’s fist. The things were misshapen; they looked as if they were too swollen and sickly to be able to even fly, but their wings were fluttering faster then a hummingbird’s. The deformed sickly wasps were going berserk, stabbing the glass faster and faster, almost making hairline fracture in the jar. Our hero stepped back again and Tiaku shot the man an evil glare. “Calm it down now! Dey use emotions. Breathe” the mystic said. The man once again tried his hardest to not run out of the shack as fast as he could. “Dere, much bettah. See? Dey calm down if you calm down. All you got to do isss not fear ‘em. Dey can smell fear inssstantly like a pack of rabid dogs and prey on it. Dey’s alwaysss ready to die...dey alwaysss hungry for emotion.”

Our hero snapped out of his daydream. It was past noon already. He was on the verge of catching up to the raiders. He could feel it. He was on the very edge of hearing them across the hills. Better to slow down a bit and wait until nightfall. The man took off his hat and looked at the charm that Tiaku gave him. It was a bright green marble, that looked like there were clouds swirling inside. It was woven loosely onto the front of the hat- right above his forehead when the man was wearing it. The man put his hat with the charm embedded in it back on and slowed his pace- retracing what happened with Tiaku.

Tiaku had a wide assortment of horrors throughout his wooden hut. If the weird shimmering light coming from behind the sheet, and the malformed fear-devouring wasps weren’t enough; there was plenty more to disturb and question the witch doctor’s sanity. There was a small cactus-like plant that had very large blue leaves on it. Tiaku picked a couple off and put them in a bag for the man. “Leesin hero, We know what must be in your heart right now. So take these.” Tiaku also went up to his little pets; the bloated wasps. Taking a jar of 5 of them, he wrapped the glass jar in a small cloth and put that in the man’s bag as well. “No telling how many of dem raiders were around; but this should even the odds. Remember, they feed off your emotions- best not be acting like a cowardly dog if dey are around you. They tough little suckers; you get up to those raiders and throw this jar. That scourge will be panicked and dats all these pets need.” Tiaku cackled again. “Take dees leaves too. You burn dem and they soak up smoke. No smoke- no trail…no trail- element of surprise. And 1 last thing.” Tiaku pulled a cloth off of a large marble- the size of a fist that was highly polished jade. There was also a small marble of the same look right next to it. “You take dis; weave it in your hat and you have good luck. Put it right….he-uh” Tiaku poked the man right in the forehead through his hat. “Bury your family, I take care of da rest of da folks. Horse tracks go west. If you want to get ‘em you best get goin.”

A small jab of pain in his stomach snapped the man back to alertness. It was dusk. Just an hour or two before he would get what he wanted. No blue leaves tonight, no campfire, no more pictures or restless sleeps with tears and sweat. Tonight he would be the executioner, upholder of justice, retribution, and fury. The man was just in sight of the raiders starting to set up camp. He sat down behind a tree, motionless, until dark.

(to be continued ...)

Troy's new story for discussion on 12/3

This seems to be a continuation of Troy's earlier story about Richard (the well-dressed man with his girlfriend in the oven). Enjoy!
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Shattered panes and shards
dappled moonlight and crumpled playing cards
carbon based entranced by the gleam of a carbide
regardless of city blocks
Oblivious to traffic patterns…

A montage spilt from the nickelodeon of Janine’s cerebral cortex, a Buster Keaton improv conducted courtesy of Richard and six inches of steel. This particular rendezvous ended up somewhere on the south side of town, by the docks; in what appeared to be the remains of an old gambling den. The dappled moonlight fell on Richard’s back as he crouched over Janine’s body using a fragment of her cashmere blouse to clean his knife. It was about six months to the day since Simone had been summarized into a pile of ash and bone dust. Six months to the day since Richard became serious about all this killing business, six months to the day since Richard walked outside of his flat to retrieve the newspaper and saw the Preacher AKA the crucifix coroner. That morning the sky was dripping blood and honey and Richard stared; for once in complete surprise as the Preacher smiled back beneath that wide brimmed hat of his…

Ace of Hearts Relinquished his feathery dress…
Richard strolls from the abandoned building and the wreckage of Janine’s body, his knife sheathed within leather boots that he preferred for such outings. These boots (imported from Europe) possessed and incredibly unique footprint, Richard was not afraid; then again tracks didn’t hold up so well on hefty bags. Richard removes the tortoise shell hair comb from his rear packet and attends his freshy greased pomadore and forelock, while simultaneously managing to light a cigar (also imported). This cigar possessing an exclusive blend of tobacco which can be forensically traced to a single vendor located on the cobbled alleys of Bologna. This cigar vendor maintains approximately 77 customers and maintains written logs of each individual (including current address, social security numbers, and contact information). As Richard drags on his cigar he considers the Preacher and what to do about two killers dancing in the dark, dancing in the same city. Perhaps Richard could take the lead this time, teach the Preacher a few new steps. Either way this was not a good situation for Richard or his victims. Richard WAS a killer, but he was a careful and considerate one at that. The Preacher…he was something all together different…

The snow falls and the wolves gather beneath the trees
“If you look carefully you’ll see that the body is a map of desire”. He says this beneath the faltering light and the snow. He works beneath the borrowed light of a Hotel sign, young Richard standing beside him dressed in an altar boys robe of virginal white, crucifix around his neck. The young Richard stood silent as the snow fell and watched as the knives of the Preacher went to work on his former Cub Scout leader who had lately attempted to molest him. Young Richard watched and prayed silently to himself as his robe was sprayed with blood, his heartbeat mimicking the alternating light of the HOTEL sign. When it was done the Preacher cleaned his knives on the snow. The Preacher then placed his hands on Richard’s shoulders, and wipes a smear of blood from the boys face. The Preacher looks the young Richard in the eyes; steam emanating from his mouth and says “My boy, there is nothing stranger than kindness”.

Pink Fingernails can be glossed over with a wink or two…
A tear rolls down Richard’s check, mingling with the smoke swirling in his car, the rain hammerin’ down on his carapace of steel, it was just a bit after dawn. Richard didn’t remember the evening passing by so quickly while he was psychologically steaming down the rails of pain and misery. As he crouched on the stoop of the abandoned building like some disheveled gargoyle, Notre Dame or Bust!. Left hand glued to the wheel, right currently adhered to a flask of Jack, tremblin all the while, and it wasn’t from the damp autumn air. Richard was a wreck, slave to his own validation about to face the vindication of a Preacher’s right hand. Those hands would be bearing the blades Gabriel and Michael (right and left respectively) and they always found their mark, one way or another.
Janine was dead sure enough, Simone disposed of, but Richard knew that the Preacher wouldn’t be satisfied with this thing, that’s what brought him here to Richard’s city in the first place, like so much tumble weed engulfed in flame, destined for the driest wagon wheel. If only the past 130 victims could be glossed over and thus bring the Preacher to some other errant lamb ripe for the slaughter. Richard takes a drag and steps on the gas, a bat out of hell headin’ back to the cave; he had to get ready…

Dear ,

Sometimes I seek to fill the silence that permeates this space
Reverberations of a tragic tonality drift from but one floor below
Loss of sanity is not so terrible a thing
Diagnose me with various ailments and study this case in particular
Pretend to possess doctorates and certifications
From fine institutions
You could by my physician who so easily rends my flesh
With both precision and skill: perform complex surgeries
Numerous improvements on a failed design
I could be beautiful if you wish
I could be hideous as a ghostly chandelier…
(Hope you’re watching)
-Note found outside of a tenement housing complex
(October, 1983)