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.

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.

With an iron fist

With an iron fist

“It’s perfectly safe you know.”

I looked at my sister, trying to remember what the conversation was about. We were having lunch at a corner diner, the same one we had made a habit of visiting for six years now. Perhaps the only family tradition we kept, and were somehow fond of. Lisa always had a chicken cordon bleu, and I, a turkey pest ciabatta sandwich. The food tasted good, but the coffee was too bleak for my taste. I still drank it, taking it in small sips. I didn’t want to rebel against what we’ve build and adopted as a happy time.

Lisa slipped two spoons of sugar in her steaming cup.

“Shaun? Are you even listening to me?”

I smiled.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So what do you think, cool or not?”

Ah, water skiing with her friends next month, that’s right.

“I think cool. I trust you’ll take care of yourself.”

She raised an eyebrow and sat back.

“What like no witty retort from you? You feeling okay big bro?”

“I’m fine. And yes no witty retort this time. Water skiing seems fun and you look like you need some. I’m happy you’re still consulting with me.”

She looked outside the window and fell silent for a few.

“After mom and dad I feel like I can’t let completely let go. I want to live and be brave and have fun, but sometimes this idea nests in my head, that I might die and leave you alone, or that you might die while I’m away and I’ll get that phone call…”

I reached my hand over the table and covered her gentle wrist, caressing, soothing, reassuring.

“I’m not going anywhere. You are not going anywhere. We stick together, take care of each other. But we also gotta live Lizzy. We’re not dead. You needn’t worry.”

She smirked and pulled her hand off mine, uncomfortably grabbing the cup of coffee instead.

I joined her silence and we ate, the diner becoming audible with its clacking of dishes and lively lunch chit-chat.

My eyes caught a fast-moving shadow outside. I lifted my gaze and traced the figure of a hooded man rushing outside our window. It happened in a split second. He neared a young woman and grabbed her purse, viciously pulling it away from her hands. He turned to run, but she was too fast, she was prepared and tripped him over. He fell flat on his face. The customers jumped on their feet watching the scenario unfolding. So did I and Lisa.

The young woman knelt, took her purse and slowly pulled out a Glock. We watched as she fired three rounds in the thief’s head. She hid her gun back in the purse, zipped it and continued on her way. I had never seen such a steel gaze as hers.

People in the diner screamed then covered their mouths, shaking heads in disbelief, and outside people gathered over the body, watching hypnotized as the pool of blood spreads.

Lisa looked at me searching for the reassurance I gave her just before. How was I supposed to say the truth when the world becomes like this? How was I to promise her nothing will happen, no one will get hurt and bleed…Maybe it was time I go out on the streets again. Maybe the days of my hiding were over. An example was needed, an image to speak of safety and hope. For the ordinary people who had taken the fight in their hands and dug their nails in dirt, and for Lisa who needed to believe that she can live.

The Paper Doll

I’m not at home, so this post won’t be anything new from me, but it might be new to you, and in my absence it’ll do! It’s one of the first proper stories in English that I wrote, over a year ago. It went live on Morgen Bailey’s blog, but it’ll be cool to reintroduce it today!

The Paper Doll

There was a circus on the beach of the sea, right on the sand, no more than five meters from the water and its waves.  It performed only at night; for certain people, at a certain price, an entertainment one-of-a-kind, once a year for three nights. Until the dawn. There was no tent, just a few huge pillars, build deep into the sand for the performance holding the ropes for the trapeze and tightrope acts, so except for the seats and the lights, the circus was opened to the sky above.

There were magnificent acrobats, twisting their bodies, in the most amazing ways, then slowly, unwinding themselves; trapeze acts, flying high, swinging, unbelievable for the eyes of everyone watching. How could they manage that, with no roof to hold all the strings required to hold the bars, no metal, nor anything? Was this, which held them, coming down from the dark sky? Alas this illusion optical or psychological remained unanswered for the audience. It was the magic of the circus no doubt.

The tightrope walkers were balancing on tin ropes and wires some lower, some on a greater height, balancing with umbrellas or only with their bodies and hands, without protection whatsoever to hold them if they tend to fall, making the audience gasp and shiver and tremble and fear. They looked like moving on the spine of the night, on some invisible line, only for them to see. Then of course for a comic relief came the clowns, funny and stupid, stomping and falling, with red noses and green hair, blue trousers and big yellow shoes. Animals, though a few, roared or crawled, and watched with, as people imagined, hungry eyes.  The sand was flattened in the center of the circus and there, unicyclists three of them were riding, and juggling at the same time, making everyone dizzy. Musicians were playing from the darkness, out of the light, no faces just music, corresponding to the acts of all the performers, following their every step – piccolo for the clowns, fast violins and loud drums, most likely timpani, keeping on edge the public while the tightrope walkers or the trapeze performers were making their final step. Not the usual circus music you would expect to hear, but then again not the usual circus you’d expect to watch.

And then the music ceases, just for a moment, for The Ringmaster to appear, all dressed in red, with white gloves, a white bow-tie, big red top-hat, black pointy beard, and eyes mesmerizing, deep and black, with a sparkle in them. Without a microphone, his voice spreads in the vastness, loud, remaining powerful, for all to hear. He gathers round the public’s attention, with smooth words and moves announcing the next part. There are no pauses for this circus.

The Ringmaster opens his hands, pointing them in direction, to nowhere, to the dark, and flames start walking towards him. Fire-breathers, like dragons step into everyone’s vision and suddenly the lights turn off. No one dares to move.

Music changes. There are Arabic drums and flutes, to which the flames dance like snakes. The audience can see only a glimpse of the performers’ faces, when the fire catches them. They hypnotize with this dance macabre. All fades to black, for a moment, then the lights turn on again. Applause, like thunder, comes from all around. Everyone is speechless. But there’s more to see. They feel it. It’s time for the 13th act, the last one which performs as the sun is about to rise, making a path for itself on the surface of the water. They know something is about to happen when The Ringmaster, smirking, announces:

“Ladies, gentleman you are about to witness the most extraordinary act in your lives. One which you will not forget, one you will tell stories of, one to show you magic inhabits this reality. This is one to test the nature of your minds, to ask not only your eyes but your inner vision as well – your ability to dream and fantasize. Let your emotions feel you, let them circulate in your souls. Face them as you watch. For your entertainment, and yours only, tonight you will be reborn seeing the unbelievable. Welcome, The Paper Doll and her Master – Sasha!”

“Go on, your dad be proud.”

Sasha looked at the big, strong acrobat, nodded silently and made her way into the light. Her father, The Ringmaster came close and whispered in her ear, “Be a good girl. Don’t make me angry”.

The sky had started to lighten. Sasha, holding a human-sized paper doll moved around the audience making them turn on their seats, watching baffled at what was happening.

Under the sounds of darbuka and kaval the girl, barefooted, stepped in the water, and continued until it reached her waist. The sun was an upside down smile on the horizon, burning orange.  She then dived and again the audience gasped. A wave passed and the paper doll appeared above the water with no sight of Sasha. From where the audience sat, it didn’t look like a paper doll, but like a woman dancing on the tip of the water, curving her body, slow with the rhythm of the music, a sound sad and lonely. She was a mirage, dim before the watchers’ eyes, a mermaid, a siren, calling for all. It looked so real, yet impossibly for this paper doll to touch the water, to dive and appear again, reaching a hand for the ones on shore, with no voice, only body language. The audience stood up, with tears in eyes, breathless. Kneeling down, before the water they gave their souls away for love, for salvation. For this unknown girl drowning as her dance stops, lost forever. They cannot bare this end, so they die with it, soulless. Behind, the devil and his demons await their feast. They lick lips tasting the souls they’ll devour. Tonight the circus on the beach opens again.

Voyage

Voyage

A distant rumble called for storm. The wind drew dark clouds closer and before long the first raindrops eased the thirsty ground. The rain fell strong, but soft and Hank Cheswick pushed back his hat to feel it  running down his face. He loved when it rained. It washed away the dirt and the heat.

“Best we take the cattle in. I don’t want them all getting sick. We can’t afford more loses. C’mon.” Wesley Jix rode his horse past Hank towards the small herd, grazing nearby. Hank narrowed his hat and followed.

A loud thunder hit, echoing in the vast space of the open field. There was a shared “moo”. The animals began to bump each other, visibly startled by something. Their panic was escalating along with the range of their cries. A few began to toss their heads upwards and on a hunch Hank looked up too. His eyes widened.

As the rain started pouring, clouds gathered up in an unusual manner, swirling down in a spiral that thickened and began to float; a giant creature above the green field. Inside their black bellies, raging lightning flickered ferociously, thunders following in a series of deafening reiterations.

Hank dismounted his horse and held him tight by the halter, restraining his attempts to escape, and shouted over the weather.

“Wesley, look!” Wesley watched as the super cell storm took final formation.

“Well I’d be damned.”

A monstrous cloud stood motionless before them. It looked as if uprising from earth to heaven, blocking the horizon, the day, the world. The thunders and the lightning stopped; the cattle calmed, and the horses ceased their protest. They waited, their black eyes staring into the cloud. Hank was about to speak when a bright object pierced the formation, the wave caused by the passing dispersing the clouds at once. The object descended fast, landing in the forest, half a mile ahead.

A beam of light erupted from where it had fallen, scouting the sky and the surrounding in close distance, before dying out. Wesley and Hank looked at each other.

“Let’s go see.”

Wesley nodded, than whistled. Two shepherd dogs came by his feet, soaking wet, waiting for orders.

“I reckon Skip and Jo can take the herd close to the farm. They know their way. Get em home boys!” The dogs took on their master’s task.

Wesley and Hank mounted their horses and rode towards the site. Outside the forest they tied them and proceeded on foot further into the woods.

Half sank into the river laid a small spaceship visibly in poor shape, the left wing almost torn away. Hank and Wesley carefully slid down the muddy narrow of the river bank.  They stood knee-deep into the cold water hesitating to go near. Even from a distance they could feel the heat from the engines.

“What’d you reckon? Aliens?”

Wesley laughed. “I wish.”

There was movement from inside followed by loud thumps. The door finally slid open and a man climbed out from the cockpit, tumbling backwards and falling into the river. Wesley approached fast and grabbed him, dragging him to the river bank. The stranger sat, spitting water, his hair sticky on his forehead. Wesley took a step back studying the man. He wore an orange and grey jumpsuit without an indication on it except for a serial number. His hands were locked by a rectangular set of cuffs.

He spoke first, his voice barely shaking:

“What year am I in?”

Wesley looked the man straight in the eyes.

“1952.”

“No, no… I need to go back.” The man looked at Wesley first, then Hank, his voice beginning to tremble.  “Please help me.”

Wesley narrowed his head.

“Please!”

Hank stepped closer, and knelt before the man taking his entrapped hands. He observed the device, than felt the bottom surface and the edges. He found and pressed the hidden buttons on both sides. The cuffs fell apart, releasing the man’s hands.

“How did you..?” He rubbed his freed wrists.

Wesley and Hank left the man and went back to the spaceship. Wesley climbed into the cockpit. “The control system has launched the virus. There won’t be anything left in about a minute. The engines and the hyperdrive are not working either. But there’s something else here. Come look.”

Hank climbed, peeking inside.

Wesley entered a code and visual appeared on one of the screens, narrated by a female voice. It was a profile for the man outside.

“Prisoner X7USSG Abel, Erran. Position: Deputy Chief Commander of Battlestar Purgatory; Current status: released of duty; Sentence: treason; Punishment: deportation into the past; Data: Unknown. Self-destruction of all information in: 54 seconds and counting down.”

Hank and Wesley exchanged looks. “Shit.”

“How many time jumps did it take you with this junk to get here?”

Erran Abel found himself in absolute confusion. “Six, with an hour recharging between jumps…Listen, I need to get back to my own time. I don’t belong here. There’s been a mistake”

“There’s no mistake Mr. Abel. That message, which I’m sure you’ve heard, tells me this is a one way ticket. There is no going back.” Hank shook his head.

“Wait, who the fuck are you two? What is going on here?”

Wesley extended his hand.

“Wesley Jix, commander of Second Fleet of the Government’s Army, Battlestation Leviathan, location the red plains of Yendell, serial number F63191, current status: exiled, sent to damnation on Earth. Sentence: rebellion against the government.”

Hank saluted.

“Hank Cheswick, Chief of security to the President of the Colonies, current status: exiled, sent to damnation back to planet Earth, no fixed time or date; sentence: assistance to rebellion squads.”

Erran Abel stared at them in disbelief.

“You are from the future… I know you two, I know your names! But you were killed, in the riot you both died. The President himself confirmed that.”

“I bet he did. This time jumping program was never approved. It operates in stealth. But we’re from the same star deputy.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About 10 years now, ain’t that right Hank?”

“Aye.”

Erran stood up.

“They left you for dead. They abandoned you, even the people who supported you. I can’t be condemned to die here, I need to fix this bird and get back home. I have a wife! I have a home! This is..this is..”

Wesley grabbed him by the arms.

“You had them. Now they’re gone. There in the future you have been erased. Maybe they spared your wife and altered her memory.”

“This is bullshit! I’d rather be dead!”

“You knew the risks when you took on that task. We tried and now we’re paying for our anarchy, but the effect of our stand will remain for the next ones that will try to bring down the silent regime. Your sacrifice is they’re key, they’re hope. We’ll be the heroes that fell.”

“How did you survive? How did you stay… sane?”

Wesley whispered to him.

“Let you in on a secret. This here might seem like hell, like prison, cast away from your loved ones, from your life and from your world, forever. But that feeling goes away after a while. You get back on your feet after nostalgia for home lets you go. You adjust. At first you dream about it, the silver lines of the finest ships, the expression on your face in the mirror when you put that uniform for the first time, her smile as you wait for the green shine of passing Halox to appear, just before dawn. And then you wake up. You bury yourself in dust and work and you start building and planning. You create a new life. The past becomes your present and that lost future…it rarely comes by your mind. You die here, but you die happy, because you truly live. You feel the rain and you have the sun, still normal. There are no aircrafts flying around, no gunfire. You live in peace. You have a life. They think they condemn you to suffering here, passing you into the hands of madness and self- poisoning with memories, but you prove them wrong. You live.”

Erran looked at the sky, the clouds clearing off for a night full of stars. He closed his eyes imagining the stars and the vast blackness, letting that image fill him, make him stronger. He imagined his house, the front door opening, Yana’s lips gently kissing him. With his thoughts he reached there, sending a prayer for wife to be safe. He told her good night, billions of light years away and asked for her forgiveness. He hoped her face doesn’t fade away.”

“Maybe in another life.”

Hank and Wesley waited for him.

“Come on. Tomorrow a new life for you begins, Erran Abel.”

 

A note:

I always imagine the vastness of space when listening to this folklore song. There is a dramatic tone to it. It fits doesn’t it?