Poetry competition CLOSED 18th April 2015 11:23am
WINNER
LobodeSanPedro
LobodeSanPedro
Page:
Dark Fictional Prose
Poetry Contest Description
Write a dark fictional prose! See the description below for details!
To win the competition you must write a fictional prose around 750 words long. The topic must be dark and/or dystopic.
E.g; a dystopic city, a dark state of mind, a murder etc.
I look forward to reading all your excellent pieces of work!
E.g; a dystopic city, a dark state of mind, a murder etc.
I look forward to reading all your excellent pieces of work!
Dead City
The rays of the never-dying sun shone anemically. The rays shone weakly through the canopy of stunted trees, with dark greenish grey leaves.
The village was almost deserted. The houses seemed to lean against one another, like elderly folks who no longer had anything to live for.
The sun shone on the cluster of houses under the tree canopy, with its yellow light.
Nothing stirred, not even a single leaf on the indifferent trees.
Overhead, a few space-cars passed by, droning like disgruntled hornets.
A young man sitting on the park bench stirred as he looked up to the sky. His shoulder length hair made him look older and yet he was just into his first teen year.
He breathed in the polluted air, feeling within himself for its freshness. He breathed in the familiar carbon which smelled of smoke and burning clothes.
He went into the house and looked around. He stared at the suit and mask on his bed. No, he told himself, enough. He was not going to wear that again. He had worn it all his life. It was time for freedom.
He walked into his backyard and looked at the double grave. His parents. How they tried to keep alive by wearing their suits and mask all the time, but they died anyway.
The earth was polluted. No more fresh air. It was dying.
The evacuation to Mars started five years before as the air went thinner and thinner. But his parents had opted to stay as thousands of others all over Earth had.
The thousands of others had started dying, and so had his parents. When they breathed their last, they looked like they were in their 60's and not in their late 30's as they were.
That was three years ago when he was ten. How he had survived was short of miraculous, but artificial food did not go bad and his father had hoarded tons.
The young man walked out of the house with his knapsack. He did not meet anyone on the lonely asphalt road towards the city. he did not know why he had to go there. It was just an overwhelming urge.
The sun did not set and it never would.
He felt his chest grew tight and his breath went shallow. He did not really care.
The sun and moon shone pale in the sky. He walked on. In the distant he saw the city, its skyscrapers like ancient hands trying to gouge the sky. Every now and then a sky car passed the dead city.
He walked on.- Ends
The rays of the never-dying sun shone anemically. The rays shone weakly through the canopy of stunted trees, with dark greenish grey leaves.
The village was almost deserted. The houses seemed to lean against one another, like elderly folks who no longer had anything to live for.
The sun shone on the cluster of houses under the tree canopy, with its yellow light.
Nothing stirred, not even a single leaf on the indifferent trees.
Overhead, a few space-cars passed by, droning like disgruntled hornets.
A young man sitting on the park bench stirred as he looked up to the sky. His shoulder length hair made him look older and yet he was just into his first teen year.
He breathed in the polluted air, feeling within himself for its freshness. He breathed in the familiar carbon which smelled of smoke and burning clothes.
He went into the house and looked around. He stared at the suit and mask on his bed. No, he told himself, enough. He was not going to wear that again. He had worn it all his life. It was time for freedom.
He walked into his backyard and looked at the double grave. His parents. How they tried to keep alive by wearing their suits and mask all the time, but they died anyway.
The earth was polluted. No more fresh air. It was dying.
The evacuation to Mars started five years before as the air went thinner and thinner. But his parents had opted to stay as thousands of others all over Earth had.
The thousands of others had started dying, and so had his parents. When they breathed their last, they looked like they were in their 60's and not in their late 30's as they were.
That was three years ago when he was ten. How he had survived was short of miraculous, but artificial food did not go bad and his father had hoarded tons.
The young man walked out of the house with his knapsack. He did not meet anyone on the lonely asphalt road towards the city. he did not know why he had to go there. It was just an overwhelming urge.
The sun did not set and it never would.
He felt his chest grew tight and his breath went shallow. He did not really care.
The sun and moon shone pale in the sky. He walked on. In the distant he saw the city, its skyscrapers like ancient hands trying to gouge the sky. Every now and then a sky car passed the dead city.
He walked on.- Ends
[Invalid Image - URL must end with jpeg, jpg, gif, png or bmp]The shadow wears a hat
(Old prose I revamped and retitled. Original post is called The Thing of nightmares.)
I dreamt in a series of dreams the other night like never before
I discovered new levels of the subconscious
And place between being awake and asleep, being asleep, and then there's that lucid state of dreaming that we all know about but few experience
I've know of the sandman but this wasn't his work
Do you know about the shadow people?
Whatever it was it didn't help or make me fall asleep, it was more like it wouldn't let me wake up
Staring at me from the corner of my bedroom as a shadow
It fed me nightmares, or was I feeding it?
I swear I was having night terrors before I was even asleep
Hyperventilation and panic caused me to wake up from a certain “layer” of dreaming
This happened several times that night
When I finally woke up, the corner of my room seemed darker than usual
I sat up and the person next to me asked if I was ok
I told her I was fine but she reassured me we were still sleeping
I looked out the window
Everything seemed normal to me
Then the thing from the corner flew passed my head like a bullet of smoke slamming into the glass, I heard it thump and the pane shook
I grabbed whatever was in my reach and tried to end the nightmare by breaking the glass but it wouldn't break
The window, was unbreakable
Indestructible
The thing, was in the window
The thing, was eternal
The thing, was now showing me what it wanted me to see
In this vividly lucid state of dreaming I knew, through logic that would only make sense in a dream, I could escape through the wall
I pressed my hands and forehead against the cold surface
Then, as if the wall was a semisolid liquid, I passed through it emerging on the other side
But where I arrived wasn't my house
I was somewhere else
In an unfamiliar living room
There was blood running down the walls
It dripped from the ceiling and pooled on the floor
It was obvious that whatever happened here the outcome was unpleasant
The thing followed me here
I ran through the house trying to hide from it
But it continued to follow
From window to window, it followed
Stalking me like a shadow in the desert at high noon
Faceless, shapeless, and nameless
Always just beyond reach
I could not escape its scrutinizing gaze
I found myself in an endless hallway
The walls were lined with countless doors
The floor was one enormous mirror which reflected the odd placed windows in the ceiling
I couldn't escape this way, there were no walls to sink into
Only doors
The only thing I could do was enter one of the rooms and hope for a way out
But when I did I was inside somebody else's room
Somebody else’s dream
Somebody else’s nightmare
It was a girl in her early twenties recovering from a beating she had recently received
Mascara ran down her swolen face in rivers of black tears over the bruises
My presence went unnoticed as she drew a straight razor from her purse
We weren't alone in that room
There was a man in the corner wearing all black with a wide brimmed hat and a long black trench coat that was moving like a wispy cloud of smoke in the wind
It was The Thing
Feeding her a nightmare and in return she was feeding it pain and fear
It looked at me through the shadow cast upon its face by the hat
All I could see in the black were two tiny white eyes and a row of rotten, carnivorous yellow teeth as it smiled
The girl screamed as she began to slit her wrist
A yellowish puss oozed from the wound filling the room with the smell of infection
I left the room as fast as I could and entered another
The same girl sat in the same spot but was wearing different clothes and bore different bruises
This time she was sucking on the barrel of a shotgun like a suicidal prostitute earning a quick dollar
The thing wasn't in the corner this time though
I scanned the room looking, half expecting it to be watching from a shadow
It was nowhere
But when I looked down
The floor was a black fog
And there it was, staring at me again from all directions as I stood in the center of its incorporeal essence
I tried to run but the air was thick and smelled sweet
It reminded me of a spider and I was trapped in its web as the long slender arachnid legs reached out to prep me for it's next meal
I felt like an insect in a bowl of cake batter
My arms and legs were too weak to break free and I began to drown in the overly viscous atmosphere
My body started to heat up
Like the batter was being cooked in an oven
Is this what fear is like to a predator?
Sweet, thick and warm?
Ready to be consumed and cherished
I woke up looking out the window
Everything looked as it did when I fell asleep
The neighbors house looked as it did every night
Box fan in the window
Dim light bleeding through the red curtains giving an orange glow to the trees
Looking at the glass without looking through, I could see my reflection
I stared hard at it as the familiarity in myself started to fade
Two tiny white eyes manifested themselves into mine
And came the rotten toothed smile
Like a Cheshire Cat it just smiled at me
I heard a calming voice in my head, presumably from The Thing, it said "Alarming, am I?"
I woke up to my alarm going off
After silencing the noise I looked at the corner of my room
It was black and wispy again
The vaporous tendrils reached out at me
And the spindly cloud grew, consuming my bed with ease
Then my alarm went off again
Waking me from the dream within the dream I had already awoke fom
I was cold and goose bumps crawled across my skin
I was finally awake and all I could mumble to myself was "Holy shit. Am I really awake?"
The corner of my room was lit with the early morning sun
No excess darkness
No feeling of a voyeuristic shadow
The Thing was gone, at least for today, and I was awake
My heart was pounding a war dum inside my chest reminding me that I am also alive
(Old prose I revamped and retitled. Original post is called The Thing of nightmares.)
I dreamt in a series of dreams the other night like never before
I discovered new levels of the subconscious
And place between being awake and asleep, being asleep, and then there's that lucid state of dreaming that we all know about but few experience
I've know of the sandman but this wasn't his work
Do you know about the shadow people?
Whatever it was it didn't help or make me fall asleep, it was more like it wouldn't let me wake up
Staring at me from the corner of my bedroom as a shadow
It fed me nightmares, or was I feeding it?
I swear I was having night terrors before I was even asleep
Hyperventilation and panic caused me to wake up from a certain “layer” of dreaming
This happened several times that night
When I finally woke up, the corner of my room seemed darker than usual
I sat up and the person next to me asked if I was ok
I told her I was fine but she reassured me we were still sleeping
I looked out the window
Everything seemed normal to me
Then the thing from the corner flew passed my head like a bullet of smoke slamming into the glass, I heard it thump and the pane shook
I grabbed whatever was in my reach and tried to end the nightmare by breaking the glass but it wouldn't break
The window, was unbreakable
Indestructible
The thing, was in the window
The thing, was eternal
The thing, was now showing me what it wanted me to see
In this vividly lucid state of dreaming I knew, through logic that would only make sense in a dream, I could escape through the wall
I pressed my hands and forehead against the cold surface
Then, as if the wall was a semisolid liquid, I passed through it emerging on the other side
But where I arrived wasn't my house
I was somewhere else
In an unfamiliar living room
There was blood running down the walls
It dripped from the ceiling and pooled on the floor
It was obvious that whatever happened here the outcome was unpleasant
The thing followed me here
I ran through the house trying to hide from it
But it continued to follow
From window to window, it followed
Stalking me like a shadow in the desert at high noon
Faceless, shapeless, and nameless
Always just beyond reach
I could not escape its scrutinizing gaze
I found myself in an endless hallway
The walls were lined with countless doors
The floor was one enormous mirror which reflected the odd placed windows in the ceiling
I couldn't escape this way, there were no walls to sink into
Only doors
The only thing I could do was enter one of the rooms and hope for a way out
But when I did I was inside somebody else's room
Somebody else’s dream
Somebody else’s nightmare
It was a girl in her early twenties recovering from a beating she had recently received
Mascara ran down her swolen face in rivers of black tears over the bruises
My presence went unnoticed as she drew a straight razor from her purse
We weren't alone in that room
There was a man in the corner wearing all black with a wide brimmed hat and a long black trench coat that was moving like a wispy cloud of smoke in the wind
It was The Thing
Feeding her a nightmare and in return she was feeding it pain and fear
It looked at me through the shadow cast upon its face by the hat
All I could see in the black were two tiny white eyes and a row of rotten, carnivorous yellow teeth as it smiled
The girl screamed as she began to slit her wrist
A yellowish puss oozed from the wound filling the room with the smell of infection
I left the room as fast as I could and entered another
The same girl sat in the same spot but was wearing different clothes and bore different bruises
This time she was sucking on the barrel of a shotgun like a suicidal prostitute earning a quick dollar
The thing wasn't in the corner this time though
I scanned the room looking, half expecting it to be watching from a shadow
It was nowhere
But when I looked down
The floor was a black fog
And there it was, staring at me again from all directions as I stood in the center of its incorporeal essence
I tried to run but the air was thick and smelled sweet
It reminded me of a spider and I was trapped in its web as the long slender arachnid legs reached out to prep me for it's next meal
I felt like an insect in a bowl of cake batter
My arms and legs were too weak to break free and I began to drown in the overly viscous atmosphere
My body started to heat up
Like the batter was being cooked in an oven
Is this what fear is like to a predator?
Sweet, thick and warm?
Ready to be consumed and cherished
I woke up looking out the window
Everything looked as it did when I fell asleep
The neighbors house looked as it did every night
Box fan in the window
Dim light bleeding through the red curtains giving an orange glow to the trees
Looking at the glass without looking through, I could see my reflection
I stared hard at it as the familiarity in myself started to fade
Two tiny white eyes manifested themselves into mine
And came the rotten toothed smile
Like a Cheshire Cat it just smiled at me
I heard a calming voice in my head, presumably from The Thing, it said "Alarming, am I?"
I woke up to my alarm going off
After silencing the noise I looked at the corner of my room
It was black and wispy again
The vaporous tendrils reached out at me
And the spindly cloud grew, consuming my bed with ease
Then my alarm went off again
Waking me from the dream within the dream I had already awoke fom
I was cold and goose bumps crawled across my skin
I was finally awake and all I could mumble to myself was "Holy shit. Am I really awake?"
The corner of my room was lit with the early morning sun
No excess darkness
No feeling of a voyeuristic shadow
The Thing was gone, at least for today, and I was awake
My heart was pounding a war dum inside my chest reminding me that I am also alive
They Never Found Debbie
Debbie looked out of the window, listlessly. This was one of the worst days of her life she thought. How can her mother palm her off to her grandmother Lily like this? Damn it, she was fourteen, almost fifteen. In a couple of weeks anyway. She could make a decision for herself now. The decision was, No to staying over at Grandmother’s.
She sighed stood up and walked out the front door and looked into the horizon. This is like in the middle of nowhere, she thought. Trees and trees and fields and in the distance cows and goats. Who even want to have such a world of nothingness, she thought.
She hated her mother at that moment. It was bad enough that she divorce dad, when she was ten, and then she had to remarry! Harry was alright as a person but as another dad…ewww. With his super white teeth and curly hair, he was a travesty of maturity.
Now they were on their honeymoon; a month in Bali and another month in Bangkok. Who goes to those places for honeymoon, anyway? They eat crickets in Bangkok. Ewww…
Debbie decided to go for a walk. Her second day in the farm and she was already gasping for breath. She wanted her friends, Kitty and Jade and she wanted to go for their usual sleepover and talk about when they become models or film stars. She wanted the mall where they could wander forever while their parents worked…. She stamped her feet in silent anger. She wanted to do fashion dress up in the internet, she wanted to play the Sims…it’s no fun here!
Nobody to play with and her grandmother did not know the difference between a mouse and a bird. Besides there was an interruption on internet service…She wanted her damn pillow. In fact she wanted her own bedroom, with her books and computer and the posters on the wall.
Her bedroom at grandma was cool, all wood and stuff, but nothing beats her own bed!
Debbie walked towards the woods where a gentle brook flowed. She remembered it from previous visits, and she distinctively remembered how good it was to splash there. But she was just a baby then, her mind protested, even as she walked briskly towards it.
She came to the stream and sat down on a large rock, looking at it bubble away. It was a nice shady place with low-branched trees around. Fall was about to show and the yellow and red leaves were in abundance. It looked kind of cool, but Debbie was determined that it was all so awful. In fact it was so crappy she could not imagine anything else crappier.
She sighed, cupping her chin and staring into the bubbly stream. She wished she was at home where everything worked. School holidays and she was wasting it in a farm. It was not even a working farm, just some animals on a tract of land.
She stared into the water not really seeing anything except for her resentment. She was jerked out from her reverie by a resounding splash. Somebody had thrown a rock into the water.
“hey!” she yelled, looking up. She stared into the greenest pair of eyes she had ever seen. A girl her age was standing in front of her, smiling.
“Who are you?” Debbie asked looking at the girl up and down. The girl was about her age, thinner and taller, but definitely her age. Her unruly curly hair cascaded over her shoulder, and freckles bridged her nose.
“My name is Marylou,” the girl said extending her hand; Debbie shook it once and said her name.
Debbie gaped at the other girl, not so much because she looked unkempt, but because she wore a dress, a long one, with frills at the bottom and bulbous sleeves. She even looked like she wore more skirts under her dress. Who wear them like that! New fashion? She have not heard or seen anything like those, although
Lady Gaga might not be averse to such costume. Not that she liked Lady Gaga...she is so Old.
She stood up and followed the girl into the tunnel made by a canopy of thick branches. They held hands like they were old friends, and indeed it felt like that; that they knew each other since time immemorial.
They never found Debbie. The posters of her laughing face are still stuck in posts and boards across the State.-Ends
Debbie looked out of the window, listlessly. This was one of the worst days of her life she thought. How can her mother palm her off to her grandmother Lily like this? Damn it, she was fourteen, almost fifteen. In a couple of weeks anyway. She could make a decision for herself now. The decision was, No to staying over at Grandmother’s.
She sighed stood up and walked out the front door and looked into the horizon. This is like in the middle of nowhere, she thought. Trees and trees and fields and in the distance cows and goats. Who even want to have such a world of nothingness, she thought.
She hated her mother at that moment. It was bad enough that she divorce dad, when she was ten, and then she had to remarry! Harry was alright as a person but as another dad…ewww. With his super white teeth and curly hair, he was a travesty of maturity.
Now they were on their honeymoon; a month in Bali and another month in Bangkok. Who goes to those places for honeymoon, anyway? They eat crickets in Bangkok. Ewww…
Debbie decided to go for a walk. Her second day in the farm and she was already gasping for breath. She wanted her friends, Kitty and Jade and she wanted to go for their usual sleepover and talk about when they become models or film stars. She wanted the mall where they could wander forever while their parents worked…. She stamped her feet in silent anger. She wanted to do fashion dress up in the internet, she wanted to play the Sims…it’s no fun here!
Nobody to play with and her grandmother did not know the difference between a mouse and a bird. Besides there was an interruption on internet service…She wanted her damn pillow. In fact she wanted her own bedroom, with her books and computer and the posters on the wall.
Her bedroom at grandma was cool, all wood and stuff, but nothing beats her own bed!
Debbie walked towards the woods where a gentle brook flowed. She remembered it from previous visits, and she distinctively remembered how good it was to splash there. But she was just a baby then, her mind protested, even as she walked briskly towards it.
She came to the stream and sat down on a large rock, looking at it bubble away. It was a nice shady place with low-branched trees around. Fall was about to show and the yellow and red leaves were in abundance. It looked kind of cool, but Debbie was determined that it was all so awful. In fact it was so crappy she could not imagine anything else crappier.
She sighed, cupping her chin and staring into the bubbly stream. She wished she was at home where everything worked. School holidays and she was wasting it in a farm. It was not even a working farm, just some animals on a tract of land.
She stared into the water not really seeing anything except for her resentment. She was jerked out from her reverie by a resounding splash. Somebody had thrown a rock into the water.
“hey!” she yelled, looking up. She stared into the greenest pair of eyes she had ever seen. A girl her age was standing in front of her, smiling.
“Who are you?” Debbie asked looking at the girl up and down. The girl was about her age, thinner and taller, but definitely her age. Her unruly curly hair cascaded over her shoulder, and freckles bridged her nose.
“My name is Marylou,” the girl said extending her hand; Debbie shook it once and said her name.
Debbie gaped at the other girl, not so much because she looked unkempt, but because she wore a dress, a long one, with frills at the bottom and bulbous sleeves. She even looked like she wore more skirts under her dress. Who wear them like that! New fashion? She have not heard or seen anything like those, although
Lady Gaga might not be averse to such costume. Not that she liked Lady Gaga...she is so Old.
She stood up and followed the girl into the tunnel made by a canopy of thick branches. They held hands like they were old friends, and indeed it felt like that; that they knew each other since time immemorial.
They never found Debbie. The posters of her laughing face are still stuck in posts and boards across the State.-Ends
Last Season as a Boy
My summer is ending and I start to pack for school. Carolina's sun has turned my skin from pecan to blueberry jam, and everything I now say ends with "Sir" or "Ma'am."
Pine cones and Spanish moss will be replaced by monkey bars and the asphalt of Grant's projects. I'll miss my grandfather's "coffee" voice singing gospel first thing in the morning, young and old roosters his chorus.
Two nights before I'm to leave my grandfather calls me to the kitchen. Moonlight guides me through the cloaked house and I can see him loading his pistol. His shotgun and shells lie on the breakfast table. He tells me there's going to be a parade and for now we need only watch. The parade is on the other side of the fence, the side I'm not allowed on even to chase down a fly ball. I see them march by. Dunce caps made bright by their torches and the moonlight.
I stop counting after twenty two because my grandfather warns me not to define evil and bring the beasts into our home.
Granddad's a Sunday school teacher and he says he fears I have too much gumption in me at times instead of God's word.
He starts reading scripture, his shotgun in his lap. His voice, not the words soothe me. When we hear nothing but crickets again, he tells me come daylight he's gonna teach me to shoot the way he did all his boys.
Come true morning I wake again to my grandmother's kitchen offerings, warm buttery grits, fat succulent bacon, strong black coffee and cornbread.
"Junior," my grandmother hums as if my name is gospel.
"Yes ma'am."
"I need you to go to Mr. Rex's gas station and get me ten cents worth of kerosene fo' our lamps. And be smart about it, you understand? Don't let that 'ol man cheat you."
"Yes ma'am."
"I mean it Junior. With men like
Mr. Rex their secrets rest in the lies their eyes can't tell. Listen with your skin. You understand?"
"Yes ma'am."
I'd never walked to Mr. Rex's gas station by myself before but with all my cousins back in school the chore fell to me.
When I got to the gas station I could see friends of ol' man Rex under the shade of a tree playing checkers and sipping pop. They were no longer ghosts of the night, just old fat men laughin' and cussin'.
I went inside the station house store careful not to let the screen door announce me.
"Morning Mr. Rex, suh. My grandmama done send me to fetch ten cents worth of lamp oil."
He was busy taking inventory and barely looked up. He just shoed me off like he was brushing away a gnat or mosquita', so I left the ten cents on the counter and went to pump the oil myself.
Outside I could still hear the men under the tree though they paid me no mind but I remembered my grandmother's words as I pumped the kerosene.
As I tightened the spout on the canister I had carried, I heard faint whispers passing over me.
I followed the echoes past the pumps towards the back of the gas station.
I could still feel the whispers but couldn't quite tell from where they came.
The outhouse.
The path was covered with knee high grass, trampled and speckled with blood.
As I pulled open the wooden door of the outhouse there he was. He'd been beaten, bad. One eye was the size and color of a ripe plum and teeth were missing. He was charcoal in complexion though his was his own, not borrowed for the summer like mine. His body was long, lean and hard from working on the docks but I knew him from granddaddy's Sunday school class. His name was Andrew, but folks just called him Drew.
He was hogtied with anchor rope and gagged with a filthy piece of cloth. His skin reeked with the stench of the outhouse mixed with his blood and sweat.
I tried to untie him but the binding on the rope was too tight.
I looked at him and told him, "Shhhh. This is gonna hurt, bad."
With that warning I poured some of the kerosene over his wrists to loosen the knots. The sting of the oil into his open wounds musta cut like razors because he teared up like a baby pleading for me to stop with his eyes and moans but he knew it had to be done.
No sooner than I'd set him free than I looked up to see the men from the tree and Mr. Rex casting their shadows over us.
"Boy, whatcha think ya doin' there?" growled Mr. Rex, a tire chain swinging freely in his hand. One man held a wrench, the other a wooden axe handle.
"Smart ass negra' like you gots to be taught is all," snickered one.
I looked at Drew and guided his eyes with mine to my waist. Strapped to my beanpole frame under my shirt with my grandfather's belt was his pistol.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
The three ghosts were down.
Drew was on his knees crying. I brushed his tears away the way my grandmother did after granddad had given me a good switchin'.
"Drew you gotta run, getaway from here," I whispered to him. "I gotta go too. My grandparents are waiting."
Before I left I went back into the gas station store. I took my grandmother's ten cents back and a Honey Bun for myself. I'd probably get switched for teefin' but then again who was gonna tell.
When I got back to my grandparents house I walked along the porch letting my fingers trace the shotgun holes that peppered the front of the house. My pinky got stuck in one for a moment. Inside the charred walls cast shadows of gray and black that looked like the boogey man. Broken glass bottles still cradling droplets of gasoline were scattered about. Inside my grandparents' bedroom I could still see the outline of my grandmother's body under her bed where she had suffocated.
In the kitchen I could see my granddad's blood and my own splattered over the walls and floors, streaks of pink and crimson ribbons. I stood there for a moment as a gargoyle over the nest of my own death.
And just when I thought I'd break down and cry, I heard his voice singing to me. I walked through that deathbed that was once our kitchen and out the backdoor, and there they stood. My grandparents were waiting for me.
"Come 'on Junior let's take you home."
"Granddad?"
"Yes son?"
"Can I sing for you this time?"
"I'd like that"
And so I did, as a boy no more, walking between them hand in hand.
My summer is ending and I start to pack for school. Carolina's sun has turned my skin from pecan to blueberry jam, and everything I now say ends with "Sir" or "Ma'am."
Pine cones and Spanish moss will be replaced by monkey bars and the asphalt of Grant's projects. I'll miss my grandfather's "coffee" voice singing gospel first thing in the morning, young and old roosters his chorus.
Two nights before I'm to leave my grandfather calls me to the kitchen. Moonlight guides me through the cloaked house and I can see him loading his pistol. His shotgun and shells lie on the breakfast table. He tells me there's going to be a parade and for now we need only watch. The parade is on the other side of the fence, the side I'm not allowed on even to chase down a fly ball. I see them march by. Dunce caps made bright by their torches and the moonlight.
I stop counting after twenty two because my grandfather warns me not to define evil and bring the beasts into our home.
Granddad's a Sunday school teacher and he says he fears I have too much gumption in me at times instead of God's word.
He starts reading scripture, his shotgun in his lap. His voice, not the words soothe me. When we hear nothing but crickets again, he tells me come daylight he's gonna teach me to shoot the way he did all his boys.
Come true morning I wake again to my grandmother's kitchen offerings, warm buttery grits, fat succulent bacon, strong black coffee and cornbread.
"Junior," my grandmother hums as if my name is gospel.
"Yes ma'am."
"I need you to go to Mr. Rex's gas station and get me ten cents worth of kerosene fo' our lamps. And be smart about it, you understand? Don't let that 'ol man cheat you."
"Yes ma'am."
"I mean it Junior. With men like
Mr. Rex their secrets rest in the lies their eyes can't tell. Listen with your skin. You understand?"
"Yes ma'am."
I'd never walked to Mr. Rex's gas station by myself before but with all my cousins back in school the chore fell to me.
When I got to the gas station I could see friends of ol' man Rex under the shade of a tree playing checkers and sipping pop. They were no longer ghosts of the night, just old fat men laughin' and cussin'.
I went inside the station house store careful not to let the screen door announce me.
"Morning Mr. Rex, suh. My grandmama done send me to fetch ten cents worth of lamp oil."
He was busy taking inventory and barely looked up. He just shoed me off like he was brushing away a gnat or mosquita', so I left the ten cents on the counter and went to pump the oil myself.
Outside I could still hear the men under the tree though they paid me no mind but I remembered my grandmother's words as I pumped the kerosene.
As I tightened the spout on the canister I had carried, I heard faint whispers passing over me.
I followed the echoes past the pumps towards the back of the gas station.
I could still feel the whispers but couldn't quite tell from where they came.
The outhouse.
The path was covered with knee high grass, trampled and speckled with blood.
As I pulled open the wooden door of the outhouse there he was. He'd been beaten, bad. One eye was the size and color of a ripe plum and teeth were missing. He was charcoal in complexion though his was his own, not borrowed for the summer like mine. His body was long, lean and hard from working on the docks but I knew him from granddaddy's Sunday school class. His name was Andrew, but folks just called him Drew.
He was hogtied with anchor rope and gagged with a filthy piece of cloth. His skin reeked with the stench of the outhouse mixed with his blood and sweat.
I tried to untie him but the binding on the rope was too tight.
I looked at him and told him, "Shhhh. This is gonna hurt, bad."
With that warning I poured some of the kerosene over his wrists to loosen the knots. The sting of the oil into his open wounds musta cut like razors because he teared up like a baby pleading for me to stop with his eyes and moans but he knew it had to be done.
No sooner than I'd set him free than I looked up to see the men from the tree and Mr. Rex casting their shadows over us.
"Boy, whatcha think ya doin' there?" growled Mr. Rex, a tire chain swinging freely in his hand. One man held a wrench, the other a wooden axe handle.
"Smart ass negra' like you gots to be taught is all," snickered one.
I looked at Drew and guided his eyes with mine to my waist. Strapped to my beanpole frame under my shirt with my grandfather's belt was his pistol.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
The three ghosts were down.
Drew was on his knees crying. I brushed his tears away the way my grandmother did after granddad had given me a good switchin'.
"Drew you gotta run, getaway from here," I whispered to him. "I gotta go too. My grandparents are waiting."
Before I left I went back into the gas station store. I took my grandmother's ten cents back and a Honey Bun for myself. I'd probably get switched for teefin' but then again who was gonna tell.
When I got back to my grandparents house I walked along the porch letting my fingers trace the shotgun holes that peppered the front of the house. My pinky got stuck in one for a moment. Inside the charred walls cast shadows of gray and black that looked like the boogey man. Broken glass bottles still cradling droplets of gasoline were scattered about. Inside my grandparents' bedroom I could still see the outline of my grandmother's body under her bed where she had suffocated.
In the kitchen I could see my granddad's blood and my own splattered over the walls and floors, streaks of pink and crimson ribbons. I stood there for a moment as a gargoyle over the nest of my own death.
And just when I thought I'd break down and cry, I heard his voice singing to me. I walked through that deathbed that was once our kitchen and out the backdoor, and there they stood. My grandparents were waiting for me.
"Come 'on Junior let's take you home."
"Granddad?"
"Yes son?"
"Can I sing for you this time?"
"I'd like that"
And so I did, as a boy no more, walking between them hand in hand.
BLOOD
Breathtaking: how a single drop of still-warm blood has such majesty.
How many little deaths are sealed at the moment of its spilling?
Come, my red children; confess at the reptilian altar of my pleasure.
Cover me with your sacrament.
A spurt, a gush; each drop a burst of glory from the still-beating, royal heart.
Erzebet sits on the throne. Her bodice drips with the moon-milk of pearls, row upon row of them. At her breast she wears a lizard brooch of finest gold, with emerald eyes. She has been married to Ferenc Nadasty for fourteen years, but hardly sees him; he is away fighting bloody battles against the Turks. When she is not in Vienna or visiting her other castles, she lives in here in Castle Cjesthe, in the desolate Carpathian mountains.
Erzebet sits on the throne, her hair bleached in the Venetian style, her already-pale complexion whitened with powdered lead, her lips and cheeks reddened with the crushed exoskeletons of cochineal beetles. Sometimes her eyes glitter more than usual, and this is one of those times. Beneath the powder her cheeks flush, unseen, and a sheen glistens on her brow.
It is not religion which has caused her heightened state, although such ecstasy may be likened to it. No; it is pleasure and power in equal measure. Before the throne, her crone servants have procured many peasants and seamstresses for her delectation. To her right there is a brazier for heating spoons until they turn orange.
The crones Dorko and Ilona perform for their Countess, or rather, they are the mistresses of the concert. With their whips they keep the women close, prevent them skittering to the shadows in the corners of the room. Katalin and Anna wield iron tools with teeth. They snatch and grip and rip an arm, tear chunk of cheek. The floor is slick with flesh.
Imagine: Erzebet’s laughter, as her pleasure builds.
The young ones are the best, the girls. She grasps a narrow wrist and pulls one close, pinches the pretty one’s breasts. Anna helps to hold her, tilts her head back. The girl’s eyes are wide with terror, her mouth wider. Erzebet releases her lizard brooch, its pin still black from the last time. She stabs inside the girl’s open mouth, pushing the pin through her cheeks, her tongue. The blood runs gargling down her throat, makes her gag. Then Erzebet leans towards the brazier, selects a spoon.
Imagine: the screams.
Erzebet returns to her bed-chamber, instructs her new lady-in-waiting to help her remove her gown. The rows of still-wet pearls are no longer milky, but the red of a harvest moon. Soon, they will turn black. If the dress cannot be cleaned, no matter; the pearls will be removed and stitched to a new one. If the pearls cannot be cleaned, there are more pearls.
Her new lady, Zitchi, is fifteen at most. She is the only child of a noble Ecsedi family, and has come to Cjesthe at Erzebet’s request. You’d expect her to be married by now, but there is talk of an unsuitable man. In fact, there was nothing in it; they were hardly, if ever, left alone together. He asked for her hand but as he had no title her father turned him away. His name is Mihaly, and Zitchi thinks about him every day, wonders whether he has forgotten her yet.
Erzebet stands naked by the window and examines her own body. The shrunken old woman in the wood still haunts her. No doubt by now that woman is a husk in a grave. Erzebet knows her skin is not the same as it was when she was young. True, she is not yet thirty, but still. And her belly and breasts bear the marks of motherhood.
She turns to see Zitchi watching her. Zitchi who is, perhaps, the age Erzebet was then. In that moment she’s all rage; she strides across the room to gouge the girl’s impudent face, makes three stripes appear from eye to chin. Blood runs down Zitchi’s cheek, dripping. She lifts her fingers up to touch, and then it’s real. She cries.
But a miracle is about to happen, a transmutation. A single drop of Zitchi’s virginal blood has splashed Erzebet’s hand. She wipes it away, and it seems to her that where it was, her skin is paler. Smoother, even. She makes the link. A peasant’s blood is just a peasant’s blood. A noble virgin’s blood can save her, yes, it can, and now she knows. But she will need more, oh, so much more of it. Yes.
There are unmarked graves amongst the hungry Carpathian peaks, an unspoken number of them. The unlucky ones were still alive when they were brought here, though their bodies had already begun to rot. They stayed until their blood stopped moving in their veins, then a layer of ice smothered them, and they became part of the mountain.
There will be more of them tomorrow.
Breathtaking: how a single drop of still-warm blood has such majesty.
How many little deaths are sealed at the moment of its spilling?
Come, my red children; confess at the reptilian altar of my pleasure.
Cover me with your sacrament.
A spurt, a gush; each drop a burst of glory from the still-beating, royal heart.
Erzebet sits on the throne. Her bodice drips with the moon-milk of pearls, row upon row of them. At her breast she wears a lizard brooch of finest gold, with emerald eyes. She has been married to Ferenc Nadasty for fourteen years, but hardly sees him; he is away fighting bloody battles against the Turks. When she is not in Vienna or visiting her other castles, she lives in here in Castle Cjesthe, in the desolate Carpathian mountains.
Erzebet sits on the throne, her hair bleached in the Venetian style, her already-pale complexion whitened with powdered lead, her lips and cheeks reddened with the crushed exoskeletons of cochineal beetles. Sometimes her eyes glitter more than usual, and this is one of those times. Beneath the powder her cheeks flush, unseen, and a sheen glistens on her brow.
It is not religion which has caused her heightened state, although such ecstasy may be likened to it. No; it is pleasure and power in equal measure. Before the throne, her crone servants have procured many peasants and seamstresses for her delectation. To her right there is a brazier for heating spoons until they turn orange.
The crones Dorko and Ilona perform for their Countess, or rather, they are the mistresses of the concert. With their whips they keep the women close, prevent them skittering to the shadows in the corners of the room. Katalin and Anna wield iron tools with teeth. They snatch and grip and rip an arm, tear chunk of cheek. The floor is slick with flesh.
Imagine: Erzebet’s laughter, as her pleasure builds.
The young ones are the best, the girls. She grasps a narrow wrist and pulls one close, pinches the pretty one’s breasts. Anna helps to hold her, tilts her head back. The girl’s eyes are wide with terror, her mouth wider. Erzebet releases her lizard brooch, its pin still black from the last time. She stabs inside the girl’s open mouth, pushing the pin through her cheeks, her tongue. The blood runs gargling down her throat, makes her gag. Then Erzebet leans towards the brazier, selects a spoon.
Imagine: the screams.
Erzebet returns to her bed-chamber, instructs her new lady-in-waiting to help her remove her gown. The rows of still-wet pearls are no longer milky, but the red of a harvest moon. Soon, they will turn black. If the dress cannot be cleaned, no matter; the pearls will be removed and stitched to a new one. If the pearls cannot be cleaned, there are more pearls.
Her new lady, Zitchi, is fifteen at most. She is the only child of a noble Ecsedi family, and has come to Cjesthe at Erzebet’s request. You’d expect her to be married by now, but there is talk of an unsuitable man. In fact, there was nothing in it; they were hardly, if ever, left alone together. He asked for her hand but as he had no title her father turned him away. His name is Mihaly, and Zitchi thinks about him every day, wonders whether he has forgotten her yet.
Erzebet stands naked by the window and examines her own body. The shrunken old woman in the wood still haunts her. No doubt by now that woman is a husk in a grave. Erzebet knows her skin is not the same as it was when she was young. True, she is not yet thirty, but still. And her belly and breasts bear the marks of motherhood.
She turns to see Zitchi watching her. Zitchi who is, perhaps, the age Erzebet was then. In that moment she’s all rage; she strides across the room to gouge the girl’s impudent face, makes three stripes appear from eye to chin. Blood runs down Zitchi’s cheek, dripping. She lifts her fingers up to touch, and then it’s real. She cries.
But a miracle is about to happen, a transmutation. A single drop of Zitchi’s virginal blood has splashed Erzebet’s hand. She wipes it away, and it seems to her that where it was, her skin is paler. Smoother, even. She makes the link. A peasant’s blood is just a peasant’s blood. A noble virgin’s blood can save her, yes, it can, and now she knows. But she will need more, oh, so much more of it. Yes.
There are unmarked graves amongst the hungry Carpathian peaks, an unspoken number of them. The unlucky ones were still alive when they were brought here, though their bodies had already begun to rot. They stayed until their blood stopped moving in their veins, then a layer of ice smothered them, and they became part of the mountain.
There will be more of them tomorrow.
I Could Hear Him Sing (science fiction)
"Happy birthday son," I heard him say standing at my bedroom door. His words rang just as gloriously in my ears at 16 years old as they did when I was five.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
"Yes draco, and I'm starving too," I replied smiling.
"Well, eat light for now. Come this evening we'll be inhaling racks of meat like two old fat pugnees at a trough."
Ever since I can remember everyone of my birthdays was celebrated at Krobar's All You Can Eat Grill. For my thirteenth birthday I foolishly declared myself a "man" and challenged my dad to an eating contest. I was done after two and half plates. He polished off five with steaks, chops and blood pudding on each one and then had three desserts.
Krobar's sat nestled in the cerulean mist of the Ewaru valley. The restaurant was part of a resort where families were encouraged to "leave yesterday behind so we can serve you a better today." When we camped there I often gathered wild loleesha berries and suru to press inside my pillow. My mother taught me they were sentinels for my dreams setting my mind free to cascade in the beauty of where I was even as I slept.
Our flight over to Krobar's seemed to take forever and it was one of the few times I drowned out what my father was saying to me because I was too excited to think.
As we approached the entrance there was the usual motley crew of protestors with signs and pamphlets warning of the dangers within. I eyed one particularly fat fellow among them and couldn't help but think that for a guy who claimed to be anti meat and anti preservatives the size of his belly seemed to suggest he'd scarfed down a burger or two in his day, with sides.
Inside the restaurant I could smell the Jerimmaj wood and charcoal burning. Families were lining up for breakfast and the line for the made to order omelets was growing quickly. The smell of warusi bacon cooking consumed me and stirred my stomach.
While draco checked us in at the reservations desk I stepped over to one of the observation windows and looked out onto the valley. A family of six was nearby and their gasps and laughter confirmed what I already saw but watched in silence. Their commotion however brought others over too.
A white tailed female had emerged from the woods into a clearing. She was shivering a bit shaking snow from her coat. She was headed towards a nearby watering hole but then her path was blocked by a white tailed buck who's early morning intentions were quite obvious. One mortified mother at the observation window tried to shield the eyes of her youngest for she knew what was coming. Another couple near me laughed and joked about the size of the buck's "emotions" as they put it. The woman seemed thrilled.
But no sooner than the buck began to approach the female, out came another larger chocolate buck tracing the path of the female. His tufted hair black about his neck and head matched his black tail. Instinctively she stepped to the side.
There was no dancing nor pretense in these two males. They immediately charged each other. The larger lowered his head and crashed into his rival so hard we all could hear the thud even from our nested view. The impact drove the first back and he was struggling to gain leverage while slipping on the snow sprinkled leaves. The force at which they pushed could have moved a small hover craft. Three times they stood glaring at each other, their flanks exposed and gasping for air, each a ripe target.
Finally thinking better of it the white tail gave way running towards the tree line. It was just as well because the female had since left taking advantage of the distraction, only to have a younger smaller buck pursue her.
"This was going to be a glorious day to hunt," the man standing next to me with his wife said. He introduced himself as Chinmoo, and his wife Lalasoon.
Trying to sound grown up I introduced myself as Popovesch, and told them, "That's why I love this place. You get to eat what you kill like the ancients did. That's if you can eat it all."
We all laughed.
"You're so right my young friend. The meat on that big one could feed that family over there through the winter, let alone dinner."
Draco came over to join us. Introductions were made and draco told them this was my first hunt. Somehow I wished he hadn't. I didn't want to appear to be some little chochar still suckling his mother's breasts to live. I would truly prove myself a pugoo warrior today by hunting, killing and cooking what I needed, and sharing my bounty with families at other tables as the ancients had taught us.
*We said our goodbyes to the couple and set off to gather our gear. It wasn't long before we were navigating the frozen foothills that skirted Ewaru.
"Happy birthday son," I heard him say standing at my bedroom door. His words rang just as gloriously in my ears at 16 years old as they did when I was five.
"Ready to go?" he asked.
"Yes draco, and I'm starving too," I replied smiling.
"Well, eat light for now. Come this evening we'll be inhaling racks of meat like two old fat pugnees at a trough."
Ever since I can remember everyone of my birthdays was celebrated at Krobar's All You Can Eat Grill. For my thirteenth birthday I foolishly declared myself a "man" and challenged my dad to an eating contest. I was done after two and half plates. He polished off five with steaks, chops and blood pudding on each one and then had three desserts.
Krobar's sat nestled in the cerulean mist of the Ewaru valley. The restaurant was part of a resort where families were encouraged to "leave yesterday behind so we can serve you a better today." When we camped there I often gathered wild loleesha berries and suru to press inside my pillow. My mother taught me they were sentinels for my dreams setting my mind free to cascade in the beauty of where I was even as I slept.
Our flight over to Krobar's seemed to take forever and it was one of the few times I drowned out what my father was saying to me because I was too excited to think.
As we approached the entrance there was the usual motley crew of protestors with signs and pamphlets warning of the dangers within. I eyed one particularly fat fellow among them and couldn't help but think that for a guy who claimed to be anti meat and anti preservatives the size of his belly seemed to suggest he'd scarfed down a burger or two in his day, with sides.
Inside the restaurant I could smell the Jerimmaj wood and charcoal burning. Families were lining up for breakfast and the line for the made to order omelets was growing quickly. The smell of warusi bacon cooking consumed me and stirred my stomach.
While draco checked us in at the reservations desk I stepped over to one of the observation windows and looked out onto the valley. A family of six was nearby and their gasps and laughter confirmed what I already saw but watched in silence. Their commotion however brought others over too.
A white tailed female had emerged from the woods into a clearing. She was shivering a bit shaking snow from her coat. She was headed towards a nearby watering hole but then her path was blocked by a white tailed buck who's early morning intentions were quite obvious. One mortified mother at the observation window tried to shield the eyes of her youngest for she knew what was coming. Another couple near me laughed and joked about the size of the buck's "emotions" as they put it. The woman seemed thrilled.
But no sooner than the buck began to approach the female, out came another larger chocolate buck tracing the path of the female. His tufted hair black about his neck and head matched his black tail. Instinctively she stepped to the side.
There was no dancing nor pretense in these two males. They immediately charged each other. The larger lowered his head and crashed into his rival so hard we all could hear the thud even from our nested view. The impact drove the first back and he was struggling to gain leverage while slipping on the snow sprinkled leaves. The force at which they pushed could have moved a small hover craft. Three times they stood glaring at each other, their flanks exposed and gasping for air, each a ripe target.
Finally thinking better of it the white tail gave way running towards the tree line. It was just as well because the female had since left taking advantage of the distraction, only to have a younger smaller buck pursue her.
"This was going to be a glorious day to hunt," the man standing next to me with his wife said. He introduced himself as Chinmoo, and his wife Lalasoon.
Trying to sound grown up I introduced myself as Popovesch, and told them, "That's why I love this place. You get to eat what you kill like the ancients did. That's if you can eat it all."
We all laughed.
"You're so right my young friend. The meat on that big one could feed that family over there through the winter, let alone dinner."
Draco came over to join us. Introductions were made and draco told them this was my first hunt. Somehow I wished he hadn't. I didn't want to appear to be some little chochar still suckling his mother's breasts to live. I would truly prove myself a pugoo warrior today by hunting, killing and cooking what I needed, and sharing my bounty with families at other tables as the ancients had taught us.
*We said our goodbyes to the couple and set off to gather our gear. It wasn't long before we were navigating the frozen foothills that skirted Ewaru.
I Could Hear Him Sing (science fiction) ... continued
Soon draco was on the trail of our prey. He noticed markings on the trees.
"See that son?" he said pointing to a Jerrimaj tree. I looked then ran my fingers over the markings.
"This buck is in heat. They mark the trees to warn other bucks and let females know they want to mate. This is a strong warusi. Look how deeply he's marked this."
No sooner than I was about to reply when my draco and I heard him. He was singing. His call to a female echoed among the frosted trees and seemed to make them delightfully shiver.
We crouched low and followed the melody. After a bit draco spotted his footprints, they were huge. My heart thundered imagining the full size of this beast.
As we made our way through the frozen gosemerr we came to a frozen lake, and there he stood. Another chocolate buck although not as dark as the one I saw in the morning he was just as big if not bigger. His flanks were lean and hard and rippled when he flinched against the cold. Grays peppered his mane and his body bore scars of many a battle yet somehow he was beautiful. Magnificent even.
As I leaned against the Jerrimaj tree I was under I set off a family of zucanu birds nestled above. They took flight and with that the buck turned back spotting us behind him. Instinctively he ran.
"Come on son!" draco yelled.
The buck was out on the frozen lake and the ice was treacherously thin. I could see the ebb and flow of the lake below as we pursued our quarry. His size was sending tremors through the thin sheet and as we mimicked the trail of the buck in flight we were running over the cracks he was leaving behind.
Father was behind me when I heard the crash. I turned to see he had fallen through the ice. Without thinking I ran back to draco sending my body sprawling across the ice to reach the hole he had fallen through.
I grabbed his hand.
"Hold on!" I screamed. Draco was trying to pull himself up and out but his size and weight were pulling me into the frosty pit. I could feel us battling for and against each other.
Just when I thought we'd both slip in and both be lost on this day, my birthday, I felt a hand grab my leg and pull me back. Then with another heave draco was out safely too.
Towering above us was the warusi we had chased just moments before. He was massive which frightened me to my core. I'd never seen one alive this close up before not even at the zoo.
Then the most marvelous thing happened. He smiled at us; and just as it seemed he was about to turn and leave.
Thup!
Thup!
Thup!
Three arrows struck the mighty beast. One pierced his throat the other two the center of his chest, and he was down.
Within seconds draco and I could see it was Chinmoo from the who fired the shots.
"Now that's one fine warusi buck! He was screaming like a chinazi howler monkey. You ever see one this close up boy!"
" ... No, but he saved us. Draco and I. He pulled us out."
"Nonsense boy. My bow and I saved you. That human more than likely was pulling you out to chomp on you. Come on help me tie his carcass up. I bet he's gonna grill up nicely back at Kromar's."
Back at the lodge the butchers made quick work of the warusi who had saved draco and I. His flesh was grilled and roasted to help fill the pans at the All You Can Eat Buffet.
Draco and I sat as guests at Chinmoo's pit as the Kromar chef chopped and diced bits and pieces of steaks and chops of what was our prey just hours before.
The chef used his water gun to steam the part of the grill in front of me. A game they played for the children of the table.
"Happy Birthday" everyone cheered as the steam dissipated. Then the chef skillfully used the same gun to slide a morsel from one of the steaks towards me.
I bowed humbly, thankful for what he had given me.
> 1000 words
Soon draco was on the trail of our prey. He noticed markings on the trees.
"See that son?" he said pointing to a Jerrimaj tree. I looked then ran my fingers over the markings.
"This buck is in heat. They mark the trees to warn other bucks and let females know they want to mate. This is a strong warusi. Look how deeply he's marked this."
No sooner than I was about to reply when my draco and I heard him. He was singing. His call to a female echoed among the frosted trees and seemed to make them delightfully shiver.
We crouched low and followed the melody. After a bit draco spotted his footprints, they were huge. My heart thundered imagining the full size of this beast.
As we made our way through the frozen gosemerr we came to a frozen lake, and there he stood. Another chocolate buck although not as dark as the one I saw in the morning he was just as big if not bigger. His flanks were lean and hard and rippled when he flinched against the cold. Grays peppered his mane and his body bore scars of many a battle yet somehow he was beautiful. Magnificent even.
As I leaned against the Jerrimaj tree I was under I set off a family of zucanu birds nestled above. They took flight and with that the buck turned back spotting us behind him. Instinctively he ran.
"Come on son!" draco yelled.
The buck was out on the frozen lake and the ice was treacherously thin. I could see the ebb and flow of the lake below as we pursued our quarry. His size was sending tremors through the thin sheet and as we mimicked the trail of the buck in flight we were running over the cracks he was leaving behind.
Father was behind me when I heard the crash. I turned to see he had fallen through the ice. Without thinking I ran back to draco sending my body sprawling across the ice to reach the hole he had fallen through.
I grabbed his hand.
"Hold on!" I screamed. Draco was trying to pull himself up and out but his size and weight were pulling me into the frosty pit. I could feel us battling for and against each other.
Just when I thought we'd both slip in and both be lost on this day, my birthday, I felt a hand grab my leg and pull me back. Then with another heave draco was out safely too.
Towering above us was the warusi we had chased just moments before. He was massive which frightened me to my core. I'd never seen one alive this close up before not even at the zoo.
Then the most marvelous thing happened. He smiled at us; and just as it seemed he was about to turn and leave.
Thup!
Thup!
Thup!
Three arrows struck the mighty beast. One pierced his throat the other two the center of his chest, and he was down.
Within seconds draco and I could see it was Chinmoo from the who fired the shots.
"Now that's one fine warusi buck! He was screaming like a chinazi howler monkey. You ever see one this close up boy!"
" ... No, but he saved us. Draco and I. He pulled us out."
"Nonsense boy. My bow and I saved you. That human more than likely was pulling you out to chomp on you. Come on help me tie his carcass up. I bet he's gonna grill up nicely back at Kromar's."
Back at the lodge the butchers made quick work of the warusi who had saved draco and I. His flesh was grilled and roasted to help fill the pans at the All You Can Eat Buffet.
Draco and I sat as guests at Chinmoo's pit as the Kromar chef chopped and diced bits and pieces of steaks and chops of what was our prey just hours before.
The chef used his water gun to steam the part of the grill in front of me. A game they played for the children of the table.
"Happy Birthday" everyone cheered as the steam dissipated. Then the chef skillfully used the same gun to slide a morsel from one of the steaks towards me.
I bowed humbly, thankful for what he had given me.
> 1000 words
Anonymous
Art is No Excuse
"Hey, hey, you are over reacting baby!" Said the man. "An artist needs a muse!"
"I thought I was your muse.", she said.
"Mmmm, let me try to explain", he said, lying back in his chair and touching his chin
thoughtfully.
"My inspiration has many layers, you are the foundation, the energy that sustains my ability to create."
"Without it, I am gassed, lost, and out of power!" He was now standing, looking out of the Flat’s window, arms raised in exasperation.
"She is my balloon, she lifts me from this gravity of dullness and gray doldrums that breed inactivity."
"I have no physical contact with her, she won't have me as a lover...I am too old for her."
"So you have come on to her!", she said disgusted, yet already knowing the answer.
"I fucking knew it!...You son of a bitch!"
"I left school to follow you here to Paris so you could chase your fucking dream of being an important artist and this is what I get!" "Fuck you!"
She ran past him into the kitchen, and used the counter top to stop her from falling to the floor.
"Baby, listen to me", he said standing now,
but keeping his back to her, as he looked
out of the window over the dark Parisian skyline.
"You knew me, you know my spirit!"
"Shit, he said, I met you nude modeling for my anatomy art class!"
"We have been together for a year, the rationalization continued, "you've seen me paint dozens of naked women,
where is this bourgeoisie jealousness coming from?"
"You never wrote any of those women poetry", she screamed, her voice cracking in places.
She suddenly felt a redness come into her heart, like the redness that breaks before the dawn comes.
"You never gave those women the words you give her!", she felt her spirit leaving her, she saw her future melting into the night.
She had gambled her heart's last reserves on
this man, a man she had felt such passion and hope for.
She had her suspicions about him, she knew his type. She was not a stranger to love and sex nor man's fickle nature. She had abandoned the idea of perfect love, but had
hoped for the next best thing. Her discoveries of his affair had been a kind of non-event, friends had tipped her off.
Paris is not an easy town to have an affair in when you are in the artistic community or in her case, a girlfriend of a man who had fancied himself and artist. It seemed all too
cliché, too scripted. He could not have just used a crappy tourist hotel to fuck her in, he had to use the haunts of the struggling writers, painters, and sculptors who walked in
the shadows of real giants. Who chased the ghosts of Fitzgerald, Giacometti, Doisneau... Places where the eyes of hundreds of the worst gossips in Paris could see and report.
It all did not matter anymore, she had time to prepare for this moment, hours in fact. Time to visit his gangster friends in the Bastille District, time to make purchases she thought she could never make. Time to learn how to shoot a pistol and recover the spent shell casing. Time to learn how to wipe down the gun and ditch it in the Seine, preferably under one of the bridges where thousands of tourists go.
Time to let go of her pure soul forever.
"Bourgeoisie jealousness".....those words lingered in her mind like the smoke lazily drifting from the end of the pistol.
Upwards toward the ceiling of the perfect Maisonette apartment, in the perfect building, in the perfect arrondisment, in the perfect city. The shot had been softer than she expected, the extra 200 euro for the silencer had been worth it.
The bullet made a dime sized hole in the back of his shaved head and had exited out of his forehead, blowing out a three inch piece of his skull. She felt high, like on the
best weed, mellow and slow, like a burning candle wick.
"So much potential", she muttered, tasting the acrid gunsmoke, "...all over the parquet floor, what a waste", she put the gun in her purse and left.
No longer sad, she felt the cool autumn city air fill her lungs as she made her way to the nearest Gendarmerie.
She felt no guilt, but a kind of righteousness that comes with righting a great wrong, like putting out a forest fire or finding a lost child. She would ponder this in prison she
thought. She suddenly remembered his touch on her shoulder when they would be in bed together and the it hit her. He was dead and she was alive, to be alone forever and without a life of freedom. Her energy changed again, she found herself at the traffic circle at the Arc de Triomphe, mad with buzzing cars and trucks. Hundreds waited for the signal to change, to safely cross.
The idea came to her as a whisper, "yes", she said out loud. "I will come with you", the witnesses said the woman smiled and held her hand out to an invisible stranger before she stepped in front of the lorry. It hit her full on and at speed, knocking her 20 feet into the circle where a Renault ran over her torso.
"So happy she looked", said the old woman to the cop taking the report, "like she was meeting a friend."
The traffic continued around the scene, the lorry driver sat on the curb, head in hands,
"Mon Dieu!, surely now I will lose my job", he said to himself, "what will my wife say!"
"Hey, hey, you are over reacting baby!" Said the man. "An artist needs a muse!"
"I thought I was your muse.", she said.
"Mmmm, let me try to explain", he said, lying back in his chair and touching his chin
thoughtfully.
"My inspiration has many layers, you are the foundation, the energy that sustains my ability to create."
"Without it, I am gassed, lost, and out of power!" He was now standing, looking out of the Flat’s window, arms raised in exasperation.
"She is my balloon, she lifts me from this gravity of dullness and gray doldrums that breed inactivity."
"I have no physical contact with her, she won't have me as a lover...I am too old for her."
"So you have come on to her!", she said disgusted, yet already knowing the answer.
"I fucking knew it!...You son of a bitch!"
"I left school to follow you here to Paris so you could chase your fucking dream of being an important artist and this is what I get!" "Fuck you!"
She ran past him into the kitchen, and used the counter top to stop her from falling to the floor.
"Baby, listen to me", he said standing now,
but keeping his back to her, as he looked
out of the window over the dark Parisian skyline.
"You knew me, you know my spirit!"
"Shit, he said, I met you nude modeling for my anatomy art class!"
"We have been together for a year, the rationalization continued, "you've seen me paint dozens of naked women,
where is this bourgeoisie jealousness coming from?"
"You never wrote any of those women poetry", she screamed, her voice cracking in places.
She suddenly felt a redness come into her heart, like the redness that breaks before the dawn comes.
"You never gave those women the words you give her!", she felt her spirit leaving her, she saw her future melting into the night.
She had gambled her heart's last reserves on
this man, a man she had felt such passion and hope for.
She had her suspicions about him, she knew his type. She was not a stranger to love and sex nor man's fickle nature. She had abandoned the idea of perfect love, but had
hoped for the next best thing. Her discoveries of his affair had been a kind of non-event, friends had tipped her off.
Paris is not an easy town to have an affair in when you are in the artistic community or in her case, a girlfriend of a man who had fancied himself and artist. It seemed all too
cliché, too scripted. He could not have just used a crappy tourist hotel to fuck her in, he had to use the haunts of the struggling writers, painters, and sculptors who walked in
the shadows of real giants. Who chased the ghosts of Fitzgerald, Giacometti, Doisneau... Places where the eyes of hundreds of the worst gossips in Paris could see and report.
It all did not matter anymore, she had time to prepare for this moment, hours in fact. Time to visit his gangster friends in the Bastille District, time to make purchases she thought she could never make. Time to learn how to shoot a pistol and recover the spent shell casing. Time to learn how to wipe down the gun and ditch it in the Seine, preferably under one of the bridges where thousands of tourists go.
Time to let go of her pure soul forever.
"Bourgeoisie jealousness".....those words lingered in her mind like the smoke lazily drifting from the end of the pistol.
Upwards toward the ceiling of the perfect Maisonette apartment, in the perfect building, in the perfect arrondisment, in the perfect city. The shot had been softer than she expected, the extra 200 euro for the silencer had been worth it.
The bullet made a dime sized hole in the back of his shaved head and had exited out of his forehead, blowing out a three inch piece of his skull. She felt high, like on the
best weed, mellow and slow, like a burning candle wick.
"So much potential", she muttered, tasting the acrid gunsmoke, "...all over the parquet floor, what a waste", she put the gun in her purse and left.
No longer sad, she felt the cool autumn city air fill her lungs as she made her way to the nearest Gendarmerie.
She felt no guilt, but a kind of righteousness that comes with righting a great wrong, like putting out a forest fire or finding a lost child. She would ponder this in prison she
thought. She suddenly remembered his touch on her shoulder when they would be in bed together and the it hit her. He was dead and she was alive, to be alone forever and without a life of freedom. Her energy changed again, she found herself at the traffic circle at the Arc de Triomphe, mad with buzzing cars and trucks. Hundreds waited for the signal to change, to safely cross.
The idea came to her as a whisper, "yes", she said out loud. "I will come with you", the witnesses said the woman smiled and held her hand out to an invisible stranger before she stepped in front of the lorry. It hit her full on and at speed, knocking her 20 feet into the circle where a Renault ran over her torso.
"So happy she looked", said the old woman to the cop taking the report, "like she was meeting a friend."
The traffic continued around the scene, the lorry driver sat on the curb, head in hands,
"Mon Dieu!, surely now I will lose my job", he said to himself, "what will my wife say!"
The tsunamic nightmare
I could smell the saltwater flying through the air, but everyone remained calm. It was three hours into my birthday year 2006. I was on the warm beach of Tokyo, Japan, and I could see the storms coming up the east side. I thought little of it until I saw that right up the shore the waves were getting higher. It was then I heard the screams of the people on the east side, it was then I could see it approaching, the tsunami.
I couldn’t get a grip on what was unfolding around me, but my body reacted swiftly hiding in the lifeguard booth. I saw lifeless bodies flying through the heavy winds. I couldn’t find my family anywhere. Another family approached the door; I tried to let them in but a boat blocked it crushing them in between. Suddenly the small glass window bursts gashing a centimeter away from my left eye open. I fell back and sliced my left arm to the bone, and my body went numb from a dash of the ice cold water. My leg was crushed under a shelf and I could hear every shatter in the bones.
Though I couldn’t hear the people well, I could tell how they felt. The agony in their faces said it all; they were lost and hopelessly looking for safety that was years to come. The children ran almost fearlessly across the beach looking for any shelter. A little girl around four years old screeched “where’s my mommy” right before the wave took her. The pain in the adults faces not for them for they had lived their lives, but for the babies and kids feebly retreating who wouldn’t see a day of their 20s. I could even feel the anger in the waves taken its burden out on the helpless civilians, and the winds confused and rage state of minded not knowing east or west.
As for me I was alone, hollow, scared, and swallowed in darkness. I couldn’t breath I started convulsing, but as I waited for the pain to end it pressed on. My body was shaking I feared living and dying, for I wanted to make it on in life I wanted the agony to be over. I leaned on the edge of the shelter feeling selfish, I was safe letting innocent souls die watching as they cursed god’s and Satan’s name. I was selfish other could die and see the angels, while I’m face with life as vegetable. I felt like I could have done something another than live. Like I should have been a man and ran with those lost souls, death is nature right it comes naturally. Soon I felt angry not at me not at the ones running but at the family that ran to the door, they could have saved someone but they thought selfish no second guessing saving themselves. Over all I finally for once felt human. I learn hopelessness, strength, pain, and many other things we take for granite.
So how did it all end? You can say it was luck or it was that death couldn’t carry a heavier load, but the storm came to a cease. Police, fire man, ambulances, and the whole nine yard where there on the double. I was pretty much a vegetable when they found me, if that poor little girl’s mother would have given up hope of finding her daughter who knows where I’d be. The hospitals were flooded with deceased and the living families crowded around waiting for news. I even got to tell that girl’s mother what happen to her, Lilly I think her name was. I told her how she cried her lungs out, how she was trampled, how no one bothered to help her, and how she rode with Jesus on a wave. So luck? No I call it waking up from a dream of terror realizing anything can happen at any moment. Actually it wasn’t a dream more like a forgotten nightmare what my little brother calls now my tsunamic nightmare.
