Tales From An Insomniac

It Started With a Hole

2011-12-19T01:47:00.000-08:00

The men came while Pops was watching television in his bath robe. He noticed them moving outside his window through the curtain, which made them look like shadows. A crease formed between his graying eyebrows and he turned the TV down in case he could hear one of them say something, but the men weren’t speaking. His slippered feet gingerly slid across the living room floor and he pulled the curtains apart just wide enough for one eye to peer out.

The two men in his backyard were wearing all black (or maybe really dark navy) jump suits, which resembled a janitor’s uniform and black baseball caps pulled down so their eyes weren’t visible. They each held shovels and were working in perfect synchronicity under the midday sun. As one plunged his tool into the ground, the other flung his dirt to the side and vice versa.

Pops tied his robe together sloppily and hurried out his back door, slamming it behind him.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” He said.

One of the men put down his shovel and walked past Pops without saying a word, disappearing into the house.

“Hey, you can’t go in there.” Pops yelled after him.

Moments later the man reappeared holding two glasses of lemonade, he walked past pops and handed one to his partner.

“This is private property. You can’t be here.” Pops continued. “Don’t make me call the cops.”

The two men continued digging and the hole in the backyard continued to grow. Pops ranted and yelled, and even pelted the two men with small rocks, but they just kept digging. They never identified themselves or gave any reason for why they were doing this, no matter what Pops did.

Finally, he went back inside. He picked up the phone and dialed a number, while he tapped the fingers of his free hand impatiently on his kitchen counter.

“Hi, Marie? I need your help with something. Can you come over right away?” He paused as the voice on the other end of the phone responded. “Thanks, see you soon.” He then flung the curtains open and went to watching his visitors silently work. Soon a gray sedan pulled into his driveway and his daughter shuffled in.

“Oh, thank God. There are these men in the backyard and I don’t know what to do. I was hoping you could talk to them or something.” He blurted. She turned her head to the side and looked out the window into the yard. She then dropped her purse by the door.

“I’ll see what I can do.” She said before she walked out the back door.

Anxiously Pops watched as his daughter approached the men. He saw her lips moving at one point when she turned her head in enthusiasm, but couldn’t hear what she was saying. At another moment she pointed to the window where he awkwardly stood, still in his robe. Apparently not getting through, she resorted to poking and shoving the men, even knocking a glass of lemonade from one of the men’s hands as he attempted to drink. Finally, he saw one of them speak. He tried to read his lips but he couldn’t make out the words. Abruptly she turned and started walking back towards the house. Meeting her at the door was Pops.

“Well?” He said.

“I’m sorry. You can call the cops if you want.” She said, always looking at the dishes unwashed in his sink and never in his eyes. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

She picked up her bag and hurried out before Pops could say anything more. He watched the screen door creak shut but he didn’t move to call the police after that. He had been to war when he was young and could always handle himself, he had phoned Marie more as a consultation than a bailing out. Maybe it was pride that stopped him from dialing 911 but he would never admit that. He looked out the window and wondered how he’d fair in a scuffle with those two men in his yard. They would already be hot and substantially fatigued from working in the sun, but Pops knew that wouldn’t matter in the end.

Instead, he walked to his cabinet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey that was covered in a thin coat of dust. He pulled a chair close to the window and poured himself a glass. Even from that distance he could see the sweat dripping from the men’s faces. They worked until the sun began to set and could be seen as an orange ball in the sky behind them. As Pops was pouring the last of the bottle into his glass the men suddenly stopped. They stood there with the shovels in their hands as if they were waiting for something.

Intrigued by the new development Pops walked outside to join the men. Only a small sliver of orange could be seen left in the sky. He walked past a mound of dirt that ants were marching into for the night. The men watched him as he approached and they stood on either side of him when he finally reached the hole in the ground. Still holding the glass of whiskey in his hand, Pops looked at each man quizzically.

“So what was this about, boys?” He asked.

“I think you know.” One of them responded.

Pops, hearing one of their voices for the first time, was struck by how cold and methodical it sounded.

“It’s time.” The other one said.

One of the men took his glass of whiskey from him. Pops stood on the edge of the hole and when his legs gave way, he never stood a chance to save himself even if he tried. His robe fluttered in the humid, evening air as he fell; face down, into the hole. Soon he could feel clumps of dirt landing on his back and his head. His mind was reeling and confused but he couldn’t get his feeble body to move. It just lied limply in the dirt as clump after clump feel upon his back and head. The moon was gaining visibility in the dark blue sky as two dark figures worked tirelessly in Pops backyard.

They would finish here soon and then tomorrow they’d be at someone else’s house. This was the job they were doomed to and this is the job they would do. Always with baseball caps turned down, so the eyes would never be seen.

The Alien Saleswoman

2011-12-19T01:45:00.000-08:00

Most nights Jeff Pratt slept comfortably through the night with out any interruption, unless he had one of those big gulps that made him get up and pee. On this particular night however, he awoke to something very different from a bursting bladder.

He was startled from his sleep by a loud humming sound that shook his entire bedroom and made his digital clock clatter on his nightstand. Green lights flashed outside his windows and a green light was flooding in under his bedroom door. Light footsteps came walking up to the door and stopped. Then the door flung open. The knob banged against the wall with amazing force and made Jeff jump in his bed where he still lied, covered up to his waist in covers.

The figure that stepped forward through the door was lanky and small with an oversized head. In horror he saw the outline of a three-fingered hand reach for the light switch on the wall. When the light flicked on Jeff thought he must have been dreaming and still hadn’t woken up. This couldn’t be happening. Standing just inside his doorway was a grey colored alien with large, black eyes.

Oh God, don’t let him probe me, was his first thought.

What was peculiar, and entirely different from most accounts of alien encounters, was that the alien was holding something in his hand. It looked like a briefcase to Jeff. The alien confidently stepped forward and set his briefcase on the bed next to Jeff’s feet. He then opened it up and pulled out something. Jeff was ready for a ray gun, maybe a long metal rod that would be inserted in, well you know, but not what came next.

The alien cleared his throat. “Would you like to make your penis bigger?” It said as it stepped forward and handed Jeff a brochure. The brochure had GALAXYTE MALE ENHANCEMENT written on it across the top in big fancy type. “Eight million Plutonians and Uranusites can’t be wrong.”

The alien then turned the briefcase around so Jeff could see inside and he saw that it was packed with pill bottles, tubes of something, and a stack of left over brochures.

“You sell male enhancement pills?” Jeff looked down at the alien and in between its legs where male genitalia usually were. “You don’t even have a penis.”

“What, you’ve never seen a female alien before? Can female aliens not sell male enhancement pills as well as a male alien? Is that it? Prick.”

Jeff didn’t see anything down there that looked female either, but he didn’t say anything else about it. Who was he to get involved in extraterrestrial female matters?

“Sorry, I never thought about that,” Jeff responded, a little embarrassed.

“Apology accepted. Now buy my stuff.”

“Listen, you had a really, really amazing presentation but I’m just not interested in buying your penis products.” Jeff said as apologetically as he could. It reminded him of the tone he had used when he gave his first girlfriend the “It’s not you, it’s me” speech.

He wondered if it could be that easy. This alien obviously had access to technology far greater than his civilization; these aliens could grow penises up to 5 inches in as little as two weeks for God’s sake! What was stopping it from using some high tech weapon on Jeff to force him to buy its products?

“Alright,” It said with a shrug and it started to walk out, “I’ll leave you with a free sample though.” It winked one of its giant black eyes. And then it was gone.

What the hell was that?

Jeff didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the alien and its gigantic black.

He got out of bed when the sun came up and made coffee. Maybe if he followed the routine he always did he could move past this. He was sitting at his kitchen table in his bathrobe, eating bacon and eggs and sipping his second cup of coffee, when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hello, is this Jeff Pratt?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“I’m Leslie from Galaxyte Male Enhancement. I visited you last night about our fine products...”

The alien’s name was Leslie?

“...I know I may have caught you at a bad time before. I was wondering if you might want to hear more about all the advantages Galaxyte Male Enhancement products have to offer?”

“Uh, Leslie, I don’t think I want to hear anymore about your products thanks.”

He hung up the phone, slammed it actually. That’s what he liked about land line phones; you could still slam them when you wanted to. He almost started to think about how this generation of kids were such little punks (not like his generation) with their Ipods and Twitter, but the phone ringing again cut off his train of thought.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Leslie from Galaxyte Male Enhancement again.” Leslie was really putting on her cheery voice now. “I don’t know what you’re dealing with…down there, but I think any man has room for improvement and I think you should hear all the options we here at Galaxyte have to offer.”

Now Jeff was getting angry. Why wouldn’t this alien leave him alone?

“Leslie, I don’t want your penis enlargement pills! That’s final!”

He slammed the phone as he hung up again. Nearly as soon as he did, it rang again. He picked it up, furious this time.

“Listen, I don’t want any of your alien penis pills, ok!?”

“Jeff?” The voice on the other end was human and sounded worried.

“Mom?”

“Son, are you ok?”

“You kind of caught me at a bad time, mom. Can I call you back later?”

“Sure, honey. Just...take of yourself.”

“I will, mom. Bye.”

He sat back down at the table and said aloud, “I really need to get caller I.D.”

Later that day Jeff Pratt went and signed up for that “no call list” the government had started, so telemarketers would stop bothering people. He didn’t know if it applied to aliens named Leslie but he hoped it did. Leslie never called or showed up again, so maybe it did. Eventually he was able to sleep again, even if he does sleep with a stuffed animal now (it’s a penguin, in case you were wondering).

Oh, and he tried that free sample the alien left for him. It turned his dick green.

The Basement Part 1

2011-12-19T01:37:00.001-08:00

The four-door luxury sedan kicked up dirt as it rolled down the driveway of an old house, with a run down porch attached to the front. Will knew the road and house very well. Sometimes when he was a kid he would spend all morning, and most of the afternoon, playing games and talking with his grandmother there. There had been few renovations or attempts to update the place by her and so it looked remarkably the same as back when he was just a small kid.

Now he was an adult, a lawyer with a job, a wife, and a luxury four-door sedan, of course. He was trying to remember the last time he had been to see her when he put the car in park and killed the engine. Was it her birthday a couple years back? That one Christmas when the whole family came over? He couldn’t tell. He didn’t feel particularly guilty about not being able to remember either. He often had phone conversations with his grandmother, so it wasn’t like he totally neglected her (even if he hadn’t been able to find the time to call her lately) and besides, he was a busy man. Nobody said being a lawyer was easy. He had other responsibilities.

A kind of warmth overtook him as he walked up the porch steps, as they reminded him of a simpler and more joyful time in his life - his childhood. When he didn’t have any bills to pay or any court appearances to make. He knocked on the rickety screen door three times and called, “Grandma? Hello?”

When he got no response he tried the handle, and finding it to be unlocked, opened the door. The inside of the house, too, had undergone few changes since when he was a kid. The chairs in the living room were the same ugly, mustard yellow color. There was a bowl of peppermints sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch, somehow she always kept that bowl full, he remembered, and it was then too. A Television set (one exception to the no changes rule) that was added sometime in the nineties he guessed, sat against one wall and didn’t work anymore (since all the TV companies switched to that new-fangled digital crap, he thought his grandmother would say.)

“Grandma?” He called and looked in each room of the house. She was nowhere to be found. There was a stench that permeated throughout the house, one that was prevalent on every old person he’d ever been around. He didn’t know what to call it other than “Old people smell” and as he walked throughout the house he avoided breathing out of his nostrils as much as possible.

He knew there was one place he still hadn’t looked, the basement. As a youngster he had always been afraid of his grandmother’s basement. It was dark, spider webs hung from the corners and under the steps. Each time he went down there he felt it would be his last, as if some fiend lurked in the shadows down there waiting to take his life the first chance he got, or maybe he would unwittingly step into a black widow spider’s web and die from a poisonous bite to his ankle. As a kid he never would go in the basement alone if he could help it, instead insisting that either his grandma or his mother go with him.

The basement made his heart beat fast just thinking about it, he preferred to stay in the main part of the house where there were doyleys laying about and pictures of Jesus to watch over him, but he knew he had go down into its midst. Maybe his grandmother had fallen down there and was in trouble. He couldn’t bear it if he left and she died because of him.

The door leading to the basement was old and wooden, painted white long ago. He had to push considerably hard just to get it to move. It squealed open on its rusted hinges and Will, hoping to save a trip, called down, “Anybody here?” Unfortunately, there was no reply.

He gingerly started down the steps that even twenty years ago seemed about to give way at any moment. Each step he took down the stairs into the dark basement creaked. As if the steps themselves were pleading with him to turn back, to not go in. He almost listened to them too, only he knew he couldn’t. Not without making sure.

The basement was cooler than the rest of the house had been and chill bumps tingled up his arms and legs. His foot reached the bottom of the stairs as he ducked to one side and avoided a spider web. A folded up lawn chair sat leaning against one wall just where he remembered it always had, and an old dryer (his grandmother never bothered to buy one of those new fangled washing machines) sat in one corner just where it had when he was a child.

Yes, everything seemed to be exactly in order and the same, except for one thing. A cushioned burgundy-colored chair sat deep in the back of the room. It was in an area of the basement that was especially dark but Will could see a frazzled, unkempt head of white hair peeking up over the back of the chair.

The Basement Part 2

2011-12-19T01:35:00.000-08:00

“What are you doing down here?” He asked, it seemed incredibly odd for his grandmother to be sitting down here by herself, and why didn’t she answer any of his calls? She must have heard him, possibly even when he rapped on the screen door to begin with.

“I remember when you were just six years old.” She was holding a book of pictures in her hands, one of all her children, grandchildren, and relatives, and slowly flipped the pages as she talked. “You were playing in the wooded area out back, you used to call it a jungle and pretend that you were Tarzan. You always had an active imagination, that’s why I always thought being a lawyer was wrong for you. Suits and ties and courtrooms aren’t for dreamers.”

“Are you okay, grandma?”

“Well, I guess you got to close to a nest, or maybe you didn’t and you were just unlucky, but a wasp landed right on that little finger of yours. You tried to shake it off, probably didn’t even know what it was at the time, but it bit you anyway. You came crying all the way back to the house, it amazed me how such a small little boy could make such a loud and terrible noise. I rubbed some medicine on the wound and tried to console you as much as I could, even let you have a chocolate chip cookie I had made that afternoon even though it was getting close to supper.

“Do you remember that?” She said, as she came to last page in the scrapbook.

“Yeah, I remember.”

“I was there for you, William, when you needed me.” She set the book on a shelf next to the chair and started to get up. “So, why weren’t you there for me when I needed you?”

“What?”

As she stood and turned around, her face, which had always been turned away from William and hidden by the chair, became visible. This, unlike the house, looked very different than what he remembered. The whole right side of her face seemed to be shattered and broken, covered in dark red blood and her right eye was missing. It only took a moment for Will to realize what had happened.

His grandmother owned a shotgun, although she never seemed to use it, for as long as he could remember. It was given to her as a present long ago, supposedly for protection. She had put the barrel of that gun to her wrinkled, noble face and tried to shoot it off while sitting in this basement, this God-forsaken basement.

Will shrunk back in horror as his bloodied grandma crept towards him. Her slippered feet scraped against the hard basement floor.

“What did you do?” Will cried, as his back touched one wall of the dark room. He had nowhere to go.

“I needed you and you weren’t there. I just needed you. I needed help.”

She was still walking towards him as he slowly slid down the wall he was backed into. He began to sob.

“I didn’t know. I would’ve been here.” He said with tears running down his face and snot dripping from his nose.

“No, I just needed my grandson. I needed you.”

She was little more than a foot from him now. He wanted to run, out of that basement and up those stairs, but he couldn’t, partly out of fright and partly out of sadness. And so he stayed there; paralyzed in fear and guilt - waiting.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He kept saying it over and over again like a broken record player.

“Why weren’t you here for me, like I was there for you?” She reached out and grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently saying, “Why? Why? Why?” yelling it almost.

It’s true that one person can only take so much. Will clutched at his chest and writhed in agony as a heart attack rocked his body. The last thing he saw was the burgundy chair on the other side of the basement as his vision dimmed and his heart stopped.

When the police finally found them it was the next day. A medical examiner determined that Will Jacobson died of a heart attack sometime between three and four o’clock that afternoon. The same examiner also placed Mrs. Lenore Jacobson’s time of death, by suicide, at sometime between ten and eleven that morning.

After reading the medical reports two cops at the precinct sat at their desks drinking coffee. In an effort to give closure to the case, one of them said to the other, “I think it’s pretty easy to see what happened here. The grandma offed herself when she was alone that morning. The grandson finds her in there dead at a later time and dies himself from the shock. Open and shut case.”

His colleague nodded in agreement.

I Cut My Own Hair [Poem]

2011-03-10T20:33:00.000-08:00

My hair eventually got too long
When I saw it, it looked all wrong

Then I had an idea that I thought was bright
“I’ll cut my own hair. That’s a good idea, right?”

So, I went and fetched my tiny purple scissors
And situated myself in between my two mirrors

Then I began to cut large chunks, trim, and clip
All the while hoping I didn’t fumble or trip

I trimmed in the back and trimmed on the sides
I was extra careful with the hair above my eyes

After it was done, all I could do was stand and stare
You may be tempted but don’t cut your own hair.

Imitation [Poem]

2010-09-26T20:17:00.000-07:00

Imitation

It's hot in a lie, might be hotter when you die,
Hold on to what you got, 'cause time's gonna fly.
I got the answers to the world, don't you want to know?
You answer my question with a question, you reap what you sow.

They say imitation is flattery, they say imitation is suicide,
I imitated them and talked about imitation 'till I died.
What good is a river to the thirsty if it says it's a mountain?
Eternal life is microscopic, it never comes to you in a fountain.

Clearly I see, it's the wrong time for this puppet show,
I think you can't see my wrists, but somehow you know.
Sometimes dirt and grime, it can look like silver,
My words are knives, and honestly, I never meant to kill her.

Immortality [Poem]

2010-09-26T20:04:00.000-07:00

Immortality

Relevance we desire, but reality is tart,
The lights fade while astronomers fiddle in the dark.
Straining for the impossible, top hats get lost in the fog,
Immortality rests on the snout of a dying dog.

I've seen it done before, they say that's a fine start,
But they're wrong, that's not the beginning, I've yet to play my part.
The last inspired, deep in us, a first,
Life motivated by fear is the definition of cursed.

Hung by trepidation, quartered by desires,
But that's what makes us human - and for good campfires.

The Feast Part 1

2010-08-04T21:57:00.002-07:00

When the GPS navigator perched on the dash of Mark Hicks’ car tells him to turn somewhere, he usually listens. And this cold November night was no different. He was driving back home after visiting his family for Thanksgiving. His parents lived in Mississippi and he was going to college in Cincinnati. He enjoyed the distance and picked that particular university to get away from all the rednecks and hey yall’s that were all too prevalent down there. His parents, however, were worried by the distance, that was probably why they bought him this GPS system for Christmas.

“So you won’t get lost while you’re up there at school.” His mother had said, while she donned a Reindeer themed sweater.

That was last Christmas and since then he had become pretty trustful – and maybe a little dependent – of the thing. When the electronic voice said to turn, he turned. When the voice said nothing, he kept going straight ahead. And that’s what he had done this entire day on his trip back to Ohio. He had done it mechanically, barely paying attention to where he was. He had set the destination and fully expected the little machine to get him there safely. It probably would have too, if his car hadn’t broken down. Suddenly something under the hood began to wheeze and cough, almost like a sick old man propped in a recliner watching old westerns. The car slowly rolled to a stop and the old man let out one final cough before dying completely.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me?” A tired and suddenly frustrated Mark asked to nothing but the interior of his car.

He was only 19 but each one of these little road trips seemed to add a couple years, making him look a bit older. He tried cranking the ignition three times but got nothing but sputtering and more coughing. Finally he gave up and just sat there for a moment. This was the first time he actually took a look around him to notice where he was. Without even realizing it, the GPS device had taken him down a back road. Maybe it was a “shortcut,” according to the GPS but he didn’t like it. The road was dirt mostly, mixed with a little gravel. It wasn’t very wide, the kind of road that if two cars were to pass each other in opposite directions, both would need to get two wheels off the road to avoid a collision. Trees lined both sides of the road.

The winter season had caused the leaves to fall off the branches, making the limbs seem like boney arms reaching out. These limbs reached out on to the road slightly, almost like they were grabbing for the vehicle and Mark Hicks himself. He looked at the small screen of the GPS device, as if expecting an explanation. He half expected the screen to read, “You’re dead.” but instead it displayed a tiny rendering of a car on a road and an arrow in front of it pointing straight ahead. It indicated that the street he was currently on was Hollow Drive.

“A lot of good this thing is, it took me down the back road from hell,” he thought. He opened the car door to check under the hood and a bone chilling November gust met his face. He suddenly had the overwhelming sensation he was in a Hitchcock movie.

“I knew I should have listened to my dad,” he thought, “All those times he tried to teach me things about cars. About what was under the hood and how it all worked. But, no, I was too busy hanging out with my friends and watching mindless television shows.”

Those things had felt so much more important at the time but now they seemed extremely insignificant. “How in the world am I going to fix this now?”

The Feast Part 2

2010-08-04T21:57:00.001-07:00

He popped the hood of the car up anyway and shined his flashlight on various parts inside. He had a very basic and poor understanding of what he was seeing. What was worse was he really wanted to get out of here. To an Interstate, a Freeway, anywhere but here. He had a strong feeling he was being watched. Although, he had no idea by who – or what – and when he quickly glanced around he saw nothing. Nothing but scrawny, bare tree limbs and the small dirt road. He pulled the oil stick out and checked the amount of oil it indicated was in the car. It seemed fine to him. As if checking the oil might magically make the car run like new again, he walked back around to the driver’s seat and tried the ignition – nothing. “Alright,” he thought, “Time to call for help.” He pulled out his sleek new cell phone. It was one of the newest models that had come out. Stacked with features this phone could do almost anything. Except now the latest technological wonder known to man showed no reception. For the second time Mark exclaimed, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Do you know how much I paid – and still pay monthly – for this phone? And when I really need it, no reception. Why couldn’t I have just listened to my dad?” He thought.

With the car out of commission and his beautiful new phone not working, he only had one option left – walk. Walk until he found help, or a phone, or better yet a mechanic. As he slowly started walking down the road he heard a light crunching noise as his shoes hit the dirt and gravel. That feeling that he was being watched grew stronger and seemed to be following him as he went. Off into the unknown darkness he heard an owl hoot. Under normal circumstances that wouldn’t matter, but on this road, on this night, it spooked him a little. He wished he could stop his heart from beating so fast, he was afraid it might give out on him before any monster had a chance at him. He was walking quickly now, wanting to get this over with, like ripping a band-aid off.

He saw something white in the distance but couldn’t tell what it was, or maybe he could and didn’t want to. Every horror movie he’d ever watched was flooding back to him. He had always thought that if it were him in those situations in the movies he would survive, but now he wasn’t so sure. The white thing was coming into view with each step he took. It was lying on the side of the road, when he shined his flashlight on it, it almost seemed to glow. A heavenly-like ribcage, legs, and skull lay before him.

When he reached the spot where the bones lay he bent down at the knees and examined them. Of course, this was pointless, unless they were human or some incredibly obvious animal he would have no idea what they were, and he didn’t. He was starting to question the actual applications of a psychology major. As he looked up from the bones he happened to glance into the line of trees on the right side of the road. Two large glowing eyes fixated directly on him. They were two of the largest eyes he had ever seen and they seemed to be staring straight into his. It was dark, so the head of whatever this was could not be seen, but he could have sworn he saw a smile in the shadows under those eyes. They blinked and disappeared. He whirled his flashlight around and splashed light where the eyes had been in the trees, but whatever it was had left. Or at least it wasn’t there. Frightened more than ever, his heart doing triple the beats, Mark started running down the dirt road. The crunches underneath him coming quicker than ever now. The cold air he sucked in for breath stung his throat and lungs, but he wasn’t going to stop. The circle of light from the flashlight jerked around violently as he ran through the darkness.

The Feast Part 3

2010-08-04T21:56:00.000-07:00

Finally, he came upon a break in the tree line to his left and saw there was a house. Light shone through its windows and the porch light was on. To Mark it was the most beautiful house he had ever seen. He ran up the steps that led to the wooden porch, and rapped on the large wooden door three times.

“Hello? I know it’s sort of late but I need help. Hello?” He had a huge, wild smile gleaming across his face. “The lights are on, of course they are awake and home and I could use their phone,” he thought. But why didn’t anyone answer? And the door he had knocked on, it was half open, didn’t they know that was dangerous living out here? Anything could get in. He slowly walked in the house, repeating hello once again. He saw a kitchen to his right, with alternating black and white tile flooring. He walked left down a hallway. As he went he noticed pictures of people, of the family that lived there, all along both sides of the hallway walls. They were in awkwardly posed positions in front of a backdrop that implied the photographer worked at Sears or some place like that. They seemed happy in every picture. There were three of them: Father, mother, and son. They were white and looked as if they’d all said a few hey yall’s in their time. He smelled something but didn’t know what it was, just that it was bad.

The hallway led into a living room area and over the back of a big recliner Mark could see the top of a man’s head, slightly tilted the left. “Must’ve fallen asleep watching TV,” he thought. Only when he got around to the front of the chair did he see that the man wasn’t asleep at all, it’s hard to sleep when half of your face is gone and your entrails have been torn from you body. Mark’s mouth dropped. What had happened here? He glanced to another chair in the corner of the room and saw a woman, with knitting in her lap, one eye missing (the other bulged in terror), and who was apparently missing a neck. Her head was tilted to the right, as if the neck was swiftly pulled from underneath it and the head landed a little off. He looked up at the ceiling and just knew that the son was up there or at least whatever was left of him anyway. Mark’s heart was beating even faster now and he thought he might puke, but he had to make that phone call.

He held his breath and rushed for the phone that was on a table next to the man’s recliner. When he picked it up the sweet sound of dial tone ringed in his ears. He dialed 911. A pleasant voice with a slight southern accent answered.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”
“My car broke down on, uh, Hollow Drive. I need help, and I found dead bodies in this house!” His words rushed out like a flood, he was panicked and he knew it.
“Ok, sir, are you hurt?”
“No! I just need help!”
“Ok, sir, we’ll have a cruiser out there as soon as possible. Can you stay on the line with me?”
“Hurry.” With that he hung up the phone. He couldn’t stand to be in that house any longer. He frantically stumbled down the hallway, past the smiling faces, toward the exit. When he was outside he welcomed the cold night air. But as he looked out, across to the trees opposite the house, he saw two familiar eyes and a smile that was different from those in the hallway. The eyes blinked but they didn’t go away this time. Mark ran down the porch steps and down the road in the direction away from his car. It didn’t matter that he might be running in the opposite direction of where the cop would come, or that he was running towards God knows what in the darkness, because there was something different in the eyes this time, something that said if he didn’t run now he would never run again.

He was sprinting but he thought, he knew, he could hear crunching behind him. He was too afraid to turn around and look; he thought it might slow him down too. But the steps were getting closer, gaining on him, and so he ran faster. The cold air made him feel like he was swallowing a sword now, but he kept going – trying to run even faster. He could hear breath behind him now, whatever it was it was very close. It was very close to turning him into the man in the recliner or the woman with the half-knit sweater. His fear and curiosity was finally too much to bear and he turned his torso and head around just in time to see a wolf leaping in mid-air towards him. It tackled him to the ground and stood on top of him; bushy fur, giant, glowing eyes, and a mouth that showed no snarl or anger of any kind. For a moment they just looked at each other, faces inches apart. Mark was sure this was the end. Then what looked to Mark to be a small smirk crept into the corner of the wolf’s mouth. This was only temporary however. The next thing Mark saw was a light that shined in the wolf’s eyes. It started small and then it grew brighter and brighter, until the wolf looked up in a curious way towards its source. Then a crack rang out in Mark’s ears, and blood rained down on his face and shoulders. At first he didn’t know what had happened but he was happy to be alive. Next he heard footsteps and a deep gravelly voice asked, “Are you alright, son?”

The wolf, what of it that hadn’t been obliterated, had gone limp on top of the young college student and he pushed the lifeless body off of him so he could get up. When he got to his feet, he heaved a deep sigh of relief and said, “Yeah, although, it has been a rough night. Thanks, officer.” His voice was shaky.

The Feast Part 4

2010-08-04T21:51:00.000-07:00

“That’s Sheriff Jackson, and I was just doing my job.” He was tall and wide, and his southern accent wasn’t subtle like the 911 operator’s. His face was expressionless as he walked toward Mark and then looked from him to the motionless wolf lying on the dirt road. After his curiosity or concern was satisfied he looked back to Mark.

“Sally said something about you finding bodies?”
“That’s right…they’ve been half-eaten or something. It’s pretty bad.” He was sort of dazed from the recent events of the night and barely was able to answer the question but he was able to express the basics in a low voice, almost a whisper.
“Show them to me.”
Mark was shocked and really didn’t want to go back to that house.
“What? No, I don’t want to go back there and why should I have…”
“I want you to show them to me,” Interrupted the lawman. He said it stronger this time, almost like a parent reiterating a command or a warning to their child.
“We’ll take my cruiser, come on.”

Reluctantly he followed the sheriff as he walked back to the police cruiser. The headlights shone in his face, forcing him to squint. He didn’t notice the sound of his footsteps this time, he was too busy thinking of the bodies, that smell, and the horror show he was about to step back into – and for what? He had no idea why he had to show this sheriff the bodies. He knew what house he was talking about, it was the only one he’d seen on the street. And since when does anyone have to give law enforcement a tour of a crime scene? He got into the back of the cruiser and the sheriff started the engine. They ran directly over the wolf carcass with a thud as they rolled down God-forsaken Hollow Drive towards that house. The silence in the car puzzled Mark. The big man in the front seat said nothing. No, “What’s your name?” or, “What are you doing out here?” He just stared at the dirt pass under the cruiser as they went.

They came to a stop in front of the house and the sheriff got out, walked around to Mark’s door and let him out. They slowly walked side by side up the porch steps and into the sad house, which now to Mark seemed worse than a prison.

“Show me where they are.” The big man with the badge said, so low and raspy that Mark could barely understand him. He walked in front of the sheriff, and led him down the hallway of pictures, pictures of the dead. As they walked into the living room the smell hit Mark strongly again and he winced in queasy disgust.

“There and there.” He gravely articulated and motioned to both the corpses as he said it. “I think the other one is upstairs.”

The lawman looked at both the bodies, but he didn’t seem surprised or disgusted in anyway. He took a step forward in front of Mark, his heavy shoes making deep thuds on the hardwood floor. Then he turned towards the college kid and began to speak in a deep raspy voice.

“Yep, it’s pretty gruesome. If you lived around here and knew what kind of people they were you might not feel so bad, though. Jack never attended church (he pointed towards the man), Ruth over there in the corner never did contribute cookies or a pie to any events around town, even though we all knew she was an excellent cook, and I have it on good authority the boy was producing and selling drugs. Right here on Hollow Drive, can you believe that? It is gruesome though.” The sheriff repeated again. Mark had a look of pure perplexity on his face as he stared at the law enforcement officer. After taking a moment to pause, the sheriff continued.

“But do you know what the real tragedy about all this is? They didn’t even taste that good.” And with that, the sheriff pulled a knife out of his pocket and with a quick and powerful jab, thrust the object into Mark’s throat. If he had lived to experience it, a wave of a realization would have accompanied the sudden rush of blood in his throat. Instead there was a sharp pain and then blackness, and then whatever comes with death. As it was, the lawman stood over the college student’s dead body and reveled in his catch. Maybe this one wouldn’t taste like raccoon.

Everyone has their demons, and every town has demons among them. Sometimes it just takes a while for the true beasts to succumb to their hunger and feast. And that’s what the sheriff on Hollow Drive did that night, feast.

A Single Blade

2010-08-03T13:02:00.000-07:00

Rays of light gushed through stained glass windows and illuminated the inside of the small sanctuary. Short burgundy carpet extended along the floor of the room and hard wooden pews, the kind that made little children squirm, were lined in rows. Everyone sat in still anticipation waiting for the pastor to take his podium and begin his sermon, but one man who sat three rows back from the front looked as though he didn’t belong. He was not as well shaven as the rest of the men in the congregation and he sat slouched over, with his head turned down and slightly to the right, as if he were staring at something on the floor.

The preacher noticed him as he took front and center behind his large podium, the same podium he’d stood behind the last fifteen years. He had never seen this man before and he figured he was probably a drunk. Perhaps this was a good opportunity to get a save though, maybe this thought wasn’t entirely as holy as a preacher’s should be but he couldn’t help it. The pastor looked at this man as a car salesman must look when a young teenage girl waltzes onto his lot. With everything his lungs could muster he began to bellow out the God inspired sermon he had prepared the previous night. His words thundered, especially on the words, “God”, and, “Jesus,” whenever they came up.

The disheveled looking man in the third row never seemed to take notice of anything the preacher was saying, however. He continued to stare down towards the floor, as if all the answers he were searching for in life could be found in the dark red carpeting. His tie was leaning to the right because of the way he sat, his collar was sticking up awkwardly, and his hair, although rather short, was tangled in dark brown disarray.

“Yes, he must be a drunk, but I’ll get to him,” thought the minister. Seeing that his words were not penetrating into the man’s soul, he intensified his speech. He spoke louder, made gestures more emphatically, and began moving back and forth across the stage where he preached. By now his face was red from exertion and sweat was dripping down his temple and forehead. His graying hair was soaked with perspiration. He was practically screaming every word now, and the congregation, who saw him preach every Sunday, now noticed the difference in his demeanor. They were all glued to his every word; the thought among them was that this was a special sermon. God was really moving in the church this week; they felt lucky to witness this.

“I was a sinner just like all of you,” The preacher was saying, “And then I found God! I found God to be a savior! I found him to be a protector! Most of all, I found God to be a friend!”

After proclaiming these words a glimmer of pride could be seen in the preacher’s eyes. He felt he had delivered and felt no one could be a non-believer after this performance. Then the pastor added one more thing.

“Now I ask all of you here today, who is God?”

It was a rhetorical question and one the pastor never expected to be answered. However, after these words were said one man in the third row stood up. He was no longer staring at the floor but instead directly at the pastor who stood behind the podium.

“God is a kid…sitting on a bed…staring up at a ceiling fan.”

His voice broke a little as he said it, his stare at the preacher showed weariness but also a hint of anger. Everyone in the church was silent, and then the man continued.

“He picks one blade to fix his gaze on and follows it around and around. Then he takes it away in the blink of an eye. He leaves the other blades there to spin on like nothing happened, if they can. Only that’s not true. He doesn’t pick one blade to take away. He picks one blade to leave spinning. One blade left trying to figure out if this can even be considered a ceiling fan anymore.”

The man smiled a little at his interpretation of God.

“Yeah, God is a kid with a slingshot, with dead-on aim, staring up at a ceiling fan. Picking them off one by one.”

For a moment all was silent in the church as everyone tried to comprehend what the man just said. The preacher began to quote scripture but before he even got a very good start the man began shuffling out of the third row pew. Apparently he had found all the salvation he needed in his own words. He shoved open the large doors at the back of the room and stepped into the warm Sunday morning sunshine. The last words he heard from the sanctuary were, “In Exodus 14…” He didn’t particularly care what came next. He pulled a lighter out of his jacket pocket and lit up a cigarette. His wife had always hated it when he smoked, especially around their son. She thought he was setting a bad example, but that didn’t matter now.

For a moment he stood in front of the church and looked out. He didn’t really know where to go. He took a long puff of his cigarette and started to walk towards the highway. He didn’t know if he was headed for a new ending or an old beginning.

He was walking the concrete parking lot of the church when he looked down and saw a single blade of grass. Perhaps it had been mowed down and flung to the spot where it lay, he didn’t know, but he smiled a little when he saw it. Soon his smile faded away though and was replaced by determination. He held his cigarette between his lips. The sole of his shoe trampled the single blade as he walked on.

I Have Helpers [Poem]

2010-07-09T00:06:00.000-07:00

I have helpers, every shape and design.
Silence, ringing in my ears,
Thrusting my ideas from the midst to the forefront
To drown out the sound, the blare of its dumb trumpet.

This brown demon I pour down my throat.
Ripping at my insides, pounding at my organs.
All for the outcome. The top of the valley.
Everlasting validation. Eternal affection.

No rest will kiss my darkened eyes.
The Night, whispers inspiration
Through foggy skies and hanging limbs of nature.
The lines visible by the light of the moon.

They come to me and offer their support.
They, the committee for the frustrated and struggling.
They advise me often, the quality is relative.
I have helpers, every shape, and they are mine.

To Please the King

2010-06-11T21:53:00.000-07:00

Today was a very special day in the Gergia kingdom. The king had made a decree the day before, inviting anyone who dared, to come and attempt to please him. They could do anything that they liked as long as he found it pleasurable. If they succeeded, the king would present to them the finest of jewelry he had to offer and a position of power in his kingdom. There was a catch however; anyone who ventured to attempt this feat and failed would be executed, beheaded in front of the townspeople the very next day. Why he decided to do this is unknown, although it is believed that having run out of people to war with he was kind of on the bored side.

The king sat on his throne, which was garnished with gold and which was in size much larger than the king himself, and awaited the various individuals that would risk their lives for riches and power. He wore a brilliant gold crown that had glorious, shining diamonds going all around it. He bore a stern facial expression, one that bordered on agitated. He was obviously not going to make it easy on the talent show contestants.

The first to walk in and try his hand at pleasing the king was an ogre type monster. He was dark green in skin color and scales ran down his arms and up his back, all the way to the top of his head.

“What have you brought to please me?” bellowed the king.

Upon this prompt the monster proceeded to pop out his eyes from their sockets which he then held in his hands. Then with a wiggle and a tug he pulled his nose from his face. He then began juggling all three body parts while aiming a hopeful, almost giddy, smile at the king.

Without changing his expression or even flinching at the performance just given to him, the king said, “Jugglers have never been my fancy. Take him away.”

Next a being walked in that resembled an alien. It had pale, almost translucent skin that was green and big black eyes. Its limbs were long and swayed as it moved, and the thing’s fingers and toes were abnormally long.

“What have you brought to please me?” asked the king once again.

The thing then blinked and with no other warning another thing appeared. Now there were two aliens. Another blink made four. Another made eight. Another made sixteen. This continued until there was a crowd of other-worldly beings standing before the king. Out of seemingly thin air instruments appeared and the crowd of alien beings began playing a classical symphony.

No expression of delight or surprise showed on the king’s face. In fact, he gave a long sigh as if this whole show only agitated him.

“Just what we need, one lousy musician multiplying into several lousy musicians. Get them out of here!” said the king with disgust.

Next a man walked in. He showed no special characteristics at first sight. He didn’t look like there could be anything special about him. He just looked like a regular man. The king took one look at him and expected this was definitely going to be a waste of his time.

“What have you brought to please me?” said the king in voice that sounded tired and bored.

“Well, your majesty, I have just laid with your wife – the queen.” The man proclaimed quite confidently. The king however looked very confused and almost angry.

“You see,” he continued “The stories of her not being very satisfied with you as a lover has gotten all over the kingdom. She had never been intimate with another man besides you, but she felt like what you two had was lacking nevertheless.” The man swallowed hard and finally showed some signs of nervousness.

“So, I convinced her to sleep with me. I am not very, um…well endowed, and I am quite clumsy in bed. I am thoroughly convinced that she did not enjoy the experience and from now on she will not be taking for granted the skills you possess in the bedroom.”

The king stared at the man for a moment. Then he burst into uproarious laughter.

“Ha-ha! It’s good to be king! Servants, give this man his jewels!” the king said with a smile and a face already red from laughter.

From then on there were many stories in the kingdom of the man that showed the queen a bad time, and of the king and his talent competition, and of the queen, who was perfectly okay with her love life the way it was.

The Flame [Poem]

2010-05-17T21:01:00.000-07:00

The Flame

The flame grew brightest when you blew on it,
Moved it, and contorted it,
Pushed it from a sizzle to a flame,
But, you blew too hard,
Now the flame is gone,
The oxygen that brings life killed it, how ironic.
But has the flame truly departed?
It has changed form,
It's smoke floats upward to mix with the clouds.
It is never really gone,
The higher elevation is where the forest fires burn,
Constant and permanent markers of how powerful the potential of an ember can be.

Old Machinery [Poem]

2010-05-17T20:50:00.000-07:00

Old Machinery

Gears grinding forward
Or maybe, grinding backward
Altered old machinery
Beyond recalls, beyond refunds
Only heard of short-circuits
Past news, still productive
Means nothing to many
Means everything to one
Can't run quickly
Can't stop running
The rust continues to build
But the machine won't die

A Deathly Departure

2010-03-07T21:03:00.000-08:00

When I became aware of my surrounds I was upright, standing in fact. I blinked my eyes hard two times and proceeded to look around me. There were vases sitting on top of the fireplace and on the coffee table. The rug, one of which I valued monetarily and sentimentally, was sitting in the middle of the living room I stood in. I saw the old wallpaper my wife picked out, I always hated that wallpaper, but it made her happy so it never left the walls.

As I began to walk, the hardwood floor paneling creaked and moaned underneath me with every step I made. I easily recognized everything around me, it was my house after all, but for some reason an uneasy feeling began to build inside of me. Something wasn’t right here; I just couldn’t put my mental finger on what it was.

I peered out the window and saw that the night was dark and stormy. The tree branches periodically slapped the window sill with the wind’s persuasion, as rain poured down and the faint sound of far-off thunder was audible. Every few seconds a flash illuminated what was outside and seeped into every opening of the house, splashing light here and there within.

I moved on slowly to the kitchen, while my fear grew quite rapidly inside of me. I felt as though at any moment some horrible spirit may make its ghostly presence known to me or perhaps a blood-thirsty hell hound may come snarling at me around the next corner and viciously rip my body apart. Just I was entrenched in this last nightmarish thought, I was shaken from my imagination by a loud growling sound. I gasped, “Oh, Dear God!” I said as, I turned to face what I surely thought would be my death. I then breathed a sigh of relief as it was only my dog Max.

“You nearly scared me to death, Max! Good to see you, boy.” Apparently Max was not as happy to see me, as he let off a never-ending string of angry barks. He showed his teeth and gnashed at me as if I were an intruder. I didn’t understand, he never acted in such a way before. I hurriedly left the kitchen, hoping his loud barks would stop if I was no longer there. To my puzzlement they did soon after I left.

I then decided I should go upstairs, to where my and my wife’s bedroom was. I stepped as gingerly as possible on each step, I was hoping the dog hadn’t awoken her and I didn’t want to disturb her myself. I slowly pushed the door to our bedroom, which was already partially open, far enough so I could get through. My wife was indeed awake and standing at the window, apparently checking to see how the storm had progressed. She looked beautiful. She was wearing a white, flowing night gown that I remembered she wore last valentine’s day. Her hair draped down her back with waves that any sailor would marvel at. I noticed in her face a tinge of melancholy, but I didn’t know why she looked that way.

I am not sure if I made a sound or if she felt my presence, but she suddenly turned to face me. I expected a smile to replace the look of melancholy and a warm suggestion that we both get back to bed, but instead I saw shock and trepidation as her lip began to quiver.

“What’s the matter, dear?” I asked, as I was concerned for her well being, but she gave no response and just fell to the floor sobbing. Then I happened to look down at myself. My hands were an odd color, one not so bright or as healthy as I last remembered. My clothes looked like they were in some kind of limbo between existence and non-existence. I barely seemed like I was there, I was more of a mist than a man. Then suddenly, like a roaring flood, it all came back to me. The things that happened the night before; how I had been in a hurry. How that bus driver never had time to hit the brakes.

That thing that wasn’t quite right in my house that night was me. I suddenly felt a sadness unlike I have ever felt before. There was no longer a place for me here, in my own house no less. I couldn’t be here anymore; I knew it would be unfair to my wife. She needed to mourn like everyone else and then be able to move on with her life. How could I possibly continue to make my presence felt here if in reality I was no longer here?

My wife by this point had somewhat gained control of her sobbing and wiped the tears from her cheeks as she looked up at me, her deceased husband. “How can this - is it really you?” she asked with pain and confusion. I knew that if I started to converse with her I would never be able to leave. Just like when I was alive, once I had a conversation with her I didn’t ever want to leave.

I told her, “I’m sorry. I love you more than life. Goodbye.” And with that I vanished from our bedroom. I never would return to that house again, my love for her made me stay away. You cannot properly live when you have acquaintances with the dead. The last time I saw her she was on her knees crying, I hope she didn’t spend too much time like that. Not over me.

The Point of a Gun

2010-02-15T18:25:00.000-08:00

[I almost didn't finish this one but ended up kind of liking it. I hope you do as well, any criticism is welcome.]

Harold Langley hung up the phone as he pulled his expensive new SUV into the parking lot of the bank. The phone conversation he just had was not an enjoyable one, but unfortunately one that occurred quite regularly these days. His wife had called to complain about the help again; in turn, to complain very loudly about him. He hadn’t really heard what they did so wrong, or even paid much attention when the focus shifted to his shortcomings. He knew the situation could be handled without him having to endure an ear-full. He was able to calm down his wife’s shouting to a murmur when he offered to bring her a new necklace when he got home that night. Actually, that was his reason for being at the bank; he needed to withdraw some money to pay for that piece of jewelry. Mr. Langley worked hard for his money but he was willing to sacrifice some of it to keep the peace. Although this type of bribe initially began as a ploy for short-term happiness in the wake of his or another’s blunder, now it was beginning to feel entirely different to him. Instead of a bribe for short and temporary happiness, it seemed like a bribe for her company. As if this were taken away, she would have no reason to stay. Although he felt this, he never said anything and instead made himself believe that is just what a marriage was.

He walked inside the crowed bank brooding hatred for every other man, woman, and child in that building. He had more important things to do than be stuck here, didn’t they know that? As he took his place in line he put on a lifeless, emotionless facial expression and he thought of all the work he could be getting done if not for this delay. He wore a black suit, with a white undershirt, and a black tie. That is what he wore everyday at his job, which is what really consumed his thoughts at this time and nearly all the time. He came from a middle class family. Only occasionally did they catch a glimpse of the rich life and that seemed to be enough for the rest of his family, but that glimpse only made him want more. So he strove for greatness in school and made the top grades in his class, not because he cared about his education but because he was planning ahead. He then excelled in his career, not for pride but for wealth. Love for money motivated everything he did. That was his attitude then and now, as he stood in the bank waiting to withdraw a small bit of that wealth to appease his unhappy wife. The line he was in moved twice and this made him feel a little better. Maybe this would be over sooner than he thought and he could get back to what really mattered to him.

As he was envisioning sent business letters and finished reports, something to his left attracted his attention. There was quite a bit of commotion happening at one of the tellers. At first he just thought it to be another angry, impatient businessman like himself, but then he saw the gun. It shone from the sunlight that flooded in the windows of the bank. It was a pistol. He didn’t know what kind exactly as he never was put in much contact with guns. All he knew, and needed to know, was the damage it could unleash on the people in that bank, or worse yet on him. The man was yelling for all the money to be put in bags, so he could carry out his loot more easily. The tellers were rushing to comply, not wanting to disobey a man who held possible death for any one of them. Then the man turned around swiftly and ordered everyone else to lie on the ground. Everyone obeyed this new master for fear of the consequences. All except one man, he saw an opportunity to run when the gunman’s back was turned briefly. If his footsteps hadn’t sounded like land mines, perhaps he would have made it to safety, but instead he nursed a wound to the lower back that gushed blood. “Anyone else want to see how fast they can run?” prodded the gunman to his captured sheep.

During this whole time Mr. Langley was in a state of shock. He was experiencing a walking coma of sorts. He knew everything around him was real but his mind wasn’t willing to accept it yet, so his body just moved by instinct. By now the money had been placed in the bags and the thief was heading to the door to make his escape. Everyone held their breath, hoping this ordeal was nearly finished. Harold didn’t know when or how but the police had been called by someone and were now blocking all the exits from the bank.They had the place surrounded, thus quickly turning this robbery into a hostage situation. The gunman lined everyone up, one behind the other, in a single-file formation. He stated his ultimatum to the police, via the phone- if he didn’t get a getaway car and a way out he was going to shoot one hostage every five minutes. Harold couldn’t believe it, he was on death row. He had committed no crime but he was about to receive the highest punishment a criminal can get. In fact, he was suffering because of another man’s crime; if he had more time to spare he would have considered the injustice of it all. He was placed second in line and assumed he would die in ten minutes. He thought he would miss his wife, not because he had extraordinary love for her. He would miss her because she was a part of his life, and he loved his life.

The time had come for the poor woman in front of him to meet her fate. The thief raised the shining gun to the crying woman’s forehead as she kneeled before him. Harold couldn’t watch and closed his eyes so only his ears were met by death. The shot rang out. He opened his eyes but didn’t look directly at the woman, she deserved at least that he thought. He could see the running blood on the floor though, my God all the blood. He would have lingered on that but there was no time for disgust in what could be his last five minutes on earth. Before he blinked twice, it seemed, his time was up. So many hours in his life he wasted waiting or doing nothing and his last five minutes went by in two blinks? The gun was raised to his head now; so this was it. Once again he closed his eyes to death as if its light was blinding. He lowered his head and waited for the end. Then he heard the gunshot but he felt nothing. Had his death really been that quick and painless? He wondered what he had feared all his life. He raised his head to see, not the Lord, but the body of the thief slumped over with a bullet in his head. A sharp shooting officer ended this affair nearly as quickly as it had started when he finally had a clear shot at the gunman through those windows being flooded with light. The police then rushed the building with guns drawn. They checked on the survivors and sent medics to care for the executed woman and the shot man. Harold heard later that she died, but by then she was just another person to him- another face. They shared only a moment, he didn’t really know her. As for the man who was shot, Harold never heard what happened to him and he never did any investigating on the issue either.

After he was checked by the police and gave his statement, he got back in his SUV. He sat there, not knowing where to go. He had been forced to see what his life really was and he saw what greed resulted in. He slipped his favorite CD in, he hadn’t listened to it in a very long time and he didn’t really know why. For the first time in years he turned his phone off and drove away from that God forsaken bank. Maybe for once in his life he wouldn’t be going anywhere.

First Writer's Block

2010-01-27T19:49:00.000-08:00

[This is something I wrote about two weeks ago and posted it on writing.com. It got all favorable reviews there, and I would like to now post it here as my first entry in this blog.]

This blank page stares back at me. I know, thanks to many years in the American education system, that a blank paper on a smudgy computer screen can not taunt me. Still it seems to do just that. It’s laughing in my face. This is what I want to do with my life, but this inanimate pixelation has defeated me. It stands in the way of my entire plan. I can see where I need to go, what I need to do. If only there wasn’t this thing, this monster stopping me from accomplishing all my goals.

It has no feelings, no discernible figure, no voice, no anything. It doesn’t have life. It might as well be a pebble or any number of other inanimate objects in this universe. However it continues to block my path. It’s a mouse and I am the frightened elephant, unable to see a path past this foreign creature without changing paths entirely. It looks up and smiles at me, knowing what I am.

Who is this thing to intrude upon my life and plans? Does it really think it can just walk in and sabotage everything? The idea of this all seemed so simple in theory. How simpler can it be than to write? I have read books, poetry, plays, articles, essays, and the list goes on. What I saw did not look so difficult to create. No one ever warned me about this lion. My arrogance and naivety are shameful.

But is this creature foreign or something else? Could this monster actually be…me? This page doesn’t have life, a voice, or anything for that matter. The only one throwing obstacles in my path is me. I am the one who is a perfectionist. I am the one who wants to write the next masterpiece. I am the one who is not willing to dive in and perhaps make a fool out of myself for the sake of learning my craft. My fingers are the fingers that don’t move. My brain is the one that second guesses and self-destructs itself at every possible opportunity.

No one could warn me about this demon because it resides inside of me. This culprit, now that it has been identified, will be brought to justice. Through hard work, dedication, and probably a lot of coffee, this giant will be conquered. Without slaying the dragon you do not get the princess. I suppose this peasant has a long journey ahead.