Daymares

I don’t think I’ve ever tried writing a poem, or a piece resembling one in style or rhyme, but here goes a try. No matter how you view this I hope you enjoy it!

Skrik – Edvard Munch

Daymares 

 

 -  Oh, pretentious beast within, thou thirst is never settled!

By day I abhor that which in night I have loved

A faceless courtesan stealing my soul

In sand filled vastness, my voice merely whisper

For apathetic time, I condemn myself to die quicker

Misshapen and foul

From inferior birth I crawled in this life

Two-faced Janus

Twice death, not once life.

Days of spring,

Distant charmers – I call upon you now!

Days of autumn,

Fiery morrows – I long search for you, come!

To light me up and wake me from my sorrow,

To rid me of that haunting hollow,

Harbored deep inside my core

But if my soul demands some light

It be burning through my eyes

Asking me to cloak myself forever

Never grasp another light of day, not ever

Abandoned in the midst of stormy weather,

I cry for shores distant and unknown

A voice now slowly fading

For a life just barely known

While Passionless time never halts

Inside this epic desert

Which I abhor.

Ileana Carlota

Ileana Carlota

It starts with the story of a woman, who danced the bolero under the strings of young men’s guitars on the town square in the cool evenings. Her name is Ileana Carlota.

Her childhood is marked by a trauma that had grown repetitive with the span of years in which her father, Don Silvio had raised an abusive hand over Ileana and her mother Dona Magdalena. After so many nights with drying tears over aching bruises, Ileana had stood up to her dominating papa and shot him with his own pistol.

She took care of her mother, working in Huan’s café, serving chicha to military man and police officers from the next town’s station, taking serenades in the evening from the young cholo boys that had come to hear her hum to their music, or watch her dance the bolero with old Huan. She was beautiful, tin and dark, with glistening raven hair, and hazel eyes.

Many man wanted to make Ileana their bride, but she was just a girl full of childish dreams and simple wishes, blushing over their lustful remarks, never answering their yearnings. They craved after her innocence, stretching grabby hands to strip her naked and glare with hazy eyes at her purity, wanting to stain it, taking away her childhood.

Ileana shook her head even when her mother urged her for marriage, desperately trying to secure her daughter’s future, before her death, which came soon after Ileana turned 18.

Ileana then had to sell her father’s estate and move to a small hacienda next to Huan’s café which she bought with the money left. She worked and she danced, but always kept much to herself, walking along the paved roads alone, the wind stealing black glistening locks of hair.

It was the night of Dia de Muertos when she met a special boy who only wanted to take her hand and hold it. Mathias didn’t sing, nor played the guitar. He helped Padre Antonio in the church and taught the word of God to the children on Sunday’s. He read to Ileana from the Bible, page by page restoring her faith, passage after passage releasing her from the memory of her father and shielding her from the wants of wretched men. He loved her hazel eyes, curiously watching him, her lips curling in a playful smile.

Mathias was Ileana’s first true friend and her first love. Their youth was spend together, until Mathias took an oath and became a man of God, engaging on a mission of his own across Mexico. Ileana kissed his cheek and prayed for him, counting the days of his return, which turned into months, growing into years. She often imagined him walking back up the road in his black clothes, a tall stranger that she had met on the night of the dead.

When he returned five years later, heart trembling with anticipation, Mathias found Ileana dancing for money, exposing her body for the eyes of those who had the necessary amount. He cried at that sight. He wept for her soul, depraved and blackened by the misery her life had turned to in those years. “Five years are too long, Mathias for a young woman to wait for someone who could never take her as his wife. Love is not meant for everyone. You have the love of your God, and I have the lust of all those men.” Those where her words to him, and he carried them within him, like a rusty dagger struck between his ribs.

This is not Ileana’s story solemnly.

It continues with that of a boy, who fell in love with a beautiful, but sad girl, and even after countless attempts to save her soul and preserve her purity, the boy failed, and now the girl was a whore, who every military man has touched and kissed, who every man but him had had. And the boy, hurt and angered, retreats, stepping back inside the small church, becoming its new Padre.

Kneeling before the crucifix, the cross pressed hard against his lips, Mathias swears to his new mission, to rid the town off its demons, to cure the wicked and release Ileana from her fate.

But his faith evaporates day after day, seeing Ileana taking the hand of some local and pulling him seductively into the shadows behind the café. He sees the glimmer in the stranger’s eyes, his features twisting, deforming as he kisses her neck, wanting to devour her whole. Mathias would never do that. He would honor Ileana, keep her…safe. But as he hears the groans of that man, filling the night, slipping between the poignant guitar solos, Mathias feels a craving of his own. His flesh burns, aches for Ileana. His fingers seek her dark skin, touching her lips in his dreams, kissing the curve. Is it the whore in her awakening a beast in him? Does the boy still love the girl, or is the man running after the woman selling herself carelessly? The doors of the church close. There is no faith.

He wants to consume her, love her, own her. His mind is poisoned, and no silver cross pressed to his lips can release him from the torture her beauty puts him through.

“Let the Devil come and take you, wretched woman! Let him make you his whore, to suffer!” With his back to the crucifix, a bleeding Jesus, a silent watcher, Mathias digs the dirt on a crossroad throwing her fading picture in the hole. With trembling finger he buries the last piece of faith.

Now the story comes to its end. The girl and the boy, the woman and the man. And me.

Called upon the night when the dead are celebrated, welcomed by the reflection my own face, painted on those of mortals, I walk through the town square, seeking the whore who danced the bolero with old Huan. Here I take her hand in mine, beautiful Ileana Carlota and let her glare into the red pits of my ancient eyes. El Diablo’s whore.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Inside the small church sinful Mathias sits, blindly brushing the blood of his face, my words echoing in his head. No faith remains. No love remains.

 

Diamonds in their eyes

Diamonds in their eyes

“Is Danny going to be all right?”

She stopped on the sidewalk in front of the school. Her tired eyes studied the small boy before her; his features reminded her so much of Daniel. She wanted to reject him then and there for being so painfully similar, like a past version of Daniel, pink cheeks, lively eyes, and if it was not for the instinct she bared as a mother she would have walked away. She bit her lower lip hesitating what to answer her younger son. She was never good at lying.

“I don’t know.”

“Some kids at school say he’s a freak.”

In a flash she grabbed him by the shoulders and squeezed him, her face and inch away from his. She knew this action of hers frightened Charlie, and she knew that it wasn’t the pain of her fingers digging into his arms that caused him to release a wimpy cry, but the fear in her eyes, speaking the truth while her voice tried to lie.

“Your brother is not a freak.” She released him from her grip, pulling away, fighting the tears. “Don’t listen to those kids.”

It wasn’t enough, she knew, but she couldn’t stand being watched, being spoke of, hearing their whispers, their insults. Charlie followed her, walking beside with lowered head.

At home he ran into the living room and turned on the TV. She knew this wasn’t an option, but for now Charlie needed to be occupied, distracted away from… She poured a glass, than flunked it down the sink. She cried silently for a few then with shaking legs climbed the stairs.

Danny’s room just as she left it. Locked.

She entered the security code, the lock was released and she pushed the door slowly.

“Danny? It’s mom. I’m just checking on you.”

Her older boy was sitting by his desk, drawing as any other day. She feared to interrupt the scratching of the pencils and just watched his bent figure. He suddenly stopped and turned to look at her. She broke into tears again. Her boy, her beloved Danny blinked with his black eyes. His fluorescent blue skin shone under the light in the room. He stood up and jumped into her arms, his clawed fingers scratching at her back. She kissed his forehead, meeting the steely cold flesh. He purred and she smiled. She missed his voice, but the purr, she always though equaled him saying “I love you”. She gazed in his engulfing black eyes, unreadable pits that sometimes terrified her.  Amongst the infected, there were those who had murdered their families, those who had left their blue sigil on their faces, frozen in agony, as the alien crystals emerged from their mouths and clouded their eyes. She often dreamed of those crystals, diamonds in their eyes, that glistened. Those were nightmares in which Danny cries for her and she can’t reach him, only watch from afar as the crystal consumes his body, hiding his face under a tick layer of diamonds.  Her face darkened and she let go of him. “Mommy loves you Danny.” He stood there watching her close shut the door and lock it again.

She rushed into her bedroom and dug the vaccine container from her draw. She injected the serum and fought the side effect nausea that weakened her body and made her vomit. Another glance at the container told her there was one vaccine left. Applaying for more wasn’t an option. The government had released a restricted amount, and even if she was one of the scientists working on finding the cure for the 101 children infected, her monthly dose of the vaccine was also limited. She had to go back and steal more.

Even from here she could hear Danny drawing. She never saw what he drew. Maybe an answer, maybe a reason. But she dared not look.   She feared bodies with crystals growing on their faces.

The clock was ticking and she needed to find a cure. She needed to save Danny, before the Government decides the children are dangerous and not worth saving. Before they come knocking down her door with guns aiming.

We will meet again

We will meet again

As I lay, weary and weak, I ask you, Observer of thy fall, why you stretch your cold long fingers and dismiss yourself so fast, thus  abandoning us all? Do we not deserve to see the light of day as well? Have we not paid enough sleepless nights, battling on and on for our right? Why have you no pity for your fellow men, why have you no heart for our yet burning desire? You ignite the flame, then put it out before it could properly warm us! Can you not see our struggle now? Have you not recognized our determination, our courage to fight till last, till there stand no more but I and a few, barely keeping their weary bodies? If this is what we deserve I beckon you to speak your reason! Punish us, but do not be a coward, and speak! If there is nothing else for me to wish for, nothing for me to fight for, at least let me hear your voice echo, let me know your name. I shall not die with my tormentor nameless in my thoughts!

Aye, I hear you brothers and sisters, your dying voices slip away, as long days become nights, as nights prolong and we die, die, die like fireflies in the daylight. We perish as he watches, but fear not. In our dreams we shall attain our goal. In our dreams…in them I put my last hope. For I too have found this battle tiring, this madness overtaking. Here me Observer, you ruthless oppressor! This one you may have stolen from us, this one you may have kept only for yourself, but the next, and all that come after it shall be ours! We will meet again. I promise.

Goodnight all you brave souls, goodnight minds overheating. As I reach to stop this painful download, the percent still barely 30, the speed  merely 4 kB per second, I see one-two brave little peers, climbing up the first kilobytes. Adieu to you, and there’s another hope, a hope that the morrow will bring to you the 100.

Stop… Delete….And nothing more.

Of Sins and Sinners

 

Of Sins and Sinners

The Créole stared at the beast in chains. His lips muttered the old French proverb his mother once told him; his fingers grasped the wooden cross hanging around his neck. The beast bellowed, pulling on its restrains and the young Creole, startled pointed his rifle at the writhing creature.

McCoy touched the boy by the shoulder, beckoning him to lower his weapon. He shook his head.

“Is pointless now boy. Beast gonna die anyway. Best let it wriggle a bit.”

Sutherland, a rough man, with sandy blond hair and eyebrows, flamed the torch. He held it burning before him, locking his gaze upon that of the beast. In the midsummer’s eve, the air was still, the trees motionless, only fireflies flickering on the darkening sky. The torch illuminated – it burned for a sacrifice. It burned in his eyes and in those of the kneeling one. Sutherland took a step closer. He was given the privilege of cleansing, of holding this object that would eradicate all evil, here in the hot summer eve, under the clear sky. He knew…If he would to burn it, peace would restore back, the town’s folks would ease their quivering hearts. If he would to pull back now and refuse to perform this duty he would be hated and chased away, talked of as a coward, a man who ran away from his responsibilities. But to flame the dry branches and watch them spread, licking naked flesh, engulfing screams meant to mark his soul; to spare it meant to mark others, condemn them to fear. His hand was unsure. The eyes that met his were human. The “beast” spoke his tongue and lived not two houses away from his own. He had known him since the day he was born. Once more Sutherland asked himself questions that were bound to exist in unknown. What events had stolen  this boy and returned it two winters after, not quite the same? What fate had decided to take away three lives the very year of his return and blame their loss on his fragile creature? Who was to blame for this turn of the wheel? Who’s testimony had spread the vivid rumor of the boy’s  figure upon the lifeless corpses?  Alas, these people needn’t listen to complicated explanations, nor seeked the answers of these questions – they thought the murder of the murderer to be sufficient, and thus this man, this example for bravery and honesty in their humble society was put before the beaten body of a boy of seventeen with a torch in his hand and a verdict to perform.  No one cared for his personal opinion; he served the mass and the council.

The invading vision of the bodies lying in the dark behind the barn, eyes whitened, chests ripped open, and hearts missing made him sick again. The stink attracting flies came back filling his nostrils and Sutherland put great effort not to throw up. What doubt was there that the boy was indeed the perpetrator?  He needed to believe what others did; he needed to burn him to prove their hunt right, to prove their accusations solid. He had to burn him in order to free everyone else.

“Straighten him up. Tie him tauter.”

McCoy grabbed the boy by the collar of his thorn dress and slammed him hard against the stake. He wrapped the chain tighter around his chest, locked it then muffed his mouth. His eyes never met those of the boy.

“I hereby declare the mutual judgment resulting from the consultation with the town council and the vote of the citizens. For his crimes in witchery and for the brutal murders of one Elizabeth Mein, Jaqueline Harkness and Stephanie Hall, this boy, whose name shall not be called tonight, is sentenced to death by incineration. ” Sutherland walked to the stake. The boy tried to speak; he was trying to yell. “You shall burn on this trial as a demon, as an unholy creature. For you there is no prayer. There shall be no place for you in Heaven, only in Hell.” Then as he flung the torch he whispered “Forgive us” and the crackling of the wood took his words away burning them along with the body.

Sutherland looked at the witnesses of the process: their faces showed no emotions. As the black smoke spread most of the watchers averted and went home, refusing to breath in the remains of the boy. Only McCoy stood, his Creole apprentice nearby. Sutherland walked passed him.

“I hope your boy was worth your sins.”

Sutherland was far up the hill when he heard the cries of the father, cries which mingled with those of his dying son.

 

 

 

The Radical Suggestions Bureau

Good to be back. This time with something bit ridiculous, bit absurd.

 

The Radical Suggestions Bureau

a story of one extraordinary midtown mayhem

It was in the not so distant past when S. and H. got their revolutionary idea and decided to create the “Bureau for Radical Suggestions”. The two of them were keen on the idea of non- governmental organizations and wanted theirs to operate  in the best possible way in order to contribute to building a better and more structured society (nothing was wrong with the present one other than it neglected small time issues and bigger ones it dealt with in a lazy dull way. S. and H.’s line of work concentrated mainly on these small issues, which were quite big actually).  Also they thought their  “invention” to be innovative and thus profitable. They sat down and made a list of the things they thought will strike an asking, such as how to stop the town’s air pollution caused by the new model Zeppelins which now ran on diesel (What happened to introducing sun batteries?; A small mention here -not only the zeppelins polluted, they also often cloaked the sun, which was in no one’s favor, so they added that to the list too);  they thought the subject regarding the lack of working hand in general and the growing problem with work placement for the law abiding citizens without proper education, but otherwise absolutely capable of labor to be brought; they waited for someone to come and ask for a solution with the stray dogs which roamed the streets at night, madly barking and howling. They waited for students, they waited for bus drivers and taxi drivers; they waited for someone’s grandmother, for the small time businessman, for the rebel, the realist, the optimist, the believer. For all of those who had trouble and no clue as to how to fix it, S. and H. were full with radical, but not extreme suggestions, ready to offer them in exchange for a simple sign in the bottom of a certain yellow papered petition, and by the end of the week, if God had mercy, they’d have a dozen, at least, society regarding problems in progress to be solved within the month.

Well, none of the above happened, but instead in two months S. and H. experienced the headache of a lifetime.

Upon hearing the news of a new agency opening doors with the label “radical” and “suggestions”, the horses from Jefferson Bailey Horse Riding Club, came to complain about the low paychecks they’d been receiving from the local filming studio to which they were assigned. They were offended that their acting skills were taken lightly, stating that “It’s not bloody easy to pretend to be dead or imitate being shot at or stabbed with a spear!” They wanted a solution from S. and H. otherwise they’d quit. S. and H. were stunned by the turn of events, and they simply looked at each other, mute and dazzled, and didn’t offer anything to the hoofed team peering inside their small office. Later on, all the horses, which were a great deal of help to the movie industry in the entire region and were even often hired for small roles for Hollywood productions, quit the business and ran off into the plains to be free and live by the terms of the Great Stallion. They pissed on movie posters along the way.

Soon after them came the local squirrels, dragging whole families of raggedy, furry members to complain about the amount of trees being chopped in the parks recently. (That there was a troublesome matter, growing more viscious throughout the years, but coincidentally as S. and H. opened their bureau the bubble of patience finally burst). These were town squirrels, and town squirrels were hard to fool. They explained they had brought the question up to the humans, but apparently no connection was made. S. and H. thought that might be because of the dialect the squirrels used, but dared not say. The squirrels on the other hand demanded a solution otherwise they’d make a nut riot. S. and H. were left speechless and offered nothing. For a whole week the streets were a nightmare; rotten nuts fired every couple of seconds and rained upon the citizens, who were advised to wear helmets for safety.

When that tragedy was over, S. and H. sat again and burned their list with radical ideas, trying to come up with a new one, fitting the wanting’s of their new customers, but failed to create any. After some sleepless nights, lots of coffee and then lots of alcohol, new visitors arrived knocking on their door. These were clowns, and not very cheerful ones. S. & H. whimpered at their sight. Nonetheless the clowns made their statement and said they didn’t want to be happy any longer, but the contract they’ve signed with the circus was forcing them to act happy all the time. They wanted legal actions to take place immediately, because they were too tired from pretending. S. gave a loud cry and covered his face with both hands. It’s not really necessary to say that the two of them couldn’t come up with a suggestion for the clowns. Nor that the clowns went away and read Stephen King’s “It” and then terrorized the town for a month.

After two months of visits from near and far including a trumpet troupe of middle-aged midget’s in miniature magenta suits, an impersonator in decision between sexes, a veteran from WWII with a truck load of arsenal, stuttering teachers from the late 60’s and a dozen more caricatures of society and the underground lifestyle, S. and H. gave up and closed their “Bureau For Radical Suggestions” running away as quick as possible. They settled in a town no one knew much about, including its own citizens. There after a few years they invented Soft Language, and thought that to be in favor of the world, but well…that didn’t really go as planned you see.

The Supervisor

Something small for the time to keep the fire burning.

 

The Supervisor

There was a storm coming.

But there is always a storm coming isn’t that right?

Alas this one was different. Bigger.

It needed special supervision.

Jackson put the cigarette back on his lips.

He observed silently.

Blackness was descending from the sky, gulping small towns and large cities, shutting their lights off, inviting insecurity and fear to dine with their citizens.  It was time to go.

Jackson got in his Dodge. He fancied it more than his old mare.

He turned on the radio and drove towards the thundering concerto of the End under the rusty voice of J. Cash.

“Previously on…” – The problem with gaps

 There are times when a 1000 words story expands beyond the set limits of the flash format. Exceeding with a number of words is one thing ( I hear the flash set’s its boundaries somewhere around 1500, correct me if wrong), but when the story, in the process of writing, starts feeling like it needs more space, more time, more development, it grows into a serial.

I find serials tricky. At first they seem like a great idea, allowing the writer to set a future point, to add more and cut less, and when the installments come once a week there is plenty of time to build the next chapter. There is certain flexibility and new ideas are generated as the process of creating the universe of the story deepens.

I have personally felt much freedom in several cases. I had stories which I couldn’t tell in 1000 words and arranged the initial idea into one, two, three or more parts. The ways into which one flash story may develop, as a serial, are multiple. And because of that I believe them to be tricky and often fall in gaps that sometimes last longer than intended.

John Wiswell pointed himself and his ongoing serial “The Only Thing Worse is the Cure” as examples for such gaps. Maybe based on a few comments, but I still think the gaps between the installments are minor and don’t have effect when it comes to following the story. Perhaps the change in narrators and perspectives did that, but John would know better than me.

Whereas I on the other hand…well I have created gaps as vast as canyons between one part of an ongoing serial and the next. It ends up being paused rather than ongoing. I am going to use myself and my writings as examples.

I battled “Nightshift” a six part serial reasonably fast, with just one small gap. But two other serials I have abandoned at present time. I left creepy, ghostly “Sunflowers” hanging in the dark and am not sure if I am ever getting back to it, at least not soon. I left “Monsters” with only two chapters in order to transform it into a graphic novel which someday will meet light in 2 beautiful volumes.  But there is one which I was super excited about, still am, but I don’t write it.

First to say, I think the problem with the gaps to originate from the fact that some stories are not initially intended to be serials. I trust my gaps to come exactly from that.  The bigger the pause is the less the readers remember. And who would go back to read per se 10 chapters and try to remember what the heck was going on in this story?

I did a little experiment in my political sci-fi thriller (which still doesn’t have a proper name) and wrote some details to hint the upcoming events, and details which led to the first installment. I don’t think they hinted anything. I’ll allow myself to use this serial as the main example because I am working on it (in my head mostly) and thus I count it as an ongoing thing.

Here’s how I picture my failure: I have it planned ahead, but that would require time, something which I don’t always have on my side and sometimes feel the pressure of. Having a clear idea as to what will become of it in future terms I would want to write it down, but take time (extending it even more) to do that properly. That means I won’t be posting every week. Slowing down the tempo means I lose the readers, because they lose the original concept. Thus the gaps swallow all and at times I don’t see how and when this serial will be over and complete.

Now that I’m thinking, what’s the point in blogging a story piece by piece in this bizarre manner, I consider, why not pack it up in a small novelette and then offer the complete “product”? It would be easier, it will relax my anxiety of not meeting each week’s deadline, and it won’t trouble the readers of going back through posts and trying to make sense of what’s been happening and what’s to happen.

Could be the smart thing to do with a longer piece. It has its downsides, but the outcome might be more pleasing.

One thing is sure, gaps are mean and sometimes they stay for more than awhile. How to tackle them?

What do you think?

Alpha: Part 2 of 2

I honestly can’t believe it took me this long to finish this story. Even when I had it finished in my head I met difficulty putting it down in words. Part of that I blame to the transition from doing university work and getting back to creative writing. It wore me out a little, I admit, but the story is finally finished. I took the liberty of extending it a bit, since it fell out of the flash category. Enjoy the conclusion of last weeks Friday Flash “Alpha”

Alpha

Teeth and claws part 2

Mr. Jacobson sat, waiting for Charles Emmett to continue his story. His hand rested on his gun fed with silvers and his eyes never left those of Emmett. He knew what lycans were capable of; he had studied their speed and attack behavior, practicing to match it and use it at his advantage. But in a small room with dim light he had little space no maneuver if a sudden attack occurred. He was ready to shoot and injure severely enough to be able to restrain the other man and load him onto a horse that would ride him to New York.

Charles Emmett, cross-legged and bathed in half-light, the oil lamp projecting his large shadow upon the wall, was smiling at him. Jacobson studied his expression; it showed no concern of the weapon pointed at him and remained perfectly calm just as when he was telling the early years of his life.

But in that calmness hid a beast. Jacobson frowned.

Charles Emmett had been an outlaw for three years now. Every county north of Louisiana had issued a warrant for his arrest and offered a reward which grew by the year. From an unknown fisherman Emmett had become one of the most wanted criminals for the murder of a young trader up in Baton Rouge. It was described as a conflict of money which ended in a massacre. How certain were the witnesses, claiming they saw a man matching the description of Emmett running from the scene covered in blood? How acquainted where they with him to name him by his birth name? These questions had thrown suspicion over Emmett’s guilt long ago, when Jacobson was first addressed with his case and ordered to track him down. One other suspicion had formed soon after that and proven right when Emmett started leaving bodies behind him.

“Do you know what fascinates me, Mr. Jacobson? How people learn to stumble in this world blindly. They manage to see and comprehend things only one-sided; parallels to them are impossible to understand. They take for truth only which is to them the ultimate reality reflected by their lives, and often limited knowledge of the world surrounding them. I believe we were created in one of these parallels, always existing in the corner of the mind, but never really crossing beyond simple imagination originating from old tales.

I long walked in life disregarding these differences, imagining myself no different from my neighbors. My encounter with others of my kind was brief and I didn’t gain a good perspective of our place in society.

As my life took an unexpected turn I was frightened once more to be exposed as the beast I truly was and therefore lose my hard-earned place. I was afraid to be trapped in an invisible parallel. There were but two options: imminent death or cowardly flee. I was to either accept punishment for a fabricated crime or run like I had truly committed one. I chose the latter.

I took my chances traveling up the Mississippi River. Many outlaws escaped the watchful eyes of the law in the waters of the river. On occasions I took refuge on the boat of some passing trader. Even if I was recognized, I met no accusations. I believe they feared I might slay them too, if they speak.

Ever so careful, I visited small towns, searching to steal provisions and hoping to hear any news from the town’s folks regarding my case. My fame had apparently grown and the mystery surrounding my sudden disappearance from Houma was the topic everywhere I went.  They spoke of me as of a “colossal man with unhuman strength and axe skills.” I was feared.

Emmett laughed.

“I spent every waking minute wondering who and why had put the mark of Cain on me.  Then I began to understand.

One year had passed since my departure from Houma when I started noticing things on my shadowy visits to towns. Let me tell you first; people carry two odors – one that identifies with their profession and another one they can’t detect themselves, layered underneath it. It is their unique perfume. In my perspective it qualifies them as human beings. When a different, stronger odor appeared, differing from that which I commonly sensed, I knew it could only belong to those of my kind.”

They came in a dust storm mounted on steeds, looking no different from the next man. I spotted small groups at each town. Hidden, I watched them sniff the air, than aroused by my presence scanned the faces of the people, searching for me. It was then when I realized what the game was and who had ordered for me to be brought dead or alive. Whereas I didn’t know his name I knew his nature – he was no doubt a lycan. My face nailed on every message board, my name written in thick black letters- he had made me known to every American, making this chase my torment and his amusement. I had nowhere to hide.

I somehow believe you share my assumption on the matter Mr. Jacobson. I took a guessing that it was a creature of my kind standing behind the accusation and the murder- you as well. Correct me if wrong.”

Jacobson bit his lip. “It has crossed my mind.”

“Very good. We share an opinion after all. But the story is not satisfactory yet is it?” Emmett’s voice growled low.

“You killed many of your kind in the past two years. Why?

Charles Emmett nodded. “If I wasn’t a murderer to start with, I became one soon after. I was no longer hiding, but hunting. I slayed them one after another, not only practicing my anger upon them, but allowing my beast to overtake me and cloud my judgment. I killed all but the last of the pack hunting me. Even after enduring severe pain he refused to give me information. My only consolation was that by these murders I was sending a message. “

Jacobson tightened the grip on his gun.

Emmett’s eyes were emerald in the light.

“You see, by the time you Pinks were hired to find me, I had found someone to squawk. He knew little for he was still a young pup, just recently joined with his pack. But his information was sufficient. “

Jacobson was puzzled. Before he could speak, shouts from outside came calling for him.

“Jacobson get out here! We’re…” there was commotion and wild screams which died as sudden as they had appeared. All fell silent.

“Get up!” Getting out the back door of the bar, Charles followed by Jacobson walked onto the street. A ripped corpse lay upon the staircase.  It was another of the Pinkerton’s sent to accompany Jacobson.

“Up!” Emmett pulled away from Jacobson as a shadow flung itself from the roof of the building. Jacobson’s fires slowed it down, and Emmett grabbed the body tossing it back onto the pavement. The lycan stood up. While most of his visage was human and his torso as well, his eyes glowed yellow, his mouth offered a sharp bite, and his arms, enlarged ended in massive black furred paws supplied with long claws.

“Now we run.” Emmett charged ahead butchering the lycan with ease. Jacobson followed. He looked at the man before him, now sharing the same transformation as their persecutors but steadied his gun. He needed to trust Emmett right now.

Three more lycans howled at the night and attacked them. Jacobson shot two in the head, feeding more silvers in the barrel as they ran for the end of the street where two horses awaited.  Before they reached the middle of the street, the two were surrounded by four of the beasts. Dressed as common workers, but growling at their prey, they circled them, preparing to kill.

“You take the younger ones. Leave the bigger boys to me.”

Jacobson nodded. Slowly he reached for his inner pocket and pulled a dipped in silver long knife.  He cut open the throat of one and emptied his gun at the belly of the other one. Emmett ripped their heads off.

“More will be coming.” Emmett was back in his more human form, though his face was sprayed with their dark blood.

“I know. Emmett listen… the man who hired us to bring you to New York doesn’t want you dead. It’s captain Martell. When he found out about your false accusation, he sent out his men to find you and bring you back to him and his pack in London. But when he failed he called us, hoping we can trace you. He never chased you away Emmett. He was looking forward to you joining his pack.”

“I figured as much.”

“You said you know the name of the man who sent these after you.”

“Indeed I do. The young lycan told me he goes by the name of Jonathan Rays. His business was at first with the East India Company, but later on he established a trading fleet of his own, guarding a private canal from Southampton to New York. It developed into a larger business, a company by the name of “Remus Victoris“. It’s biggest ship “Emerald Star” led the way. What they shipped no one really knew. They docked at night and sailed before dawn. Though one thing was certain – this was not Jonathan Rays’ only trade.  The underground organizations which operate from New York to Chicago owe their creation to him. Only that none of his goons know him by that name. To them he is called Nicholas Emmett, the All-Father of the English Lycans and godfather of their American cousins. From the bottom they climb to the top, Mr. Jacobson.”

Jacobson stared speechless. This information exceeded his. And it explained it all.

“He is the Alpha of your kind. And you are his…”

“Son, yes. By law of our kind I can claim his place. That means kill him and dethrone him, becoming an Alpha myself. A leader. But my wants go beyond that.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Now that I have satisfied you with an unusual story, I will join with captain Martell’s pack and ask for his help to clean America of her parasites. I will require the help of experts in the supernatural sphere. Will the Pinkerton agency offer their assistance, Mr. Jacobson?”

“I will make sure we do, Mr. Emmett.”

They walked to the corner of the street where to mounts waited.

“Let us ride to New York then, where our forces will be multiplied and our plan formed.”

Jacobson tipped his hat and mounted his steed.

The two rode in the night.

Celebrating 100 posts!

 

How time flies eh? Good number for celebration I think!

I remember my first post and my hoping that I can keep this blog up for more than a month and here they are now, 100 + 1, some good, some bad, but they do mark a path, a gradation if must for which I feel proud. *blushes*

I’ll keep this short because no proper (if indeed virtual) party endures long speeches. I have enjoyed writing every one of these 100 posts and can only thank those who have come to share them and have found them to their likes. The readers are an inseparable part to the growth of the experimenting, trying writer.

Now I pop-open the champagne and pour the crystal glasses, so that the pomegranate at the bottom could surface and contribute with a delicate taste to the sparkly drink. Salute!

But…but…

There is also this 1982 red vintage which tingle the tip of the tongue, (it’s also French and very, very good), seafood appetizers, beautifully decorated, exotic tastes I bring from my own country, variable cheeses and finger licking stakes with sauce (because what is a meal without some meat?). And desserts too! Honey flavoured brownies, strawberry cream, cherry on top flavoured shortcakes, chocolate pudding, caramel apple cheesecake bars… frankly there’s a table full of sweets. And they all taste great with the pomegranate champagne!

As for music, a live band playing some of the classics, and doing their own swing, jazz, rock, punk arrangements of newer tunes would be good I think. Let’s get groovy!

 

I wanted to close this post with a short story which poped into my head just before I started writing this. It has its sadder element, but overall a good finale. Though it has nothing to do with the above celebration, the number 100 played a part. Could be interpreted as a metaphor.

 

You know I time travel a lot. I never seem to find my own spot, a place to call home. So I just travel. I see a lot of cool places though and I meet a lot of interesting individuals. I carry good memories with me and can tell many great stories. My life has been grand, though alone. Time travelers don’t make friends easy and when they do, they have a hard time separating with them, because people even when tempted by the vast space and the countless adventures, don’t really want to leave their lives, their friends, their families. They cherish stability and I lack that virtue. I crumble such foundations with my passing. That’s why I simply move on.

But the years have come upon me and my loneliness haunts me through nebulas and distant worlds. The glitter of the black mass has lost its beauty to me. Tell me, will I find my place? Will the countless stars guide me to a land in which I may live the rest of my days and then be put in its ground with peace?

Oh, if I only had come earlier you could have told me the story of how I came to be the man you were in your last days. How loved I am to be, how the suns of this world will shine each day and warm my old face.

Don’t worry, don’t blame yourself. I have the answers to my questions. I read your name, my name on this tomb and I smile. 100 years old! What a glorious life you had, eh old man? You finally found your place. So will I, so will I. In time…

Now to head back; there is a planet where the seas are transparent, the fields amber and the floating waterfalls descend above singing stalactites. Worth a look, don’t you think?