Arthur pulled the faded book from it's perch upon the shelf, running his finger down the well worn spine. Wuthering Heights had been her favorite book. Every year at this time she had read it, nestling into the overstuffed chair by the fire, near the big bay window he had installed when they bought the house. She would sit there and read the book from beginning to end, her socked feet curled under a blanket, a cup of tea on the window seal. She would sit there and read her favorite book every Christmas Eve.
Arthur traced the worn embossed letters on the front cover, the blues and gold faded to the dullest of sheen. The binding of the book had all but worn out, but she never wanted a new copy. This copy had been given to her by her mother, and she treasured that above all else, except she had said, maybe him. He remembered when he had first seen that book. It had been Christmas Eve and she was sitting in a cafe across from the hospital where she worked. A lot of girls worked there then, all clad in their white skirts and little blue cloaks, but his eyes had been drawn to her immediately. She was alone in a booth, her feet tucked under her, reading the book and sipping a tea. There was a light snowfall fluttering in the air, and several flakes had settled in her red hair, around the small white cap. He had been drawn to her immediately.
He limped into the cafe, snaking an orchid from a fresh bouquet of flowers at the hostess station. Sitting across from her, he rested his cane on the seat and watched her, the way she sipped her tea, the way she turned each page. He sat there watching her for over an hour, so complete was her immersion in the book. The embossed lettering was more pronounced then, still bright and vibrant. He had never thought to break her reading, to interrupt her reverie, he had only realized later how captivated he had been by the mere sight of her. It was only after she looked at her watch, and sighed, that she closed the book and got out of her seat.
He looked away, taking a deep gulp of his now cold coffee, and struggled to his feet, grabbing his cane. He felt a flair in his foot, from the bullet, but he limped on, trying to get to the register at the same time as her. She was dropping her change at the counter when he walked up. He would never forget the second their eyes locked, electricity bounding between them. Arthur gave her the orchid he had stolen, and walked her back to the hospital, Annette twirling the white flower in her fingers. He had spent the rest of his leave with her, every afternoon for lunch, every evening until way past dusk, talking, sharing. He had proposed the night before he shipped out, answered by a tearful yes.
That had been nearly 60 years ago. Many things had changed since then, though in recent years he had come to use that old cane again. Cancer had taken his wife this past May, a long and painful battle that in the end had finally been to much. Nowadays he spent most of his time wandering around the house aimlessly, lost without his Annette. This was the first Christmas he would spend without her, the first time that she wouldn't read Wuthering Heights.
Arthur finally opened the book, running his fingers over the worn cover page. It was only then that he noticed a page in the back that had been marked. He flipped open to the page in question, one of the last pages of the book, and saw it. A single crushed white orchid. Marked at what might have been thelast page she had read before meeting him. He felt his throat grow hot and thick with emotion, and wiped away the building tears in his eyes. Had she saved this flower for over 60 years? He gently touched the dried and aged flowers feeling it's papery petals and missed his Annette more now than he had ever before. He closed the book softly, holding it to his chest as he looked out the great bay window in their bedroom.
A thick layer of snow had fallen the night before and earlier today their great-grandchildren had come over. He could still see their footprints echoed in the snow and the jolly old snowman they had made in the front yard. A gentle breeze rustled the scarf they had put on him but the old hat he had dug out of the closet still rested on his head. He stared out that window a long time, holding that book, until a gentle snow begin to fall against the setting sun. It was only then that he left the room, limping along with his cane.
He returned a few minutes later, a steaming cup of tea in his hand. He settled down into his wife's chair by the window and slipped off his slippers, his stocking feet tucked beneath each other. He rested the tea on the window seal beside the great chair and picked back up his wife's copy of Wuthering Heights. The snow outside continued to fall as dusk settled deeper in the distance. He held the book, realizing now, why this old copy of Wuthering Heights had meant so much to her. It wasn't just her family history, it was their family history. In truth, the first page and the last page on the storybook of their life together. Arthur opened the book and began to read, feeling for the first time since her death, a connection to the woman he loved.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Poetry: The Quiet Wake
Hey all,
Here is a poem that I have been working on for a few days. After the tragedy of the Earthquakes and Tsunamis in Japan though I re-worked portions of it to reflect some of what I assume some people may be going through now, dealing with loss and heartache and longing for those lost. I don't suppose it's all that uplifting but I didn't really have an uplifting poem in me after watching the tragic news coverage the past few days. I hope you find some measure of merit in the poem and I thank you for reading. I'll be back with some new Flash Fiction tomorrow.
The Quiet Wake
I had a dream in which I died,
But at my funeral no one cried.
I walked among the silent wake,
And wondered how the world could shake.
Torn from life by nature's wrath,
Whose fury cut out a path.
Storm and winds had come to head,
As the quake of Earth struck us dead.
So many taken by the raging storm,
Mine, a single life lost in form.
I looked to my father, lost in gaze,
Who said no words, his eyes a glaze.
My mother dabbed at driest eyes,
Her tears had now long since dried.
My brother sat and raged and fumed,
In remembrance of the fires that plumed.
My friend he sat, struck by thought.
Longing for the friend he sought.
But at the chair where my love did sit,
The empty space lay open, remit.
Taken too by the worldly clamor,
She now lay rest in death's own glamor.
So many lives were taken today,
As you hear the world stop and pray.
And even though many were lost,
Survivors often feel the cost.
But now I walk among my friends,
A ghostly shade here at the end,
I cast my eyes towards a burning dusk,
The rays of the afterlife shedding its husk.
I begin to think of those I leave behind,
And start to wonder what's more unkind.
To move beyond those you love,
While you await in Heaven above?
Or to long for something forever lost,
Regardless of the hurt it costs?
So as I fade into the sun,
The quiet wake falls undone.
I watch the pieces of my life,
Separate and break, their sorrows tithed.
A gathered band, unique in their loss,
As one last time our paths would cross.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Here is a poem that I have been working on for a few days. After the tragedy of the Earthquakes and Tsunamis in Japan though I re-worked portions of it to reflect some of what I assume some people may be going through now, dealing with loss and heartache and longing for those lost. I don't suppose it's all that uplifting but I didn't really have an uplifting poem in me after watching the tragic news coverage the past few days. I hope you find some measure of merit in the poem and I thank you for reading. I'll be back with some new Flash Fiction tomorrow.
The Quiet Wake
I had a dream in which I died,
But at my funeral no one cried.
I walked among the silent wake,
And wondered how the world could shake.
Torn from life by nature's wrath,
Whose fury cut out a path.
Storm and winds had come to head,
As the quake of Earth struck us dead.
So many taken by the raging storm,
Mine, a single life lost in form.
I looked to my father, lost in gaze,
Who said no words, his eyes a glaze.
My mother dabbed at driest eyes,
Her tears had now long since dried.
My brother sat and raged and fumed,
In remembrance of the fires that plumed.
My friend he sat, struck by thought.
Longing for the friend he sought.
But at the chair where my love did sit,
The empty space lay open, remit.
Taken too by the worldly clamor,
She now lay rest in death's own glamor.
So many lives were taken today,
As you hear the world stop and pray.
And even though many were lost,
Survivors often feel the cost.
But now I walk among my friends,
A ghostly shade here at the end,
I cast my eyes towards a burning dusk,
The rays of the afterlife shedding its husk.
I begin to think of those I leave behind,
And start to wonder what's more unkind.
To move beyond those you love,
While you await in Heaven above?
Or to long for something forever lost,
Regardless of the hurt it costs?
So as I fade into the sun,
The quiet wake falls undone.
I watch the pieces of my life,
Separate and break, their sorrows tithed.
A gathered band, unique in their loss,
As one last time our paths would cross.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Assorted Nuts!
Hey all,
At this point I don't even know what to say concerning my posting schedule. I've just been awful. I am going to try to be more consistent and get a coupe of posts a week this month. I've already got another post in the can and ready to be posted, so hopefully that means I'm getting back on track. Also by Monday the house should be settling back down from the stream of visitors I've had this month.
If you've never been to my blog before I post bits of Flash Fiction, or short self contained stories designed to be read in one sitting. I also do longer form serials like the one I'm about halfway through now, called Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins. It's a sequel of sorts to the first Dead Sun serial I wrote for the blog, though you don't need to read it to enjoy the current one. It's my take on a zombie Western. I also posts poetry and the occasional movie review or travel blog, though this year I really want to focus more on the poetry and stories.
To get myself back on track, and out from the epic story that Under a Dead Sun 2 is turning out to be, I went back to the well, I went back to one of my favorite genres to write, the western. Below is an homage to the one man against the odds story, with my own kind of twist on it. Last Man at Bad Water draws its inspiration from films like High Noon and True Grit, though films like The Last Hard Man and Bad Day at Black Rock certainly were influences in the title.
I should be back tomorrow with a new poem, and hopefully Sunday or Monday with more Flash Fiction. I'll also (attempt) to get back to Dead Sun.
Oh, and before I go I can very proudly say that I am super excited to show off this book, Moonstone Comic Zombies Vs Cheerleaders #3 . I's scheduled to ship soon and it includes my first published comic book story! I owe a huge deal of debt to my friend Matt Hebb for doing the pencils and especially Jason Worthington for doing inks and finishes. They, along with colorist Tracy Bailey have made one man's dream very much a reality. Check out Jason's blog here and Matt's here . Tracy site is here !
Exciting times indeed!
End of Line.
Gerrad!
At this point I don't even know what to say concerning my posting schedule. I've just been awful. I am going to try to be more consistent and get a coupe of posts a week this month. I've already got another post in the can and ready to be posted, so hopefully that means I'm getting back on track. Also by Monday the house should be settling back down from the stream of visitors I've had this month.
If you've never been to my blog before I post bits of Flash Fiction, or short self contained stories designed to be read in one sitting. I also do longer form serials like the one I'm about halfway through now, called Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins. It's a sequel of sorts to the first Dead Sun serial I wrote for the blog, though you don't need to read it to enjoy the current one. It's my take on a zombie Western. I also posts poetry and the occasional movie review or travel blog, though this year I really want to focus more on the poetry and stories.
To get myself back on track, and out from the epic story that Under a Dead Sun 2 is turning out to be, I went back to the well, I went back to one of my favorite genres to write, the western. Below is an homage to the one man against the odds story, with my own kind of twist on it. Last Man at Bad Water draws its inspiration from films like High Noon and True Grit, though films like The Last Hard Man and Bad Day at Black Rock certainly were influences in the title.
I should be back tomorrow with a new poem, and hopefully Sunday or Monday with more Flash Fiction. I'll also (attempt) to get back to Dead Sun.
Oh, and before I go I can very proudly say that I am super excited to show off this book, Moonstone Comic Zombies Vs Cheerleaders #3 . I's scheduled to ship soon and it includes my first published comic book story! I owe a huge deal of debt to my friend Matt Hebb for doing the pencils and especially Jason Worthington for doing inks and finishes. They, along with colorist Tracy Bailey have made one man's dream very much a reality. Check out Jason's blog here and Matt's here . Tracy site is here !
Exciting times indeed!
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Friday, March 11, 2011
Flash Fiction: Last Man at Bad Water
Flash Fiction: Last Man at Bad Water
I tasted bile and the coppery tang of blood on my tongue as I ducked into the alley by the stable. The corner of the building exploded, shattering in splinters that I felt burrow into the nape of my neck and across the shoulder of my battered duster. I could hear the cackle of Black Tom Bratton as he thumbed more shells into the breach of his scattergun. I didn't pause as I turned the corner though, but barreled hell sped down the alleyway, rounding towards the rear entrance of the stable. I threw all my weight into the door, busting the thin hinges off the frame and crashing headlong across the floor. I felt my Henry Repeater slip from my fingers as I landed hard, my left knee twisting the wrong way. I planted my left hand on the ground and forced my self to my feet, biting down as a wave of pain shot up my leg. I heard Bratton and his gang moving down the alley, making no attempt at subterfuge, and after casting a furtive glance at my Henry, I left it on the floor and limped towards the nearest stall.
The few short steps sent a wave of nauseous pain up my body, made me think my damn knee may have been broken, but in light of the current situation pain was the least of my worries. If I didn't do something quick, Bratton's boys would finish what they started at the Bank in Conception. Sheriff Marsh had taken two deputies and myself after the gang, and we ran them down here in Bad Water. Or so we thought. It seems Bratton knew we were coming, having bought off one of Marsh's deputies. The Sheriff had been pretty quick, and between him and his other deputy, they had killed 3 of Bratton's boys, though for me, that still left three of the motherless bastards, including Victor Lagen, Marsh's former deputy.
I pulled up behind the first stall and pulled out my pistol, an old Schofield Revolver that my father had purchased new once. The gun had seen a lot of action over the years, mostly by my father, but lately, it had come to know my hand as well. I softly clicked back the hammer and waited, peering one eye around the corner. The stable was dark, illuminated only by the doorway I'd bashed open. I kept the pistol close, not allowing the sliver of moonlight to catch a gleam on the old pistol. I could feel the warm trickles of blood from the splintered wood in my neck and the thick salty beads of sweat run down my brow, my entire body tensing for the next moment. I forced the throbbing in my knee down and swallowed another bout of coppery bile, as I let out one last long breath, finding that single moment of calm that comes just before you kill a man.
I saw the first silhouette fill the door and creep in. It wasn't Lagen or Bratton, the shadow cast by the long rifle he had in his hand marked him as the third man. I snugged closer to the wall as he bent down, looking at the Henry I had left on the ground. He left the rifle there and crept closer to my hiding spot. I could practically see the fear in his eyes, undoubtedly compelled by Bratton to follow me in here. I knew as soon as I struck, Lagen or he would be in the doorway to pepper wherever I was. I had to react fast, and hope that my knee could hold up just a bit longer.
I waited until he was nearly on top of me before spurring from the corner and grabbing him. My free hand shot to the stock of the rifle, forcing his first instinctive shot high. I used the hand with the pistol to wrap around his neck, resting the inner part of my elbow into the nape of his neck and forcing his body around. After the first shot I drove the rifle butt into his stomach, but he pushed back and I didn't get enough leverage, especially with the pain radiating from my knee. The blow did allow me enough time to bring the rest of my body around in a three quarter turn though, forcing his body in front of me. It was just in time too as Lagen burst through the entrance, his thin figure a black shadow against the door. I saw the glint of his pistol through the shadows and braced my arm hard against Bratton's thug. Lagen didn't hesitate as he fired, hammering the pistol back and again. I felt the first two bullets hit Bratton's goon and heard his cry of pain.
Using him as a shield, I reached down with my free hand and pulled the revolver loose that he'd kept tucked into the front of his waistband. I pulled it free as I felt the furrow of hot lead crease against my cheek. My thumb felt the cold steel of the hammer and my finger the welcome caress of the trigger and I returned fire. My first shot went wide, punching a hole in the thin wood of the stable wall overhead but my second and third shot found home. The first shot burying into Lagen's gut while the second shattered his kneecap. Lagen fell, but not before getting off another shot, a lucky burst that burned a hot hole into the meat of my shoulder. My left side was on fire as I dropped Bratton's man. I watched Lagen stumble to the ground, his right leg sticking out at an un-natural angle. I dropped my borrowed gun and used that hand to grab the wall of the stable and shuffled backward into the darkness.
I fell over a short wall, separating the entrance area of the stable and the individual pens and pulled myself along it. I could feel the hot trail of blood run down my cheek and shoulder as I gritted my teeth, forcing the pain down again. There'd be time enough for that if I lived. And right now, that was one hell of an if.
I heard Bratton laugh as he walked through the rear door of the stable. I clung close to the short wall, trying to keep my sounds of movement to a minimum. The man I'd used as a shield had started sobbing, begging Bratton to help him, to fetch a doctor. I listened for the click of the scattergun and didn't have to imagine what happened next. The shot sounded as I reached the edge of the wall and rolled myself into the small space the farrier used as an office. The only furniture was a scarred and scratched desk and a chair, both of which were more kindling than much else. Still I used the corner of the desk to pull myself to my feet and leaned my back against the wall, a fresh wave of pain shooting through my shoulder. The pain wasn't the worst part though, was Bratton's continued god damn laughing.
"William...William... Billy me boy. I know you're still out there, hiding in the dark from ol' Black Tom. Why don't you come out and we can finish this like men ought to eh? I'd hate to have to shoot you in the back. Though I gotta be honest with you..... and I've always been honest with you, I'd hate NOT shooting you even more."
He laughed again and I heard him load a fresh cartridge in the scattergun. He was to damn fast for me to try to take head on, even if my shoulder and leg weren't a busted up mess. I kept myself to the wall, listening for sounds of him moving closer, though all I could hear was his damnable soft chuckling.
"You're gonna make me do this the hard way are you Billy? You always were a stubborn little bastard. But hey, I always told you if one day you wanted to be the hero, that would mean facing down some bad men. Yeah, and you may have killed some men before, bad men even, but trust me... little brother... ain't no man badder than me."
I heard him move out again, away from me. I risked a glance around the corner, trusting the distance to be to great for any kind of an accurate shot with that scattergun, and saw Tom Bratton lift a stubby cigar to his mouth, striking a match along the barrel of his gun. I saw the red embers catch fire and watched his chest expand as he took a deep drag. His eyes shown, like black oil catching a spark, as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs in a long curl. He laughed again, not the manic cackle he normally used, but an almost soft laugh of genuine amusement. He stood in the doorway, his bulky frame filling it, the slow light of the cigar cast against the moonlight.
"Billy, it's about damn time we ended this. Your men are dead, my men are dead, why don't we finally figure out which one of us is the good guy. You take your time, I'll be waiting."
He walked out the door, leaving me alone in the darkened stable. I leaned my head against the wall and let out a long ragged breath, before stumbling over to the rickety chair in the office. I eased into it, my leg and shoulder protesting in waves of pain. I gingerly shrugged off the battered duster, throwing it across the desk. Lightly, I prodded the bloody hole in my shoulder and counted myself lucky that the bullet had passed straight through. Still, I used a part of my shirt sleeve and a bottle of whiskey I found in the desk drawer to clean and wrap the wound as best as I could. Hell, it only had to last a little while more anyway and then it wouldn't matter, one way or another. The wound on my cheek and the splinters along the base of my neck were fairly superficial and I cleaned those as well, dousing a bandanna with the whiskey; though not before taking a hearty slug myself.
As I cleaned my wounds, I thought to what he had said. One of us had to be the good guy. Growing up, our father had told us stories of fighting the Rebels at Bull Run, or hunting Indians with the cavalry after the war. We'd been young then, but Dad told us the gory details of war. Of what it meant to kill a man. I'd always kind of been scared to hear what Pa had done, but Tom.. well Tom loved those stories. Whenever we had played as children, I was always the Indian. Or always the Confederate. Tom was always the good guy.
When Tom got kicked outta the cavalry, it was inevitable that his cruelty and mean streak would have led him down this path. Even though I had tried to live a good life, working the farm that Pa had left, Tom's life always spilled over into mine. First, the death of my son, then, the death of my wife, both because Black Tom Bratton didn't like not having things he couldn't have. Tom had claimed that his son's death had been an accident in the woods, but there was no mistaking what he'd done to his Adeline. It had been six years since my son was killed, Caleb would have been almost 14 by now, nearly a man grown, but Tom had ended all that. I wasn't proud of the things I'd done to get here, but I'd be damned if this is how I'd let things end.
There wasn't much to be done about the knee, so I cut the duster into several strips and wrapped it as tight as I could. It hurt like hell, but at least I could put a little weight on it. I checked the load in my Schofield and started for the door, the front door this time. I limped out into the main street of Bad Water. It was a pitiful little town, mostly built around a copper mine that had dried up several years ago. A few stores and a saloon filled out the rest of the main street, but few people called this shitbox home anymore. I didn't have to look far to see my brother. He was leaning against a hitching post, smoking the nub of that cigar, the sawed down scattergun resting on his hip. The old bastard hated doing anything small, rifles and pistols were too small, to pretty he'd once said. He liked what that old scattergun did to people. He liked the look in their eyes when he killed a man. He cast the cigar to the side and made his way to the center of the street.
"Well, well little brother. You got more stones than I gave you credit for. I was sure I'd have to drag your sorry ass outta that stable. You've been a burr in my ass for too god damn long and frankly, I wanna send your sorry ass to hell the same way I did your wife."
"Tom, I don't give a shit what you have to say. One way or another, one of us is gonna be the last man here. This ends."
My finger eased over the pistol, index finger dancing along the tip of the trigger guard. Tom didn't even move, like cold stone, some kind of damn statue, grinning that fucking grin at me. We never broke eye contact, me looking into that liquid blackness. It's a helluva thing to kill a man, let alone kill your own brother. I forced the throbbing in my leg and shoulder, the roar in my mind, all down, burying those feelings somewhere deep; beyond my thoughts. I let out that final long breath, drawing on that calm one more time, just one more time, and flashed for my gun.
The sound of thunder filled my ears and shots fired. I felt my chest grow hot and wet as black edges crept around my vision. I remember falling, my hand clutching a pistol still smoking, my bullet, to slow. I hit the ground but by then I didn't feel it, even my leg and my shoulder felt numb. I saw my brother standing over me, both barrels of that scattergun smoking, and lean down to whisper to me, in that fucking chuckle of a whisper.
"I guess we know who the good guy was at last little brother."
I vaguely remember him loading another shell into the gun as a bright light filled the sky above me. I thought I saw my wife, my sweet Adeline, before the twin barrels of the moon thundered one last time.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I tasted bile and the coppery tang of blood on my tongue as I ducked into the alley by the stable. The corner of the building exploded, shattering in splinters that I felt burrow into the nape of my neck and across the shoulder of my battered duster. I could hear the cackle of Black Tom Bratton as he thumbed more shells into the breach of his scattergun. I didn't pause as I turned the corner though, but barreled hell sped down the alleyway, rounding towards the rear entrance of the stable. I threw all my weight into the door, busting the thin hinges off the frame and crashing headlong across the floor. I felt my Henry Repeater slip from my fingers as I landed hard, my left knee twisting the wrong way. I planted my left hand on the ground and forced my self to my feet, biting down as a wave of pain shot up my leg. I heard Bratton and his gang moving down the alley, making no attempt at subterfuge, and after casting a furtive glance at my Henry, I left it on the floor and limped towards the nearest stall.
The few short steps sent a wave of nauseous pain up my body, made me think my damn knee may have been broken, but in light of the current situation pain was the least of my worries. If I didn't do something quick, Bratton's boys would finish what they started at the Bank in Conception. Sheriff Marsh had taken two deputies and myself after the gang, and we ran them down here in Bad Water. Or so we thought. It seems Bratton knew we were coming, having bought off one of Marsh's deputies. The Sheriff had been pretty quick, and between him and his other deputy, they had killed 3 of Bratton's boys, though for me, that still left three of the motherless bastards, including Victor Lagen, Marsh's former deputy.
I pulled up behind the first stall and pulled out my pistol, an old Schofield Revolver that my father had purchased new once. The gun had seen a lot of action over the years, mostly by my father, but lately, it had come to know my hand as well. I softly clicked back the hammer and waited, peering one eye around the corner. The stable was dark, illuminated only by the doorway I'd bashed open. I kept the pistol close, not allowing the sliver of moonlight to catch a gleam on the old pistol. I could feel the warm trickles of blood from the splintered wood in my neck and the thick salty beads of sweat run down my brow, my entire body tensing for the next moment. I forced the throbbing in my knee down and swallowed another bout of coppery bile, as I let out one last long breath, finding that single moment of calm that comes just before you kill a man.
I saw the first silhouette fill the door and creep in. It wasn't Lagen or Bratton, the shadow cast by the long rifle he had in his hand marked him as the third man. I snugged closer to the wall as he bent down, looking at the Henry I had left on the ground. He left the rifle there and crept closer to my hiding spot. I could practically see the fear in his eyes, undoubtedly compelled by Bratton to follow me in here. I knew as soon as I struck, Lagen or he would be in the doorway to pepper wherever I was. I had to react fast, and hope that my knee could hold up just a bit longer.
I waited until he was nearly on top of me before spurring from the corner and grabbing him. My free hand shot to the stock of the rifle, forcing his first instinctive shot high. I used the hand with the pistol to wrap around his neck, resting the inner part of my elbow into the nape of his neck and forcing his body around. After the first shot I drove the rifle butt into his stomach, but he pushed back and I didn't get enough leverage, especially with the pain radiating from my knee. The blow did allow me enough time to bring the rest of my body around in a three quarter turn though, forcing his body in front of me. It was just in time too as Lagen burst through the entrance, his thin figure a black shadow against the door. I saw the glint of his pistol through the shadows and braced my arm hard against Bratton's thug. Lagen didn't hesitate as he fired, hammering the pistol back and again. I felt the first two bullets hit Bratton's goon and heard his cry of pain.
Using him as a shield, I reached down with my free hand and pulled the revolver loose that he'd kept tucked into the front of his waistband. I pulled it free as I felt the furrow of hot lead crease against my cheek. My thumb felt the cold steel of the hammer and my finger the welcome caress of the trigger and I returned fire. My first shot went wide, punching a hole in the thin wood of the stable wall overhead but my second and third shot found home. The first shot burying into Lagen's gut while the second shattered his kneecap. Lagen fell, but not before getting off another shot, a lucky burst that burned a hot hole into the meat of my shoulder. My left side was on fire as I dropped Bratton's man. I watched Lagen stumble to the ground, his right leg sticking out at an un-natural angle. I dropped my borrowed gun and used that hand to grab the wall of the stable and shuffled backward into the darkness.
I fell over a short wall, separating the entrance area of the stable and the individual pens and pulled myself along it. I could feel the hot trail of blood run down my cheek and shoulder as I gritted my teeth, forcing the pain down again. There'd be time enough for that if I lived. And right now, that was one hell of an if.
I heard Bratton laugh as he walked through the rear door of the stable. I clung close to the short wall, trying to keep my sounds of movement to a minimum. The man I'd used as a shield had started sobbing, begging Bratton to help him, to fetch a doctor. I listened for the click of the scattergun and didn't have to imagine what happened next. The shot sounded as I reached the edge of the wall and rolled myself into the small space the farrier used as an office. The only furniture was a scarred and scratched desk and a chair, both of which were more kindling than much else. Still I used the corner of the desk to pull myself to my feet and leaned my back against the wall, a fresh wave of pain shooting through my shoulder. The pain wasn't the worst part though, was Bratton's continued god damn laughing.
"William...William... Billy me boy. I know you're still out there, hiding in the dark from ol' Black Tom. Why don't you come out and we can finish this like men ought to eh? I'd hate to have to shoot you in the back. Though I gotta be honest with you..... and I've always been honest with you, I'd hate NOT shooting you even more."
He laughed again and I heard him load a fresh cartridge in the scattergun. He was to damn fast for me to try to take head on, even if my shoulder and leg weren't a busted up mess. I kept myself to the wall, listening for sounds of him moving closer, though all I could hear was his damnable soft chuckling.
"You're gonna make me do this the hard way are you Billy? You always were a stubborn little bastard. But hey, I always told you if one day you wanted to be the hero, that would mean facing down some bad men. Yeah, and you may have killed some men before, bad men even, but trust me... little brother... ain't no man badder than me."
I heard him move out again, away from me. I risked a glance around the corner, trusting the distance to be to great for any kind of an accurate shot with that scattergun, and saw Tom Bratton lift a stubby cigar to his mouth, striking a match along the barrel of his gun. I saw the red embers catch fire and watched his chest expand as he took a deep drag. His eyes shown, like black oil catching a spark, as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs in a long curl. He laughed again, not the manic cackle he normally used, but an almost soft laugh of genuine amusement. He stood in the doorway, his bulky frame filling it, the slow light of the cigar cast against the moonlight.
"Billy, it's about damn time we ended this. Your men are dead, my men are dead, why don't we finally figure out which one of us is the good guy. You take your time, I'll be waiting."
He walked out the door, leaving me alone in the darkened stable. I leaned my head against the wall and let out a long ragged breath, before stumbling over to the rickety chair in the office. I eased into it, my leg and shoulder protesting in waves of pain. I gingerly shrugged off the battered duster, throwing it across the desk. Lightly, I prodded the bloody hole in my shoulder and counted myself lucky that the bullet had passed straight through. Still, I used a part of my shirt sleeve and a bottle of whiskey I found in the desk drawer to clean and wrap the wound as best as I could. Hell, it only had to last a little while more anyway and then it wouldn't matter, one way or another. The wound on my cheek and the splinters along the base of my neck were fairly superficial and I cleaned those as well, dousing a bandanna with the whiskey; though not before taking a hearty slug myself.
As I cleaned my wounds, I thought to what he had said. One of us had to be the good guy. Growing up, our father had told us stories of fighting the Rebels at Bull Run, or hunting Indians with the cavalry after the war. We'd been young then, but Dad told us the gory details of war. Of what it meant to kill a man. I'd always kind of been scared to hear what Pa had done, but Tom.. well Tom loved those stories. Whenever we had played as children, I was always the Indian. Or always the Confederate. Tom was always the good guy.
When Tom got kicked outta the cavalry, it was inevitable that his cruelty and mean streak would have led him down this path. Even though I had tried to live a good life, working the farm that Pa had left, Tom's life always spilled over into mine. First, the death of my son, then, the death of my wife, both because Black Tom Bratton didn't like not having things he couldn't have. Tom had claimed that his son's death had been an accident in the woods, but there was no mistaking what he'd done to his Adeline. It had been six years since my son was killed, Caleb would have been almost 14 by now, nearly a man grown, but Tom had ended all that. I wasn't proud of the things I'd done to get here, but I'd be damned if this is how I'd let things end.
There wasn't much to be done about the knee, so I cut the duster into several strips and wrapped it as tight as I could. It hurt like hell, but at least I could put a little weight on it. I checked the load in my Schofield and started for the door, the front door this time. I limped out into the main street of Bad Water. It was a pitiful little town, mostly built around a copper mine that had dried up several years ago. A few stores and a saloon filled out the rest of the main street, but few people called this shitbox home anymore. I didn't have to look far to see my brother. He was leaning against a hitching post, smoking the nub of that cigar, the sawed down scattergun resting on his hip. The old bastard hated doing anything small, rifles and pistols were too small, to pretty he'd once said. He liked what that old scattergun did to people. He liked the look in their eyes when he killed a man. He cast the cigar to the side and made his way to the center of the street.
"Well, well little brother. You got more stones than I gave you credit for. I was sure I'd have to drag your sorry ass outta that stable. You've been a burr in my ass for too god damn long and frankly, I wanna send your sorry ass to hell the same way I did your wife."
"Tom, I don't give a shit what you have to say. One way or another, one of us is gonna be the last man here. This ends."
My finger eased over the pistol, index finger dancing along the tip of the trigger guard. Tom didn't even move, like cold stone, some kind of damn statue, grinning that fucking grin at me. We never broke eye contact, me looking into that liquid blackness. It's a helluva thing to kill a man, let alone kill your own brother. I forced the throbbing in my leg and shoulder, the roar in my mind, all down, burying those feelings somewhere deep; beyond my thoughts. I let out that final long breath, drawing on that calm one more time, just one more time, and flashed for my gun.
The sound of thunder filled my ears and shots fired. I felt my chest grow hot and wet as black edges crept around my vision. I remember falling, my hand clutching a pistol still smoking, my bullet, to slow. I hit the ground but by then I didn't feel it, even my leg and my shoulder felt numb. I saw my brother standing over me, both barrels of that scattergun smoking, and lean down to whisper to me, in that fucking chuckle of a whisper.
"I guess we know who the good guy was at last little brother."
I vaguely remember him loading another shell into the gun as a bright light filled the sky above me. I thought I saw my wife, my sweet Adeline, before the twin barrels of the moon thundered one last time.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Monday, February 14, 2011
Poetry: Valentine's Day
Hey all,
It's been quite a while since I blogged, and really I have no valid excuse. Ever since I moved I just haven't found the motivation. I did sit down today and start to wok on a poem and it came pretty easy. I am hoping that I can use this success to site, my writing back into some meager semblance of shape.
Below is a Valentine's Day poem, something of lost love and heartache. It's hard being alone on this day, it's usually a day where I find myself kind of sad and introverted. I tried to foster some of these feelings into the poem. Enjoy the poem as you will. I'll try to police myself better to offer more output in the coming days.
Valentine's Day
Time has turned, the future past.
Today won't stay, never last.
The breaking dawn will turn to dusk,
As the horizon sheds its rotting husk.
The change occurs, it cannot stay,
As all tommorrows become yesterdays.
Looking at all the time left behind,
The past seems longer and more unkind.
Places you've been are but a thought,
Where you're going, you've never sought.
Future days seem shorter then,
As the known outweighs the unbegan.
And when you look into the rear,
All you see are dashed hope and fear.
The failures seem to weigh much more,
As the triumphs feel but tender sores.
Your hindsight seems to capitalize,
On all the things you thought you'd try.
And as you hope to change your fate,
The times not left, you're out of dates.
Flowers crushed, bound in book,
A withered love that time has took.
Crumpled poems tossed to flame,
The burning love snubbed by blame.
Pictures taken of love brand new,
Now yellow and faded, cast astrew.
Another Valentine's Day has come around,
But here we wait, our love aground.
End of Time.
Gerrad!
It's been quite a while since I blogged, and really I have no valid excuse. Ever since I moved I just haven't found the motivation. I did sit down today and start to wok on a poem and it came pretty easy. I am hoping that I can use this success to site, my writing back into some meager semblance of shape.
Below is a Valentine's Day poem, something of lost love and heartache. It's hard being alone on this day, it's usually a day where I find myself kind of sad and introverted. I tried to foster some of these feelings into the poem. Enjoy the poem as you will. I'll try to police myself better to offer more output in the coming days.
Valentine's Day
Time has turned, the future past.
Today won't stay, never last.
The breaking dawn will turn to dusk,
As the horizon sheds its rotting husk.
The change occurs, it cannot stay,
As all tommorrows become yesterdays.
Looking at all the time left behind,
The past seems longer and more unkind.
Places you've been are but a thought,
Where you're going, you've never sought.
Future days seem shorter then,
As the known outweighs the unbegan.
And when you look into the rear,
All you see are dashed hope and fear.
The failures seem to weigh much more,
As the triumphs feel but tender sores.
Your hindsight seems to capitalize,
On all the things you thought you'd try.
And as you hope to change your fate,
The times not left, you're out of dates.
Flowers crushed, bound in book,
A withered love that time has took.
Crumpled poems tossed to flame,
The burning love snubbed by blame.
Pictures taken of love brand new,
Now yellow and faded, cast astrew.
Another Valentine's Day has come around,
But here we wait, our love aground.
End of Time.
Gerrad!
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Introspection
Hey all,
This past month has been one of marked changes for me. Moving from my house, which I could no longer afford, to a one bedroom aprtment (which I think I actually prefer)combined with accepting a new postion at work at a new high volume restaurant, I have honestly never felt more under pressure than this. The enormity of the month has just been stifling. Add in Christmas and New Years and a much welcomed visit from my Dad, I feel like today is teh first time in a long time I have had to collect my thoughts.
As often, I thought about how alone I have felt this past month, not having someone to share my frustrations with, and worse yet, boxing up these feelings and not expressing them. I even turned away from my blog, turned away from the only form of expression I have often felt I have had left. This year I have one simple goal, one resolution to hold myself too. Change. I want to change how I feel about myself, how I feel about my accomplishments, and how I fit into the world around me. Change doesn't necessarily mean giving up things, and this blog is certainly something i don't want to give up on. I am going to change what I think about on this blog, taking it away from movies and popular culture moments, and focus more on my actual writing. I want to write about things I am passionate about. And while that may mean old school movie reviews or blogging about my travels, I don't want to confine myself to a certain output a month. I will make one promise. I will finish Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins this year. We are about halfway through the story at this point, and I will be posting a summary chapter this week before diving back into the narrative.
2011 lays ahead of me in a endless path of possibility, I need but take the first step of a greater journey. I greet the future today, my eyes to the rising sun, the cold breeze of dusk at my back, the bold unknown lying ahead.
End of Line.
Gerrad
This past month has been one of marked changes for me. Moving from my house, which I could no longer afford, to a one bedroom aprtment (which I think I actually prefer)combined with accepting a new postion at work at a new high volume restaurant, I have honestly never felt more under pressure than this. The enormity of the month has just been stifling. Add in Christmas and New Years and a much welcomed visit from my Dad, I feel like today is teh first time in a long time I have had to collect my thoughts.
As often, I thought about how alone I have felt this past month, not having someone to share my frustrations with, and worse yet, boxing up these feelings and not expressing them. I even turned away from my blog, turned away from the only form of expression I have often felt I have had left. This year I have one simple goal, one resolution to hold myself too. Change. I want to change how I feel about myself, how I feel about my accomplishments, and how I fit into the world around me. Change doesn't necessarily mean giving up things, and this blog is certainly something i don't want to give up on. I am going to change what I think about on this blog, taking it away from movies and popular culture moments, and focus more on my actual writing. I want to write about things I am passionate about. And while that may mean old school movie reviews or blogging about my travels, I don't want to confine myself to a certain output a month. I will make one promise. I will finish Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins this year. We are about halfway through the story at this point, and I will be posting a summary chapter this week before diving back into the narrative.
2011 lays ahead of me in a endless path of possibility, I need but take the first step of a greater journey. I greet the future today, my eyes to the rising sun, the cold breeze of dusk at my back, the bold unknown lying ahead.
End of Line.
Gerrad
Friday, December 24, 2010
Assorted Nuts!
Hey all,
So yeah, I've been absent for a while. A lot of drama has been going on with my personal and professional life and it's been in a huge turmoil. I've been targeting a slight reboot of the site in the new year. I promise to get back to poetry, Flash Fiction, and finishing the latest Under A Dead Sun storyline, as well as working on some new stuff. In the meantime, I promised a friend of mine a new Christmas story and I posted one. Hopefully its just a fun, feel good tale of Christmas romance that you can enjoy.
Check back in January for a slightly new look and some new content. I haven't given up on this little dream of writing yet, and I'm hoping to have a better year that 2010 was.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
So yeah, I've been absent for a while. A lot of drama has been going on with my personal and professional life and it's been in a huge turmoil. I've been targeting a slight reboot of the site in the new year. I promise to get back to poetry, Flash Fiction, and finishing the latest Under A Dead Sun storyline, as well as working on some new stuff. In the meantime, I promised a friend of mine a new Christmas story and I posted one. Hopefully its just a fun, feel good tale of Christmas romance that you can enjoy.
Check back in January for a slightly new look and some new content. I haven't given up on this little dream of writing yet, and I'm hoping to have a better year that 2010 was.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Flash Fiction: Merry Christmas Abby
The snow storm had gotten worse in the last hour as Abby DeVale looked out the window. The tarmac was covered in sleet and ice, and the mild snow storm that had been so cute and quaint three days ago had now closed the airport. She has been on assignment for work, snapping photographs in Alaska for the magazine. Yet here she was, now, on Christmas Eve, far from home. The airport had been closed for the past two days, it was a smaller airport, the kind designed for Cessna and local charter flights. She was supposed to have taken her charter flight to Anchorage and catch her connecting flight flight home to Seattle, but those chances had been dashed by the sudden blizzard.
Abby thought back to the previous week, when the magazine had asked to to shoot the pictorial at the last minute. The magazine usually used Norman Adders, he'd been the senior photographer for the last 15 years. Abby had only been with the company six months. Still Norman's wife had been in a car accident and he didn't want to leave her. With it being Christmas week, no one else wanted the assignment. Abby saw it as an opportunity. By taking the gig she could prove herself to the editors and hopefully get some better assignments in the future. They were already raving about the images she had emailed back and had hinted that she may even be up for the New York assignment next month based on what she had shot.
The only downside had been David, her boyfriend. He had said all the right things, acted so positively when she had gleefully informed him about the opportunity the magazine was giving her. It was only now, when she looked back on it, that she could see the hurt in his eyes. This had been their first true Christmas together, despite dating for the last three years. David had been in the military when they had first met, a photographer for the US Army deployed in Iraq. He'd been giving a lecture at Abby's university, showing some footage he had shot in Afghanistan. She'd hung around after class to ask him questions. She always said it was a professional interest that had intrigued her, but truth be known she had thought he was cute. They eventually met for coffee, and within the first date they both knew it was something special.
Abby and David had a long distance relationship most of that first year, her finishing school in Los Angles while David continued his tour of duty. Even after David's tour finished, he worked as a civilian liaison to the military, coordinating many of the journalists who followed the military in action. That was how they had finished their second Christmas as a couple. Abby finished school and took a job for a small magazine operating out of Seattle and David and her leased a small apartment together. The relationship worked because both loved to travel and both loved what they did, and it made each moment they spent together that much more special. Abby suspected now that David had been looking forward more to this Christmas than she had first suspected.
Abby stared out the window into the snow storm and suddenly felt very, very alone. Trapped so far away from David, and alone on Christmas Eve. She watched the dull overcast of the afternoon fade slowly into the dark whiteness of snow at night, sitting at the window, her feet tucked beneath her. She stayed there until the airline attendant came and told her that the snow wouldn't be letting up anytime soon. He also told her that since tomorrow was Christmas, there wouldn't be any flights out. Abby nodded numbly, pulling on her overcoat. She wrapped herself into her warmest clothes, securing her scarf and putting on her gloves and mittens as the attendant arranged to give her a ride to the little bed and breakfast that she had been staying at the past two days. They hurried together to the car and slowly drove to her room. Abby muttered her thanks, watching the snow rage against the window of the car.
She told the attendant goodbye and hurried into the home. There was a roaring fire in the hearth of the common room as Abby got her key from the hostess. The old woman who ran the inn gave her a smile and a hug, telling her not to feel so sad on Christmas Eve. Abby gave a small lopsided smile, and nodded, before trudging back upstairs. All she wanted to do right now was to curl up under the covers of the bed and cry. Every time her mind wandered, she could see the hurt in David's eyes when she left, she could hear the longing in his voice when she had called him. Now that she wouldn't be home on Christmas, she dreaded calling him. She never really knew how much Christmas had meant to her before. She thought about the dinner that David had planned to have, the candles lit by the window overlooking the Puget Sound, the smell of his herb roasted chicken. Just a quiet evening with the man she loved. It was only in that moment that Abby really understood that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with David.
Abby reached her room and thumbed in the key, pushing the door open, her bags tucked under her arms. She expected the dark cool of her room, but was surprised by the soft red glow of cinnamon scented candles. Her bed was covered in white rose petals, like snowflakes on a field of deep red. She dropped her bags, covering her mouth in shock as David emerged from the bathroom. He was wearing a black suit and tie, a huge smile on his face as he approached Abby. She was speechless, her eyes wide as David came right up to her. He gave her a huge smile and lowered himself to one knee. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box, opening it as he looked up deeply into Abby's eyes. She gave a small shudder as tears begin to flow from her eyes as she stared at the slivery glint of the wedding ring resting in the box.
"Ho...How?"
It was all she managed to stammer as David pulled teh ring from the box, reaching for her hand with his free one.
"A little snow wasn't going to ruin my Christmas plans with you. I'm so proud of you for doing this assignment, and I'd never ask you to choose between an assignment and me, you never have and that's one of the reasons I love you so much. This is our first Christmas where we were going to be together though, and I couldn't bear the thought of not spending it with you. After you told me about the snowstorm yesterday I called your pilot, who confided in me that the chance of you getting clearance for today was going to be next to impossible. I took a flight to Anchorage and rented a car, I drove all night to make sure that I was hear for when you got home. I have a very important question to ask you that just couldn't wait until the 26th. Abby DeVale, I love you more than life itself, and every time I come home to you that love deepens. I want to spend the rest of my life coming home to you. I love you. Will you be my wife."
Abby nodded furiously as he slipped the ring on her finger. She looked at the gem sparkling back at her through thick tears, her shock only broken by a deep kiss from David.
"Merry Christmas Abby."
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Abby thought back to the previous week, when the magazine had asked to to shoot the pictorial at the last minute. The magazine usually used Norman Adders, he'd been the senior photographer for the last 15 years. Abby had only been with the company six months. Still Norman's wife had been in a car accident and he didn't want to leave her. With it being Christmas week, no one else wanted the assignment. Abby saw it as an opportunity. By taking the gig she could prove herself to the editors and hopefully get some better assignments in the future. They were already raving about the images she had emailed back and had hinted that she may even be up for the New York assignment next month based on what she had shot.
The only downside had been David, her boyfriend. He had said all the right things, acted so positively when she had gleefully informed him about the opportunity the magazine was giving her. It was only now, when she looked back on it, that she could see the hurt in his eyes. This had been their first true Christmas together, despite dating for the last three years. David had been in the military when they had first met, a photographer for the US Army deployed in Iraq. He'd been giving a lecture at Abby's university, showing some footage he had shot in Afghanistan. She'd hung around after class to ask him questions. She always said it was a professional interest that had intrigued her, but truth be known she had thought he was cute. They eventually met for coffee, and within the first date they both knew it was something special.
Abby and David had a long distance relationship most of that first year, her finishing school in Los Angles while David continued his tour of duty. Even after David's tour finished, he worked as a civilian liaison to the military, coordinating many of the journalists who followed the military in action. That was how they had finished their second Christmas as a couple. Abby finished school and took a job for a small magazine operating out of Seattle and David and her leased a small apartment together. The relationship worked because both loved to travel and both loved what they did, and it made each moment they spent together that much more special. Abby suspected now that David had been looking forward more to this Christmas than she had first suspected.
Abby stared out the window into the snow storm and suddenly felt very, very alone. Trapped so far away from David, and alone on Christmas Eve. She watched the dull overcast of the afternoon fade slowly into the dark whiteness of snow at night, sitting at the window, her feet tucked beneath her. She stayed there until the airline attendant came and told her that the snow wouldn't be letting up anytime soon. He also told her that since tomorrow was Christmas, there wouldn't be any flights out. Abby nodded numbly, pulling on her overcoat. She wrapped herself into her warmest clothes, securing her scarf and putting on her gloves and mittens as the attendant arranged to give her a ride to the little bed and breakfast that she had been staying at the past two days. They hurried together to the car and slowly drove to her room. Abby muttered her thanks, watching the snow rage against the window of the car.
She told the attendant goodbye and hurried into the home. There was a roaring fire in the hearth of the common room as Abby got her key from the hostess. The old woman who ran the inn gave her a smile and a hug, telling her not to feel so sad on Christmas Eve. Abby gave a small lopsided smile, and nodded, before trudging back upstairs. All she wanted to do right now was to curl up under the covers of the bed and cry. Every time her mind wandered, she could see the hurt in David's eyes when she left, she could hear the longing in his voice when she had called him. Now that she wouldn't be home on Christmas, she dreaded calling him. She never really knew how much Christmas had meant to her before. She thought about the dinner that David had planned to have, the candles lit by the window overlooking the Puget Sound, the smell of his herb roasted chicken. Just a quiet evening with the man she loved. It was only in that moment that Abby really understood that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with David.
Abby reached her room and thumbed in the key, pushing the door open, her bags tucked under her arms. She expected the dark cool of her room, but was surprised by the soft red glow of cinnamon scented candles. Her bed was covered in white rose petals, like snowflakes on a field of deep red. She dropped her bags, covering her mouth in shock as David emerged from the bathroom. He was wearing a black suit and tie, a huge smile on his face as he approached Abby. She was speechless, her eyes wide as David came right up to her. He gave her a huge smile and lowered himself to one knee. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box, opening it as he looked up deeply into Abby's eyes. She gave a small shudder as tears begin to flow from her eyes as she stared at the slivery glint of the wedding ring resting in the box.
"Ho...How?"
It was all she managed to stammer as David pulled teh ring from the box, reaching for her hand with his free one.
"A little snow wasn't going to ruin my Christmas plans with you. I'm so proud of you for doing this assignment, and I'd never ask you to choose between an assignment and me, you never have and that's one of the reasons I love you so much. This is our first Christmas where we were going to be together though, and I couldn't bear the thought of not spending it with you. After you told me about the snowstorm yesterday I called your pilot, who confided in me that the chance of you getting clearance for today was going to be next to impossible. I took a flight to Anchorage and rented a car, I drove all night to make sure that I was hear for when you got home. I have a very important question to ask you that just couldn't wait until the 26th. Abby DeVale, I love you more than life itself, and every time I come home to you that love deepens. I want to spend the rest of my life coming home to you. I love you. Will you be my wife."
Abby nodded furiously as he slipped the ring on her finger. She looked at the gem sparkling back at her through thick tears, her shock only broken by a deep kiss from David.
"Merry Christmas Abby."
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Friday, October 29, 2010
Flash Fiction: Trick or Treat
Trick or Treat
Bobby Hodges pushed his mask onto the top of his head and hefted the pillow case he had been using as a bag all night to inspect his haul. The bag was at least three quarters full and a lot of it was quality candy too. None of that candy corn or those orange and black wrapped things that he hated. He was especially looking forward to that full size Snickers Bar that Old Man Holliday had given out. Full size candy, truly the holy grail of Halloween candy treats. All in all, it had been an impressive night of trick or treating and he had managed to hit his whole neighborhood plus the apartment complex next to their development.
This was the first year his parents had allowed him to go out on his own. He had just turned 13 and had been helping out watching his kid brother after school since Mom had gotten that part time job at the Toys ‘R Us a month back. Mom had said it was just cause she was bored, but he knew things had been tough this year. She was probably working there to save some money for Christmas. He’d even re-used his costume from last year to help out, not that he really cared if he was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle again, Bobby Hodges was all about the candy. Still as a reward they had let him go trick or treating with his friends instead of going with them and his kid brother, Kevin. He’d agreed to be home by 9:30, but most of his friends had to be home by 9:00. That’s when he decided to hit the apartment complex.
Bobby looked at the light up display on his watch and realized he only had 8 minutes to make it home before he was late. He swung the pillow case over his shoulder and tossed the dying glow stick he had pulled off the of his neck into the street. He grabbed the plastic Bo staff that went with his costume (cause Donatello was his favorite Ninja Turtle) and hurried down the street towards his house.
There were still a few people on the street trick or treating and he watched them as he made his way home. He recognized a lot of the costumes, Spider-Man, Batman, Princesses, skeletons and ghosts, and a whole lot of vampires, even girl ones. There were a few he didn’t though, like the guy dressed like some kind of yellow square with pants or the kids with the bulky metal headbands and orange karate suits. It didn’t rest long on his mind though as he rounded the last corner, coming up on Oak Street, his street.
Bobby lived at the end of the street, before it rounded left and made a big loop back towards the main avenue. All of the houses were pretty much the same on the outside, there were really only four models to choose from. His parents had chosen the only two story model and had it built, their dream house. Bobby had lived here practically his whole life. His dad loved Halloween though and always decorated the house. Some years they even did a haunted house in the garage, though not this year. Probably because of Mom having to go back to work. Still Dad had gotten out the old decorations and had done the place up grand. The hanging skeleton, the smoke machine, the creepy music, spider webs, the works. Dad usually dressed up as Frankenstein too and handed out candy from the lawn chair he sat up in the front yard.
Bobby slowed his pace as his house came into sight, realizing that something wasn’t quite right. He walked the last few steps and stood in front of his house, confused. It was his house all right, but all the decorations were gone. He didn’t understand, he had helped his Dad put them up two weeks ago. Heck, they had been there just a couple of hours ago before he went trick or treating. But they were gone. The hanging skeleton, the fog machine, the creepy music, heck even the porch light was off. They never turned the porch light off when he was outside after dark, let alone on Halloween. Yet here the house was, dark and plain, so unlike what Bobby remembered.
Bobby walked up to the front door and walked through, entering the dark foyer. The whole house was dark, just a single light on in the living room, the light that his Mom always left on when they left the house. Bobby began to wonder if both of his parents had taken Kevin out trick or treating after he realized the whole house was empty. The kitchen and living room was dark and his parent’s room was empty. Dad’s wallet and keys weren’t in the bowl by the door though, so that meant they HAD to have left. Bobby shrugged it off though and headed upstairs to his room, candy in tow. All that meant was he could sneak a few Three Musketeers bars before his folks came home. He pushed open the door to his room and flung his mask onto the bed and dropped his bag of candy in the middle of the floor to his room. He turned his desk lamp on, shedding some light in the dim house.
Something was odd about his room though too. It was his room all right, it was just…different. His posters were still on the wall, Spider-Man and the Turtles and Super Mario staring down at him, but his room was clean, un-naturally clean. His Lego stacked neatly in their bin, his action figures put away in their cases, his books and desk neatly organized. Even his bed was made, and unless his Grandma was coming over Bobby NEVER made his bed. Bobby shrugged it away again and began rummaging through his bag of candy. He turned on the TV in his room while he rummages, watching the end of It’s The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown before he fell asleep, half a Twix bar uneaten in his hand.
Frank and Marilynn Hodge came home at 10:30pm. They never stayed at home on the 31st anymore, especially after Kevin had moved out. They usually went to a movie, or dinner, anything to try to forget the date. Frank punched the garage door opener, but stopped well short of the drive way. He looked to his wife, whose face went pale. There was a light on, a light in Bobby’s room. He felt his wife snake her fingers through his and grip his hand as he eased the car into the driveway and put it in park.
They both went through the front door and walked slowly up the stairs, stopping at Bobby’s room. His wife’s grip seem to tighten even harder as he reached out with his free hand and turned the knob. The room was empty, as empty as it had been for the last 15 years. Though Bobby’s desk lamp was on. A light that neither had turned on since that night 15 years ago when Bobby had been struck by that car speeding out of that apartment complex. Frank over to turn off the light but stopped when his foot brushed something. He bent down and picked it up. A crumpled Twix wrapper, left in the middle of the floor. He turned to his wife, watching fresh tears roll down her face, as he clocked off the light, once again, plunging the preserved room into darkness.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Bobby Hodges pushed his mask onto the top of his head and hefted the pillow case he had been using as a bag all night to inspect his haul. The bag was at least three quarters full and a lot of it was quality candy too. None of that candy corn or those orange and black wrapped things that he hated. He was especially looking forward to that full size Snickers Bar that Old Man Holliday had given out. Full size candy, truly the holy grail of Halloween candy treats. All in all, it had been an impressive night of trick or treating and he had managed to hit his whole neighborhood plus the apartment complex next to their development.
This was the first year his parents had allowed him to go out on his own. He had just turned 13 and had been helping out watching his kid brother after school since Mom had gotten that part time job at the Toys ‘R Us a month back. Mom had said it was just cause she was bored, but he knew things had been tough this year. She was probably working there to save some money for Christmas. He’d even re-used his costume from last year to help out, not that he really cared if he was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle again, Bobby Hodges was all about the candy. Still as a reward they had let him go trick or treating with his friends instead of going with them and his kid brother, Kevin. He’d agreed to be home by 9:30, but most of his friends had to be home by 9:00. That’s when he decided to hit the apartment complex.
Bobby looked at the light up display on his watch and realized he only had 8 minutes to make it home before he was late. He swung the pillow case over his shoulder and tossed the dying glow stick he had pulled off the of his neck into the street. He grabbed the plastic Bo staff that went with his costume (cause Donatello was his favorite Ninja Turtle) and hurried down the street towards his house.
There were still a few people on the street trick or treating and he watched them as he made his way home. He recognized a lot of the costumes, Spider-Man, Batman, Princesses, skeletons and ghosts, and a whole lot of vampires, even girl ones. There were a few he didn’t though, like the guy dressed like some kind of yellow square with pants or the kids with the bulky metal headbands and orange karate suits. It didn’t rest long on his mind though as he rounded the last corner, coming up on Oak Street, his street.
Bobby lived at the end of the street, before it rounded left and made a big loop back towards the main avenue. All of the houses were pretty much the same on the outside, there were really only four models to choose from. His parents had chosen the only two story model and had it built, their dream house. Bobby had lived here practically his whole life. His dad loved Halloween though and always decorated the house. Some years they even did a haunted house in the garage, though not this year. Probably because of Mom having to go back to work. Still Dad had gotten out the old decorations and had done the place up grand. The hanging skeleton, the smoke machine, the creepy music, spider webs, the works. Dad usually dressed up as Frankenstein too and handed out candy from the lawn chair he sat up in the front yard.
Bobby slowed his pace as his house came into sight, realizing that something wasn’t quite right. He walked the last few steps and stood in front of his house, confused. It was his house all right, but all the decorations were gone. He didn’t understand, he had helped his Dad put them up two weeks ago. Heck, they had been there just a couple of hours ago before he went trick or treating. But they were gone. The hanging skeleton, the fog machine, the creepy music, heck even the porch light was off. They never turned the porch light off when he was outside after dark, let alone on Halloween. Yet here the house was, dark and plain, so unlike what Bobby remembered.
Bobby walked up to the front door and walked through, entering the dark foyer. The whole house was dark, just a single light on in the living room, the light that his Mom always left on when they left the house. Bobby began to wonder if both of his parents had taken Kevin out trick or treating after he realized the whole house was empty. The kitchen and living room was dark and his parent’s room was empty. Dad’s wallet and keys weren’t in the bowl by the door though, so that meant they HAD to have left. Bobby shrugged it off though and headed upstairs to his room, candy in tow. All that meant was he could sneak a few Three Musketeers bars before his folks came home. He pushed open the door to his room and flung his mask onto the bed and dropped his bag of candy in the middle of the floor to his room. He turned his desk lamp on, shedding some light in the dim house.
Something was odd about his room though too. It was his room all right, it was just…different. His posters were still on the wall, Spider-Man and the Turtles and Super Mario staring down at him, but his room was clean, un-naturally clean. His Lego stacked neatly in their bin, his action figures put away in their cases, his books and desk neatly organized. Even his bed was made, and unless his Grandma was coming over Bobby NEVER made his bed. Bobby shrugged it away again and began rummaging through his bag of candy. He turned on the TV in his room while he rummages, watching the end of It’s The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown before he fell asleep, half a Twix bar uneaten in his hand.
Frank and Marilynn Hodge came home at 10:30pm. They never stayed at home on the 31st anymore, especially after Kevin had moved out. They usually went to a movie, or dinner, anything to try to forget the date. Frank punched the garage door opener, but stopped well short of the drive way. He looked to his wife, whose face went pale. There was a light on, a light in Bobby’s room. He felt his wife snake her fingers through his and grip his hand as he eased the car into the driveway and put it in park.
They both went through the front door and walked slowly up the stairs, stopping at Bobby’s room. His wife’s grip seem to tighten even harder as he reached out with his free hand and turned the knob. The room was empty, as empty as it had been for the last 15 years. Though Bobby’s desk lamp was on. A light that neither had turned on since that night 15 years ago when Bobby had been struck by that car speeding out of that apartment complex. Frank over to turn off the light but stopped when his foot brushed something. He bent down and picked it up. A crumpled Twix wrapper, left in the middle of the floor. He turned to his wife, watching fresh tears roll down her face, as he clocked off the light, once again, plunging the preserved room into darkness.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Monday, October 18, 2010
Poetry: Birthdays
Hey all,
As is my usual habit here I try to write a poem on my birthday, about the passage of time of growing older, something to commemorate the coming year. This year my poem is really about embracing all the things you've done wrong in your life and realizing that those mistakes allow you to be at the place you are now, for good or for bad. Getting older is merely a state of mind, I certainly don't feel more different today than I did yesterday, age isn't about the passing year, its about the passing of life. One year of opportunity is nothing in comparison to a decade of them. This year for me was about embracing the wrongs of the past, and living to the fullest extent of the future. As always, thanks for reading.
Birthdays
Years have passed that were rough,
Times I've face have sure been tough.
Decisions I've made have been mistakes,
And all the consequences and the breaks,
Don't get any easier with the years,
Or get washed away by shedding tears.
But as this year comes to an end,
The fruits I've sown I can't defend.
All I can say is after all these days,
I know now three hundred sixty five ways,
To make mistakes and fuck up your life,
How not to pay the dues you should tithe.
Or all the other ways I've screwed up then,
Can't even say I'm sorry or defend it when,
My life's a mess from from my poor choice,
Or when my words caress without a voice.
So as this new birthday comes to pass,
I'll view my life from a looking glass.
Reflecting on the many reasons,
I messed up these past four seasons,
One could certainly say without a doubt,
About all the things that life has held without,
There are plenty of reasons to feel sad,
When the older you get starts to turn bad.
And each new birthday fills you with despair,
I want you to look back and compare.
And if you live your life like I do mine,
As the years have passed you can find,
The things in which you've been blessed,
Are more important than why you've obsessed,
About getting on and growing old,
So listen to me and do what you're told.
The zest of life is yours to grasp,
If you just let go of to the fears you clasp.
And live your life like each day is your last,
Cause at the end, it passes by so fast.
Birthdays are not about the passage of time,
But remembering that the joys of life can be sublime.
The habits of life and love you can never shake,
But the world around is yours to take.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
As is my usual habit here I try to write a poem on my birthday, about the passage of time of growing older, something to commemorate the coming year. This year my poem is really about embracing all the things you've done wrong in your life and realizing that those mistakes allow you to be at the place you are now, for good or for bad. Getting older is merely a state of mind, I certainly don't feel more different today than I did yesterday, age isn't about the passing year, its about the passing of life. One year of opportunity is nothing in comparison to a decade of them. This year for me was about embracing the wrongs of the past, and living to the fullest extent of the future. As always, thanks for reading.
Birthdays
Years have passed that were rough,
Times I've face have sure been tough.
Decisions I've made have been mistakes,
And all the consequences and the breaks,
Don't get any easier with the years,
Or get washed away by shedding tears.
But as this year comes to an end,
The fruits I've sown I can't defend.
All I can say is after all these days,
I know now three hundred sixty five ways,
To make mistakes and fuck up your life,
How not to pay the dues you should tithe.
Or all the other ways I've screwed up then,
Can't even say I'm sorry or defend it when,
My life's a mess from from my poor choice,
Or when my words caress without a voice.
So as this new birthday comes to pass,
I'll view my life from a looking glass.
Reflecting on the many reasons,
I messed up these past four seasons,
One could certainly say without a doubt,
About all the things that life has held without,
There are plenty of reasons to feel sad,
When the older you get starts to turn bad.
And each new birthday fills you with despair,
I want you to look back and compare.
And if you live your life like I do mine,
As the years have passed you can find,
The things in which you've been blessed,
Are more important than why you've obsessed,
About getting on and growing old,
So listen to me and do what you're told.
The zest of life is yours to grasp,
If you just let go of to the fears you clasp.
And live your life like each day is your last,
Cause at the end, it passes by so fast.
Birthdays are not about the passage of time,
But remembering that the joys of life can be sublime.
The habits of life and love you can never shake,
But the world around is yours to take.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 31
Morgan had found the young girl on the side of the road leading towards Desperation. The poor thing had looked terrible. Her dress had been reduced to mostly rags and her body was a mess of cuts and scrapes. She had deeply purple bruises across her stomach and ribs as well as welts on her scalp. Her face was slightly swollen and blood still trickled from the fresh split in her lip. She had been shoeless and her feet had been a mess of cuts and burrs. Her hair was still damp from her douse in the river and she still smelled of of smoke. He had gotten off his horse when he had found her and took a knee in front of her, moving slowly. One not to frighten her, but two, well... the second reason was just in case. She had been curled up into a ball, but when she finally looked up, raising her head from between her knees, she had embraced him in a fierce hug, a fresh set of tears shuddering from the poor girl.
He had wrapped her in the blanket from his bedroll and helped her onto his horse, telling her he'd escort her to Desperation. She had nodded and they had rode in silence for a long time. After a while though, she had regained her composure somewhat and at Morgan's gentle insistence had opened up. Her name was Ally Marshall she had said, and told him her story. About the blond man killing her family and attacking her. About waking up in the stables. And about her family rising from the dead and her eventual escape down the river. Morgan hadn't told her about his wife or child, he didn't think she needed to hear it, but he listened intently. He now knew that it wasn't just his farm, that somehow, the dead were walking the earth again. He looked to the dead sun overhead and thought about the old stories of his people.
After Ally finished her story she closed her eyes and rested against Morgan's back. They rode in silence for a while, until the woods gave way to a scrubs, eventually settling into more farmable land. The pair rode quietly, coming up to a sprawling farm, it's house set just beyond the trail. The front of the house had tethers for horses along a small open air stable, an old way station for horses apparently that looked like it saw little use. A length of fence ran alongside the road towards a gate in the center. Morgan eased the horse up towards the gate and slid down, reassuringly patting Ally's leg.
Morgan held up a hand, motioning to Ally to stay with the horse.
"I'll be right back, just stay here. I won't be out of sight."
She had nodded silently, but he could see the fear in her eyes.
Morgan slid free his revolver and thumbed back the hammer, creeping slowly towards the main house. The house was deathly silent and the hairs on the back of Morgan's neck stood up. He crept up the steps to the porch, the front door wide open. He stuck his head in the house and looked around. The foyer was covered in blood, running from the top of the stairs into a pool on the floor in front of the main door. Morgan grimaced and pulled back out, following the porch as it ran around the perimeter of the house. As he turned the corner, he saw a shed behind the house. In front of the shed, he saw two forms laying on the ground.
They didn't move, but Morgan still moved slowly. He crept the gun in front of him, his finger tight on the trigger. He gave Ally a reassuring wave that he didn't quite feel himself and slowly approached the two shapes. He pointed the gun at the first shape until he was close enough to make it out. It was barefoot, wearing only coveralls, but it had been one of them. Despite the gaping hole in it's head, he could still make out the clawed fingers and sallow skin. A few steps later he saw the second one much the same, though obviously this had been the lady of the house. Her dress torn down the front, exposing the festering wound in her chest. Her head too had been split wide open and from the looks of it, by a shotgun. Morgan walked towards the door of the shed, slowly pushing it open with the barrel of his gun. Inside, he found one more body, shot in the head as well. Her dress had been torn off her body, leaving her naked and exposed, bruises and purple blemishes marking her skin. The only difference between this victim and the two outside was that this poor girl had still been alive before she was shot.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Morgan had found the young girl on the side of the road leading towards Desperation. The poor thing had looked terrible. Her dress had been reduced to mostly rags and her body was a mess of cuts and scrapes. She had deeply purple bruises across her stomach and ribs as well as welts on her scalp. Her face was slightly swollen and blood still trickled from the fresh split in her lip. She had been shoeless and her feet had been a mess of cuts and burrs. Her hair was still damp from her douse in the river and she still smelled of of smoke. He had gotten off his horse when he had found her and took a knee in front of her, moving slowly. One not to frighten her, but two, well... the second reason was just in case. She had been curled up into a ball, but when she finally looked up, raising her head from between her knees, she had embraced him in a fierce hug, a fresh set of tears shuddering from the poor girl.
He had wrapped her in the blanket from his bedroll and helped her onto his horse, telling her he'd escort her to Desperation. She had nodded and they had rode in silence for a long time. After a while though, she had regained her composure somewhat and at Morgan's gentle insistence had opened up. Her name was Ally Marshall she had said, and told him her story. About the blond man killing her family and attacking her. About waking up in the stables. And about her family rising from the dead and her eventual escape down the river. Morgan hadn't told her about his wife or child, he didn't think she needed to hear it, but he listened intently. He now knew that it wasn't just his farm, that somehow, the dead were walking the earth again. He looked to the dead sun overhead and thought about the old stories of his people.
After Ally finished her story she closed her eyes and rested against Morgan's back. They rode in silence for a while, until the woods gave way to a scrubs, eventually settling into more farmable land. The pair rode quietly, coming up to a sprawling farm, it's house set just beyond the trail. The front of the house had tethers for horses along a small open air stable, an old way station for horses apparently that looked like it saw little use. A length of fence ran alongside the road towards a gate in the center. Morgan eased the horse up towards the gate and slid down, reassuringly patting Ally's leg.
Morgan held up a hand, motioning to Ally to stay with the horse.
"I'll be right back, just stay here. I won't be out of sight."
She had nodded silently, but he could see the fear in her eyes.
Morgan slid free his revolver and thumbed back the hammer, creeping slowly towards the main house. The house was deathly silent and the hairs on the back of Morgan's neck stood up. He crept up the steps to the porch, the front door wide open. He stuck his head in the house and looked around. The foyer was covered in blood, running from the top of the stairs into a pool on the floor in front of the main door. Morgan grimaced and pulled back out, following the porch as it ran around the perimeter of the house. As he turned the corner, he saw a shed behind the house. In front of the shed, he saw two forms laying on the ground.
They didn't move, but Morgan still moved slowly. He crept the gun in front of him, his finger tight on the trigger. He gave Ally a reassuring wave that he didn't quite feel himself and slowly approached the two shapes. He pointed the gun at the first shape until he was close enough to make it out. It was barefoot, wearing only coveralls, but it had been one of them. Despite the gaping hole in it's head, he could still make out the clawed fingers and sallow skin. A few steps later he saw the second one much the same, though obviously this had been the lady of the house. Her dress torn down the front, exposing the festering wound in her chest. Her head too had been split wide open and from the looks of it, by a shotgun. Morgan walked towards the door of the shed, slowly pushing it open with the barrel of his gun. Inside, he found one more body, shot in the head as well. Her dress had been torn off her body, leaving her naked and exposed, bruises and purple blemishes marking her skin. The only difference between this victim and the two outside was that this poor girl had still been alive before she was shot.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Poetry: To Simple
Hey all,
I thought I really needed to do a love poem, something more upbeat and impassioned, especially with the kind of foreboding poetry that I have been writing of late. This poem is about how sometimes words cannot express all the emotions that a person makes you feel. That sometimes people make you feel in ways that you just can't put into words. I don't write a love of love poetry, but I am definitely a bit of a classic romantic. I very much want to be able to express these feelings, these longings, to another person but I tend to write poems to an idealized love. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the poem! Thanks for reading.
To Simple
Love is to simple a word,
To express so many things.
From feelings bold and passionate,
To sounding what your heart sings.
It cannot convey in words or speech,
Even text can fall so short,
The facets in which you lift me up,
And hold my soul in court.
Poems or rhyme may hold no verse,
A beauty that you can’t undo.
Perfection given earthly form,
Each time I come to think of you.
Even music is a dull affair,
You cannot be contained in song.
No verse or chord is worthy yet,
Your majesty is just too strong.
I struggle to find the words to say,
To express just how I feel.
The day you came into my life,
Is when the world became so real.
Even prayer cannot demonstrate,
The love and warmth within,
You’re my savior, an angel of the heart,
My lust for you my only sin.
Adore, admire, praise, and covet,
Each are but a pale lit dare,
To words or actions I hold so dear,
For a lady without compare.
As grammar fails to truly show,
All the things you mean to me,
Know that my heart is yours,
And everything I’ll ever be.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I thought I really needed to do a love poem, something more upbeat and impassioned, especially with the kind of foreboding poetry that I have been writing of late. This poem is about how sometimes words cannot express all the emotions that a person makes you feel. That sometimes people make you feel in ways that you just can't put into words. I don't write a love of love poetry, but I am definitely a bit of a classic romantic. I very much want to be able to express these feelings, these longings, to another person but I tend to write poems to an idealized love. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the poem! Thanks for reading.
To Simple
Love is to simple a word,
To express so many things.
From feelings bold and passionate,
To sounding what your heart sings.
It cannot convey in words or speech,
Even text can fall so short,
The facets in which you lift me up,
And hold my soul in court.
Poems or rhyme may hold no verse,
A beauty that you can’t undo.
Perfection given earthly form,
Each time I come to think of you.
Even music is a dull affair,
You cannot be contained in song.
No verse or chord is worthy yet,
Your majesty is just too strong.
I struggle to find the words to say,
To express just how I feel.
The day you came into my life,
Is when the world became so real.
Even prayer cannot demonstrate,
The love and warmth within,
You’re my savior, an angel of the heart,
My lust for you my only sin.
Adore, admire, praise, and covet,
Each are but a pale lit dare,
To words or actions I hold so dear,
For a lady without compare.
As grammar fails to truly show,
All the things you mean to me,
Know that my heart is yours,
And everything I’ll ever be.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 30:
Ally had been forced to cut through the forest, leaving the protection of the river behind. Her feet bled from the rocks and shrubbery but she moved through the wilds as fast as she could. Fresh tears ran down her face, tears from a mixture of pain and fear. She remembered her experience at the river and bit her lip, trying to force down another wave of panic as she ran through the forest.
She had been making her way down the riverbank, following the shoreline, picking her footing as she moved towards Desperation. Then she had seen them. Two people, at the riverbank, bent over at the edge of the water. Her heart had soared. She felt the rocks stab at her feet as she ran towards the duo, waving her arms and shouting, feeling that for the first time today, something right was going to happen. She ignored the pain and continued running down the shoreline.
It was the smell though, that was the first thing that tipped her off. A smell like rot, or decay, something spoiled. Her running faltered, slowing herself as her cries had rousted the two strangers ahead. As she neared them, the two men looked up and Ally saw them. Monsters. Like her family. Their face was covered in blood, their black teeth glistened with gore. They had been bent over by the river and she saw now why. A body lay in the water, ripped apart as the creatures had been feasting on the carcass. Entrails had been ripped out of the poor man's chest, his head caved in. The water down river ran red with blood.
Ally stopped, her heart in her chest. All the pain and soreness seemed to drain away in an instant, replaced by fear. Stark raving fear. The creatures slowly stood up from the dead body and began moving towards Ally. She stood rooted to the spot, taking in the monsters. They had decomposed badly and wore scraps of rags as clothing and were riddled with maggots and dead flesh. They were covered in dirt and mud, their bodies having turned sour and moldy. But those claws and those teeth were all too real. They shuffled close, mouths gaping and let loose an angry hiss. They were mere feet from her when finally the grip of free released her and she screamed. She turned and ran, straight into the wilds beside the river and never look back.
That had been at least a quarter of an hour ago. Ally had finally stopped running, her breath coming in ragged gasps and all the pain and aches seeped back into her as the adrenalin ebbed. Ally stumbled a few more steps as the forest gave way to a hard packed trail. She dropped to her knees, finding it hard to breath. Ally sat by the road, pushing down a fresh wave of tears and trying to catch her breath. Her whole body shuddered, and Ally felt utterly defeated. She didn't care anymore, didn't want to run anymore, didn't want to live. She finally gave into the grief, and sobbed, knowing that she no longer cared what happened to her.
Her grief was finally interrupted by the clipping of horse hooves down the road. Ally didn't bother to move or hide though, she just sat there and waited. She didn't even look up until the clip clop of the horse stopped. She saw a man on horseback, a man in a cavalry uniform, and she cried again, a fresh set of tears. Though this time, the tears were of relief.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Ally had been forced to cut through the forest, leaving the protection of the river behind. Her feet bled from the rocks and shrubbery but she moved through the wilds as fast as she could. Fresh tears ran down her face, tears from a mixture of pain and fear. She remembered her experience at the river and bit her lip, trying to force down another wave of panic as she ran through the forest.
She had been making her way down the riverbank, following the shoreline, picking her footing as she moved towards Desperation. Then she had seen them. Two people, at the riverbank, bent over at the edge of the water. Her heart had soared. She felt the rocks stab at her feet as she ran towards the duo, waving her arms and shouting, feeling that for the first time today, something right was going to happen. She ignored the pain and continued running down the shoreline.
It was the smell though, that was the first thing that tipped her off. A smell like rot, or decay, something spoiled. Her running faltered, slowing herself as her cries had rousted the two strangers ahead. As she neared them, the two men looked up and Ally saw them. Monsters. Like her family. Their face was covered in blood, their black teeth glistened with gore. They had been bent over by the river and she saw now why. A body lay in the water, ripped apart as the creatures had been feasting on the carcass. Entrails had been ripped out of the poor man's chest, his head caved in. The water down river ran red with blood.
Ally stopped, her heart in her chest. All the pain and soreness seemed to drain away in an instant, replaced by fear. Stark raving fear. The creatures slowly stood up from the dead body and began moving towards Ally. She stood rooted to the spot, taking in the monsters. They had decomposed badly and wore scraps of rags as clothing and were riddled with maggots and dead flesh. They were covered in dirt and mud, their bodies having turned sour and moldy. But those claws and those teeth were all too real. They shuffled close, mouths gaping and let loose an angry hiss. They were mere feet from her when finally the grip of free released her and she screamed. She turned and ran, straight into the wilds beside the river and never look back.
That had been at least a quarter of an hour ago. Ally had finally stopped running, her breath coming in ragged gasps and all the pain and aches seeped back into her as the adrenalin ebbed. Ally stumbled a few more steps as the forest gave way to a hard packed trail. She dropped to her knees, finding it hard to breath. Ally sat by the road, pushing down a fresh wave of tears and trying to catch her breath. Her whole body shuddered, and Ally felt utterly defeated. She didn't care anymore, didn't want to run anymore, didn't want to live. She finally gave into the grief, and sobbed, knowing that she no longer cared what happened to her.
Her grief was finally interrupted by the clipping of horse hooves down the road. Ally didn't bother to move or hide though, she just sat there and waited. She didn't even look up until the clip clop of the horse stopped. She saw a man on horseback, a man in a cavalry uniform, and she cried again, a fresh set of tears. Though this time, the tears were of relief.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Word Balloon: Fell
Hey all,
Whenever October rolls around I like to pick a darker comic book for the column, something from the horror or occult genre. This month I chose writer Warren Ellis and artist Ben Templesmith's Fell, from Image Comics. While not necessarily a horror comic, it does deal with a lot of familiar Halloween themes. It's a comic very much about the darkness of humanity and the vileness of real life, though there is a sub-text dealing with implied magic and the power of belief. It's a complex book that shows sometime the truly scariest things in the world are the people around us.
Fell is about a disgraced homicide detective named Richard Fell who is re-assigned to a precinct named Snowtown, a dark city rife with urban decay, separated from the city by a lone bridge, isolating it from the regular world. Snowtown is abnormally cold, a cursed city that is made up of an impoverished amalgamations of several inner cities. Cloaked in mystery, you are never told why the people believe the town is a blight or why working there is considered exile for the police force. The inhabitants have even taking to marking doors and people with a protective marker, hoping that Snowtown will not turn its ill will on one of its own, succumbing to superstition and old beliefs as the world around them has descended into darker times. Still, Fell is assigned to the precinct's minimal police force and is determined to make a difference where many others will not, trying to help the impoverished town improve itself and to protect its inhabitants using his renowned powers of observation and deductive skills.
Snowtown is a dark, dank place, where vileness is an everyday topic that must be dealt with in Fell's struggles to better the community. His sole point of light in this otherwise feral city is Mayko, a bartender who takes Fell under her wing to guide him in the ways of Snowtown and act as a sounding board for the cases he is working on. She also acts as a foil to the bleak desolation that surrounds Fell while in Snowtown. She even goes so far a to brand him with the protective marker that the citizens have been placing around the city to protect him as well. Despiet the early branding and the friction it causes between them, Fell and Mayko grow close to each other.
Fell is a very different sort of comic, designed specifically as an experiment by writer Warren Ellis to produce a line of more affordable comic books in a market where comics are pricing themselves out of business. Fell is a 20 page comic, 16 pages dedicated to story, and 4 pages dedicated to what Ellis called Back Matter. Back Matter was where Ellis would expand on the concepts discussed in the actual comic book itself, answer email questions, and generally experiment with the medium. By pricing this slimline comic book at $1.99, Ellis strived to make the comic worth the price by offering less comic pages than a normal comic, but densely packing each issue with material. Another way he expanded on the book's density was to adapt the nine panel grid system, where each page is based on a nine panel layout. This causes each page to tell more of a story, thus giving the reader a better bargain for their dollar. using this format, each issue, while smaller than a regular comic, contains more story and additional material, making it a better value.
Each issue of Fell was a self contained story, another trick to make each comic more reader friendly and essentially create a better comic value for each issue. The reader was getting a complete story each time they bought a comic, never having to follow several issues in order to understand the entire story. That being said, Ellis did write in several things that rewarded readers who bought each issue, mostly in the form of a recurring character whose mystery deepened with each appearance. She was a short nun, dressed in a habit wearing a Richard Nixon mask and each issue her actions became more and more suspect. If that sounded bizarre it is, but Ellis is a master at taking the abnormal and fitting into the strange landscape he creates, and the nun's appearances in Snowtown simply amplified the darkness that permeated Fell's city Each issue dealt with a different kind of horror, from child abuse to murder, but Ellis always managed to cloud the results with in mystery that was Snowtown. Each issue causes Fell to slip a little further into teh darkness of Snowtown, and draw a little bit closer to the darkness inside himself. Ellis was trying to create value for the reader while crafting a story that changed expectations.
Warren Ellis is one of my favorite writers working today. He caught notice doing work for DC/Wildstorm in the late 90's, working on series like Stormwatch and The Authority and books Desolation Jones (a series I covered a few months back in this column) as well as his seminal runs on comics like Planetary and his signature series Transmetropolitan. Ellis has always been at the forefront of establishing new media and new ideas in comics, embracing the internet culture way before many other writers, always writing with a mind toward the future and about the inequalities and darker ambitions of man. Fell was his attempt to continue these themes in a format that both rewarded the reader and boldly redefined what comics could mean in terms of new publishing formats.
Ellis teamed up with artist Ben Templesmith, who gave Fell a ghostly, acid washed atmosphere, perfectly capturing the darkness and otherworldliness of Snowtown. Templesmith was best known for his work on publisher IDW's 30 Days of Night series with writer Steven Niles. 30 Days of Night was about a group of vampires who take over an Alaskan town that is plunged in darkness for months at a time. He was the perfect artist to bring his grim and gritty look to Fell, illustrating the horror of everyday life while keeping the whole series in a kind of murky sharpness. His art work always suggests far more than it shows, making the reader imply more about Snowtown than may even be there. His art so perfectly accentuates the mood and tone of the series that its hard for me to imagine anyone else drawing this book.
Fell was designed as an ongoing series and actually thrived when it was fist published in 2007, despite many industry pros claims that Ellis' publishing model would fail. In truth, the lower price point and Ellis' dense story telling style, combined with Templesmith's pitch perfect art, made the book an unqualified success. In a rare occurrence for comics, the book actually gained readers as it progressed, causing the first issue to go back to print 5 times. Subsequent issues also saw multiple printings. Ellis and Templesmith stated that they didn't make much money on the project, though for them that wasn't the point. They did turn a profit, but it was more important for them to show what they could do with the format and proving it to the world. It's a strange concept for many people outside of comics, to work on a series out of love for the medium, even though you can make more money on other projects. It's simply the love of the medium that guides you, and the love of creating genre changing books like Fell that motivated them. Most creators would say you don't make comics to get rich, you make comics because you love them.
Unfortunately for fans of the series, the book has been plagued by a series of shipping delays, the last issue coming out nearly two years ago. A combination of Templesmith's other artistic commitments at first led to the initial delays, though since in the end of 2008 much of the problems have been Ellis' fault. After a computer crash led to the loss of Ellis' scripts, including multiple issues of Fell, he spent much of the time catching up his contractually obligated commitments, though he has stated recently that work on a new issue has begun.
Fell is a perfect book for this time of year, dark and creepy, hinting at the darker undertone of the world around us, with just a hint of the fantastic. The book's cutting, murky style is a perfect fit for Ellis' work and his characterization is at the top of his game. The creators manage to ft each 20 page comic with more material than most full size books and it is a real value for your trade dollar. Fell is also a really good gateway book for fans of Ellis, as it borders Ellis quirkier mainstream approach while hinting at the gonzo surrealism of some of Ellis' more subversive and gonzo work, like Transmetropolitan and Black Summer. this is a fine comic, published by two creators making something truly unique in this day and age, a book for the comic book fan. Not something as simple as a mindless rehash or a spin off, but something original and fresh, using an approach unheard of in modern day comics. Check out the first (and sadly sole) trade today, collecting the first 8 issues of the series. Image Comics Fell: Feral City (Volume 1), by Warren Ellis and Ben Templesmith, a book that proves there is nothing quite as frightening as the real world. Happy reading!
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Poetry: A Dream Denies
Hey all,
Wrote this poem during the past few days, where I have been just mind numbingly exhausted. The material was pretty easy to come by, considering how damnably tired I was. Its not the first poem I have written about being tired, but then again, I do seem to recycle subject matter a bit here and there. Anyway, it's a bit of a shorter work, but I like the symmetry and I knew when I wrote that final line, that it was the place to end the poem. Anyway, thanks for reading.
A Dream Denies
Eyes so heavy, blurry vision.
Sleep depraved, my own volition.
Long swept days of ill reform,
Staving away sweet slumbers norm.
Toils to grind for all the day,
Yet no lullaby tonight can assuage.
Fickle dreams on the edge of sleep,
Lay out of grasp, to far to leap.
To snore, to rest, to nap in kind,
Would feel so sweet to this weary mind.
Angst and pressure, my thoughts a-twirl,
These reasons why sleep can not unfurl.
Weary bones and tired muscles,
Exhausted soul turns and tussles.
But every time I close my eyes,
Sleep, perchance, a dream denies.
An empty black, these silent rooms,
All of which my conscious consumes.
Cannot find the way to peace,
As my reward this night is simply fleeced.
I toss and thrash in tussled sheet,
Praying the day to draw complete.
The sun has set the stars now shine,
Yet I'm wide awake and far from fine.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Wrote this poem during the past few days, where I have been just mind numbingly exhausted. The material was pretty easy to come by, considering how damnably tired I was. Its not the first poem I have written about being tired, but then again, I do seem to recycle subject matter a bit here and there. Anyway, it's a bit of a shorter work, but I like the symmetry and I knew when I wrote that final line, that it was the place to end the poem. Anyway, thanks for reading.
A Dream Denies
Eyes so heavy, blurry vision.
Sleep depraved, my own volition.
Long swept days of ill reform,
Staving away sweet slumbers norm.
Toils to grind for all the day,
Yet no lullaby tonight can assuage.
Fickle dreams on the edge of sleep,
Lay out of grasp, to far to leap.
To snore, to rest, to nap in kind,
Would feel so sweet to this weary mind.
Angst and pressure, my thoughts a-twirl,
These reasons why sleep can not unfurl.
Weary bones and tired muscles,
Exhausted soul turns and tussles.
But every time I close my eyes,
Sleep, perchance, a dream denies.
An empty black, these silent rooms,
All of which my conscious consumes.
Cannot find the way to peace,
As my reward this night is simply fleeced.
I toss and thrash in tussled sheet,
Praying the day to draw complete.
The sun has set the stars now shine,
Yet I'm wide awake and far from fine.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 29:
Cody stuck to the main road as much as possible, listening and watching for any kind of activity. He wasn't sure what time it was, but based on the position of the sun it was at least mid morning. He hadn't seen anything like the Johnson Brothers this morning, but he hadn't seen anyone else either. He felt uneasy, nervous, and Cody Jarret did not like feeling that way. He hitched up his saddle bags and continued down the trail. Fifteen minutes later, his nerves went away as he found someone else.
The farmhouse had been built along the road and at one point had been a watering hole for the stage and horses in the early days before Desperation had been built, which meant that Cody was still a quarter of a day from town. Nowadays it was just a farmhouse. It was the screams that alerted Cody. He crept up, staying close to the border fence that ran alongside the trail, separating the farmland from the road. He could see two more of the abominations clawing at the door of a shed behind. One creature was barefoot and dressed in overalls, a giant festering wound seeping gore from his neck. The other was wearing a nice dress, though it had been slashed down the middle exposing her chest. The dress was covered in blood and you could see were her chest had been split open. They each had the same gaping mouths and black teeth, like before, and their fingers twisted into sharpened points, streaked with red.
The screams were coming from a small shed. As he drew close he could tell the terrified screams were a woman's, a truly terrified woman. The two monsters battered at the door and Cody could see the frame buckling under the inhuman assault. The screams intensified as more of the door was beaten away, the cries seeming to fuel the beasts into a frenzy as they drew nearer their prey. Cody could see the door giving way, as if whoever was trapped inside the shed was bracing it themselves.
Cody felt that feeling of warmth bubble up in his stomach. He felt it spreading throughout his whole body. That special feeling he got whenever he killed a man. He had been surprised by the Johnson Brothers this morning, but he knew now. He knew that whatever these fucks were you could kill them. And Cody Jarret dearly loved the feeling of killing a man. Cody debated whether to use one of his beautiful Colts, or the sawed-off he had taken from the Johnson boys. In the end he settled on the shotgun, simply because he was already holding it.
He tossed his saddle bags over the short fencing and then hopped over himself. He breached the barrel of the shotgun, checking the twin shells in the chamber and slammed the barrel shut. He thumbed back the hammers and whistled, watching as the two creatures spun away from their panicked victim in the shed and slowly begin to stalk towards him. Cody smiled, his mind processing as the monsters drew into range. They seemed thoughtless creatures, based solely on instinct and need. Not capable of thought or complex action. He smiled even wider as he drew the shotgun up and fired. He smile descended into a mad kind of laugh as he ejected the spent shells, loading again. The creatures still moved futility, their chests gaping holes. The ground was streaked with a multitude of spoiled pus and blackened blood as Cody walked towards the monsters. They still clung to life, teeth gnashing as Cody brought the rifle up. He didn't even aim, just jammed the cold barrel of the shotgun into the thrashing mouths of the beats and fired. His laughter died down as he finished the monster's off, his once manic laughter replaced by a euphoric calm as he re-loaded the shotgun.
He walked up to teh shed, his body tingling and alive. He slowly pushed the door open, finding no resistance. He held the shotgun to the side as he peered inside, finding the loan occupant. A young woman, no more than 17 or 18, was curled in the corner crying. Her dress was torn and she had lost a shoe, her face streaked with dirt and tears. She uncurled herself, slowly realizing that Cody wasn't one of those creatures.
"Are..........are you alive?"
Her voice cracked, brittle with fear and trauma and Cody said yes. She bounded from the floor in a blur, wrapping her arms around Cody, her body pressing tightly against him. He wrapped his arms around her and felt another familiar feeling. A feeling he had ignored too much the past two days. That feeling that came directly after he killed a man, a different kind of warmth spreading across his body. He pulled her even closer, her soft bits pressing against him and Cody told her everything would be all right now.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Cody stuck to the main road as much as possible, listening and watching for any kind of activity. He wasn't sure what time it was, but based on the position of the sun it was at least mid morning. He hadn't seen anything like the Johnson Brothers this morning, but he hadn't seen anyone else either. He felt uneasy, nervous, and Cody Jarret did not like feeling that way. He hitched up his saddle bags and continued down the trail. Fifteen minutes later, his nerves went away as he found someone else.
The farmhouse had been built along the road and at one point had been a watering hole for the stage and horses in the early days before Desperation had been built, which meant that Cody was still a quarter of a day from town. Nowadays it was just a farmhouse. It was the screams that alerted Cody. He crept up, staying close to the border fence that ran alongside the trail, separating the farmland from the road. He could see two more of the abominations clawing at the door of a shed behind. One creature was barefoot and dressed in overalls, a giant festering wound seeping gore from his neck. The other was wearing a nice dress, though it had been slashed down the middle exposing her chest. The dress was covered in blood and you could see were her chest had been split open. They each had the same gaping mouths and black teeth, like before, and their fingers twisted into sharpened points, streaked with red.
The screams were coming from a small shed. As he drew close he could tell the terrified screams were a woman's, a truly terrified woman. The two monsters battered at the door and Cody could see the frame buckling under the inhuman assault. The screams intensified as more of the door was beaten away, the cries seeming to fuel the beasts into a frenzy as they drew nearer their prey. Cody could see the door giving way, as if whoever was trapped inside the shed was bracing it themselves.
Cody felt that feeling of warmth bubble up in his stomach. He felt it spreading throughout his whole body. That special feeling he got whenever he killed a man. He had been surprised by the Johnson Brothers this morning, but he knew now. He knew that whatever these fucks were you could kill them. And Cody Jarret dearly loved the feeling of killing a man. Cody debated whether to use one of his beautiful Colts, or the sawed-off he had taken from the Johnson boys. In the end he settled on the shotgun, simply because he was already holding it.
He tossed his saddle bags over the short fencing and then hopped over himself. He breached the barrel of the shotgun, checking the twin shells in the chamber and slammed the barrel shut. He thumbed back the hammers and whistled, watching as the two creatures spun away from their panicked victim in the shed and slowly begin to stalk towards him. Cody smiled, his mind processing as the monsters drew into range. They seemed thoughtless creatures, based solely on instinct and need. Not capable of thought or complex action. He smiled even wider as he drew the shotgun up and fired. He smile descended into a mad kind of laugh as he ejected the spent shells, loading again. The creatures still moved futility, their chests gaping holes. The ground was streaked with a multitude of spoiled pus and blackened blood as Cody walked towards the monsters. They still clung to life, teeth gnashing as Cody brought the rifle up. He didn't even aim, just jammed the cold barrel of the shotgun into the thrashing mouths of the beats and fired. His laughter died down as he finished the monster's off, his once manic laughter replaced by a euphoric calm as he re-loaded the shotgun.
He walked up to teh shed, his body tingling and alive. He slowly pushed the door open, finding no resistance. He held the shotgun to the side as he peered inside, finding the loan occupant. A young woman, no more than 17 or 18, was curled in the corner crying. Her dress was torn and she had lost a shoe, her face streaked with dirt and tears. She uncurled herself, slowly realizing that Cody wasn't one of those creatures.
"Are..........are you alive?"
Her voice cracked, brittle with fear and trauma and Cody said yes. She bounded from the floor in a blur, wrapping her arms around Cody, her body pressing tightly against him. He wrapped his arms around her and felt another familiar feeling. A feeling he had ignored too much the past two days. That feeling that came directly after he killed a man, a different kind of warmth spreading across his body. He pulled her even closer, her soft bits pressing against him and Cody told her everything would be all right now.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Monday, October 04, 2010
Poetry: Beginnings, Endings, Endings, Beginnings
Hey all,
Kind of a weird poem effort below. Trying something very structurally different, where I built the poem based on the number of words in the stanza. The poem starts with one word lines and increases by an additional word each stanza. Finally it crests with a five word line only to then de-structure itself back towards the one word line. I took several attempts at the poem, more than normal for me. The poem itself was written in pretty much one sitting, but I have gone through the lines several times tweaking the wording and flow to make the poem more or less sound better. To iron out a better verbal flow. I'm still not sure as to how great the poem is of itself, but I enjoyed using it as a learning exercise and as a writing tool. It challenged me in a different kind of way that was fun. Enjoy!
Beginnings, Endings, Endings, Beginnings
Beginnings,
Endings,
Choices,
Defending.
Empty promises,
Broken dream,
Forgotten words,
Feeling obscene.
Cut to wit,
Pain so raw,
My blood flows,
Cold heart thaws.
In these darkened halls,
Hearing the silence walk,
Enduring these lonely days,
As my heartache stalks.
Time goes on, ever fast,
Simple moments just slipping by,
Fleeting hours, they tick away,
Only failures left to try.
Cast a gaze behind,
Yesteryears come and gone,
Happiness tuned to dusk,
Bitterness breaks the dawn.
Alone and awake,
This lonely night,
Regrets so fresh,
Reliving the sights.
So cold,
Here alone,
Craving changes,
Never atoned.
Endings,
Beginnings,
Choices,
Misgivings.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Kind of a weird poem effort below. Trying something very structurally different, where I built the poem based on the number of words in the stanza. The poem starts with one word lines and increases by an additional word each stanza. Finally it crests with a five word line only to then de-structure itself back towards the one word line. I took several attempts at the poem, more than normal for me. The poem itself was written in pretty much one sitting, but I have gone through the lines several times tweaking the wording and flow to make the poem more or less sound better. To iron out a better verbal flow. I'm still not sure as to how great the poem is of itself, but I enjoyed using it as a learning exercise and as a writing tool. It challenged me in a different kind of way that was fun. Enjoy!
Beginnings, Endings, Endings, Beginnings
Beginnings,
Endings,
Choices,
Defending.
Empty promises,
Broken dream,
Forgotten words,
Feeling obscene.
Cut to wit,
Pain so raw,
My blood flows,
Cold heart thaws.
In these darkened halls,
Hearing the silence walk,
Enduring these lonely days,
As my heartache stalks.
Time goes on, ever fast,
Simple moments just slipping by,
Fleeting hours, they tick away,
Only failures left to try.
Cast a gaze behind,
Yesteryears come and gone,
Happiness tuned to dusk,
Bitterness breaks the dawn.
Alone and awake,
This lonely night,
Regrets so fresh,
Reliving the sights.
So cold,
Here alone,
Craving changes,
Never atoned.
Endings,
Beginnings,
Choices,
Misgivings.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Flash Fiction: Under a Dead Sun: Past Sins
Chapter 28:
"PEDRO! GRAB YOUR MOTHER AND GET UP THE STAIRS!"
Father Enrico pulled Father Ruiz by the sleeve away from the door to the church. The creatures had broken through and were moving over the rubble of broken furniture. Enrico aimed slowly, trying to measure out his shots to have the maximum effect. He pulled the trigger slowly, deliberately firing when he had a clear shot, aiming for the head whenever possible, purely on instinct. Pedro skipped past him towards his mother Maria, who was still rocking herself in the corner saying the Lord's prayer. Brother Romero had taken a broken piece of table leg and had backed towards the stairs leading up.
"Ruiz! Romero! We must get to the stairs, it will form a natural bottleneck where we can face these damnable monsters!"
He saw them both nod and make for the stairs. Enrico fired again, watching one of the monster's head explode in a black shower as the monster fell lifelessly to the church floor. Enrico took aim again and fired, and again, long dormant instincts rising to the surface. He watched the cursed beasts fall under his assault until the old pistol clicked empty. At the sound of that "click" all of those old fears bubbled to the surface though. The realization of the situation came flooding in as he reached into his robes for more bullets. The dead walking, the sun dying. Hell coming to Earth.
Enrico managed to jam two rounds into gun before the monsters made their final surge. Seven of the creatures barreled through the door, gore glistening from their blackened fangs. Brother Romero ran up the stairs as Father Ruiz called for Maria and Pedro. Pedro was desperately pulling on his mother, trying to drag her from the corner. Maria was crying hysterically, wailing her prayer through blubbered tears as her son pleaded with her to move. Enrico was trying to load his third shot when the first creature descended on the pair. Enrico watched in horror as the monster swiped his long claw across Pedro's back, dark red tears through his flesh as the boy let out a scream. His mother never even broke her prayer as another creature descended on her son, tearing at his flesh with a sickening ease.
Enrico willed his hand up, his once calm aim now jittery, as he tried to bear down on the two monsters. It was then he saw Father Ruiz throw himself at the creatures. He had no weapons, he simply pulled at the monster, his hands around his neck, willing the beast's maw away from the wailing boy. He succeeded for a second, until the smells of fresh blood enticed the other creatures into a frenzy. The horde descended on the Ruiz, claws and jagged teeth tearing at Ruiz' flesh. Even the mother's once incessant prayer was choked off into screams of pain and terror as the monsters feed on her flesh. The cries of the three victims filled the church, screams of pain, or fear, cries for a God who wasn't answering.
Enrico wrenched his gaze away from the horror unfolding in front of him and looked at Brother Romero, still holding the broken table leg. Tears rolled down the young man's face, his eyes tinged red with sorrow and fear, and he heard tehboy call to him for help.
"Father....please...."
Enrico looked away from the young man, twisting his head even further from the abhorrent sounds unfolding just yards from him. he saw the cleared doorway, free from monsters, free for the moment. A chance. He looked back to Romero, as the first of the feeding creatures broke away from Ruiz's body, gore and entrails hanging from his mouth. The monster began shuffling towards Romero as Enrico slipped closer to the door. He looked back to Romero, his eyes tinged with tears, and whispered his failure.
"I'm sorry......God I'm so sorry......"
The creature stalked towards Brother Romero, drawing closer to the petrified young man. With a lump in his throat, Enrico turned away running for the open doorway, hearing his one time brother's cries. The pleading cries for him to come back, to save him. Begging to not be left alone. Another demon that would haunt Enrico's dreams. Another failure on his part. For the second time in his life, he ran away from the people whom he had taken an oath to protect.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
"PEDRO! GRAB YOUR MOTHER AND GET UP THE STAIRS!"
Father Enrico pulled Father Ruiz by the sleeve away from the door to the church. The creatures had broken through and were moving over the rubble of broken furniture. Enrico aimed slowly, trying to measure out his shots to have the maximum effect. He pulled the trigger slowly, deliberately firing when he had a clear shot, aiming for the head whenever possible, purely on instinct. Pedro skipped past him towards his mother Maria, who was still rocking herself in the corner saying the Lord's prayer. Brother Romero had taken a broken piece of table leg and had backed towards the stairs leading up.
"Ruiz! Romero! We must get to the stairs, it will form a natural bottleneck where we can face these damnable monsters!"
He saw them both nod and make for the stairs. Enrico fired again, watching one of the monster's head explode in a black shower as the monster fell lifelessly to the church floor. Enrico took aim again and fired, and again, long dormant instincts rising to the surface. He watched the cursed beasts fall under his assault until the old pistol clicked empty. At the sound of that "click" all of those old fears bubbled to the surface though. The realization of the situation came flooding in as he reached into his robes for more bullets. The dead walking, the sun dying. Hell coming to Earth.
Enrico managed to jam two rounds into gun before the monsters made their final surge. Seven of the creatures barreled through the door, gore glistening from their blackened fangs. Brother Romero ran up the stairs as Father Ruiz called for Maria and Pedro. Pedro was desperately pulling on his mother, trying to drag her from the corner. Maria was crying hysterically, wailing her prayer through blubbered tears as her son pleaded with her to move. Enrico was trying to load his third shot when the first creature descended on the pair. Enrico watched in horror as the monster swiped his long claw across Pedro's back, dark red tears through his flesh as the boy let out a scream. His mother never even broke her prayer as another creature descended on her son, tearing at his flesh with a sickening ease.
Enrico willed his hand up, his once calm aim now jittery, as he tried to bear down on the two monsters. It was then he saw Father Ruiz throw himself at the creatures. He had no weapons, he simply pulled at the monster, his hands around his neck, willing the beast's maw away from the wailing boy. He succeeded for a second, until the smells of fresh blood enticed the other creatures into a frenzy. The horde descended on the Ruiz, claws and jagged teeth tearing at Ruiz' flesh. Even the mother's once incessant prayer was choked off into screams of pain and terror as the monsters feed on her flesh. The cries of the three victims filled the church, screams of pain, or fear, cries for a God who wasn't answering.
Enrico wrenched his gaze away from the horror unfolding in front of him and looked at Brother Romero, still holding the broken table leg. Tears rolled down the young man's face, his eyes tinged red with sorrow and fear, and he heard tehboy call to him for help.
"Father....please...."
Enrico looked away from the young man, twisting his head even further from the abhorrent sounds unfolding just yards from him. he saw the cleared doorway, free from monsters, free for the moment. A chance. He looked back to Romero, as the first of the feeding creatures broke away from Ruiz's body, gore and entrails hanging from his mouth. The monster began shuffling towards Romero as Enrico slipped closer to the door. He looked back to Romero, his eyes tinged with tears, and whispered his failure.
"I'm sorry......God I'm so sorry......"
The creature stalked towards Brother Romero, drawing closer to the petrified young man. With a lump in his throat, Enrico turned away running for the open doorway, hearing his one time brother's cries. The pleading cries for him to come back, to save him. Begging to not be left alone. Another demon that would haunt Enrico's dreams. Another failure on his part. For the second time in his life, he ran away from the people whom he had taken an oath to protect.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Friday, October 01, 2010
Assorted Nuts!
Happy October!
Yeah, last month surely didn't go according to plan. I really wanted to do 30 posts, and I fell about 7 short. Still I think I did have some quality posts and I am a little proud of the amount of poetry I managed to crank out. It was a combination of several things that lead to the lack of output at the end. One was a clear lack of topical material, though I think the second reason was more the matter. I simply hit the wall. I just had no desire or energy to write. Personal issues with my car and such weighed in on the matter too, but honestly I can say I am disappointed in myself. I am not setting a post target this month, but I certainly am shooting for more of a regular output.
I do have some fun plans this month for posts though. I'm planning on at least two special posts, a flash fiction short story for Halloween as well as one of my annual poems. You can also count on Under A Dead Sun to really start amping up and seeing the characters start to come together. I also have some other non blog writing to do so hopefully this will be a busy month. I'm taking my last week of vacation this month as well so I want to do some serious writing that week to boot. Anyway, enjoy the blog, thanks for reading, and most importantly, thanks for listening.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Yeah, last month surely didn't go according to plan. I really wanted to do 30 posts, and I fell about 7 short. Still I think I did have some quality posts and I am a little proud of the amount of poetry I managed to crank out. It was a combination of several things that lead to the lack of output at the end. One was a clear lack of topical material, though I think the second reason was more the matter. I simply hit the wall. I just had no desire or energy to write. Personal issues with my car and such weighed in on the matter too, but honestly I can say I am disappointed in myself. I am not setting a post target this month, but I certainly am shooting for more of a regular output.
I do have some fun plans this month for posts though. I'm planning on at least two special posts, a flash fiction short story for Halloween as well as one of my annual poems. You can also count on Under A Dead Sun to really start amping up and seeing the characters start to come together. I also have some other non blog writing to do so hopefully this will be a busy month. I'm taking my last week of vacation this month as well so I want to do some serious writing that week to boot. Anyway, enjoy the blog, thanks for reading, and most importantly, thanks for listening.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Concert Time! The Pixies
Hey all,
I'm a bit behind on this post but last Friday my friend Jason and I caught The Pixies in concert. The Pixies are one of my top 5 all time favorite bands and one of the last bands that I felt I utterly had to see live in concert. The Pixies are one of the proto-punk, alternative bands that were responsible for ushering in the alternative rock revolution of the early 1990's. Kurt Cobain of Nirvana called them one of his primary influences and claimed that Smells Like Teen Spirit was his own personal attempt to rip off the Pixies.
The band formed in the mid 80's and found some middling success with their first EP Come On Pilgrim and found slightly more with their first full length album Surfer Rosa, featuring soungs like Gigantic and Where Is My Mind. Though it was really the 1989 release of the seminal Doolittle Album that gave them a taste of success, with songs like Wave of Mutilation, Here Come's Your Man, and Debaser. The band was made up of leader singer Black Francis, bass player and back up vocalist Kim Deals (who would later form the Breeders with her twin sister), Lead guitarist Joey Santiago, and drummer David Lovering. The band is heavily influenced by religious and social imagery and has a sound that swings from vocally melodic to fast and abrasive. During their tenure from the late 80's to the early 90's, the band found huge success abroad in Europe, but only mild success in America. The recorded five albums, the height of which was Doolittle, before in fighting between the increasing controlling Francis and the angry and ostracized Deal. Deal wanted more input on the writing and creative side and Francis didn't want to relinquish control. The constant struggle between the two lead to the breakup.
Years later tensions lessened and the band agreed to play some reunion shows in Europe which led to the band playing more together. Much of the band's reformation is captured in the wonderful documentary loudQUIETloud, which chronicles the bands first tour in nearly 15 years. The success of that tour and the passing of time really showed the band the legacy they had left behind and have played more shows over the years. Last year they booked a few dates to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Doolittle and the success has carried the tour to additional dates, where I caught them in Mesa.
There was an opening act by a band that was called Fuck You. I don't even want to waste time talking about them as I hated them. It sounded like something a step above white noise, but cranked extremely loud. The Pixies took the stage around 9:15 and played nearly 2 whole hours. Since the tour was celebrating the Doolittle album, they played the album in its entirety, including some unreleased B sides. They played 20 full tracks off the album, ending with the song Gouge Away. My personal favorites were Here Comes Your Man and Debaser, as the crowds really got into those songs and enlivened the performance. After Gouge Away, the band left the stage as the audience chanted for more, and they came out to play the encore. They started with a variant take of Wave of Mutilation, which they had already played. This time they played the UK edit, a wonderfully slower version of the song that I'd never heard before and was awesome. They ended the encore with the song Into the White. One of the few Pixies tracks where Kim Deals is on the vocals, they flooded the stage with white smoke and played the song illuminated in a smokey shadow of white. It was a great effect that really sold the song. You couldn't see any of the performers, only their shadow, as Deal sung the haunting lyrics of Into the White. Amazing.
What was even better? They came out to do a second encore, playing 4 of their best non-Doolittle hits, starting with Veloria, then going into three of my favorite tracks, Dig For Fire, Where Is My Mind?, and ending with my favorite Pixies track, the Kim Deal sung Gigantic. It was an amazing end to an amazing performance. I couldn't believe my luck in getting to hear so many of my favorite tracks and the great stage value they gave in the show. It was even better that I got to share it with my best friend Jason, who rarely goes to shows anymore. Still, its been a great month for concerts for me, with The Pixies, Weezer, and Devo (all top 10 bands for me) this month. I always worried that I may never get the chance to see the Pixies play live, with the tensions and history of the band, and to be able to be a part of the show was fantastic.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
I'm a bit behind on this post but last Friday my friend Jason and I caught The Pixies in concert. The Pixies are one of my top 5 all time favorite bands and one of the last bands that I felt I utterly had to see live in concert. The Pixies are one of the proto-punk, alternative bands that were responsible for ushering in the alternative rock revolution of the early 1990's. Kurt Cobain of Nirvana called them one of his primary influences and claimed that Smells Like Teen Spirit was his own personal attempt to rip off the Pixies.
The band formed in the mid 80's and found some middling success with their first EP Come On Pilgrim and found slightly more with their first full length album Surfer Rosa, featuring soungs like Gigantic and Where Is My Mind. Though it was really the 1989 release of the seminal Doolittle Album that gave them a taste of success, with songs like Wave of Mutilation, Here Come's Your Man, and Debaser. The band was made up of leader singer Black Francis, bass player and back up vocalist Kim Deals (who would later form the Breeders with her twin sister), Lead guitarist Joey Santiago, and drummer David Lovering. The band is heavily influenced by religious and social imagery and has a sound that swings from vocally melodic to fast and abrasive. During their tenure from the late 80's to the early 90's, the band found huge success abroad in Europe, but only mild success in America. The recorded five albums, the height of which was Doolittle, before in fighting between the increasing controlling Francis and the angry and ostracized Deal. Deal wanted more input on the writing and creative side and Francis didn't want to relinquish control. The constant struggle between the two lead to the breakup.
Years later tensions lessened and the band agreed to play some reunion shows in Europe which led to the band playing more together. Much of the band's reformation is captured in the wonderful documentary loudQUIETloud, which chronicles the bands first tour in nearly 15 years. The success of that tour and the passing of time really showed the band the legacy they had left behind and have played more shows over the years. Last year they booked a few dates to celebrate the 20th anniversary of Doolittle and the success has carried the tour to additional dates, where I caught them in Mesa.
There was an opening act by a band that was called Fuck You. I don't even want to waste time talking about them as I hated them. It sounded like something a step above white noise, but cranked extremely loud. The Pixies took the stage around 9:15 and played nearly 2 whole hours. Since the tour was celebrating the Doolittle album, they played the album in its entirety, including some unreleased B sides. They played 20 full tracks off the album, ending with the song Gouge Away. My personal favorites were Here Comes Your Man and Debaser, as the crowds really got into those songs and enlivened the performance. After Gouge Away, the band left the stage as the audience chanted for more, and they came out to play the encore. They started with a variant take of Wave of Mutilation, which they had already played. This time they played the UK edit, a wonderfully slower version of the song that I'd never heard before and was awesome. They ended the encore with the song Into the White. One of the few Pixies tracks where Kim Deals is on the vocals, they flooded the stage with white smoke and played the song illuminated in a smokey shadow of white. It was a great effect that really sold the song. You couldn't see any of the performers, only their shadow, as Deal sung the haunting lyrics of Into the White. Amazing.
What was even better? They came out to do a second encore, playing 4 of their best non-Doolittle hits, starting with Veloria, then going into three of my favorite tracks, Dig For Fire, Where Is My Mind?, and ending with my favorite Pixies track, the Kim Deal sung Gigantic. It was an amazing end to an amazing performance. I couldn't believe my luck in getting to hear so many of my favorite tracks and the great stage value they gave in the show. It was even better that I got to share it with my best friend Jason, who rarely goes to shows anymore. Still, its been a great month for concerts for me, with The Pixies, Weezer, and Devo (all top 10 bands for me) this month. I always worried that I may never get the chance to see the Pixies play live, with the tensions and history of the band, and to be able to be a part of the show was fantastic.
End of Line.
Gerrad!
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