Tag Archives: short story

Here’s to the Greatest Speech.

Trifecta week eighty-nine: Write a 33-333 word story using weak as your prompt. Authors note: Please read my story before watching the video! I do believe this old clip is one of the most inspiring speeches I have ever heard…it’s worth watching. 

My friend Charlie brought hope to millions that day. I call him friend but in reality we never met. I happened to be sitting a few rows behind him when he stood nervously and gave the greatest speech my ears had ever heard. Sometimes when the burden of life and lust swarm the confines of my heart I will close my eyes and think back to those years long gone, years that are dissolving from my memory like ink on paper, slowly fading with age. I smile when I picture that little fella standing on trembling knees with the courage of a lion coursing through his bloodstream.

Before entering the arena I overheard pompous aristocrats call his arguments weak and his ideals outdated. They called him foolish as they smoked their cigars and drank their brandy. They mocked his stature and with forked tongues they poked fun at his appearance.

I watched him with hope. I had just returned from the front lines and my morale was desperately low. I was tired of witnessing hatred and listening to evil men spew wickedness from the depths of their rotted mouths. He was sitting patiently for his turn to speak. His head was bowed slightly and his eyes appeared closed, as if praying for the strength to declare to the world what he felt in his soul.

My friend took the stage and silenced the naysayers. My friend walked bravely up the platform and melted the crowd with his first sentence. His words echoed out of the speakers on that crisp afternoon and if I listen hard enough I can still hear them, I can still see tears falling from blank faces, and when my memory does not fail, I can smell victory over gunpowder.

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Trifecta Challenge: Because of Abel

Week eighty-eight: Use the word band as your prompt to write a 33-333 word story, poem, etc. I decided to capitalize on one of my favorite songs. Enjoy.

He brought them together because no one else wanted to deal with outcasts. The man sitting next to Abel gnawed his fingers until they bled. Desperation ravaged his tear-streaked face, his voice was hollow, his soul teetered on emptiness, he sucked on his hand because the drugs were gone and it drove him mad.

A young woman of twenty-eight stood erect in the corner. She spoke to herself in small whispers and played with the dirty locks in her scalp. She had been a mother once but the city took her child. Abel found her curled in a ball behind an abandoned warehouse. “Gone, gone, all gone away, never to return, like the Great Oz, gone from my arms” she had mumbled to no one in particular as he picked her up from the ground. A small shoe was entwined in her thin fingers and she held it close to her chest.

Darrell was rocking back and forth near a dirty window. He was watching traffic slither to a standstill on the street below. Saliva dribbled down his chin and stained the sweater Abel knitted for him.

He loved them desperately and without condition. They were his people. They were his band of merry misfits and nothing would ever hurt them again. Abel stood with a gentle grace and opened a small book.

“OK everyone, let’s begin.”

Like wounded sheep in need of healing they approached their shepherd and listened to the words he spoke.


Trifecta Challenge: Jonathan’s cane

Trifecta week eighty-six: Write a 33-333 word response using the third definition of the word “crack” as your prompt. *This story was nominated as the Second Place winner for the week! 🙂

Haunting echoes of plastic striking wooden floor beams reverberated throughout Jonathon’s humble abode. Each step was taken in doubt, every inch he progressed was a shot in the dark, it was the blind leading the proverbial blind.

Sofa on the left, chest on the right, move forward three yards and it should be there. He had to remind himself where everything was placed. His aide, a young woman with a soft angelic voice, explained the layout. The sight was gone, but the memory, that wickedly deceiving memory was sharp as the Nautilus. Three, two, one…bingo. The starched cuff on Jonathon’s flannel retreated from his wrist as he leaned forward to grab the window frame. Using his sense of touch he carefully searched for locks. When his arthritic fingers located the small mechanisms he unlatched them and opened the window. Fresh air hovered around his face and he inhaled the scent of wildflowers and pine needles. He inhaled deeply. Invigoration took control and memories swirled about his brain.

With a great sigh he bowed his head and imagined walking out of rehab and into the world below his room. Smells like urine around here. But out there, deep in the wilderness, smells like freedom. Go ahead, who’s going to stop you?

He couldn’t. He had made a promise to her.

Keeping his hands on the chilled glass he felt the crack in one of the panes. Have to stop losing your temper champ because it doesn’t do you any good to get upset. It was dull to the touch yet threatened to slice skin if one prodded too much. Jonathon ran a thumb over it hoping to feel something familiar. He was desperate for anything to remind him he was alive. He pressed down harder and waited for blood to flow.

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The Trumpets of Jericho: The second letter

Authors note: On September 1, 1939 Adolph Hitler thrust the world into World War II by advancing his armies into Poland. Two days later Britain and France declared war on Nazi Germany. This is a fictional account of a woman from Kansas who was called to help the Jewish people’s residing in Poland. This is the second of many letters she wrote home. Music to Read by:”Sanvean” by Sarah Brightman

4 September 1939

My dearest Bartholomew,

    We have been heading further into Poland as the Nazis are conquering every town, city and farm. Oh, my husband! Such a terrible evil that’s come upon the world, the gunfire I spoke of can be heard in the distance. It’s coming closer and closer everyday, but we are moving faster too. Planes are bursting in midair and falling to pieces. Children are screaming, young boys are gearing up to protect their homeland! As we move further east, the Polish military is moving west towards the battlefront. They look defeated Bartholomew and frightened. The past two days have been spent traveling underneath the protection of shadows. We don’t have automobiles or horses so we must trek with haste. It is a scary time! I want to come home to Kansas, to see your bearded face, to touch Thomas and scold him about homework. I want to hear our chickens and clean our home and cook you dinner. But I know I cannot leave this war-torn land of the Poles. Not when so much is at stake. These poor, destitute people are trying desperately to keep hope within their hearts, but my beloved, it seems the enemy is gaining more ground everyday and that the Lord has abandoned us to our fate. What a foolish thing war is. What a heart wrenching, agonizing, greedy atrocity. This man Hitler will burn the world down to gain what he’s after. My ignorant mind cannot fathom what he really wants, I am not good with politics, you know all this. 

My Jewish friends are speaking less and less as the days move forward. Our group has almost twelve people, down from twenty, the ones who have abandoned us decided to move further south, away from the onslaught. My town of Poznan is probably destroyed, torched to the ground by wicked men in black uniforms and hatred in their hearts. How I miss those ancient buildings and beautiful rectories and delightful eateries!  My translator, God bless her heart, is attempting to keep me within the loop of things going on. But she has her own family to look out for. I am afraid she will leave me Bartholomew! She talks only when necessary, with war raging in the west and her homeland being gutted by Germans, there is not much to talk about.

I am such a nervous wreck, I think I have grayed more in two days than in the past fifteen years. My mind is in a constant state of bewilderment, my heart, full of dread so thick I could keel over at anytime.

But I must remain strong Bartholomew. Remember the young girl I was telling you about with the brown dress and blue handkerchief? She has yet to leave my side. She holds onto my leg for dear life. I fear for her, yet her parents seem unconcerned with her welfare. Oh, I must sound terribly brash in my estimation of their love for her! Who am I to make such an accusation? Her father, Tosiek, is one of the elders and he is arguing with the other men. His wife, Olenka (my translator), was telling me late last night that the other elders want to head to the city of Lodz for safety. But she is afraid this could be Hitler’s main objective. They want to head further east  towards Warsaw. But what do we know? An American from Kansas and a bunch of farmers?

Oh my angel Bartholomew! Please continue to pray for my group. I fear they are starting to lose all sense of the practicality I mentioned in my previous letter. Luckily, we’ve managed to stay out of main cities and in the softness of the beautiful hills and fields. Unfortunately, I feel little comfort at this fact. Last night we slept in an abandoned Church in God knows where. All I knew was shear exhausting from walking and running all day long. Our food supply should last another few days. Some of the people in our group have departed, but maybe it’s for the best. With the shortage of food and water, there will be more for us. Oh, is that terrible of me husband? Is it horribly selfish to think of myself while others are undergoing slaughter and violence on a massive scale? I wonder if those young men are dying for thirst. It breaks my hearts more and more each day if I dwell on it too long. I would bring them water if I could, I would bake them something! 

The church we slept in last night resides on a rolling hill overlooking mountains and a small lake. There was a fishing boat floating around the water all by itself. Heaven knows what happened to its captain. The nuns had planted roses and yellow tulips around the wooden base of the church. There are stained glass windows depicting scenes from the bible (what else would you expect to see in a church?). The sanctuary was very small with only five pews on each side, yet it made for comfortable sleeping quarters. The altar was carpeted and the friars podium stood unmolested, unused and collecting dust. candelabra’s were empty, a stack of hymnals and bibles were covered in cobwebs near a corner. It looked as though no one had used it for years. Such a shame Bartholomew, if the men in charge of Germany would only fall on their knees and repent, the world could be saved from what is undoubtedly to come. I feel it in my bones, this war will demolish what’s left of humanity. I walked away from the group to see if there was a kitchen of sorts. I figured if I couldn’t speak their language, I sure could cook something to ease the pain we all felt. We have five delightful, beautiful children in our midst. The little one I spoke of is sitting near as I write you this. She is such a big help to my spirits! You would adore her!

There was a small kitchen with a few spare ingredients inside old wooden cupboards. I had one of the men start a fire in the hearth. I made a pot of broth and for dessert I made small cakes. There was not enough for everyone so we had to cut them into pieces so we could all share. But, there is one old man in our group who is rather ornery and did not take lightly to having to share his cake. Olenka tried to make him understand but he did not want to hear it. He screamed and cursed at me Bartholomew. I cried in front of the men. I didn’t want to, but I was so upset that I couldn’t feed him more, but I must choose wisely the battles I come across. I gave him the benefit of the doubt and tried to give him my portion, but he stormed out of the church, we have not seen him since. I admit that I am glad he is gone, he gave me an odd feeling whenever he was in my presence.

How I need you now more than ever! I must end this letter, our tribe is moving out again, I don’t want to be the one to hold everyone up. Pray like you’ve never prayed before. Pray for my safety, but I ask that you pray more for our Jewish friends because they are in the most distress. Bartholomew, I hope I can pen you another letter in the coming days. But I know not what is to come of me or where we will find ourselves next. I still believe the Hand of God is on our lives and He will direct our paths. Until next time my sweet, sweet husband. Have I told you I love you recently? Well, if you are in doubt, I do. Very much so. Tell my Thomas to be a good boy and finish all his homework. To the end of the earth, my love will never end.

Love forever, Gracie

      


The Trumpets of Jericho: The first letter

Authors note: On September 1, 1939 Adolph Hitler thrust the world into World War II by advancing his armies into Poland. Two days later Britain and France declared war on Nazi Germany. This is a fictional account of a woman from Kansas who was called to help the Jewish peoples residing in Poland. This is the first of many letters she wrote home. Music to Read by: “Barber: Adagio for Strings, Op 11” David Zinman and the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra.

2 September 1939

My Bartholomew,   

   Hello my love, I wish I could bring you wonderful news of my stay here in Poznan, but darling I cannot do such a thing, at least in these dark times. The Germans have done the unthinkable and have entered our beloved country. Last night they came across the border unannounced and certainly unprovoked, Although miles away, we heard planes diving through the sky. The people here are fleeing for safety and I am so very terrified…my Polish is limited, but horror in the eyes is a language anyone can understand. And most of the locals are filled with it, including myself. Oh! How I wish you were very near to me right now my sweet, sweet Bartholomew! I need your strong arms wrapped around my waist, I need you to pray for the safety of these poor creatures. They are still scarred from the first war, I am afraid all the progress they have made these past twenty years is all for naught. The men in  the village have been up all night discussing ways to defeat the invaders without the aid of their own army! They are very brave, but I don’t think they are talking practical. I believe it was a rather serendipitous time for the Lord to send me here to help, the small villages on the outskirts of town are filled with old men and young boys, one young man, the same age as our Thomas, rode all night on his horse to bring us news from the border. What I gathered from my translator is the Nazis have monsters made out of metal (I assume he meant tanks) rolling across the landscape, thousands of heavily armed troops, and blood, oh Lord, how he described the blood and destruction! Those poor souls, my heart is breaking as each hour passes, the boy, Jedrik is his name, is weary from his travels and the women are feeding him bread and sausages. But he is talking in a fury, the peasants are smoking pipes and listening with rapt attention. I cannot bear to look at their downtrodden faces, their eyes are empty, and I think so are their hearts. Some are drunk and yelling retribution, but many men are already defeated knowing the might of Hitlers military. Many Jews are here with us and how I love them so! Bartholomew, they are the most fearful. There is a man here by the name of Ezekiel, he received a letter from a relative in Munich last month, telling him of the dreadful things being done to his people in Germany. They cannot buy bread, or soap, their synagogues are being razed to the ground! Bartholomew can you imagine that happening at home in Kansas? Why, Mrs. Leroy would run those thugs out-of-state herself! But I am afraid it is happening here darling. What can I do for these people other than comfort and pray and bake pies? I know nothing of wars and armaments and peace treaties. If they were to hand me a gun I would be liable to shoot myself, or worse, my host family.

My love, I had to stop writing because we’ve moved from our house to a farm ten miles east. I am scared. Never in my life have I known such dark terror. We had heard horses galloping close by and Mirka and her twin brother Mirek went out to see what was happening, the Germans are coming Bartholomew, they are drawing near quickly so we have fled to a small church. I have come to the realization that you may never receive this letter of mine, you may never see me again my precious husband and how that hurts me so! What will become of my Thomas? Was it foolish to come here to help the Polish resettle? I am not so sure, but as always, I believe His hand will guide my little group. My mind is playing tricks on me, I think I hear gunfire in the distance. Little children are crying, men are dying because of the wickedness and greed of mankind. Innocent boys will go to their graves fighting for this small nation. Pray Bartholomew, tell our friends back home what is happening to the world…now I know I am not going mad, planes are flying overhead, dropping bombs! The noise is hell. I am looking at the people huddled around the dark tables, they are exhausted due to our long journey today. I don’t know where we are, I am too skittish to ask our translator. I feel very much alone now. What was I thinking love? I am a homemaker from a farm in Kansas, I thought I could change someones life. But maybe I am. There is a little girl sitting next to me  Her face has dirt smudged across her forehead, she is wearing a brown dress with a white apron. There’s a blue handkerchief in her hair, she must be no more than four. She is a Jew. How could anyone want to hurt such a precious child because of their heritage? This is madness, pure and simple madness! You know my anger is nonexistent, you know I wouldn’t hurt a fly, but now I want to hurt those Germans. May our Lord forgive me, but I am looking at this child, watching her watch me and I would risk my own hide for her. Do you remember the stray cat that managed to find its way into our chicken coop last year and caused all that trouble? Remember the broom I used to chase it away? That is how I feel now Bartholomew. I want to chase those horrible Nazis away from my roost.

They are such a peaceful people, farmers and bakers and homemakers like myself. They don’t want trouble anymore than we would want it at home. Things are quiet at the moment, but things are very tense, no one wants to make a sound and it is dreadful. The silence is downright dreadful, not that it matters because I could not communicate even if I wanted to. My rudimentary skills would not be appreciated at the moment, I am just waiting and listening. Waiting for someone to tell me what to do, listening for inevitable gunfire to erupt. You know how I bake when I am nervous? It sounds so silly but I wish I could bake something right now. Anything to keep the fear away from this small sanctuary. The men are arguing now over something, I think it has to do with us just sitting around. Luckily the women here are talking some bit of sense into them. I keep hearing the words “Jews” and “Nazis” and “death”. Oh, I think they want to banish the Jews from here! Bartholomew! This is such a devastating travesty! They’ve done nothing wrong! I must go now sweetheart. I must do something because things are quickly getting out of hand and I will not allow this to take place, not while I am here. I love you with all my heart, tell our son that I love him too. I will write as soon as I can…

      Love forever, Gracie 


The Madness of Being Melancholy

Authors note: Sometimes fairy tales don’t have happy endings, the hero dies, the villain wins, the Princess stays in her casket. I think as adults living in the real world, we are used to reality. I wrote this fiction piece about a hopeless romantic suffering from a deep depression. It contains suggestive language and strong adult themes. If this bothers you, too bad. It’s my blog and my imagination. I believe there are people in the world who really suffer behind closed doors. They’re strength is pushing forward and yet sometimes it gets to be too much. 

My apartment is rather small compared to today’s standards. It’s a one bedroom with a kitchen decorated in seventies garb. The previous owner had a fetish for yellow and green wallpaper and had plastered it everywhere. I attempted to cover it up with cheap paint because I was too lazy to rip it down, but I failed miserably and now the retro colors are bleeding through, giving my kitchen a terrible Fun House aura. I hung up some of those tacky Italian pictures portraying fat little chefs with unnaturally long mustaches and tiny hands to deter people from noticing my lousy paint job. But it’s not really a big deal. I don’t have many visitors and even if I did, they would be preoccupied with the sixty inch flat screen sitting in my living room. It’s one of the cooler toys I possess. Yet television is nothing more than an annoyance to me. I’ve lost interest in a lot of things in the past few years.

There’s nothing in my refrigerator but leftover meatloaf and several jars of assorted jellies. Six eggs nest comfortably on the door and I believe there’s a science project wrapped up in tinfoil on the bottom shelf. I am a clean person by nature. I vacuum, take out the trash and even scrub my bathroom twice a week. Not bad for a bachelor. I rarely food shop because all I eat lately are tacos, pizza and dollar cheeseburgers from Wendy’s. Despite my diet, I am in good health, and although I wouldn’t fit in well with the bodybuilding steroid users, I could hold my own on a treadmill. I continue to scan the shelves for something edible and open up the butter compartment. The 9 mm I picked up from a gun show last year remains cold and unused and its steel barrel has a thin layer of frost on top of it. I take it out when I drink too much and hold it close to my skull. It’s an odd feeling knowing the small hollow point bullet nestled inside could end the madness of being melancholy.

I am not suicidal I can assure you. My therapist calls it depression. He believes it stems from a lack of accomplishments, or drinking too much. Either way he thinks I am mental. In my defense, who isn’t a tad wacko these days? Like many people in America my misery stems from poverty. I never managed to grasp the concept of saving money. At the age of thirty this is a bad trait. Especially when trying to find a woman to spend your life with, they prefer stable men to latch onto and who could blame them?

I am a good man, a kind and compassionate man. I believe in forgiveness because I know I need to be forgiven. I fancy myself a talented young man with a knack for words and a fine grasp of the English language. I even went to college for a year but dropped out because I am a perpetual quitter. Another horrible trait to possess and not a good conversation starter while sitting across from your date in a fancy restaurant.

I worked for my town for several years pushing papers and pouring coffee to the higher-ups in order to move up the ladder and was laid off for my efforts. I received my pink slip over the Christmas holiday and have been on unemployment for the past six months. I actually loved my job and made several wonderful friendships. I met Lucille there for the first time over coffee and rice crispy treats in the break room. She was storybook beautiful with lovely green eyes and curly brown hair. But she had sad, tired eyes that told of a hard past. She was strong and witty and never took shit from anyone. A tough cookie was Lucille, but with a heart of gold, she drew me in immediately and although it’s been months since I’ve made love to her, I miss her dearly.

I am sorry. I tend to get ahead of myself and it’s not fair to you, my audience. Hello, my name is Jimmy, and I’ve been lonely for a long time. I come from a rather large family with six other siblings who are currently roaming around the country. I was number four on the birthing list and caused hell for my mother. She raised us solely on a wing and prayer because my father spent most of his years working as a  steam fitter and sitting on bar stools at night. As I grew up I fell through the cracks, most of my achievements went unnoticed and I understood this because there was so much going on with everyone else that it was hard for my mother to keep up with everything. I don’t blame her for dying. She was overwhelmed and under a lot of stress when the vein in her head exploded. She was young. Fifty-four to be exact and a real Godsend. We buried her on top of a hill overlooking a lake she used to take us to when we were children. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss her and her jovial laugh. She had been a good mother cursed with a tough life, but sometimes these things are hard to avoid.

I have a cheap CD player that I keep on top of my empty fridge. I picked it up at Wal-mart for ten dollars and usually keep a steady flow of soft music playing in the background. I am the type of person who feels things very deeply. I guess you could say I am emotional. I don’t really mind because there’s a lack of emotion pervading the world today. Everybody is supposed to be hard and tough as nails. I am tough when I have to be. I spent a year in a juvenile detention center for starting a fire in a warehouse when I was fifteen, when I was eighteen, I was placed in a rehab clinic because I was addicted to cocaine, I’ve even been homeless and hungry. Suffice to say I understand hardship. When a person has a hard life they can either become bitter and enraged or they can absorb it all and choose to be understanding and compassionate. I chose the latter. People have a tendency to misconstrue kindness for a childlike weakness. But I never believed that to be true, like I said, life can make you hard or it can make you see deeper into a persons suffering. Plus I am a wannabe writer slash artist so I see the world differently. Like when you look into a kaleidoscope and watch all the pretty patterns ebb and flow and colors change and morph and mingle until it seems an orgasm has taken place. I see things in a way most people don’t.

It’s quiet in my little apartment. I had a small parakeet, but he died not too long ago. I only had him for two or three months. I don’t how he died and I didn’t have the money to get an autopsy done, so I chalked it up to life and buried him in the backyard. He was a good pet and a gentle friend that kept me company when the blues ran roughshod over my soul. I took his death hard because I don’t have many friends and I am not sure why. I treat everyone with a certain amount of kindness and dignity. When you’re poor, I think most people look at you as a liability, extra baggage. Growing up my siblings and I hung out often, but had grown apart over the years and after my mother died, we went our separate ways. This is normal I think. I have extended family, but they never really attempted to get to know me. When I was a young boy I attempted suicide twice. They think I am weak, but I am not. Many people think I am weird or strange or a loner. That part is true. I usually keep to myself and let thoughts roll around my brain until I get tired of them and force myself to fall asleep. A scatter brained mind is a cursed mind and I’ve been dubbed by some as an over analyzer.

I had my share of girlfriends and one night stands. Yet I remained unfulfilled and was left wanting. I found Jesus for a time, but after years of backsliding, I became dishearted and left the church. I still talk to the Lord on occasion because I know He’s up there looking down on humanity like a child gazing over a community of ants. For a time, Lucille was my best friend. We shared laughter and coffee and dinner a few times. We spent years together sorting paperwork and getting to know one another. She was unavailable for the first few years. From what I gathered, her boyfriend was a decent sort. Strong, college grad, on the fast track to a good life with the most precious woman I had ever known on his shoulder. They dated for a while but eventually broke it off. She had confided in me and said it was because she wanted babies and he did not. If that was the truth I took it at face value.

It’s funny how the seed of love is planted. It wasn’t until the third year of our friendship that I began to see her in a different light. We would talk and I would listen attentively, she would give me some insight into her life and I would try to lend an ear and a word of advice. I am not great at giving advice mind you. I made a lot of stupid, life altering decisions as a young man. Most of the time I was soaked with booze and high on pills just to make it through each day. She had similar issues, but she was more responsible with her life than I had been. In my delusional mind I believed we would be perfect for each other.  I kissed her for the first time at a baseball game one night. I don’t think she saw it coming but I did, I had dreamed of the day when I could put my lips against hers and taste her skin and feel her tongue. Since she was single I thought I would make my move. A group of people from our job had purchased tickets to see the Mets play the Yankees. It was the bottom of the ninth and the Mets had last licks. Someone smacked it into left field and won the ball game with a walk-off home run.  I took her delicate fingers in mine and kissed her deeply. Her eyes lit up and when I backed away, she mentioned that her lips were dry. We made love soon after.

She’s wonderful, that Lucy of mine. But things had gone south a few months later when I caught her kissing my friend Andrew at a party. She apologized profusely and blamed it on drinking too much. After a time I was able to forgive her, but the damage had been done to my already dysfunctional and fragile mind. My life seemed to implode on itself and I went into a severe depression. I was drinking heavily to ease the sorrow of betrayal. We continued to speak and I ended up calling her several times in the weeks that followed and made an ass out of myself while trying to mask the pain of what had transpired. Now she doesn’t see me the way she used to and I am heartbroken because of it. She’s pulled away and the connection we once shared has been slowly dying.

The CD stopped playing so I popped in another. Yiruma is one of my favorite pianists and “Autumn Scene” piped out of the speakers gently. It’s a sad melody, but I am in a lowly state of mind so I don’t care. When I look out the window there’s not much to see except an aging maple tree standing proudly in the Springtime atmosphere. The dead-end I live on is seldom used so the street remains as quiet as a cemetery and that’s OK too, like I said earlier, I enjoy the company of stillness. At least I used to. When you reach a certain age, there comes a horrible realization that you may end up alone forever and that peaceful quiet you once enjoyed may torment you into old age. It’s a scary feeling, a depressing feeling.

I hate admitting that I am losing interest in things I used to enjoy. Sports, for example. Movies, jokes, even food tastes different. I love to read and my collection of books are most dear to my heart. When I packed up and moved to Tennessee after being laid off, most of my luggage consisted of boxes full of hard and soft covered literary masterpieces. I moved down south for work, I had a connection in Knoxville and was lined up to work for an electrical company. I was there four weeks before I realized I missed Lucille so much at times it was hard to breath. I allowed her to become my life, she had filled the void in my heart with gladness, put a new song on my tongue, and when we made love I would put my mouth on her pussy as she came and I would swallow her sweet nectar. Our sex was passionate, full of life and multiple orgasms. When I held her naked against my chest our lives became one, I felt her tender heart beat rapidly against mine and I would listen to  her coo and moan as I stroked her chestnut hair as our sweat fell in large droplets.

Well, I don’t want to get too descriptive. But I never felt so whole in my life. When I slept with her every trouble, every fear and every doubt was washed away. Unfortunately, nothing had transpired between us in a relationship sense. She was on a positive path in life, I on the other hand, was not. Last I heard she had gotten back together with her old boyfriend and was getting married come October. I am happy for her, truly.

When you spend most of your time alone your mind can play tricks on you. Horrible jokes and wicked riddles bombard the inside of your spirit, wreaking havoc on every fiber of your genetic makeup. Causing you to believe in things that, in all likelihood, are not real. John Steinbeck once wrote that a man can become sick if he has no one. I think it’s sad that all we have are our shadows to keep us company when the darkness of midnight creeps into the sky.

I no longer speak to Andrew. I will always be his friend, but the friendship has gone sour. I believe Lucille still sees him behind my back and although I have confronted her on numerous occasions about the subject, she denies it. I wish so much to believe her. I want to trust her again. I’ve been stepped on my entire life and grown to trust only myself and that my friends, is a hard thing to do. Yet I trusted her entirely. I opened up and at times bared everything to her. I don’t think she realized the faith I put into our friendship. But my inner gut twists when I think about it. I’ve never bothered to broach the subject with him because I know the type of person he is. Besides, it wasn’t his fault. She had made the first move.

My kitchen table is one of those flimsy, plastic jobs you see advertised for sale in every circular during the warm weather. I went to a garage sale to buy matching chairs and paid seven dollars for two well used aluminum seats with red fabric stapled haphazardly to their bottoms. I take a seat in one of them and watch small raindrops smack against the window.

My life is too quiet. Full of mind numbing monotony that I can’t seem to break. I take one step forward and get shoved back three. Years ago I knew a crazy old Indian and he used to tell me some people were born under bad astrological signs, cursed from the day they came forth from their mothers wombs. He looked at me once and chanted in his native tongue. When I asked him what it meant, he said it was a blessing because I had been born under a bad cloud. I believe he’s a crazy old fool and I told him his superstition meant nothing.

And yet years later here I sit, all alone on a crappy table with horribly painted walls and a pistol to keep me company. Beer bottles sit empty on the counter top and at some point, I must have put on the radio because oldies are now playing loudly. I don’t remember changing the CD to radio, but I must have. Lightning flashes into my home and thunder rolls after it. All I want is for her to be next to me, to talk to me like she used to, I want to make her laugh again, I want her to believe I am still charismatic and beautiful. I wish to have her here now, with those sexy legs in the air as I penetrate deep and call her pussy home. I want to get lost in her ecstasy as she wraps her body around mine. Then I wish to lay still with her as she strokes my cock and kisses my cheeks with hers…I want to cuddle close to a fireplace underneath a blanket and tell each other stories and giggle like newlyweds.

But those days are gone forever and I am very sad about that. All I have left is fading memories of a woman who changed my life, a woman who took the dark cavity in my chest and breathed life into it for the first time. A precious creature, who for a moment in eternity, reciprocated the love I had for her. All I am left with is the knowing she has slipped away. All that remains is paranoia, and doubt and the terrible knowledge that she was never mine to begin with, that I was just a way for her to cope with her own grief until she reunited with her soon-to-be husband.

I am left here. Some days are OK, some are appointed by the devil himself and he makes it a point to torment me with memories. I can no longer live my life stuck in the past. I wasn’t always this way. I like to think a happier time existed in my life. The funny thing about falling in love with a woman is this: you spend years or even decades living as a bachelor, you go on a date here, get laid there, and then there’s one woman who comes along and makes you whole, makes you feel alive, you become reluctant to release her. When the winds of life take her away from you, it all becomes a memory and it’s as if it never happened. It is a horrible feeling knowing you are going back to emptiness and returning to the silent dungeon of your mind.

Some would remind you there are other fish in the sea, more sand on the beach, more stars in the sky. It’s not that easy, especially when you loved someone long before they knew your true feelings, managed to get them to love you back, and then lose them to  fate. She will have a good life, filled with sweet things, and this makes me happy in that old-fashioned melancholy way. I feel tears drip down my cheek bones

My room is getting darker and I don’t believe it has anything to do with sunlight. The rain is steady and thumps loudly on the roof. More lightning. Thunder splits heaven in half. The last memory to cross the threshold in my mind is of her. We had taken a trip to the beach once and had walked barefoot along the shoreline, it began to drizzle and she ran for shelter underneath some trees. I remember her standing there, arms crossed, hair wet and slick from ocean water. She looked at me with a smile as the sun set into her emerald eyes, I went to her and put my arms around her shoulders and kissed her nose gently…that was my best day.

I whispered her name one last time, put the gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger.

 


Delilahs vampires~Road to Antebellum

Authors note: Hello friends and fellow fiction geeks. This is part 2 of my vampire story. I hope you enjoy it, please read part 1 to catch up. I felt a cold, dreary night was a perfect night for a little horror story. 

The gloomy fog saturating the rolling valley was a living entity. With an indifferent hostility, it crept across the atmosphere, overpowering everything within its realm. The man riding shotgun was convinced they would be doomed if Brutus lost his way. But the stallion trudged forward without a thought, its massive head spliced the mist in half as it clumped down the muddy road towards its destination.

Delilah, once open for brief bits of conversation, had retreated into a disquieting  aloofness. Besides an occasional word of comfort to her beloved animal, she hid under her cloak and ignored the stranger sitting next to her.

An hour had passed since the murderer climbed into the front seat of her outdated wagon. He was still damp and angry for renting the car he abandoned. Hunger swirled in his stomach, but he pushed it aside as he began to imagine the consequences of not taking care of the business he was sent to resolve. Food was the least of his concerns.

“How far is the next town? I need to get to a phone and we’ve been on this fucking road for an hour and there’s no sign of life anywhere. How do you people survive out here in the boondocks? It’s the twenty-first century, why don’t you have a car? I might have to shoot myself if I lived here.”

The woman turned her head slightly and chuckled under her breath. They were passing a grove of barren apple trees that stood like an army of skeletons waiting for orders. A rotted wooden fence ran for miles on either side of the road as if attempting to keep the ghastly shoulders from escaping their barracks.

“You don’t say much do you? Your personality fits right in with the rest of this horror show. Look at your clothes, what is that? A fucking cloak?” He laughed and slapped the side of the wagon. Brutus snorted in retaliation.

“Things are different here. Our towns and villages are small, our people stay in when the weather is not welcoming. You can learn a lot from these woods. Nature is life’s greatest teacher.” Replied the mysterious woman.

The man looked at her scrawny frame with a mocking smile and observed his surroundings.

“Can you at least throw the horse into a higher gear? Can’t imagine we’re going as fast as possible.”

She turned her head at his remark.

“Why are you in such a rush? I told you before that I would give you sanctuary. This particular road is seldom used. You are lucky I stopped to help.”

“But you’re blind! How do I know you’re heading in the right direction? Talk about the blind leading the blind, can the horse see where he’s going or is he winging it too?”

“Oh, don’t worry about Brutus. He is smarter than you and I. He sees everything, I trust him with my life.”

The passenger ignored her and rubbed his hands together to warm himself. The fog was still thick and moist and denied the sun access to life on planet earth. He remembered the chill that had soaked his bones the night before and shivered.

“Wouldn’t happen to have an extra jacket back there would ya?” He asked while turning around to rummage through her belongings.

With a quickness he had never encountered, the woman grabbed his arm and looked directly into his eyes.

“No.”

If he was on the streets of Chicago he wouldn’t have hesitated to lay her out.

But those eyes. Those horrible, albino eyes penetrated his chest and struck fear into his heart.

“You must not touch any of my things. They are sacred, and private, and once we reach our destination I must ask you to keep your curiosity to yourself.” She demanded and released his arm.

He pushed his rage aside quickly and began to laugh.

“Well…I was taught never to bite the hand that feeds you. I’d hate to make you upset. What did you say your name was again?”

“Delilah.”

“Delilah, huh? And how long have you lived in these woods Delilah? I’m assuming you don’t get out much do you?”

“Yes that is my name. And I have always been here.”

He began to retort but howling erupted from deep within the foreboding apple grove. The hair on his neck froze instantly.

“Did you hear that? You need to move this fucking horse and buggy. I don’t want to get eaten alive by wolves in the middle of nowhere.”

“I told you this was no place for a hitchhiker. But fear not child, you are safe with me.”

“How so? Got a gun handy? Let me guess, you people use pitchforks and spades to drive away the monsters?”

She laughed an innocent, childlike laugh.

“There are much worse things to fear in this life. Dying shouldn’t be one of them. Like I said, as long as you’re with me, you’re safe…do you have a name?”

He hated not having a weapon on him. But if the old bat was confident and unconcerned, he would relax. If wild animals decided to attack their wagon, he would push her off and take control of the reigns.

“Well, if you’re Delilah, I guess that makes me Samson…Yeah, just call me Samson.”

She looked at him and nodded with understanding. In order to appease Samson, she gently snapped the reigns and snickered at Brutus. He obliged and began to trot faster, leaving the howls and orchard behind them.

Time passed slowly as they made their way up and down the same deserted road as before. Samson and Delilah said nothing to each other. The only sounds emanating in their world originated from hoof beats and the occasional squawk from a crow. The melody caused the stranger to fall into a restless slumber and he dreamed of terrible things.

Dark shadows filled a dimly lit stone hallway. Candles burned on the walls, the ancient purple rug underneath his feet was stained with blood. He couldn’t remember if he had entered the chamber willingly, nor did he recall opening the heavy oak door that led him to this place. His legs were rubbery and each step he took reverberated into the blackness in front of him. Picture frames hung every five feet but the portraits were faded from time and mildew distorted them beyond recognition. He attempted to shout for help but could not because his tongue had been removed. There was no memory of the diabolical procedure. No pain. Nothing. To make sure it was gone, he stood near a candle and put a finger in his mouth. Nothing but saliva and an empty space where it once resided. 

Something began to knock on the inside of the walls and was followed by soft crying. It sounded like a child’s voice. He put both hands on the ice-cold stone and put his head against it to hear better. But the crying stopped at once. 

He backed away and began to jog down the endless hall until more crying could be heard. He stopped and pressed his head onto the slabs once more. The mournful pleas died out and were replaced with whispers. Evil whispers. Whatever lived in the tomb of stone was not alone. He heard them whisper to one another. Quietly, as if they knew he was listening. 

Everything went silent. After a moment he backed away and stood all alone in the middle of the hallway. Urine ran down his legs and his heartbeat echoed in his ears. His eyes were trained on the floor and his arms hung loosely at his side.

In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of a cloaked figure running towards him with arms outstretched. He saw no face, he heard no devilish screech, he turned to face it head on and when it was a few yards away he went to scream with every horror filled fiber in his being.

But his tongueless mouth would not allow it to ever escape his lungs. The creature laughed with an ungodly voice and pounced on him.

Samson jerked awake and felt sunshine on his face. Delilah stood over him with a smile.

“Are you alright child?”

His bearings were still lost and the nightmare too fresh. He reached for his tongue and smiled when the soft, spongy piece of flesh reacted to its owners fingers.

“Yes…I’m fine. I just had a bad dream. Why have we stopped?”

“Because we are here.”

“Here where?”

“The sanctuary I promised I would take you to. Welcome to my home Samson. Welcome to Antebellum.”

—-to be continued—–