Beautiful Damnation

Another story from the same series as "Mock Orange Blossoms" and "Chocolate and Honey" this time from the perspective of a different character. It was something new for me to try.

This was virgin territory and he was flying blind. It wasn’t just his favorite pastime of sex. This was different. She. Made. Him. Feel. The press of those curves, and the swing of her hips, combined with ripe cherry lips and dark sultry eyes. He was temptation dripping with sin, and she made him seem saintly. A paragon of virtue by day, no one saw the truth behind her kind smile. He’d seduced whores and nuns alike, but she made eternal damnation a delicious reward.

 Her hips swayed to the music, slowly grinding against the warm body pressed to her back. The feeling returned, stronger, and he rubbed a hand against his aching chest. She tipped her head back exposing her neck. Licks, bites, she purred. Chest constricted, throat closed, clenched fingers bruising, he quivered in agony. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

It should be him.

Across the dingy bar Cecily St. Ange, instigator of the feeling, was with another man. He watched as the man smoothed a hand down her thigh; touching, teasing, tasting. He didn’t know the taste of that skin, but he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. But the man on the dance floor; the ignorant, scum-sucking, jerk off, felt every sweet part. It was unacceptable.

She rocked her rear against the man, and his eyes couldn’t help but follow. Bitable. Her ass was bitable and delicious, even with that redneck’s beer gut pressing into her. She was a little misguided. Had to be since she was with a guy wearing a baseball cap, a straining, stained t-shirt, and ratty blue jeans. She wanted that instead of him. It was insulting. His jeans made his ass look bitable and the t-shirt showed his abs were firmed not gelatinous. And yet. The beautiful girl with blue eyes and honeyed curls, in a strapless dress snug on the breasts and smooth on the curves was with that slack-jawed knuckle dragger.

She must have seemed like a sign from God, he mused, leaning against the sticky counter as Beer-gut whispered dirty nothings in her ear. It had to be dirty because nothing clean could ever come out of a mouth as disease ridden as that. It didn’t help that she flashed a smile and put a hand on his ass. Beer-gut was rubbing against her as she whispered back. Honestly, there wasn’t enough scotch in the world to make that okay. Of course, this bar only served scotch that left an after taste paint thinner would envy. Not that it mattered as he downed another glass and paid his tab. She was leaving with Beer-gut and judging from the friendly squeeze of his hand it wasn’t for a handshake at the door.

Time to follow her home and kill the fucker. If he wasn’t allowed to touch her in deliciously naughty ways, Beer-gut wasn’t. She would live, of course, the inspiration for the feeling. That suffocating ache in his chest that made him burn with anticipation for murder. Bloody, sadistic murder.  It must be love for him to feel this way.

He kept a sedate block and a half behind Beer-gut’s rusty Chevy, reading fluorescent yellow bumper stickers that proudly proclaimed “Girls wanna ride in this truck, better know how to suck” and other charming sayings that further convinced him Beer-gut’s demise would be a blessing to the gene pool of humanity. They pulled to the side of the road and Beer-gut got out, pissing in the bushes. At three-thirty in the morning the roads were deserted and he kept driving. He knew they were headed for her house. It was the same every time she brought a man home. He wasn’t worried. It would be better if he came after they started.

Forty minutes later he broke into her dark suburban home. She’d be upset that he’d made copies of her key, but it was worth a little anger to see Beer-gut perish in a grisly fashion. He walked through the basement to a windowless room of brick and stone. Carefully, he removed the thirteenth brick from the left, reached out and pulled on a hidden handle. A concealed doorway pulled open revealing an insulated, sound proof, bomb shelter. Her playroom.

Beer-gut was lying down, arms and legs strapped in place, in nothing but yellowing formerly white briefs. She stood to the side, brown hair pulled back, wearing a tank top and jeans, poised above Beer-gut with a bloodied exacto knife held expertly in her hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’ve gotta help me! This bitch is insane,” Beer-gut hollered. Well, he assumed it’s what was said since she’d already removed the offensive redneck’s tongue. Terrified moans were so hard to translate.

“Did I say you could watch?”  She asked, irritated, cinnamon eyes meeting his gaze with a glare.

He preferred her like this, free from her façades, candid, deadly, and poised. Although, it could be fun to get her back in the bar outfit for an hour or two. He’d leave out the contacts to see her real eyes. Speaking of which, he noticed her glare became a look of amusement at his lengthy lapse. With a careless grin he closed the door and walked towards her.

 “You’ve been driving me crazy all night, lover, that’s not very nice,” he answered, voice husky. “The least you could do is let me watch. I’ll even sit in the corner like the good little boy I’m not.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a masochist,” she purred, closing the distance until their bodies almost brushed.

Neither moved as their warmth mingled and they breathed each other in. His body was thrumming, sizzling with heat as her tongue swept out and licked her lips. He leaned closer, fixated, and she stepped away.

“There’s a chair by the shelves, don’t touch my things,” a staggering arrangement of blades, toxins, and instruments of torture, “and you can tell me about your day while I work on our friend here.”

It was endearing, he decided, lighting up a cigarette, to see her so happy. There was a warm flush of life in her face as she lovingly pierced hot needles through Beer-gut’s finger tips. Her delighted laugh, as the man keened, brought an ache to his chest that could only be love. She was radiant, humming contently, an echo of lost childhood harbored in her eyes. He adored every monstrous beat of her heart. To the rest of the world she was a quiet, almost fragile woman. But he knew the truth. And she would kill him one day. He didn’t share her hobby and she didn’t love him, but they were irrevocably connected. He knew, as he watched her peel back strips of Beer-gut’s skin, that they’d never make it to Heaven. Eternal salvation couldn’t compare to seeing her like this.

Utterly Unexpected

A short piece from the perspective of one of Ms. Salina's characters. I worry that he's a little out of character...but this is new ground for me and him. : )

It began without notice. Relaxing when he was with her, the urge to smile when she did, and the way his eyes would find and follow her every move. By the time he noticed it was already to late. Sitting on the balcony of his apartment, above everyone else, crimson irises searched the street below darting from face to face until she appeared. Exiting the underground structure that ran beneath the town lovingly dubbed “The Basement” she looked radiant against the sinister backdrop. Sharp demonic eyes softened as her face lit with laughter at something someone said. Wanting to catch every lilting note he leaned towards her, realizing, too late, that he’d upset his precarious balance on the thin metal rail.

Quicker than a blink he caught the bar, swung onto the balcony, and disappeared into his dark bedroom. Disgusted he collapsed on his bed, scowling into the silk sheets. What the hell was that? He hadn’t really been…? He wouldn’t. It was impossible. Absurd even! There was no way he’d ever allow himself to…to… A shudder as the traitorous thought of affection crossed his mind. He was a fire demon. Notorious and powerful with better things to do then let himself get distracted by a silly human woman. She appeared in his mind; dark hair shimmering, eyes teasing, lips curving into a shy smile. Oh no. He felt it; warm ache in his chest both terrible and pleasant. Snarling, he grabbed the sword from beside his bed and left the apartment. He was going to fight until he killed this godforsaken feeling.

Months later he was slowly coming to terms with the feeling. Despite his best efforts and grave displeasure the newfound affection persisted. It could be worse, he supposed surreptitiously watching her from the shadowy branches of a tree in the communal garden, she could be worse. That wouldn’t say much for his taste, of course, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the situation anyway. Still, she wasn’t bad for a human, or most demons for that matter. She was young, intelligent, and carried a lot of potential. In a confrontation she was capable, quick witted, and determined. Not the worst choice, he mused watching her go through the motions of a drill. Her weapon arced through the air as she moved gracefully to meet the attack of an invisible enemy. She practiced the same movements over and over again, muscles memorizing the motions for real battle.

Weeks ago he discovered her sneaking out in the time between late night and pre-dawn when everyone in town was actually asleep. Had it not been for the fact that he was just returning from his impromptu trip, she’d have never been discovered. Not that she was aware of his knowledge. She would slip away, and minutes later he would follow masking his aura from discovery. While she began to warm up he’d settle in the upper recesses of the trees above her line of sight, hidden by the leaves, but always able to watch her. Every move was critiqued as he observed, silently praising her strengths and noting her weaknesses, ignoring the unbidden desire to help her. It would be so easy to let words of advice pierce the air alerting her to his presence.

He could pretend to have stumbled upon her; never admitting how long he’d been watching, and offer friendly advice to keep her from getting killed. She’d be embarrassed at being caught, and curiously interested by his involvement. He’d be blunt in his statements, attitude disinterested, even put upon, as he helped to shape her into a better combatant. Would she be able to see the truth behind his derision and disregard? Would she hear the calling beat of his heart? I adore you. I need you. Be mine. He couldn’t. It was too dangerous a risk to take while these feelings were so new. Later, perhaps, when he’d managed to hide them away where she couldn’t see. But not now. He wasn’t ready for their relationship to change. The truth would draw her in or send her running, and he didn’t know which response he’d prefer.

An hour or two passed in this way, her training while he mused, and the sky began to lighten. Movements slowed as she cooled down, finishing with a stretch of aching muscles. Eyes gliding over her form he followed her fingers reaching up as she arched, standing on the balls of her feet, body taught like the string of a bow, utterly beautiful, before slowly releasing. Wordlessly humming a tune she walked back to the warm confines of her apartment, blissfully unaware of her crimson-eyed shadow. He waited until the light in her room turned on before returning home, slipping into the soothing embrace of silk sheets, his mind filled with her.

It Doesn't Matter

Another writing exercise. This time with a voice that wouldn't leave my mind, and a point of view I've never tried before. When I first wrote it there was a striking feeling that somehow this was a young Tack, from my previously posted story "Choose Me", but I can't say it with any certainty. I often get into my stories, but this little voice was breaking my heart before I ever got it on paper.

She’s going to come this time, I can feel it. I’ve brought flowers and chocolates for her. I wasn’t sure what kind of chocolate she likes so I bought six boxes. And they’re all for her. Well, if she wants to share I might take one or two. I saved my money all year just so I could buy her somethin’ special. Dad would be furious if he found out. He’d holler and hit me, callin’ me a fool for wastin’ my money. He says she abandoned us, but I know the truth. She was just tired of Dad smackin’ her around all the time, so she left.

‘Course she forgot the most important thing, me, but I understand. I was only seven then, just a little kid, and wouldn’t have been able to make a long trip. But I’m ten now, that’s got to be old enough. She’ll take me with her this time for sure. It doesn’t matter that she hasn’t been back for three years; I know she’s watching, even if it’s someone else doing the watching for her. And I’ve been extra good this year. Made sure I didn’t get into any fights with the other kids, did all my homework, helped around the house, I didn’t even cry when Dad was knockin’ me around. That has to be enough for her to come, right? Doin’ all that must of proved that I’m a good kid that deserves to go with her.

So what if she hasn’t come the last three years? That doesn’t mean anything. She was just findin’ some place for us to go. Can’t just up and leave without some place to go, right? She was probably findin’ a nice house that’ll have a big room all for me where we’ll be safe and it’ll be just the two of us. I know she loves me, even if I can’t remember her sayin’ it. She’s comin’, just you wait. If I close my eyes and count to ten, she’ll be here when I open them. There will be a big grin on her face, her arms will open wide, and she’ll give me the hug I’ve been waitin’ ten years for. Everythin’ will be okay because that’s what she’s supposed to do, make everythin’ better. She’ll tell me how sorry she is for bein’ late and that she’s real proud of me. Then we’ll go to that place she found just for us, we’ll forget all about Dad, and nothin’ bad will ever get us again.

It doesn’t matter that the night has gotten late and I’ve been here since dawn. And I don’t care that Dad’s going to beat me raw when I go home tonight for comin’ here. She’s going to come this time because it’s Mother’s Day, and what mother can abandon her son?

The Twinkie Massacre

This was written for a class in college. It's not one of my favorites, but it is an important first try at a different genre.

“I hate my life,” Zeke Porter mutters as he walks down a hill leading away from the campus of the college he attends.

 He isn’t sure how it happened, but someone switched his shampoo with hair dye. Stepping from the shower this morning he discovered wheat blond locks changed to the color of a deranged flamingo pink Easter egg. A man walking up the hill stops dead in his tracks, staring. Ready to rip into the man, Zeke realizes the gawking stare is focused behind him. Curious, he turns. The whirling hum he brushed off as a large insect is actually death, dressed in fuchsia, headed straight for him on a bicycle.

    The whine of the tires grows louder as a man wearing a black ski mask with a fuchsia track suit pedals harder to pick up speed. With a strangled yell Zeke takes a terrified hop-step out of the way, only to be ripped off his feet. Tumbling heels over head down grass and cement, he comes to a hard stop when a tree blocks his path. Head swimming, he distantly registers the sound of footsteps followed by the feel of hands gingerly prodding his body. The biker had missed him but clipped his backpack full force. That explains the burning wrenched feeling in his shoulders. The helping hands of the man that had been staring bring him to a sitting position as his mind begins to clear. Campus security is on its way. The maniac on the bike had stumbled after the hit, but took off again. Zeke turns. The torn remnants of the bag hang off his back, and its contents lie splayed across the cement. Dazed, he realizes this was no accident, someone is trying to hurt him.

Hours later Zeke walks into his living room, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He wishes his roommate, Danny Tate, wasn’t out of town for a week. After going over the incident with campus security, then again for the police, he was stuck making a list of suspects. The cops had grilled him. Was this the first attack? Could he think of any reason someone would want to harm him? Has he been involved in any illegal activity? Questions and theories were thrown about until it felt like his head would burst. Yes, being alone is definitely a bad thing.  Has the apartment always been so big? Shivering, Zeke makes his way through the apartment, flicking on lights in every room until he’s satisfied there is no one else. He tells himself there’s no need to worry, it’s not like someone’s trying to kill him, but he’s not fully convinced. Sinking onto the couch, all of the lights still on, he falls into a fitful sleep.

The next morning Zeke nervously watches his surroundings for any sign of fuchsia. As the day passes he starts to relax, save the occasional flinch every time a bike comes near. Yesterday was just a freaky fluke. It’s ridiculous to think someone would actually be trying to hurt a harmless nobody like him. He steps onto the stairs just as something hard slams into his back. One arm swings out trying to brace for the impact as the other grips the railing. His knees slam into the stairs with a thud. Zeke catches himself, barely stopping before his face hits the concrete steps. He turns in time to see a flash of pink disappearing on the second floor.

That night he locks the door and checks and rechecks the windows, the lights stay on, and it takes longer for sleep to come.

“Hot damn, Zeke. You look like a three day old corpse,” Alice Edwards, a friend of his, comments the next afternoon as she meets him for lunch in a grassy quad on campus.

“If I look that good just imagine how wonderful I feel.”

“What happened?”

“Some guy in fuchsia has decided I’m on his hit list.”

Nibbling on a cookie Alice stares at him, taking in his tired face. Then she bursts out laughing. He takes a vicious bite from his sandwich, willing her head to catch fire.

Crunch!

The laughter has stopped. Alice and Zeke stare at each other, horrified. Very slowly he puts the sandwich down, opens his mouth and carefully spits the half chewed food out onto his napkin. Nestled in the gooey mush is a glistening shard of glass. Then the taste of copper burns his tongue.

The attacks become more frequent, more deadly, and Zeke grows more terrified. No one can be trusted. Nothing is safe. The man in fuchsia could be anywhere.

Shuffling through the halls on his way to class, Zeke looks at his watch—there’s still an hour before it begins. Funny how no sleep and very little food can mess with a person’s sense of time. His wary eyes scour the hallway for anything suspicious or pink. He sits on a bench lining the wall, waiting for class. Eyes shift left then right, roving over every inch of the space in sight. The quiet seems loud to Zeke, even though it is undisturbed save the steady ticking of his watch and the sound of his labored breath. His lids lower over eyes, his shoulders sag, his chin meets his chest before his head snaps up, sleepy but alert. It’s not safe to sleep.

The darkness is nice, soothing for reasons that can’t be remembered. How easy to just slip away in the darkness. Except…for the burning. No. Not just burning, stinging too. And the pressure. Better to fall back into the cool dark and forget. But the burning is worse. Burning, stinging pressure. Just take a deep breath and sink into oblivion. Zeke can’t breath. He needs air, can’t…

Zeke forces teary eyes open to find the masked face of the man in fuchsia. Thrashing, he wraps his trembling hands around the wrists of his attacker. Fingers dig in with desperation, trying to pry the vice like grip from his throat.

He mumbles in a strangled gasp trying to yell.

Voices from the classroom echo into the hall as the door opens and the hands release. Sputtering for air, Zeke can only watch helpless as the man trying to kill him gets away. That’s it. This has gone on for to long. The police aren’t doing anything if that maniac can get so close. Time to call Danny, tell him what’s been going on, and beg him to come home. If anyone would know how to help, it would be Danny. With this in mind, Zeke rises from the bench and leaves.

Back in his apartment, he calls Danny.  “Someone’s trying to kill me,” he tells him.

 “What?” There is a pause. “That’s really funny man.”

“I’m serious. Someone tried to strangle me when I was napping on a bench.”

“Why the hell were you napping on a bench?”

“Shut up,” Zeke says. “Someone tried to kill me!”

“Was it the hobo whose bench you were sleeping on?”

“It was a man in fuchsia.”

“A fuchsia wearing cross-dressing hobo whose bench you were sleeping on?” Danny asks, unable to contain his laughter.

“Fuck it, Danny. I was at school in the hallway. This nut job has been after me all week.”

“Zeke, Zeke. Calm down. I get it, you’re really freaked out.”

“I need you to come home early, Danny. I’m not safe alone.”

“This had better not be a prank.”

“No!” Zeke interrupts. He takes a shuttering breath before he continues. “I’m serious. If only this was some stupid joke.”

“Calm down. I believe you. It’ll be a day, two tops, and I’ll be home.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Just listen to me, okay? Skip the rest of your classes until I get back, stay in the house and keep safe. It’s not like you have to worry about a bike if your ass is pressed to the couch.  You hear me? Just stay in the house. I’ll be home soon as I can.”

Hanging up, Zeke does another sweep of the apartment. Door and windows are locked; lights are on, nothing unusual. Shuddering and tense he walks into the bathroom to splash water on his face. Movement in the mirror catches his eye. Whirling around, his knees give way and he collapses to the tile floor. Terrified, heart a sharp staccato, he searches for the intruder. Minutes pass, nothing happens, and Zeke realizes the movement was his reflection in the mirror.

 With a shaky breath he uses the toilet for support as he stands. He takes in the pale haggard face staring back at him in the mirror. Frightened hazel eyes ringed in purple bruises from lack of sleep. Rough spots of stubble where his hand trembled and missed while shaving. Matted, and tangled flamingo-pink hair that hasn’t been washed or brushed since the bike incident. Hard to believe that happened just a few days ago. At least Danny was right; nobody can attack with a bike so long as the apartment is locked tight. Wait. Zeke tries to recall the conversation with Danny.

He stumbles from the bathroom into Danny’s bedroom. It looks the same as every other time Zeke came through to check for the man in fuchsia. Danny couldn’t be. It all started with the bike, but Danny had left for the airport that morning. Running a hand through his hair, giving a tug, flamingo-pink catches the edge of his peripheral vision. No. It didn’t start with the bike, it started with the hair. That morning the shampoo was switched with flamingo bloody pink permanent hair dye. But that’s ridiculous.

Feeling boneless Zeke sinks to the floor. His heart hammers harder, breath coming in short gasps. Lying on the floor he tries to keep from hyperventilating. Feeling dizzy and light-headed he slowly opens his eyes. Something is poking out from underneath Danny’s bed. Picking it up he stares, blinks, and drops it. He reaches under the bed and comes in contact with smooth material.  Holding it to the light, his numb fingers lose their grasp.

“It’s really rude to snoop in someone else’s room, Zeke.”

He turns and stares at Danny standing in the doorway, blocking the only exit. The suit is lying on the floor. The fuchsia track suit. The pained betrayal in his eyes is clear when he turns back.

“I don’t understand,” Zeke mutters.

“Don’t you?”

“Why, Danny?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you trying to kill me? Why the hell did you choose fuchsia?”

“Who would ever believe you? A man in fuchsia is trying to kill me. Oh no!” he mocks laughing. “You’ve been losing it all over the place, Zeke. People have noticed. They think you’re headed to a nervous breakdown.”

“Witnesses! There were witnesses for the bike.”

“Eye witnesses aren’t as reliable as they used to be. Memory is a faulty thing, and suggestion is so powerful.”

“People will suspect you.”

“Why? Everyone thinks I’m out of town for a week. It’s the perfect alibi to give the cops when I pretend to be the distraught roommate.”

“But where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the apartment everyday.”

“I’ve been staying in a sleazy motel about an hour away. When all my other plans failed I decided it was time for a face to face. After strangling you, I came here, planted the costume, and waited.”

“You rat bastard.”

Furious, Zeke rises only to stop cold. With a patronizing smile Danny casually pulls a gun from his pocket. Aiming at the man crouched on the floor, he pulls back the hammer. Terrified, pleading, Zeke tries to understand.

“Why are you doing this?”

Danny’s face twists into a mask of venomous hatred. With a snarl he pulls the trigger. Padding spews from the mattress next to Zeke’s head.

“You ate the last twinkie, you bastard!”

“Wait? What! Twinkie?”

“Yes, the last twinkie. I was saving it as a victory snack for passing my midterms.”

“When did we have twinkies?”

“As if you don’t remember. It was three and a half weeks, two days, six hours, and I don’t care how many minutes ago. I just got back to the apartment after torturous hours of stressful exams and found you sitting on the couch, in your undies, defiling my twinkie!”

“How do you defile a twinkie?”

“I don’t—I—you just did.”

“You’ve been trying to kill me over twinkies?”

“Not twinkies, just the one. My twinkie.”

“I’ll buy you more twinkies. Hell, I’ll give you a twinkie everyday for the rest of my life if you put the gun down.”

“Too late, Zeke. I didn’t go through all this trouble just to let you go.”

A thunderous crack fills the air as Danny pulls the trigger ending the life of his terrified roommate. With a satisfied sigh he leaves the bedroom, planning to watch a movie before disposing of the fuchsia track suit and gun. Tomorrow he’ll call the police pretending to have just found Zeke’s body. Entering the kitchen, he opens a cabinet to grab a bag of microwave popcorn when something catches his eye in the dark corner of the shelf. Reaching in, he pulls out the item, stares, and begins to laugh.

In his hand is the last twinkie. 

Shadow's Betrayal

I wrote this many moons ago in high school, and it's got a fond place in my heart. Currently, I'm working on a bigger story revolving around these two that will one day hold this scene. =D

She was running through the woods, lungs burning, branches scratching her skin, watching the sun sink into the horizon. If she wasn’t indoors by the time darkness fell, she would never see the light of day again. He was coming, he had been since she left and he was sure to be angry. Perhaps it was stupid of her to leave, to try and escape that man…that thing. He had been so sweet and she had begun to fall under his charm. It was then that she knew she had to escape. He had taken her, pulled her from her glorious home and brought her to his hell. She was his prize, his possession, and she hated every moment of it.

She could feel her knees going weak and prayed her body would hold out just a little longer. With horror filled eyes she watched the sun disappear, and night unfurled ebon wings blanketing the world in darkness. Then she sensed him, gaining on her, inches away from taking her back and overflowing with malice. Up ahead she saw the end of the forest and the edge of town lit by a streetlight. With a desperate yell she lunged forward and landed hard on the ground, scraping her arms and legs, safe in the circle of light. Then he was there, just on the edge of the light. He could not enter it, but she saw him stalking around the perimeter, amber eyes ablaze with barely held fury. If she could just stay in this little patch of light, he wouldn’t be able to get her.

She watched petrified as a long nailed hand entered the light. As he reached for her his skin began to smoke and sizzle and he withdrew his hand with a frustrated snarl. If she stayed in the center of the light until daybreak she would have a chance to escape, yet uncertainty filled her. He was plotting something and even if she did run, he would surely follow. The futility of her efforts pained her, but she refused to give in.

Watching him, she lifted her chin in a show of defiance. To her surprise he chuckled and his eyes lit with merriment. Wary of his reaction, she saw his eyes become smug and she knew something was terribly wrong. Clawed hands and tendrils of darkness began to wrap around her and she looked frantically for their source. And there it was; her shadow. Even in the light she could not escape that bit of darkness. Before she could begin to struggle the shadow hands pulled her into his darkness and out of her light. He was looming above her and she felt his hands clasp her wrists in an iron grip. She looked up at him with large lost eyes as he gently lifted her into his arms. They sped through the night, embraced by darkness back to his home, her prison. Heart filled with angst, she knew she would never see her precious light again

Shadowed Light

A writing exercise for a class, I'm fond of this story and have bigger plans for it.

For as long as Lucy can remember she has been afraid of the dark. She knows through stories her mother told, that wasn’t always true. For six years she had no qualms with darkness, then one night she went to bed as usual and the next refused to sleep without light again. Even now, the reason behind the abrupt change is still unknown and Lucy cannot sleep without some form of illumination. Try as she might to deny it, to pretend it never happened, the truth behind Lucy’s fear has haunted her dreams for the past twenty years.

Before climbing into bed for the night she covers all of the mirrors in her apartment saving the floor to ceiling antique mirror in her bedroom for last. That particular looking glass is covered with a long, thick tarp blocking it from the rest of the room. Turning on a small fountain residing on her bedside table that bathes the room in colored light Lucy falls into the land of slumber. This night, like every night before it, the dream comes but fades as she wakes save a lingering fear that chills her to the bone.

Lucy climbs from her bed shaking off the remaining effects of the dream and freezes in terror. Seconds tick by before a strangled wheeze escapes and her heart begins a quick staccato within her chest.  Honey-brown irises are transfixed upon the uncovered antique mirror. Folded neatly atop her dresser is the tarp that she placed upon the glass hours before. A flickering glint draws her gaze down as she tries to swallow with a painfully parched throat. Before the mirror rests a candle, the flame dancing with its reflection, looking freshly lit from the absence of dripping wax.

Grabbing a nearby wastebasket Lucy takes unsteady steps, scoops up the candle, blows it out and drops it into the bag. Tying it closed as she runs from her apartment into the hall Lucy skids to a stop in front of the garbage chute and drops the bag inside. Without pause she races back to her apartment into her bedroom and hastily throws the tarp back over the mirror. Trembling, Lucy sinks to her knees as the dream, her nightmare, lingering on the edge of her subconscious returns in the light of day.

Hours pass before Ciaran, Lucy’s beau, appears at her apartment looking for her. Walking into the bedroom he finds her curled on the floor. Dropping to the carpet he pulls her into a soothing embrace. Her face is ashen, eyes red-rimmed, and her hands are clenched so tightly there are bloody crescents in her palms.

“Fer Chris’ sake Lucy, what the hell happened?”

“P-panic attack,” she stutters.

“What could cause you to have a panic attack?” Ciaran asks.

“It’s the reason I’m afraid of the dark. I’ve had this dream for most of my life, but I never remembered what happened in it until today,” she whispers.

“Tell me about your dream.”

A long silence settles between them as he patiently strokes Lucy’s hair, waiting for her to begin. Fingers clenching onto his shirt, her voice comes in a rasp.

“I’m six years old, it’s midnight, and I’m standing in the hallway in front of a floor length mirror holding a candle. My cousin told me if you look in a mirror at midnight as April 30^th ends and May 1^st begins while holding a candle you’ll see the person you’re supposed to marry. But that isn’t what I saw.”

“What did you see?” he encourages softly.

“I saw pure evil. He was reflected in the glass surrounded in darkness except for his piercing blue eyes. Putting a hand on my shoulder the man leaned down and whispered in my ear, ‘don’t tell anyone.’ His voice, gods! It was beautiful and horrible; a terrifying caress that froze the blood in my veins. I panicked, dropped the candle, and he was gone. The thing is, I don’t think it was just a dream.”

She clutches him tightly; afraid of her awakened memories as he absorbs everything that was said.

 “I’m so glad you told me. I was very worried you wouldn’t remember,” he tells her, voice terribly pleased.

“What?” Lucy asks pulling back in apprehension.

Shadows bleed throughout the room absorbing all of the light as darkness spreads towards them. She watches stunned as the inky black swallows Ciaran save his piercing cerulean eyes and face-splitting grin. Scrambling back she tries to escape, but roiling tendrils of darkness wrap around her body consuming her whole. Entwining his hand with hers, he gives it a squeeze.

“Hey Lucy,” Ciaran says playfully looking into honey eyes drowning with fright. “I thought I told you not to tell anyone.” 

Candied Dreams

Just a small story that popped into my head one day.

There was no hope, she decided, feeling the tears dry to her face as more burned her eyes. He was never going to change. Never admit he was wrong. Never believe he had hurt her. He never made a mark on her body, not even a bruise. But then, she’d never bruised easily. Not all scars are visible. Some hide in the soul; burrowed deep within the mind. Just because her skin was unblemished didn’t mean she wasn’t damaged. Head aching she sat on a picnic table, staring at the moon, trying to ignore the lump in her throat and the pressure behind her eyes.

They fought again. What started out as something stupid turned into a deep, dark battle that got out of hand. She fought back and for once she wasn’t afraid. She didn’t worry about the consequences, didn’t flinch in the face of his anger. Spurred on by her new bravery, she told him the truth and once it started she couldn’t stop. He’d abused her mentally and spiritually for over half her life and she’d had enough. For years she stayed silent, not wanting him to know. It would only show how much power he had over her. And it would hurt him, to face the monster he really was. A clever monster with a nice public face, that wouldn’t lay a hand on you unless you hit him first. That way, after he finished beating, he could claim self-defense. It came as a shock to her when he said, disappointed, that he’d have to find a different way to put her in her place since he couldn’t use violence. He wasn’t a wife beater. To him they are the scum of the earth. But she wasn’t his wife. He’d still promised to protect her, but he’d promised a lot of things. Last time he promised to be a better man. She reminded him of that as her litany of heartache poured out.

The woman shudders in the dark, trying to hold back the growing storm.

 Years of sorrow passed from her lips listing dates, events, and witnesses. He sat, tight lipped and glowering, as she showed him the wounds he’d scarred upon her heart. Finally, unable to bear his silence, she stopped and waited, desperate for him to finally see.

He called her a liar.

She argued it was the truth. Why would she make up such trauma? It was the truth! He disagreed. Said she’d fooled herself into believing it was the truth. It didn’t matter that there were witnesses, she had to be lying. Something inside of her broke. She ran from the house, into the night, blinded by her tears. He didn’t believe her. He never would. It didn’t matter how much logic, evidence, or reason she had; he would always be right.

 She was hollow, except for the sorrow. But even that couldn’t compare to the gaping emptiness consuming her insides. Why wish when they never come true? Why dream when they only get crushed? Why hope when it only brings suffering? She believed…wanted so badly to believe…that he could change. That one day he would admit to the damage he had caused, even if he wasn’t sorry, just admit that he did it. But that was a delusion she dreamed up. He would never admit it. She would never forgive him.

Fishing in her pocket for a tissue her fingers find a piece of candy. Twisting it in the dim light she reads “Merry Berry.” With a broken smile she popped it into her mouth, the sweet taste turning bitter as the juices slid down her throat. There were no arms to hold her. No shoulders to cry on. Just the silent sentinels of darkness and moon. The sorrow was starting to ebb, and she was still empty. But there was a calm. She would go back, get her things, and leave. He loved her, and she wanted to believe him, but she didn’t have the strength to go through this again. Not again.  

Damn the Nice!

My first attempt at a story with humor as the main genre. It's based on a situation that happened to my friend, with embellishment to protect identities. : )

Damn it, I was nice to someone! What is wrong with me? I have the opportunity to spend hours alone with the man I’ve been trying to snag and ruin it by being nice. Of course, I didn’t know we were going to be alone. The plan had been for a few of us to go over to D’s bookstore, help him catalogue the new shipment, and order Chinese take-out. Then I just had to go and ruin it. Some chick comes up to me on the street asking for directions to his shop and I offer to show her the way. I figured it was safe enough; she could get her book and get out. But fate likes to kick me in the crotch and stand there laughing once I’m down. Turns out our friends couldn’t come, it was just me and D, except the fricking girl offered to stay. This is why I’m never nice to people!

So here I am in my new silk shirt, a few buttons open for that take me I’m yours look, and my skinny pin-striped jeans that make my ass look damned perfect, and this girl is chattering away. Hours that could have been spent making beautiful memories are wasted because I did one good deed. The entire night I’ve avoided looking at D, if I do the urge to throw that rambling woman out on the street will be too much. If only I told her he was closed for the night.

Did she just lean into him? Sorry honey, are you ever on the wrong track. D’s gay and if things ever go my way he’s going to be my new lover. That’s right you give her an awkward look and step away. Call it quits? Well, I suppose we have been cataloging for hours. Damn it! That’s time we could have had alone. That’s it. I’m never helping anyone ever again. Unless of course it’s to help D out of his pants, that I would do. Suppose I’ll just walk out into the cold all by my lonesome. At least that girl has to leave too. Don’t let the door hit on the way out. What’s that? Why yes, D, you can walk me home. I’ll even let you stay forever, or at least the night. Still, imagine all the things we could have done if I hadn’t been nice.

Burning Angel

A moment with two characters from one of my bigger stories. I wrote this for a challenge that wanted a story to progress with mostly dialogue.

“Did you honestly think I was going to disappear into the sunset never to be seen again?”

“I had such hopes.”

Adrian Harper, wanted assassin on the FBI’s top ten list, leans against a wall in the spacious but cozy kitchen of Ethereal Escape Café owned by his former fiancé Evangeline Wyndam.

“After three years you haven’t missed me a little bit?” he teases watching her knead dough.

“That’s plenty of time to get over someone.”

“Then why is the engagement ring I gave you locked away in a box at the very back of the bottom drawer of your desk?”

“You’ve been through my house,” she accuses, slapping the dough onto the counter before her with more force than necessary.

“I missed you.”

“That would be endearing if it wasn’t so fricking creepy. How many times have you been in my house?”

“In the past three years or just this month?”

“Hah, that’s just…I don’t want to know.”

“It’s less than a dozen. Visiting you is a big risk to my freedom, but I can’t keep myself away,” he tells her, a hint of longing on his face. “That’s why I’m here. My feelings haven’t changed.”

“Let’s go back to you breaking into my house. Disturbing as it is, I like that topic better.”

“This isn’t a joke, Evangeline. Come with me, live beyond the rules of society instead of wasting your life on baking.”

“I like baking!” she snarls turning on him. “There’s no freedom in living beyond the rules with you, just fugitives running from the law, always watching their backs, and giving up everything or anyone that means anything.”

“What do you want, an apology? I’m sorry you were caught in the fallout three years ago. If you recall, I tried to get you to come with me to spare you that suffering.”

“My only regret about that day is calling you a sanctimonious ass before you left.”

“You didn’t call me that.”

“Well, I’m never one to miss an opportunity you sanctimonious ass.”

“Alright, fine. Will you at least consider my offer?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Adrian asks, gritting his teeth.

“You kill people for a living, for starters. My life was left in shambles three years ago because of you. And, honest to God, you just aggravate the hell out of me.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“Then let it go. Let what we had become a bitter sweet memory.”

“I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

“Both. You are the only thing left in this world, outside of myself, that I care about. Believe me, that isn’t some cheesy exaggeration, it’s an annoying truth that I’ve come to terms with.”

“Be that as it may, I’m still not going to come with you.”

“What’s so wonderful that you won’t leave?”

“My family, friends, a beautiful café, almost everything I need.”

“I’m not here.”

“That would be the almost.”

“So you’re still—”

“Yes, but it’s not like I want to be. I’ve moved on the best I could in the past three years but that, that just won’t change.”

“Good,” a smirk, “you had me worried.”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’m not going to travel the world sitting idly by while you murder people. As long as you’re alive the FBI won’t stop hunting you, and I refuse to put the people I care about through that.”

“You’re still so selfless; protecting the innocent, me, your family. Isn’t it time you were selfish.”

“You want me to be selfish. If I could have you here with me safe from the government and not killing people, then my life would be fantastic. But real life isn’t like that. Hell, real life shouldn’t even be like this.”

 “You’re right, that’s impossible. At the very least, it’s improbable.” A pause. “You won’t come with me?”

“No. I really am sorry, Adrian.”

“Suppose I’ll just have to make the impossible possible.” Stepping forward Adrian kisses Evangeline, lingering just long enough to set their hearts thrumming. “I do love a good challenge, and you are certainly worth the effort.”

“Oh,” Evangeline mutters minutes later, fingers touching her lips as she stares at the door he departed from. “If only I could believe that.”

Lumina

I wrote this for a class in college. The idea came when I was driving home with my friend for the weekend and someone on the road was driving like a lunatic. The title "Lumina" is based on her, then, car.

The sun hangs low in the horizon as Owen Cooper drives down the deserted highway in his Chevy Silverado truck, glaring rays of sunlight hitting his eyes. A country singer’s caterwauling drawl fills the silence as he taps his fingers against the steering wheel. Instead of watching the road his mind focuses on creating a devious prank to use on his best friend Pete. Owen lost the advantage in their ever escalating competition two nights ago when his play mate broke into his apartment and held a knife to his throat. At least, he thought it was a knife. After several panic filled moments his friend revealed that his weapon of choice was actually a metal spork. The bastard. In order to regain his dignity, Owen needs something good and terrifying

“Speak of the devil,” he mutters, noticing a car in front of him. “I don’t freakin’ believe it. That’s gotta be him. No way in hell there are two guys in this podunk little town driving a ’97 plum colored Chevy Lumina. Hot damn.”  

Idea forming, Owen’s lips curl into a malicious grin as his foot presses down on the accelerator. Flicking his brights on, he brings the truck scant inches from the back bumper of the Lumina. A sharp tap of his foot sends the truck lurching forward. Thunk! He chuckles as the Lumina gives a staggering wobble before speeding up. Pushing down on the pedal, Owen once again brings the vehicles dangerously close. Thwomp! Another burst of speed sends the Lumina fishtailing over the center line before it straightens. The car begins to pull over.

“It’s not gonna be that easy,” Own mumbles.

With a sharp twist of the steering wheel he rams the front of his truck into the back corner of the Lumina. A satisfying crunch resounds on impact causing him to laugh when the plum colored Chevy peals away in a shower of gravel.

“That’s it Bubba, now you’re playin’ my game.”

Tensing in anticipation Owen shoots after the Lumina, putting more and more pressure onto the accelerator. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty and still climbing. A burst of cruel staccato laughter drowns out the country music as he draws closer to the retreating car. He pushes the pedal to the floor, enjoying the sound of the engine’s roar. His body thrums with the vibration of the car. Just gotta round this corner and I’m putting a giant ass crater in the back of Pete’s car, he thinks, tightening his grip in preparation for the sharp turn.

“Just a little bit further. C’mon, c’mon,” he hunches over the steering wheel, “FUCK!”

Slamming a foot on the brakes the sharp pull of the seatbelt and the loud scream of the tires don’t register, Owen’s attention is pinpointed on the corner where the Chevy Lumina had been only seconds before. He blinks. Blinks again. Then draws in a ragged breath. Jaw slack and arms limp on the wheel; Owen’s mind can’t seem to register what he just saw.

The Lumina takes the corner too wide, pulls hard to adjust as the back swings out off the road, past the gravel, and into the air over the gully next to the highway. The car is almost perpendicular with the road before the loss of traction causes it to tip, the nose falling backwards over the back, before careening downhill into the trees. It took the corner too fast, had to have been going at least eighty-five. And it’s a sharp corner. Too fast and too sharp. 

Fuck.

Shifting his truck into park, Owen pushes open the door and slowly, mechanically, follows the skid marks to the edge of the road. There is a long, horrifying gouge in the ground where underbrush used to be. Eyes scanning for any sign of the car, he tries to swallow but gags, his throat is to dry. A flash of plum catches his eye. His gaze fixates on it. There is a roaring in his ears; belatedly Owen realizes it is the sound of his heart leaping like a jackhammer. And then he’s running.

“Oh God. Oh hell. Goddamn damn stupid freaking hell,” he mumbles, feet eating away at the ground as he races to the car. “Please. Please, please, please. Ohhhhh, Holy Mary Mother of Fuck. Shit fuck!”

Tripping over his feet he falls smacking his face off the ground before scrambling back into a run. The car has stopped, the backseat buckling around the trunk of a tree. The driver’s window is smashed out. Owen cringes at the sound of glass breaking under his feet as he goes to it, hoping his friend is still alive. The driver is slumped over the steering wheel, hands gripping loosely, with his head turned at an unnatural angle. Wide eyes and an open mouth, a face locked in a scream, peer out the window at Owen. A chill sweeps through him as his throat constricts. It’s not his friend

Staggering back, Owen feels the burning threat of tears in his eyes and nose. He swallows, gags, then falls to his knees gasping, dry heaving, trying to breathe even as his stomach revolts. It’s just a kid. Some poor, dumb kid barely into his teens. A moan comes from inside the car. Slowly, trembling, Owen climbs to his feet and staggers over to the car. Gingerly he leans over the body of the boy and realizes for the first time that there is someone in the passenger seat. It’s a woman, young probably, but the mask of blood and swelling makes it hard to tell. She’s slumped in the seat, hanging limply against the seatbelt with her head pressed against the cracked window of her door. With great effort a quivering hand is raised towards the boy.

“Please,” she rasps as fresh blood oozes from her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Owen whispers, unable to tear his gaze from her broken, quaking hand.

Cracked lips open but a whimper is all that escapes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was a mistake, y’know, an accident. This wasn’t supposed to happen because I was trying to play a prank on my friend, I thought you were my friend, but I didn’t want this, not this, not ever, to you or him, but things got outta hand, and if I’d known, I shoulda known, it wouldn’t have happened, but I didn’t know and it happened, so you gotta believe me that I’m sorry cause it was just a prank, a stupid prank that wasn’t s’posed to be like this,” Owen rants, voice gaining volume and speed.

Suddenly it’s too much for him. Those glassy eyes staring at him from the boy’s permanently terrified face and that hand, that mangled broken hand reaching out for help that he can’t give. It’s too much. There’s an accusing look in those eyes and that hand’s pointing at him, trying to mark him as a fiend. It was an accident. He said he was sorry. Nothing else he can do. Another pleading moan escapes from the woman, and something inside Own snaps. Backing away, he turns and sprints towards the road, hands digging into dirt as he scrambles up the hillside. Owen notices another car pull over as he peals off down the highway.

Owen wakes with a start, his body and sheets drenched in sweat, heart thrashing in his chest. The gray tiles of his ceiling stare down at him; stray beams of orange light filtering through the window illuminate the tiles frayed state. Dark shadows consume the majority of the room leaving it in a state of gloom. Scrubbing at his face with a hand, he tries to calm down with deep breaths. Every night for the past six months he’s been reliving that tragic accident in his sleep. He can force back the guilt when he’s awake, but the moment his eyes close his conscience won’t allow a minute’s rest. Every night the crunch of metal, those glassy staring eyes, and that desperate rasping “please” replay in his mind. Even the presence of his girlfriend does nothing to sooth the nightmares. Owen isn’t sure if it’s the fact that he accidentally killed someone, that he ran away, or that he hasn’t told anyone the truth about what happened keeping him up at night. Shivering as the after images flash through his mind, Owen looks longingly at his sleeping girlfriend before climbing out of bed. There is no way he will be able to get back to sleep

In the kitchen he decides to open yesterday’s mail while waiting for the coffee to finish. Bill, bill, ad, free coupon, and a letter he opens while pouring himself a cup of black coffee. Opening the envelope he pulls out a folded piece of paper. CRASH! The mug slips from his grasp as porcelain and coffee scatter across the floor. On the sheet is a picture of the boy he killed and written in sharp red letters that leech into the paper is one word:
MURDERER.
 The crunch of buckling metal roars in his ears, the smell of vomit and blood replaces coffee, and those glassy eyes stare at him in silent accusation. “Please,” the sound of that pleading voice drowns out everything else.

“…en…Owen…OWEN!” He jerks back to reality at the sound of his name being yelled. Shaking his head to get rid of the daze, Owen realizes his girlfriend is standing next to him, shaking his shoulder and hollering.

“Raina. What are you doing up?”

“The sound of the coffee mug smashing woke me.”

“What coffee mug?”

“The one smashed all over the floor!” she pauses, taking in his ashen features. “What’s wrong with you?” 

Grabbing a dish towel from the counter she crouches down to clean up the mess.

“I’m just tired. Nothin’ for you to worry about.”

“That piece of paper in your hand sure as hell makes it seem like something.”

Looking down, Owen realizes he’s still clutching the picture of the dead boy.

“Like I said, it’s nothing. Just somebody’s idea of a dumb prank,” Owen winces as the words leave his mouth.

“Liar. If it was nothing you wouldn’t be making that face.”

“What do you want from me?”

Pausing, Raina stares at his face but he refuses to meet her gaze.

“I just want to know what’s going on. That thing says murderer on it, and you’re white as a sheet.” She stands and makes him look her in the eye. “There is absolutely nothing in this world that could ever make me feel differently towards you.”

Owen gives her a weak smile and watches as she drops the porcelain into the garbage. His eyes follow her around the kitchen as she grabs a dish towel and crouches again to soak up the spilled coffee. Looking down at the photo of the smiling boy in his hands, the image of glassy eyes flashes across his mind, and he releases a loud sigh.

“You’re going to hate me for this, but I suppose if I’m gonna tell anyone it might as well be you. Six months ago I was driving home from work and I saw my buddy Pete’s car. We had this real nasty way of playing pran…jokes on each other, real violent ones, and I got this great idea. Except it wasn’t so great. I uh, kept ridin’ real close to his car, tailgating, y’know? And I’d hit it with my truck, and he’d speed up, then I’d catch up and hit him again. We started goin’ really fast and um, he lost control. The whole car just tipped over the edge of the road, way down an embankment into the woods. When I found it the car was wrapped around a tree and he was dead.”

“We, uh, we just hung out with Pete last week.”

“It wasn’t Pete’s car.”

“Whose car was it?”

“This kid’s,” he holds up the paper in his hand. “The boy in this picture died because I was screwin’ around. There was a woman in the car with him, don’t know if she lived or died.”

“Didn’t you help them?” A trembling edge of desperation enters her voice.

“No. I panicked. It was a total accident, because I never wanted anybody to get hurt. Pete’s a really good driver so I thought he could handle it, except it wasn’t, it wasn’t…”

“Pete,” she finishes, “it was some kid who didn’t know what hit him.”

“Yeah. Since then I’ve been getting nightmares about it every night. And about three weeks ago this picture of the kid has been showing up everywhere I go. His folks have started a memorial scholarship in his honor and their lookin’ for donations. People have been putting these fliers up at my job, the place I buy groceries, on my windshield, but it was all harmless. Now someone is sending his picture to my apartment with a clear message. You killed him and I know about it.”

“Have you told anyone else about it?”

“No. You’re the first.”

She wipes up the last of coffee. Owen studies her face.

“You hate me now, right?”

“No. My feelings for you haven’t changed.”

“Then why do I get the idea there’s a but at the end of that sentence?”

“I just—I don’t understand. You killed this kid and you feel bad about it, right?”

“Yeah, it’s been eatin’ me up inside.”

“If you feel so guilty, why don’t you go to the cops?” 

“Because they’ll arrest me!”

“Right, but wouldn’t they, I don’t know, be willing to cut a deal or something if you turn yourself in?”

“I killed a kid. They won’t let me walk because I feel really bad about it,” Owen points out, growing irritated.

Glaring blindly at the floor, Raina scrubs at the tiles.

“It’s the right thing to do! Don’t you want that boy’s family to have some peace?”

“Not if it means I go to jail with a murder charge.”

“You’re scared, I get that. If you want I’ll go with you to the sheriff’s office.”

“What are you gonna do? Hold my hand the entire time?” Owen sneers, scowling down at her. Hating Raina for not understanding.

“If that’s what it takes.”

“Gee officer, can my girlfriend come along with me? She’s gotta hold my hand.”

Coffee starts leaking from the dishtowel as Raina presses harder on the tile.

“I sure as hell won’t anymore.”

“Guess I’m not going to the cops then.” 

Minutes pass as Owen watches the cold brown liquid seep across the linoleum. Eyes traveling up, he takes in Raina’s white knuckled grip, tense shoulders, the teeth buried in her lower lip, and the salty tear tracks drying on her face. Sighing, he shakes his head.

 “I can’t go to the police because they’ll arrest me.”

“You won’t even consider it?” She asks, voice quivering.

“I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Even if it means you’ll be free from the guilt and it gives his family a little justice?”

“I knew you wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me understand.”

Reaching down Owen takes the dishtowel from her and begins sopping up the cold remnants of coffee.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Do you think I’d like it any better drunk?”

“You might.” 

“In that case, do you have any liquor?”

“Should be some scotch in that cabinet over there,” he says, pointing over his shoulder.

Owen listens to the sound of glass clinking on plastic followed by the splash of liquid pouring. His chest feels tight. But with a little convincing, he thinks, Raina will come around. Standing up, he wrings the dishtowel out in the sink. He feels her step up behind him. Chin resting on his shoulder, her arm loops around him offering a plastic glass filled a quarter of the way with scotch. Taking it, he swallows it in one shot, relishing the burn in his throat.

“C’mon,” Raina says, taking his hand and leading him out of the kitchen.

Head starting to spin, Owen notices his body feels heavier. With stumbling footsteps he follows her out the door of his apartment, down the hall, into the elevator. Slumping against the wall, his eyes blur as he tries to focus on Raina’s face.

“Thrrr’s somthin’ wrrrong,” he slurs, reaching for her.

Owen feels her slinging his arm over her shoulders as she pulls him back onto his feet. Leaning heavily on Raina, she supports his staggering form as they lurch through the empty lobby out to the barren parking lot next to his apartment building. He feels her pushing him into a car, his body dropping like a lead weight. As the world grows dim the last thing he hears is the woman’s voice from the accident rasping her frantic “Please.”

Reality Roamer

It's a poem that touches upon imagination, large parts of childhood adventures, and the fact that all kids should dream impossibly big dreams without the fear of waking.

She dreams of reincarnated angels loving three-eyed demons

as pink tigers eat marshmallows and

Prince charming is murdered by the damsel in distress.

Goddesses of insanity join wicked queens

 to splice and torture witless corpses

while rich men get richer destroying the world.

Masked men marry moon princesses

as celestial soldiers become landlords and

heroes settle together in a town.

Fourteen brings destinies

where children are saviors defending the world

and average life is forgotten days.

Innocence becomes a weapon

when age loses meaning

and dreamers are forced to wake.

Waking Dreamer

Poetry isn't really my thing, but every now and again I get the urge.

Life is ever changing.

Memories rot in copper caskets,

buried in oblivion.

The heart thumps a rhythm,

making blood sing,

as the body sways.

Time slips and falls,

its face a jagged mirror,

reflecting broken sentiments.

Covet it in your box,

of shattered, broken dreams.

Your living graveyard.

Happiness born in a moment,

dies in an instant

Chocolate and Honey

A short story with the same female lead as "Mock Orange Blossoms" I do adore her.

“Scream and I’ll kill you.”

Bent over a row of violets a woman pauses. The sharp threat comes from a man just behind her, pressing a gun into her head. Minutes earlier he abandoned his car after a shot burst a back tire. He’d ducked into the flower shop as the sirens drew closer, luck on his side that the sole occupant was distracted.

“Slowly stand and turn around,” he commands, stepping back as she does.

He studies her, mid-twenties, body language timid. Hands raised in surrender she waits, silently submissive, but something about her makes his skin crawl.

“Move to the register,” he orders, following her. “Hands flat on the counter.”

Standing behind her, barrel touching her spine, he scans the street through the front window.

“If a cop comes in looking for me tell him you’re alone, understand?”

 She nods.

“Good girl. Keep it up and you might live.”

Fingers drumming on the counter he surveys the shop, eyes stopping on a pouch next to the register tied with a perfect white ribbon.

“S’that?” He asks, tapping the pouch.

“Candy,” her voice is soft, calm. The hair rises on his neck.

Opening the pouch he pops a chocolate into his mouth, pleased by the unexpected honey center.

“Pretty good,” he mutters eating three more.

“The police are here,” she says with a nod towards the window.

Startled, he spots the cruiser parked across the street. Ducking under the counter he presses the gun against her stomach in warning, holding his breath as bells chime above the door.

“Can I help you?” She asks, as footsteps draw closer.

“Ms. St. Ange we’ve reason to believe there’s a criminal in the area. There was a shooting at the courthouse and the perpetrator’s car was found several blocks from here.”

“How terrible,” she says, concerned. “Is everyone alright?”

“Only a minor injury was sustained. Have you seen anyone in the last thirty minutes?”

“Just you.”

“Then for your safety close your shop and stay inside until an officer tells you it’s safe.”

“Of course, Officer. Good luck.”

Retreating steps followed by the chime of bells. A heartbeat. Two. Ten.

“He’s gone now.”

“Your name’s St. Ange?” He asks her, standing close enough her arm brushes his chest.

“Yes.”

“Any relation to Cedric St. Ange the district attorney?”

“My brother,” she replies coolly.

With a whooping laugh he grabs her face forcing her to look at him.

“That’s the bastard I just tried to kill,” he leers, “but this is better. He puts my brother away and I get to take it out on his sister. Once I’m through with you sweetie pie he’ll wish I’d shot him.”

Another guttural laugh as he looks into her eyes, wanting to relish in her fear. A chill races down his spine, slithering through his veins. Her eyes are empty. No fear, no panic, just flat pools of cinnamon. Raising the gun he presses it into her temple hard enough to bruise.

“Maybe you don’t understand the situation you’re in, but it’s time to be afraid you stupid bitch,” he snarls.

Quirking an eyebrow, she remains stoic. Another shiver wracks his body. Her expression doesn’t change but the air around her seeps malice. He swallows, throat suddenly dry, as fire erupts in his stomach and the world grows dim.

Heady fuzzy, mouth feeling like cotton, blurred eyes open. He tries lifting a hand but it won’t move. Struggling, he finds his body immobile, crying hoarsely when he can’t lift his head.

“You’re awake,” a pleased voice says. “I wasn’t sure you’d rouse after eating so much candy. Chocolate and honey cover the taste of henbane, which is what’s caused your muscles to go into a state of paralysis. Of course, if you aren’t properly treated it will eventually spread to your heart and lungs, killing you. But we’ll have plenty of time before that.”

Cecily St. Ange fills his vision, leaning over the table he’s prone on. Eyes alight with bloodlust she purrs darkly, “Now then, shall we start with needles or the blow torch?”