Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Original Poetry - In the Company of the Unseen

In The Company of the Unseen

You walk past me
like I’m not there
not recognizing
the sacrifice
I made
for you
for them
the children
who play
and laugh
I am a guardian
in the night
so you may sleep
and dream
I cannot sleep
I don’t wish to dream
for they turn
to nightmares
of nights alone
out on the wire
with my weapon
and silence.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Original Poetry - Let Me Go

Let me go
rock and roll
eat drink and be merry
for my days here are done

We had some good times
and we had some sad times
but we always got through them
because we were together

And now we must part
for He has called me back
and I cannot deny Him
be at peace, my love.

Original Poetry - Let Us Gather

Let us gather
around the fire
and speak of better days

Let us laugh
as we reminisce
back when the world was new

Let us cry
as we remember
those who have gone before us

Let us hold on
and perservere
and live through the pain

Let us live
and love
and just…be.

Original Poetry - The Truth About Black Friday

Have to work on turkey day
what is this world coming to
when Walmart ruins my holiday
making me leave my family for a few hours

We sit together holding hands
giving thanks for this bounty
we lost two more yesterday
from a roadside bomb

I can’t believe this traffic
this is the worst way to spend Thanksgiving
we make so many sacrifices
to be with loved ones

A mortar hit on the way to chow
and they have to feed him through a tube
he’ll never walk again
at least he’ll be going home

I’m so stuffed
I ate too much pie
I don’t want to clean the kitchen
I’d rather drink beer and watch football

Sirens blaring, bullets flying
giving thanks for my training
I just want to get home in one piece
enjoy a beer and watch some football.

Original Poetry - Collecting My Thoughts

Collecting my thoughts
with fingers on keys
what should I write
with thoughts such as these
roll around my head
and down through my hands
and from my fingertips
I write of strange lands
and sailing on ships
on seas and on rivers
fighting some pirates
they give me the shivers
keep writing they tell me
it’s good stress relief
gotta work the brain muscle
that is my belief.

Original Poetry - Father Figure

In his arms
she felt safe
her hand in his

She refused
to be a victim
like her mother

Blinded by pride
ignored the warning signs
sleeps with the light on

Locking the door
just makes him angrier
so she takes it

One day she awakes
and makes a decision
to end the pain.

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Original short - The Inn

Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. The voucher was only good for a couple
more weeks, so he didn't want it to go to waste, but he was still weak and achy, having just gotten
over the flu. So he pressed on, dry swallowing Motrin along the way, and made up his mind to
have a good time.

The bus pulled into the station at a quarter past two in the morning. The bus driver shook
his shoulder. "Sir, your stop," he said.

"Wha'?" Chris said, "Oh. Yeah. Thank you." He grabbed his bag and stepped into a cold,
misty morning. He pulled his collar up and pressed forward. He wasn't exactly sure that he
wanted to be here, but he reminded himself to man up and make the most of it.

Chris flagged down a taxi and jumped in. "The Hillside Inn on Route 304," he said to the
driver. Chris gazed out the window along the way, not really seeing anything as his thoughts
returned to Jennifer.

They had broken up three months ago, Jennifer claiming she needed space. Chris knew
what that meant. The word "space" in a relationship only meant one thing: "it's over."

"I just can't feel you anymore," Jennifer had said. "I used to be able to. There were times
when I could just look into your eyes and know exactly what you were feeling. But now..." Her
eyes filled with tears and she shook her head slowly.

"I can change," Chris said. "Whatever I'm doing wrong, I can fix it. Just give me another

But she just shook her head and walked away. From that day on, Chris went through the
motions of his everyday life, like he was on auto pilot. He went to work, he came home, but it was
as if he was watching someone else live his life through a dirty window. He was in a constant

"Hey buddy," the taxi driver said. "We're here." Chris gave him a twenty and got out. He
looked up at the Inn, still wondering if he should even be here, and buttoned up his coat. The
lobby of the Inn was bright and cheerful, and Chris felt for the first time in a long time that he
belonged somewhere. The clerk smiled as he approached the counter.

"Good morning, sir," she said, more wide awake than anyone should be at this time of
morning. "May I help you?"

"Hi," Chris said, "I should have a reservation under Chris Brockstedler."

"Yes, Mr. Brockstedler. We have you in room 212, with a beautiful view of the lake. Do
you need help with your bags?"

"No thank you," Chris said. "I just have the one."

He tossed his bag onto the bed and opened the curtains. The clerk was right; it certainly
was a beautiful view. Chris sat on the edge of the bed and stared out of the window, wondering
where this new adventure would take him.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Original satire - Birds and Bond


Birds.  They’re everywhere.  Flying like they do.  Shitting on my windshield.  Their songs are so beautiful, except at 4 in the morning.  Crows are the worst.  They don’t even have a pretty song.  With them, it’s just that pompous “CAW!”  Either learn a different tune, or shut up.  When the weather was better, it was nice to sleep with the windows open.  The cross breeze coming through cooled things off just enough, and the sounds of the night are peaceful.

And then it begins.  CAW!  CAW!  CAW!  Son of a bitch; the sun isn’t even up yet.  CAW!  CAW!  CAW!  Great.  I was in the middle of the perfect dream, too.  I was dreaming I was James Bond, driving an Aston Martin.  Fast, too.  There are no traffic cops in my dreams.  I can drive as fast as I want, and there’s never any danger of getting into an accident, unless the dream turns on me.

So there I am, driving about 100 miles per hour on the Autobahn, a hot chick by my side, feeling safe and protected, because after all, I’m Bond.  James Bond.  And she’s so grateful too, if you catch my drift.  We pull over into the parking lot of a diner.  Not in the front…in the back.  Where it’s dark.  She smiles tentatively, still frightened a bit, but knowing that I’m there to protect her.  I gaze into her eyes and assure her that we’re safe now.

She looks back at me, opens her mouth, and says, CAW!  CAW!  CAW!  You’ve got to be kidding me.  I reach over onto the nightstand, hoping the cool spy gun I had in my dream followed me out, and my hand closes around a tube of Preparation H.  Speaking of a pain in the ass, that damn crow is at it again.  CAW!  CAW!  CAW!

I roll out of bed and half walk, half stumble to the windows, and bump into the wall.  Something else followed me out of the dream, and it’s probably a good thing I bumped into the wall, because I probably would have otherwise closed the window on it.  Once the windows are closed, I shuffle to the bathroom, trying to figure out how to urinate without spray painting the walls.  When I finally figure out the right angle, a shadow catches my attention to the right. 

Perched on a branch outside the bathroom window, is my nemesis, Dr. Crow.  CAW!  CAW!  CAW!  So much for the right angle.  My stream hits the wall above the toilet, ricochets off of a framed painting of the Virgin Mary, and catches me right in the eye.  Screaming and cursing, I fall backward into the tub, grabbing the shower curtain on my way down, the shower curtain rings snapping one at a time.  I lay there stunned, covered in sweat, urine, and the shower curtain, the last of my piss circling the drain, ready to give up and just sleep here, until he starts laughing.  CAW!  CAW!  CAW!

Friday, November 9, 2012

Original poety - A Cry for No One

A Cry to No One

When he’s gone
she picks herself up
and sweeps up the pieces
of her shattered life

When he’s gone
she tells herself
it was her fault
and believes it
When he’s gone

she covers the bruises
with makeup and lies
and forgives him again

But when he’s there
she lives in fear
and tries to hide
from the monster within.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Original Short - The Shimmers

Loretta took another drag of her cigarette.  The smoke burned all the way down into her lungs, feeling like she had just swallowed a red-hot briquette, and coughed out the smoke.

“Baby, you are SUCH a lightweight!” Mick laughed.  He passed her the bottle of tequila.  “Here, this should help.”

“You are such an asshole,” she spat back at him.  “You shouldn't even be driving right now.  Pull over and let me drive.”

“I’m fine,” Mick said.  “I always drink better when I drive.  You can’t even…”  A bright flash of light filled the sky, cutting Mick off in mid-rant.  He threw his left arm over his eyes and slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to an abrupt halt as the front of the car crumpled inward, the metal screaming in pain. 

“What the fuck did I hit?”  Mick said.  “Babe, are you okay?”

 “Huh?”  Loretta said, turning towards Mick.  “Yeah, I think so.  You?”

“I’m good,” he said as he unbuckled his seat belt.  “I’m gonna go check this out.  You stay there.”

“No way, I’m coming with you,” Loretta replied.  She unsnapped her seat belt and tried the door, but it wouldn't budge.  “Help me get my door open.”

Mick got out and went around to the passenger side.  He grabbed a hold of the door handle and placed his left foot on the side panel and pulled.  As the door swung open, Mick went down on his ass. 

“Smooth move, ex-lax,” she laughed, helping him up.

“The 80’s called,” he said.  “They want their jokes back.  I can’t see a thing out here.  There should be a flashlight in the trunk.”

As if on cue, a huge beam of light invaded the night sky, and an ear-shattering din filled their heads.  They cringed and covered their ears, unable to hear their own screams over the roar.  The reverberation stopped abruptly as the light changed to a soft glow. 

In front of the car was a huge structure.  It was raised a hundred feet off of the ground by six glimmering beams, each radiating a different and unique hue.  They appeared to be made of steel from one angle; glass from another.  Mick approached the beam his car had smashed into and reached out.  He pulled his hand back suddenly, the beam so cold it burned.

They walked underneath the structure and looked up.  The underside of the structure appeared to be made of the same material as the beams, but also had the illusion of movement, as if under water.

“She is beautiful, no?” A voice from behind froze them in place.  “It is quite unfortunate that you are here.”  He was neither young nor old, with features just out of the reach of human comprehension, shimmering like the structure above them.  He didn't quite walk towards them as glide, and the air around him smelled like sour milk and tasted like the seashore with undertones of rotting fish.  Touching their shoulders, all three of them vanished.

Saturday, October 20, 2012

Original Short - The Window

“They call it The Window,” she said.  Her eyes would not meet mine as she hesitated.

“Go on,” I prompted, afraid to hear what she had to say, but knowing my life depended on it.

“They say it has been here for thousands of years,” she continued.  “It was here when man first crawled from the sea, and it will be here long after you and yours are dead and buried.”  As she continued, she lifted her gaze, but did not see.  It was as if someone…some thing…was now speaking through her.  Her eyes were not her own now.  Colors and shadows swam across her pupils, which were huge and black as death.  I tried to look away, but couldn’t, as goose bumps crawled along my flesh, and the hair on the back of my neck rose.

“He who had once ruled this land,” she continued.  “He who was forsaken in favor of the weak…they say He lives beyond the shimmering glass of The Window.  He who will return and reign terror and fire and blood upon the Earth once more.  It is He whom we serve.  It is for Him we give our lives.”

Before I could move, she pulled out a long, dark blade and drove it into her chest.  Raising her hands toward the sky, she let loose an ear-piercing scream as I watched…as if hypnotized…as the blade began to twist in her chest.  I stepped forward, only to be thrown backward by an invisible force, as she collapsed to the ground, writhing and undulating under the blade.

I lifted myself up on my elbows and stared as the woman I had met only minutes earlier finally stopped moving.  The blade dropped from her wracked body and disintegrated into dust.  Clouds that were not there earlier moved in front of the sun, as lightning flashed blindingly across the sky and thunder came crashing down from the heavens.

And still, my body aching as if tiny pins were digging into the very nerve center of my brain, I got up.  As if on will power alone, I moved with all the resolve of a parent who had to save his child, and walked toward The Window.  As my hand reached forward, a dark crimson light began to pulsate behind it.  A mind-numbing buzz began in the back of my head, moving across the temples and into the forehead.  I closed my eyes and prayed, tightening my hands into fists, the nails digging into the palms of my hands, willing the pain from behind my eyes…until it was gone.

When I opened my eyes, the woman was gone, but The Window was still there.  The skies had cleared up again, and the pulsing crimson behind The Window was now just a pleasing shade of pink.  I hesitantly reached out towards the glass, pushed inward, and walked through.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Original short - Living fiction

I had to take some time away. I’d been having nightmares; not just random nightmares, either. This has never happened to me before, but the nightmares featured a horrible, evil little man. I’ve created sinister characters in the past, but they’ve never left me afraid to fall asleep.

I put the manuscript in the top left drawer of my desk in the study, locked it, and left. Just took off. As I was pulling out of the driveway, something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye. I slammed on the brakes and held back a scream.

“I was saying hello,” he said, “but you had a look 100 miles away. Sorry for startling you. I just moved in across the street and am in need of a ladder, if you have one. Oh, by the by, my name is Mel; Mel Evolent.”

“No!” I yelled, and sped away. I turned right on the next corner and pulled into the high school parking lot, barely having enough wherewithal to hit the brakes and put the car in park before breaking down and crying.

“I must be going crazy,” I thought. I slapped myself twice, the sting bringing tears to my eyes, and tried to convince myself I was still asleep and having another of those nightmares. It was no use. I was definitely awake, and most likely slipping into the depths of insanity.

“I must have misunderstood his name,” I rationalized. “There’s no way he can look like him AND have his name too.” I sat there, trying to reason this all out. Same name, same hair and eye color, same creepy little nose.

“He asked for a ladder,” I whispered. The character in my book used a ladder to climb up on people’s roofs at night and slip through the highest windows that people never kept locked (I needed to do something about the one in my house), and murder people in their beds.

“If I steal all the ladders in the neighborhood, he’ll have to go buy one, and they can trace that back to him,” I said. “He’s too smart for that.”

A week later, I had a dozen ladders in my garage. I tried to convince myself that I had done enough, but knowing what I really had to do, until I heard sirens coming up the street. Four police cars stopped in front of my house, the officers got out and crouched behind their patrol cars, pulled their guns, and told me to stop right where I was. A crime scene investigator came out of my garage after the cops had me on the ground and handcuffed.

“There’s a lot of blood on two of the ladders,” she said. “We won’t know for sure until we get them back to the lab, but it doesn’t look good for this guy.”

I looked across the street, and there was Mel, standing on his front steps, a knowing little grin on his face.

Friday, August 31, 2012

Original Short - Suicide Mission

“But Grams,” I pleaded. “I’d rather have a hot poker shoved up my ass than go to that bingo hall. It smells of Ben Gay and imminent death in there.”

“Listen, sonny boy,” she chided. “I never ask you for anything. I’d go myself, but I already have tickets to go see Anthrax.”

“How about I go see Anthrax, and you go play bingo?” I suggested.

“Not a chance. I already have the perfect pair of panties to toss up on the stage.”

“Fine,” I said. “Tell me what to do.”

“I know that bitch is cheating, I just can’t figure out how,” she explained. “Nobody is that lucky.” Grams proceeded to lay out the plan. She said Stella Garcia had a thing for younger men, so I was to “make nice” and watch her and the bingo caller.

I sat in the parking lot and twisted open the Peppermint Schnapps. If I was going to humiliate myself, I’d have to be halfway schnockered. I also made sure to pack my heavy duty, double layered condoms. If anything happened, I didn’t want to catch any 19th century black death version of herpes from that old hag.

Feeling no pain, I put on my dark sunglasses and staggered through the front doors. I stood there and scanned the room. Stella was by the stage “whoring it up” with the bingo caller. I waited until she sat down, then brought over a couple of drinks. Double Jack for me and Sex on the Beach for her.

“Hi Stella,” I flirted. “Is this seat taken?”

She giggled, which came out sounding like a zombie with lung cancer. “Please,” she replied. “Thanks for the drink. But I have to warn you, when I get tipsy, my hands tend to roam.” She winked at me and my stomach lurched.

I downed my Jack and said, “Bring it on, baby.”

“Oh my,” she said. “We may have to skip bingo tonight.” She winked again and put her hand on my thigh. I don’t remember anything else after going back out to the car, finishing the Schnapps and smoking a joint, but when I woke up, I was in Stella’s bed.

“What the fuck did I do?” I said, my head pounding and a painful heat already burning in my groin.
Stella turned over and said, “Oh baby, what DIDN’T you do?”

She reached over to stroke my package, which immediately retreated out of terror. I got up, grabbed my clothes and ran. When I stumbled in the front door, Grams was making breakfast. “You must have had some night,” she said. “How did it go?”

“Well,” I hesitated. “Stella didn’t win any money last night, but I didn’t catch her in the act, either.”

“Well damn,” Grams replied. “You’re just going to have to do it all over again next Monday.”

I turned down breakfast in favor of a shower, where I spent the next hour scrubbing and crying.

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Original Poetry - Appointment With Death

A long life ending too soon
Like a song stopped in the middle
On an 8-track tape

My bucket list incomplete
In fact, never begun
Too busy with life

Alone in this bed
No friends or family
Too busy with life

One more chance
Is all I ask
To make it right

Someone is here
To say goodbye
‘Tis only Death

I close my eyes
Begin a new journey
On the other side

I have regrets
But don’t we all
Too busy with life.