A Prison Within

Hubcaps spiraled and spun off balanced, caught in the moonlight they reflected an array simmering colors. The Nova rested upside down, back and forth it teetered on the caved in roof. A shadowed figure moved from underneath. Pinned by the wreckage, it clawed and hissed trying to free itself. It pushed with its rotten face against the road for leverage, my presence not a threat or desire to it. I put my boot to its head and pushed, a few black teeth shattered under my weight and skipped across the pavement. With a quick stomp  the skull cracked and broke into pieces like a ceramic bowl. It convulsed and collapsed with a thud.

An tearful moan cried from the rear of the old muscle car. A young girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen laid face up on the pavement. Her blue and white letter jacket was two sizes too big for her, it  had turned a dingy grey, like the rest of her, soiled and tattered from the world. 

"Thank you," her voice said lightly above a whisper. Her blonde hair was splayed out on the asphalt, the tips and dead ends soaked in blood. Her wounds weren't fatal nor was she bitten and infected. She breathed, her heart beat. What happened next surprised us both. 

I placed one finger over her lips to say, "shh," and then pivoted my wrist and palmed her mouth and nose shut. The warmth of her breath against my cold hand was surprising and I doubted my willingness. 

"Not this way," her eyes spoke and went wide with wonder. Suffocating, she struggled to comprehend that her life was about to end. "Not this way," they said again. I closed my own, partly in disgust and partly because I couldn't stand the sight. She had fought so hard to survive, to have just one more day. I would trade her if I could. All I want is to cease to be and I cannot. 

I let my hand fall heavy on her face and her muffled screams and moans were muted just a little more. Her lungs, powerful and as young as they were, only suctioned my grip tighter around her mouth. She fought to free herself, flailing and whipping her arms she pounded my back. Her head twisted and thrashed. The blood soaked hair painted little red Jackson Pollock's across my other hand and forearm. Her legs kicked and her ambition for life was strong, but her paced slowed.
I opened my eyes to a single tear streaming down her face. The fight was gone. Her stomach contracted in short, quick convulsions and then one long failed breath. I gave myself a moment to compose myself. I didn't want to process what exactly I had done. I couldn’t allow that to register.  What I had done was self-serving. It goes against the basic protocol of my design. I lifted my hand from her and pulled my focus away. Down the darkened street, I could see them moving my way. Slow and determined, yet rushing their foreign bodies forward with heavy, labored steps. They could smell her. Flesh had become a dismal commodity and her blood was a beacon in a withering storm for such large appetites. The monsters had either infected or eaten most of the remaining population of Washington D.C., the last and lost civilization of the American empire. I live, if living could actually be considered a viable option or derivative of my programming. To be immortal, and actually not mortal at all, is perhaps the cruelest design. 

We were created in their image, as lures, decoys to protect the human populations from their menacing selves.  Scout and locate elevated threats and hordes, safely map and study them up close.  Once all intel could be attained, we were cued for our final act, mobile IED's, draw a pack of infected out and detonate. Like with all sophisticated, top-grade military equipment, it's never wise to put all your eggs in one basket. 

Many of my kind crashed or lost connection with the host, some spontaneously detonated in civilian safe zones, killing and creating more monsters than they we were putting down. And some could never detonate themselves at all.  It didn't take long for military and public opinion to deem the operation a failure and shut it down. Instead of powering us off, we were forgotten, a casualty of war, abandoned by our fathers. We were left to roam the city with no purpose or objective and with no certain end to either plague. 

I lifted her shirt up to the edge of her ribcage, exposing her navel and a series of other wounds and past contusions. Her eyes, vacant and glassy gazed up into the night. Her skin had already lost most of its color for life except the rosy red hue around her mouth and her tear-dried cheeks.
I placed my thumbs inside her navel and applied pressure. Her stomach gave little resistance and they sank in with easy. I could feel the moisture and warmth as it edged around my knuckles. I buried them a little deeper, all the way to the base of my wrist. Her navel widen and tore. Instantly the smell of the exposed girl sent the dead into a frenzy. Their moans carried swiftly and excitedly on the wind. Aspirating on their own bile and putridness they trudged forward, footsteps beating against the pavement in a dissonant rhythm. 

To do what one must is a necessary means of survival. It is the code of humanity. To abjure from it would mean extinction. They fight very hard to survive, humans. But I am not one of them. I am their discarded creation put out to pasture. I am not wired the same, survival is not apart of my programmed initiative.  
 
I dug my hands deeper into the poor girls stomach. I pressed them in firmly and gripped what I could. Fistful of intestines coiled themselves around my hands. I pulled and yanked, her body jerked and spasmed. Nerve's kicking and screaming, not yet fully aware of the bodies death. I released my grasp and brought my hand to my face. Soaked in an blazing crimson and thickness, I studied them for a moment. Staring into the essence of human life itself, a radiating hue of slow methodical drips that pooled in my lap. I placed my hands on my face. I rubbed it in, deep into the silicone sheath that covered my mechanical form. Like war paint I smeared it across my cheeks, arms and chest. I reached for more and doused myself again. There was a moment where the difference between the two forms of monsters weren't so different. I, ripping apart the young girl, and them, eager to join the feast. 

The intoxicating smell of blood enticed and drew them in and their eyes caught fire behind an opaque glaze. I dreamed of my final, pointless moments. Imagined that what was to proceed would be a frenzy of living dead with ravenous intentions. The young girl and I caught in a fury of feast, two becoming one and then nothing. Her bones cracking and splintering, my circuity snapping. In the mix I am devoured, ripped apart piece by piece, unaware that I am different, that I am not one of them, I am neither dead nor alive. 

They were side by side and only steps away. Their snarls fearsome and guttural. An elated like expression draped across their sunken, morbid faces as they lunged forward taking the bait. I stared into the gate of ones seething mouth, waiting with anticipation for its teeth and jaws. Just as the monster was about to wrap its blood crusted fingers around me...Pop. Followed by two more, Pop...Pop. Bits of corrupt brain and foul black blood sprayed all across the front of me. The ambling creatures dropped and wilted a foot away. Behind them stood a tall, skinny man wearing a Yankee’s cap. His pistol still drawn and raised. The mans eyes were searching for answers, struggling to figure out the sick senorio that was in front of him. He had no doubt seen horrible things, atrocious acts of a murderous nation, a war of gluttony the likes humanity had never thought possible. He had never seen this though. I could see it in his shoulders as dropped in exhaustion and in lack of understanding. 

“What did you?” He asked me. I stood there in silence, as only I could, purposely muted by my creator and in the interest of the humans. 

“What did you?” He shouted and reared forward, placing the barrel to my forehead. He looked me in the eyes and finally he understood. 

“Worthless clones.” He pulled the trigger and the hammer snapped. Nothing. The chamber was empty. He turned and walked away, his boots scraping the road, “Suffer like the rest of us you piece of shit.”

...I am not like you.

Femme Fatale

It was a tiny spot. A spec really. It shimmered bright as the passing, flickering sunlight punched through the train cabin window. Miriam couldn’t pull her hazel eyes away. She had stared at the crimson stain for so long she had forgotten it was attached to the cuff of the man across from her.

The man had hardly noticed her when she entered the cabin.  It upset her. Men don’t simply glance at her, they stare. Their eyes follow her every step. Rush to open doors only to trip over their own tongue. Draw every sensual and revealing part of her in with one long, impressive breath.  She wasn’t being conceded she told herself, just honest. Men don't hide their desire.

Perhaps he wasn't feeling himself, distant and distracted from the world she thought. He wasn’t handsome. He wasn’t homely either. Kempt and well groomed with a kind of pathetic awkwardness that makes girls uncomfortable. Not her.

His suit was freshly pressed and black as coal. His fedora titled to one side and didn't fit him well. None of it did she thought. Miriam imagined a lonely life and felt a twinge of sorrow for him. He retrieved his pocket watch and examined the time, then let out an impatient sigh.

He intrigued her. The blood below his cufflink intrigued her more as the train departed another station. The way it soaked into the fibers and pulled at the thread. How it stood out like Venus in the early evening sky. She knew it wasn’t his. She didn’t know how she knew, gut feeling she guessed. It was fresh. An hour old.

How did it get there?

Who did it belong to?

Why?

Things happen she supposed. He wasn't the mob type, too frail to be a goon. He wasn’t a cop. He resembled a detective, but lacked the assuredness and confidence of one. Unemployed and defeated was a possibility. The pinned up aggression of failure upon his shoulders. A day drunk, then a fist fight before he returned home to a nagging wife and a screaming infant. All of it was plausible Miriam told herself, but there was something altogether different about him. Something she couldn't quite place. The motion of the train left her head woozy and her eyes grew heavy. She decided to close them and put the man out of her thoughts.

A warm summer wind drifted through the cabin and tickled Miriams toes like little flames. Her mind wasn't able leave the spot far behind. The story of how it came to be there was distant and insignificant to her. The spec reached for her. Called to her. She knew it was foolish, but it seemed alive, growing deeper, darker. She felt herself fall like Alice, a slow, gradual descent into the unknown. Next she was followed the voice down a long cavern. Water dripped and echoed through the emptiness. Only Miriam knew it wasn’t water. It was blood. Plop, Plop, Plop. The voice grew closer and out of the darkness the words finally reached her ears, “Time to go,” it whispered.

When Miriam awoke, a young boy, ten, maybe eleven, stood over her. His chest heaved for air, his heart desperately pounded under his shirt pocket. The boys eyes were  wide, anxiousness and full of fear. His face was filthy, beads of desperation ran from his brow.

It was very sudden. The "Pop." The cool piece of steel gripped in the boys small hand. Miriams ears fell deaf. The pain was not immediate. She struggled to remember why she had boarded the train in the first place. Where she was going? Where she had been? She couldn't remember or focus.

Confusion washed over the young boy. He stared at the barrel of the gun and watched as the smoke churned and dissipated into nothingness. The smell of gunpowder filled his nose and he vomited on himself.

"Ss...ss...sorry. I...I...," the boys voice broke into a million pieces. The gun fell to the floor. The boy grabbed Miriam's handbag and she grabbed his wrist. Her grasp was weak and slipped right off the boys oily, sweaty skin. He ran

from the cabin. Miriam clutched her stomach as the first bit of blood pushed it’s way to the surface.

Quickly it spread.The man in the black suit snapped his pocket watch closed. The sound startled Miriam. She had forgotten he was even there.

"The boy dies," the man said calmly. He adjusted his hat and perched on the edge of the seat. "His shoelace gets tangled in the train. He's pulled under and dragged for miles. He suffers a great deal."

"Why are...," pain surged all throughout her body. She removed her hand from the wound, the stickiness of her blood surprised her. She swallowed hard, "Why are you telling me this?"

"He never meant to harm you, only steal from you. The weight of a man's weapon in the hands of child was too heavy for him. Finger slipped on the trigger."

"An accident then," Miriam coughed, blood had begun to fill her lungs and she could taste the iron, "and justice. The boy got what he deserved."

"I'm afraid not. There are no accidents. There's no judge or jury. There's only me. Everyone's time comes to an end. Even mine. Then another will take my place. There is only life and death."

Finally she understood. The blood made sense.

"Oh, God, I don't want to die." Miriam sobbed. “Please don’t let me die.” The blood pooled in her lap and the day faded to dusk.

"I don't want to take you, Miriam. You're far too beautiful."

"Really? You think so? You really think so?" The darkness came fast. Miriam thought about the man in the black suit and his words.

"Yes and it's time to go, Miriam."

She smiled, closed her eyes and never thought of blood again. The sound of his pocket watch took her away.

Motif: Blood. Setting: A Train. Sub-genre: Noir. Words: 996

Jak

A mangled fortress twists up and wildy into a threatening sky. The lower half is a dirty shade of gray and concrete with a dingy blue border and a red stripe around the top. Above, various levels jut out like thorns, platforms made from wood and other materials slathered together haphazardly reach up beyond the sky line.  Some are illuminated by torch light, with others disappearing into the depth of night.

Jak’s never been here before, but it’s all too familiar sight. A sickening feeling overwhelms him. How could it have come to this he says to himself.

In the distance, two pudgy, misshapen figures lumber towards Jak as silhouettes against a collapsing sun. They approach with loud, squishy footsteps and hefty breaths.

"What is this?" the little fat one says with snot bubbling from his nose. His blue vest clings to his grayish green skin, its saturated in sweat and on the back, a yellow smiley face is stretched a ghoulish grin.  

"Let me see," snarls the older looking one. The optical'  he wears is fused to his eye socket, wrapped in a protective layer of fat and infected tissue. He waddles when he walks and the weight in front of him swings like a pendulum.
"You there?" he growls. Jak lifts his head. The old one roars and hisses, "What? It can’t be!" He vaults backwards, bouncing like a rubber ball on the pavement.

Jak is quickly dragged across the empty parking lot. They reach the entryway and two older looking, blue vested fatties guard the doors. They see Jak, gasp and step aside.

Inside, the stench assaults Jak’s senses and he begins to choke and spit.
"Quiet down," the little fat one says.
The interior is otherwise empty and hollow, except for trash and debris. At the center, a massive staircase rises up through the ceiling. As they begin their ascent, more blue vest meet them along the way, some run, others cower at the sight of Jak. They climb and climb, until finally the rickety structure changes to one made of gold, more gold than Jak has ever seen. It trickles down, flowing under his every step like slow moving lava. As they climb further, piles and piles of gold create various rooms of different sizes. The stairway narrows and they enter an enormous chamber. A golden hen sits squawking in one corner, in the other, a harp is playing itself a wondrous tune.  The ground began to shake and the coins jump in unison.

“Fee, fi, fo, fum,” a thunderous voice echoes through the chamber and the little fat one begins to tremble. A grotesque likeness enters the chamber, his body is deformed and writhe with pieces of gold embed into his skin, swollen and surrounded by bright yellow pus.  
“I thought that might bring back memories for you. Good to see you again or shall I say myself, Jak.”
Jak looks up at the giant, the resemblance is uncanny, undeniable. A monster.
“What have you done?”
“What have I done, what we’ve done you mean.  I’ve given us everything. We are happy ever after.”
“You have taken everything away from everyone in the process.”
“Say’s the thief. That giant we bested might think the same of you. Have you come to best me?”
"Yes!"
The giant Jak roars with laughter. The golden harp ceases it’s song.
“You’ve forgotten one thing. Your axe. How is mother by the way?"
"She's dying." Jak yells.
"Oh yes, that's right. Pity."
"The gold is poison. Look at you. Look at what you've become."
"Yes, look at me. I am a giant of all things."
“I went to see the butcher again," Jak says.
“How is our old friend?”  
“He gave me more beans.”
“More beans, we have no need for beans, we have no need for climbing.”

Jak removes the beans from his pocket, “These aren’t for climbing,”
He tosses the beans high into the air and they scatter all throughout the chamber.
“they’re for re-claiming.” Instantly they split apart and small vines begin to wiggle their way across the floor, growing bigger and bigger, burying themselves into the gold. The chamber floor begins to rip and shake violently apart. Giant Jak is knocked off balance and comes crashing down, narrowly missing Jak.

Jak grabs hold and wraps himself tight around a vine just as an avalanche of coins gives way. Above him he can see the whole thing collapsing. The nights sky is breaking through and gold rains down like shooting stars. The vines reach the lower platforms, engulfing them and crushing them into tiny splinters.  The little fat one hangs from a nearby vine while other fatties fall to their deaths, popping like grapes on the pavement. Large green stalks slam into the foundation, rooting and plowing through concrete. They quickly envelop the strongholds walls, bringing them down in one single, cohesive grip.
Jak loses his grasp and falls, bouncing off several vines before meeting a soft landing on the fat little ones limp body. Jak struggles to get up, his foot tangled in the grip of a vine.
Above him, the giant plummets, his enormous size and weight snapping and pummeling crisp stalks as he descends.
"This is a one way trip for you Jak," the butchers voice echoes in his.
Jak closes his eyes and thinks of his mother as the giant crashes down.

Jak awakes to the warmth of the sun on his cheek. He shakes off his sleepiness and sits up. Quickly he jumps to his feet and runs home.
He burst through the door and his mother sits at the table peeling potatoes.
"Jak, what has gotten into you?"
"Nothing mother, just happy to see you."
She gives him a warm smile and continues peeling. Jak puts his hands in his pockets and pulls out a handful of gold coins. They shimmer and shine. Jak smiles.

A Beautiful Distraction

"86, 400 seconds Hart, 86, 400 seconds in any given day. That's 86, 400 chances to do the right thing, to be the hero for once, to make a fresh start. Or you can do the opposite and do the wrong thing, be the villain, go to jail for the rest of your pathetic little life."

Detective Adams leans back in his chair and kicks his boots up on the desk. His shoulder holster seems tight against his massive frame and his .38 rides a little high on his ribs. 

"Unfortunately we don't have 86,400 seconds to dance. You have till that clock hits 11 to tell me what I need to know, which leaves you with only about 2,820, 2,819, 18, 17...rumor is that you’re getting into some deep shit with the wrong sort of people. Then you go and punch an officer, what are you thinking Hart?”

“He’s a crook Adams, you know that, he’s one of yours.”

“You've been singing that song since we were on the force together ten years ago. Who’s the dame from the bar. You know, black dress, red hair, great tits. Gorgeous. We've been keeping close tabs on you old friend."

"She's just some woman," I tell him.

She's not just some woman. She's more than that. She’s the woman. More beautiful than Gene Tierney, more shape than Veronica Lake and eyes a deeper blue than I've ever seen. Hair the color of the sun, heavy and thick with curls that coil around her like flames, kissing and licking her face. She wore her dress like it was part of her, like it wasn't there at all, she was of two shades, black on milky white.

“What’s her name?”

“Lilith Black.”

“You went there to meet her?”

"Yes." 

He stares me down like a disapproving father and pulls out a cigarette from his shirt pocket and taps it against the heel of his boot, lights it and takes a long drag.

"Here’s how I see. You take a seat at the bar and have a few. You're an older guy, not bad looking. You see this Helen sitting a few stoles down, she's young and she starts giving you "the eye." You lie to her, tell her you’re in advertising and her ears perk up. She leans a little closer, casually touching you on the elbow, accidentally brushing her knee against yours. Something starts to move downstairs, in a way your wife doesn't move you. The booze begins to flow, eventually making its way to your head and suddenly you can see all this happening. The room key, her bare shoulders as her dress comes off, her on top of you.”

“I’m in love with her.”

Adams smiles and slow streams of smoke slip out from between his crooked, coffee stained teeth. He reaches in the top drawer and pulls out a flask and pours a little into his coffee and then takes a pull for good measure.

“A beautiful distraction, maybe, but not love. That’s one of Louie Genovese outfits. I want to know the truth Hart, what were you doing in a mob bar?”

“I told you, meeting Lilith. 

“Times running out Hart, 2,420 seconds, if I had to guess.”

“We were discussing our future.”

“You’re lying,” slamming his fist down, “I know what you are, you're an ex-cop who's lost his way and his badge because he couldn't keep the bottle down. You have a grudge against me and the department. I know you've been meeting with the Genovese family and I know you’re up to something. I've been doing this for a long time. I always get my man, you know that!” 

"May I have one of those?” He passes me a cigarette and offers me a light. I remove my Zippo from my coat pocket and light it myself.  The smoke fills my lungs and I expel the awfulness.

“You don’t remember her do you?”

“Remember who?” Adams launches back from the desk, his boots hit the floor with a thud. 

“Lilith, she was much younger then. Only a teenager when you gunned her father down because he wouldn't go along with your schemes. She remembers you! Could even tell you what you were wearing. She saw it all Adams.”

He takes another swig and adjust himself in his chair and starts to laugh. “Hart, you've really gone off the deep end. Your little girl is all you have in your corner against this heavy weight. Half an hour I’ll have her picked up and silence you both forever.” 

"1,440 seconds detective." He stares at me with a blank expression, void of comprehension. 

"That's the amount of time you've spent telling me how you have it all figured out. How you think I've come to be in this chair.  Your arrogance has betrayed you detective. You've been working against yourself." I take another drag from the cigarette. “See, the thing about a woman is, there’s always something deeper than beauty, there’s fire too. Beauty is the distraction, get’s them in the door. Like a scorpion's claws teasing you, all the while the venomous tail is posed above, ready to strike.”

The door slams open and a young officer in his freshly pressed blues rushes in out of breath and screaming,“Detective, the redhead just walked into the precinct.”

“What?”

“The woman, Lilith Black! She has a bomb strapped around her waist.” 

The detective looks at the young officer and then at me. I exhale and snuff the cigarette out on the floor. I see the blood flush from his face. 

“You’re a bad cop Adams and bad cops have to be dealt with, even if it means spilling a little innocent blood. You gotta destroy the nest if you wanna rid yourself of the wasp.”

Adams legs begin to give way like a bested prizefighter about to hit the canvas.

“10 seconds detective...if I had to guess.”

2 Poems

The following 2 poems were written for a class. The last one actually came out of an exercise where you were supposed to "say goodbye" from another persons perspective. Enjoy.

Our Glass

...scaly skin slithers through transitions in her mind and
she writes her name upon the glass
within the hour
with the breath that she has breathed forever,
taking up this knotted dance of thundering transcendence
leaping through a vaulted powder canopy of clouds
courting sounds and stretching out beneath the constellation cover
and underneath the monolith is the fissure through the rift
that sucks her down and brings her under
and now she roams with pagan ghost and all that is asunder

Tension tightens the piano string draped across her helix heart
and in the inner spiral swings her lucid figured posture
and for this she’s not sure of Helios’s kiss upon her wrist and toes
a circling of soaking feathers and booming blonde hair she chose  
and with the dawn of sin she responds in miss proportioned pleasure
dousing herself in the sensuous spell of a bio-shimmering endeavor

and now we meet, separated only by this pane, within her hour and other falses
she turns to me in cocaine lace, a color spray of little children’s finger paint
reflects across the brass and sipping in the sand, slipping through her hand
melts my winged heart, the sun that’s closing in lays caution to the dark
and though the barrier is thin, she sings her didactic hymn
and motions me towards the pain and beneath the ceiling fan I trace a long sigh and slither with her name.


***

December

When you walked in with that winter wind
and the fuel behind your eyes was set to blaze
I knew you wouldn’t take much to spark so I studied my breath
and dropped my chin, there wasn’t strength to match you, nor where would I begin.


I hadn’t come without my own fire
my heart burned for another, that was true
because you left it cold in summer and come fall
whatever ember, thought everlasting, would die in late december.


We shifted and squirmed, our time for words I thought had passed
you looked at me and I tried not to
until you said, “our time will find us again,”
which made me cry, I allowed a hug and then we split apart without goodbye.


As I walked away, my legs could only carry me so fast,
our past had been so much, but now too much and those
white phosphorus tears of yours begin to ignite and I am comforted to know
that when it begins to snow, I will never have to meet your gaze again.

Jerome

Jerome

Only the hindquarters and bits of flesh from the horse’s head remain intact. I pull the reins on Icarus and turn him away. The stagecoach is overturned and there is no sign of a struggle, no arrows, no Apache footprints or spears.  All that remains are clothes, hats, furs and other personal belongings. Enemies of the church, smuggling goods to nearby resistant camps no doubt.

A desert wind surfaces from the valley and a pungent presence makes itself known. As the clouds clear and the moon smiles, I can see the trail of blood and remains. All kinds of monsters exist out here beyond the papal states, beyond the realm of decency and morality, beyond dogma. All different shades and tongues walk these lands, terrorizing and frightening God's people. They’re nothing but savages.

I am here to oversee the completion of the New Church of Canterbury. The Pope of England wants his new temple to be a symbol to the heavens and a reminder to the Americans that they lost their sorry revolution. Maps are not very reliable in these untamed lands and I've gone and got myself lost, I am many a days ride from what the natives call the Rockies. Unmarked boundaries and pockets of resistance make traveling difficult and dangerous.

The valley is dark. I dare not strike a flame. Whatever monsters lay over that hill have me on my back before I could manage my pistol. My spectacles offer my eyes little guidance, pray for anything up close.  Tonight, as the lord whispers, I will go no further down this path.  I passed the town of Jerome a little ways back. I usually try and keep my distance from such places. Out here, where everything is still lawless and out of God’s hands, a man, especially an Englishman, can find himself in trouble quick. I will take my chance and let fate and faith protect me, Jerome, “O good samaritan, come to my aid.”

The little town is etched into the hillside and burns bright with artificial light. A Spanish man brought some new mixture that burns brighter than fire to the outline territory, some talk of him a a wizard, I believe him to be the devil's work. The town glows brighter than the night sky and as Icarus and I ascend the steep and muddy terrain, over my shoulder I sense the darkness from below blacken even further.

As we reach the highest summit of the road, the wind turns my stomach. Icarus plants his hoofs in the mud and refuses to move. The stench is dreadful. I give the trinity a once over and dismount. I smack Icarus on the hind end, he spins in circles, unsure of where to go, perhaps refusing to leave me. Either way, something isn’t right and I take him by the reins again. He is a faithful servant.

Though I bury my nose into the sleeve of my coat, the stink gets through. Up ahead, a silhouette moves towards me, "Hello," I say. "I don't mean any harm. I am lost and looking for shelter."

The blackened figure, backlit by sorcery, doesn't answer. I squint, desperately trying to adjust my sight. It's a woman, her dress plows through the mud and seems to weigh her down. Icarus stomps in protest at the whisper of on-coming snaps and hisses.

“Ma’am, is everything alright?” A woeful moan descends the hilltop. “Ma’am, are you hurt?” She stumbles, but catches herself and in the illumination I see a stiff right arm and a pistol gripped firmly in her hand.

“Ma’am, stay right where you are.” I attend to my pistol. "P

lease stay where you are.” Damn my eyes. She keeps coming. I raise my pistol.

“Say something or I’m gonna shoot.” Her movement becomes more eager. Salty sweat stings my eyes as I fire a warning shot, narrowly missing her leg. The gunshot startles Icarus and he rears back, pulling the reins from my hand and knocking me to the mud. My gun goes off and the bullet opens a hole in her blouse. She is knocked off balance but regains her footing and continues at me. The mud is so thick and rancid with a heavy scent of iron. I try to get up but gain no traction. I cannot stand. Pushing myself backwards I lose my pistol to the earth. I see her for the first time now and I wish I had not.

The woman's face is a chalky gray. Blood, dark and dried, covers her mouth, her teeth snapping wildly like an animal. Her steps are labored and with malice, like a toddler off balance and kreening head first to the floor she falls on me and I feel as if I'm drowning in the mud. With all my strength I hold her up and away from me. Her breath smells like death. Her mouth is black. Putrid pus and bile drizzle from a tongue that only partially remains. How can God allow such monsters?

She lunges at me again, my hands are covered in mud and my grip loses hold and she comes down upon me. I close my eyes tight and clench my teeth, awaiting the unthinkable pain and then I hear it. The sound of her skull fracturing rings loud in my ears. The full weight of the woman sinks me further into the mud and I am choking on ratty, foul hair.

I open my eyes and see mounted on the blackest horse a savage, an Apache clutching a bow. His dark skin is offset by a pale painted face, ghost white like a skull, strange symbols covering him and his horse. He dismounts and rolls the dead woman off of me. I escaped one pursuer, only to be dispatched by another. With his bare foot, he crushes what's left of the woman's skull and removes his arrow. I run the Lord’s Prayer through my head one last time and await my death.

The Apache extends his hand and helps me to my feet. He pulls my pistol from the mud and hands it to me.

"Wendigo," he points at the women, "dead dead. Kill. Wendigo." He digs the arrow back into the woman's shattered skull. "Kill. Head. Dead dead." He leaps upon his horse. Looks and me and then jabs the beast hard in its side and launches himself towards Jerome. I grab Icarus by the reins and settle myself in the stirrups and we follow the Apache into hell, “O good shepherd, seek me out and bring me home in accord with your will.”    

Writing Exercise

Listen, alone and intently, to a piece of music you care about and write anything the music suggest to you. If it has lyrics, don't use the words of the song, but the images in your brain, the words that paint feeling. Don't try to make sense of it, or even sentences; let the music dictate your words. 

I did this and here is the finished product, a little fine tuned.
I used two different songs:

Songs:
~ Massive Attack: Angel
~ Collide: Inside


The hum is constant, a memory is awakened. The beat bounces deep within and I'm forced to suffer an old voice. She sings, taunts and snares me with every measure. I wouldn't say it aloud, but...
I like it.
I really enjoy the seduction.
Resonating the past, like the years we shared, bringing it all back into frame and I can see it all again, see what it once was for.
But the siren eventually betrays me, refocusing my regret, my mistakes, my misfortune by poking and prodding very specific and very special haunts I have relocated to further depths for safety. All too quickly they rise with her nudge and I am flooded, surfacing too fast for this backslide.
There's nothing stopping them now, I will be inundated for days, pretending none of the pain still exists, because the bass will always remind me and the music will never end.

Unusual

Here's another quick little story. Kinda still in draft mode...kinda. Enjoy.

Unusual

It all started on that cloudy and unusually warm winter’s day. The high reached into the upper 60’s and a calm settled over you as the wind brushed through your hair and warmed your cheeks. You were rather excited to have a day of yard work in mid December. Life had got a little crazy during the fall and the yard was in need of some major attention. That rebellious bush by the mailbox had been bothering you for sometime and something needed to be done. Today would be the day.

Mary was leaving for work; you hated that she worked on Sundays. You kissed her goodbye but your mind was elsewhere. The meeting with the boss tomorrow, he was going to want to know why you fired your secretary. You were going to have to tell him the truth. As Mary pulled out of the driveway you immediately wished you could have that kiss all over again. Have all of it back again.

From within the house the living room TV, the big one you just bought, flashed and raced with static for a moment and then began an emergency broadcast alert. You couldn’t hear it because you left the TV on mute to answer your cell. It was Pat from the office. Tee time at The Oaks at 3pm if you’re interested. You wouldn’t have time, you told him. Gotta take advantage of the unusual weather and get some yard work done you said. He called you domesticated. You laughed.

You pushed hard and the spade sliced through the soil, breaking off tiny roots and gutting worms. You did this over and over, slowly weakening the bush’s hold. You were returning to the garage for a rope when you heard the screeching tires. You looked up in time to see the four door sedan over correcting, missing the turn and ripping the bumper off of Chuck Well’s ‘88 Saab. It then veered off and crashed into the bay window of Thomas O’Brien’s house. You waited and watched, hoping to see some movement from within the car or from within the house. There was none. You started running towards Tom’s house yelling and screaming for help. For a brief moment the sun looked as though it might break through the clouds and shed more light on this unusual day.

The ground pulsed and then shook violently. You tried to catch yourself, but you lost your balance, fell and hit your head on the curb. The rest was a blur. Car alarms began to sound in neighborhood after neighborhood. Your neighbors were calmly exiting their houses dazed and unaware of anything terrifying. Tom needs help, there’s been an accident, please someone help you cried. No one seemed to notice, no one seemed to mind.

You jumped to your feet and started to run as fast as you could. Your phone started vibrating but you couldn't feel it. It had fallen out of your pocket when you fell and now it laid useless in the street. Mary was calling. She was worried. Every radio station was broadcasting the same message, stay inside and away from windows. She wanted you to know she was attempting to turn around at Grindstone Bridge but traffic was blocked as far she could see into town. She said something large was on the horizon and the skyline wasn’t the right shade or color. She wanted to know if you were okay. She was scared. She began to cry as the ground pulsed again and the shaking grew more violently. She told you she loved you. She told you this as the first mass of metal emerged from the clouds, you saw it too.

The long cylindrical tendrils grabbed and picked you up so fast there was little time to react. You sailed through the sky, the warm wind kissing your face, you thought this couldn’t be happening. Your little town below didn’t look so peaceful anymore, not with these things snatching people up everywhere. You couldn’t have possibly thought this would the day, but when you rolled over in bed, you felt as if it was going to be a bit unusually. You couldn’t quite put a finger on why. As you floated towards the center of the enormous metallic Kraken you saw more and more crafts at higher altitudes. You couldn’t understand how this could be happening. As the center of the craft opened up its belly, you thought about Mary, then everything went dark. This is when you changed. This is when the world changed...forever.

Day Zero

Just My Luck

It’s really never quite how you imagine it. Looking back, I definitely feel lied to. The books, the movies, pop-culture, none of them had it right, none of them prepared you for the real thing, for the stillness, for the stench. The decay that’s in the air is overwhelming, it’s something you never get used to. It permeates everything. It sticks to your skin, settles inside your nose and then gets inside your head. It abducts your thoughts, sabotages your feelings, mocks your memories and pollutes everything that has ever attached itself by smell.

I’ve been traveling for almost four months, through infected towns and infested cities, one after another trying to reach my daughter Emma in St. Paul. I’m failing quite miserably. I’m not cut out for this, how I’ve made it this far is nothing short of dumb luck. In a world eating itself to extinction, having a fifty-two year old adjunct English professor from a small Cleveland college isn’t exactly who you want  by your side. Filling your free time with historical Civil War reenactments or possessing the knowledge of which Division of the Forrest Cavalry Corps was involved in the Massacre of Fort Pillow isn’t exactly what folks are looking for when the world comes to an end and hordes of walking, flesh craving misanthropist are heading your way. Verbs, superlatives and knowing when to use the correct form of “who” and “whom” are rarely useful when searching for edible food sources, changing fuel pumps or telling the difference between twelve and twenty gauge shotgun shells. It’s simply worthless and I’m at a disadvantage.

If my suspicions and intuitions are correct, I am most certainly too late and she’s become one of those things. Then again, if I had ignored my intuition, my wife wouldn’t have been sleeping with a man half her age and I would have seen her leaving me coming from a mile away. My instincts are shit, so I ignore them. I’m determined to pursue this lost cause until the end. I’m keeping the hopeful notion that my daughter is still alive, unfortunately, hope has gotten me into trouble once again. 

The bullet holes in the rear quarter panel of the sedan provide adequate ventilation for breathing, but allows for very little light to filter in. It was a stupid, rash decision. I panicked and ran for the first available cover. I think I might still be a bit overwhelmed. The trunk was ajar and I went for it. How quickly things go wrong.

The smell in here is horrendous. I fumble around searching for anything to cover my face. I find an old t-shirt and place it to my mouth and breath deep. I inhale the stink of death and dried bits blood. I can taste it. As I exhale it doesn’t leave me and the taste lingers on my tongue. I don’t know how much longer I can stay in here. I need to get out.

It’s late March now and spring is no longer a time for the living, it is a time for the dead. The rumor that the number of undead would dwindle to a manageable level over winter was like most apocalyptic rumors, false. The truth is, the cold temperatures only slowed decomp. Now, with temperatures on the rise, rotters are budding like vile, discolored tulips through the snow, thawing and reanimating all over again. In the far south, the dead did not rest for winter, they stayed active. So did the folks trying to escape them. Most became what they were running from, others brought the sickness with them and spread the infection further north.

They’re out there. I can hear them. Quietly I shift my weight and raise my head and take a peek out a bullet hole. My field of vision is greatly reduced by the size of the hole and I feel a sense of dread rush over me. Everything feels like it’s closing in. I want to run. I want out of this trunk, I want out of this fucking world...but not like that, I’m NOT going out like that. I’m not gonna end up as one of those things.

I can’t see anything, but I know they are there. Placing my hand on the trunk I lift it gently to get a better view. The darkness splits into and a blade of daylight blinds me and I struggle to adjust. As my eyes come into focus, my heart stops. My breath suffers. A Freshy. I release the trunk lid from my grasp without thinking and before I can stop, before I have a second to react, the trunk lid meets the latch and CLICK. I’m trapped. I twist from my side and with my back against the floor of the trunk, push with my legs, trying to get the latch to fail. It doesn’t budge and I’m starting to freak out. I think of Emma and hope she didn’t have to suffer.

Freshies are the most dangerous and the hardest to detect because of the minimal odor. You just can’t smell one coming. Typically rigor mortis is complete within 24-36 hours after death, but the infection isn’t so patient. Respiratory and muscle failure begins in less than 12 hours and the body slowly becomes paralyzed. Within a few hours the heart has stopped and the body is dead. J-1125 begins to send involuntary signals to the muscles and they begin to spasm and jerk. Within moments mobility and full muscle movement is regained. While enzymes are working to destroy and break down their cells and tissues, their brain continues to function on some basic level.

Bloaters are the next stage of decomp and are much slower, the gas build up inside restricts decaying muscles and body movement. It’s best to keep a distance. They’re not worth messing with, they’re too slow.  It’s best to leave them alone. When one pops you can smell them a mile away. So can the dead. Having that stink on or near you is just as enticing as warm blooded flesh.

The AD1’s and AD2’s are your typical Hollywood zombie. An AD1 is in active decomp mode, the larva stage, flesh flies, blow-flies and maggots all share the same meal. The AD1’s skin moves and seemingly comes to life with larvae that falls like little white raindrops. AD2’s are in the advanced decay stage. Large amounts of flesh, bone and teeth are missing. Movement is stiff and labored. Depending on the temperature and humidity, the last stage of decomp can move pretty fast.

The Freshy is getting closer. Its steps are hurried and intense. Only a few days ago this thing was a living, breathing person like me. Fighting and struggling to stay alive in this hell, trying desperately to not just make it one more day but to somehow survive this all and make it to a loved one that’s he’s abandoned. Now, reborn, his agenda has changed, he has a mission and an innate hunger driving him towards it, me. The Freshy’s steps continue without pause. It’s passing me by. It didn’t see me, It’s moving on. This is good...okay, I’m safe for now.

The muscles in my back throb, I try to relax it but I can’t, the pain of not knowing how I’m going to get out of here doesn’t ease the muscles. Think you dumb bastard. It hits me again. My attention had been so focused on the Freshy and getting locked in that I hadn’t even noticed it. Death. The smell returns to my senses with ferocity and vengeance. I can’t hold it any longer. Loudly I dry-heave, I try to control it, but it only makes it worse. Everytime I cough the pungent aroma reaches into my lungs and steals the air. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.

There is movement coming from within the car. I can feel the weight of the rear axles shifting. How could I be so stupid? I never checked the car. That’s why the stench is so overwhelming, I’ve been laying a close siege to the enemy all this time.  I never checked to see if it was safe. Stupid...I never checked to see if it was clear. It’s caught my scent. The upholstery begins to rip and tear, it’s digging for me, it’s hungry, it’s gonna come through the back seat. It’s gonna rip its way through, pull me through leather and foam, biting and rending me in two. I have nowhere to go. I position myself as far back as I can, the latch of the trunk digging into my back, a nagging reminder of my own stupidity. The car rocks violently back and forth as it digs furiously like a dog, the bones in its fingers snapping at the joints, tearing away at the leather like a kid through a present on Christmas day.  It’s getting closer, the barrier between us is getting thinner. The darkness of the trunk is getting brighter and brighter.

A large chunk of seat is torn away and I can see my pursuer for the first time. Her stringy blonde hair is matted down and partially embedded into the gaping wound across what’s left of her cheek, an AD2. Wildly she flails at me, bits of dead flesh rip and tear from her arm as she reaches through the seat frame. I kick with all my might, stomping and pushing her back. She manages to catch my foot and pull it towards her. Her mouth is chomping ravenously at the air, haphazard and reckless, starving for a bit of flesh. On her hand is a wedding ring. She was someone’s bride once. Someone’s lover. His wife. He too lost everything on Day Zero, perhaps everything that ever mattered to him.

On the inside of her arm is a blue Gothic cross tattoo, even in death the ink still burns bright and burst as if life was still behind it. Religious perhaps, but not necessarily; either way, I assume this isn’t the heaven she once imagined. I manage to kick and free my foot. The living dead girl stops her attack and returns to ripping away at the seat, she’s creating a larger hole. She’s thinking. She’s reasoning. Another piece is ripped away and then another. The eager and gluttonous sounds emanating from her as she gets closer and closer now brings about the undesired realization that I am about to die.

Panicking, I kick as hard and as fast as I can. I scream at the top of my lungs, relying on some hidden strength buried deep within me, brought on by fear and adrenaline, to surge forward and smash the latch and setting myself free. I’ll run as fast as I can, until I can’t run anymore. This is what hope does to you. It gets you killed. The dead girl and my eyes meet, mine with life and hers with death, and we both know.

I try to think about Sabrina. Our first kiss at that Sushi restaurant. The day Emma was born. None of it is staying with me, as quickly as the thoughts come, they are gone. The frenzy in front of me is making certain of that. I try and think about the way the world was, the way it all used to be. How it wasn’t perfect, but at least it had feelings. It wasn’t so painful, it wasn’t so terrible. It wasn’t this cold. The barrier has been breached. This part is just like the movies. The part where zombies are made.

Writer's Blog

Well folks, here it goes. Another half ass attempt at a blog. This one's gonna be way different!! Why? Fuck if I know, aliens abducted me and filled my head with too many words and now I must get them out or die? The ghost of my dead Pappy came to visited me in the night and said, " Boy, write the world some goddamn stories!!" Okay, well all that's bullshit, Whatever, I'm giving writing a go...again. So stay tuned and tune out, cause I'm about to drop some fiction on this bitch. ~J.