Oats

Folks ask all the time how I came to be raising my brothers and sisters. I tell them that my Mama and Daddy, they just run off. Guess they tired of having us kids. I tell folks that. It’s much easier than the truth of things.

We was poor back then. We still poor right now, but we was piss poor then. My brothers and sisters, we ate oatmeal from the same bowl. Notice I didn’t say shared cause when it come to five hungry children, well, five hungry children they don’t share. Five hungry children bite and scratch when food comes near. Mama, she gave up getting between us early on, on account that we needed to learn to fend for ourselves. I ain’t raising no babies, Mama would say, even if we was only babies in our own right. My brothers and sisters and me, make no mistake, we all loved the other, but we learned right quick to eat that oatmeal the second Mama ladled it into the bowl.

Now Daddy, he be out working all day long. Sometime I hear him rustling around when the sun still down and then the whoosh of the front door as he left. If he was lucky, he’d come home just in time for dinner, all us still round the table. We ate that oatmeal for dinner, too. That’s the only time we did share, ’cause Mama always ate first. Daddy too, if he was home in time. He’d scoop it right up from that bowl, right up onto his plate with those black hands of his. Daddy scrubbed his hands all the time with that bristle brush atop the slop sink, but Mama said when you work so hard sometime the dirt, it just curl up inside your skin.

Daddy worked real hard, I know that. He was never no lazy man. Sometime when you work construction, the money, well it just ain’t there to be found, I remember Daddy saying. “Ain’t no money to be found,” he’d tell Mama and me and my brothers and sisters as we ate our oatmeal. “Still ain’t no reason for me to ever stop looking.” I was always proud of my Daddy. Proud of him and his black hands.

I eventually learnt that being hungry and poor does funny things to grownups. Us kids, we made do, mostly ’cause we didn’t know any better. Us kids, we forgot we was poor until oatmeal time rolled round, mostly. After awhile Mama and Daddy though, they started grumbling under their breath about it. Time went by, their talking got louder and louder. Sometime us kids was sleeping, but other times, Mama and Daddy kept us up at night bickering about it. All that shouting. Cabinet banging, too.

Mama, she got real quiet round Daddy when we was all together. She got jittery-like. That made me nervous. And Daddy, we noticed the change come down over his face. He started coming home earlier and earlier every day. His hands not so black any more. Heard him whispering to Mama how the construction was nearly dried up. When Mama told him forceful like that he’s got to look harder for the money, he turned around, face all swollen and red like he just got himself stung by a bee.

***

I remember real clear the time Daddy told me he was gonna rob the Tooth Fairy.

I was hanging laundry on the line for Mama. Daddy come around the corner of the house, wringing his hands worse than Mama wringing the washcloths. He called my name. When I see how wild his face looked, I nearly spilled my clothespin bucket. “How long that front tooth of yours been loose, girl?” Daddy asked me, voice all strangled like.

“Week or two,” I say.

“Should fall out soon then. Real soon. Don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir. I reckon it should.”

He nodded, but it wasn’t a nod like a man agreeing to something. Daddy nodded like he was sentenced to death. I ain’t never been so scared in all my life. “Good,” he said, but he ain’t talking to me no more, he’s talking to himself. “Good, cause that tooth meant to fall any day now. Maybe any minute. I’ll be ready. Sure as shit, I’ll be ready.” My Daddy, he realized he never used cuss words in front of us kids, and it snapped him back to the here and now. “Listen, honeysuckle,” he said, ’cause that’s what he called me, honeysuckle. “Daddy found a way to make money. I ain’t proud ’bout it, but it’s a way. Now you keep this secret from your Mama, and brothers and sisters too, you hear? I’m gonna take the money from the Tooth Fairy when it come for your tooth, you understand? Don’t look scared now, girl. You know Daddy ain’t never find no reason to stop looking for the money. Well, I been looking, and I been thinking, and I found us something real good.”

“Stealing ain’t never good. You taught us that, Daddy,” I said, close to tears.

Daddy brings his face real close to mine, and my tummy hurt when I realize I don’t know this man no more. “That’s right, honeysuckle. But I know that Tooth Fairy gonna have more than enough of what we need.”

***

I slept with my hands stuffed in my mouth, terrified about that tooth falling out of my head, pressing just as strong as I could press to keep it up inside my gums. I remember waking that morning, waking with my arms down along my sides. I scraped my tongue all around inside my mouth ’till I felt that horrible hole where that tooth should have been.

Daddy stood, just waiting there in the doorway, body all slumped like the air’d been sucked from his chest. His eyes was wilder than any animal I’d ever seen. He brung a hand to his lips and shushed me real gentle like. Leaving me trying to decide what terrified me more…the fact that the black was gone from his hands, or that he was rolling my tooth between his fingers.

“Don’t go waking your brothers and sisters now,” he says to me, ’cause we all crammed into the same room, our mattresses squeezed up one against the other. “I’m gonna lay this tooth ‘neath your pillow tonight, honeysuckle, and come the morn I wager we’ll be set just a little bit better.” And with that, he just slipped away like a ghost in the stories me and my brothers and sisters scare each other with at night.

I did as Daddy said; I didn’t say nothing to nobody. Didn’t feel much like eating oatmeal that day either. I guess it was ’cause of keeping that hole in my mouth a secret.

Mama tucked us all in that night, and Daddy came in after. He kissed me last. I wrapped my arms round him like he was the teddy bear I wished he and Mama could buy me. His lips were tender on my cheek. Then I felt him fumbling under my pillow. He pulled away, and I wish I could of said Daddy don’t do it, Daddy there’s got to be better way! But he swore me to a secret, and I ain’t never disobeyed my Daddy. It was late by the time I fell asleep, that tooth beneath my pillow giving me dreams something wicked.

I’m still not sure what time it was when that window started sliding upward. Mama kept it locked come autumn, but the draft still found its way in and the nip, it always got right down to your bones. But somehow that night, that window come unlocked and sliding upward. Sure enough, the wind start moaning through the room. I squeezed my eyes real tight and did my best to make-believe I was sleeping. The window, it just keep creaking open. I started praying to the baby Jesus that the wind howling through our room was the worst thing I’d hear. But it wasn’t.

I heard it. It was a whole lot raspier than my brothers’ and sisters’ breathing. Real harsh, like nails dragged across shingles. I straight near piddled my panties when something meaty dragged itself over the windowsill. I sensed something hovering over me, its shadow darker than the dark of my closed eyes. It snorted, its stinky breath wetting my cheek. Next thing I know, my pillow done lifted straight from the bed, then settled down again. Coins start rattling in my ear.

Our bedroom door suddenly banged open, and I heard a big tussle. Groans and grunts and screaming… god-awful screaming. Then a shotgun blast. Something splattered all over my face. When I opened my eyes, Mama was sliding down the wall, but she ain’t got a head no more. And my Daddy, he be choking on a knife stuck straight through his throat. I grabbed my brothers and sisters and dragged them half-asleep from the room quick as I could. We ain’t never slept back in there again.

Since then, I ain’t never had the chance to stop looking for the money. My hands are black now, just like Daddy’s used to be. And those folks, they ask all the time how I came to be raising my brothers and sisters. No one’s gonna believe the truth. The truth of how my Mama and Daddy really done killed each other. The truth of how I saw the Tooth Fairy leaving through the window. Crooked finger at its yellowy lips, shushing me real gentle into yet another secret. I don’t tell no secrets, never have, never will.

We still eat that oatmeal. Got to—especially since I used Daddy’s old pliers to pull out every last one of our teeth.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2013 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Dissections 2

wolf_rule_full_sat

THIS ISN’T FOR YOU

This isn’t for you
This poem
This song
Everything and anything that’s ever come before.

Cause you haven’t been worth my breath
You haven’t been worth my time
You haven’t been worth the wait
For this pen’s ink to dry.

So to you
And to you alone
This isn’t for you
This beer
This shot
Everything and anything I’ve ever drank before.

Cause you haven’t been worth my buzz
You haven’t been worth the sickness
Or this need to die.

So to you
And to you alone
This is nothing.

wolf_rule_full_sat

CAMP OF REALIZATION

Imploring eyes
Though I can’t see you
Even as you bleed
Leaving a dripping trail
Of gristle
Over the blankets of comfort I draw for you
As my words remain the coldest reminder of all
That liars reach conclusions
And truth tellers grasp at straws
Soon this sun will set
The wind will howl
Cross the land mother moon
Exposes for all.

wolf_rule_full_sat

HOUSE OF CARDS

Man
Sitting beside me
Straining with weary eyes
To see the devil’s script in his palm.

Woman
Sitting next to me
Loving with open eyes
The man shut from her heart.

Couple
Sitting across from me
Reveling in dreamy talk
Strengthening a foundation of denial.

Bartender
Fueling the fire
Let it burn.

wolf_rule_full_sat

THURSDAY NIGHT AT THE PUB

From here
I see everything
Nuance, twitch, inflection
Nothing goes unnoticed
Yet nothing judged
Why should I?
I sit merely to observe
Watch, study, comprehend
From here
I know everything
Life, loss, lover
Your entire world now mine
Yet I’m unknown
Why am I?
I’m merely here Thursday nights.
From there
You see nothing
Pain, want, need
So much goes unnoticed
And you don’t hear
How can you?
Above the jukebox and pleas for double scotch.

wolf_rule_full_sat

HERO JUST BECAUSE

You’re not the hero of the day
You don’t even own a cape
Keep running into empty buildings
Keep saving dreams once they’ve broken
It’s easier that way for you
To collect that cash reward
And adulation
From those even more oblivious
You’re only faster than a speeding bullet
Cause you take the coward’s way of things
You’re a fraud, a fraud
The hollow need something to believe in
The scared need reasons to run away
The children need a role model
Fashioned from something other than a rental suit.

wolf_rule_full_sat

YOU DON’T GET TO DO THIS

No!
You don’t get to do this
You don’t get to steal my pain
And use it like a kerchief round your neck.

Only I know how dear it is
Only I know of its warm invite
Before its cold deep bite into my flesh.
But you see it and wish to take it,
Tame it
Drag it back into its cage.

No!

It won’t happen
I won’t allow it
You don’t get to do this
Not anymore.

For if my pain you steal from me
Is something you truly want
Then know how dear my smile will be
With my fingers entwined round your neck.

wolf_rule_full_sat

FIDO

I see you often
walking your puppy
Watching
as you jerk its choker
until its tongue protrudes in a pink slather
until its eyes roll in its head.

I see you often
leading your puppy
Watching
as you drag it through mud
through thorny brush
kicking it from behind.

I see you often
petting your puppy
Watching
as you slap its face
dig fingers into its ribs.

Funny how time flies.

I see your dog often
running on its own now
Watching
its leash untethered
burying its bone deep into your neighbor’s hole
pissing and shitting on your car
Good boy.

wolf_rule_full_sat

THREE SIMPLE WORDS

Three simple words
languishing
in night
lingering
upon lips
festering
in shadows.
Three simple words
shared without provocation
born in deeper shallows of grey
My gift yours
this bitter pill
forced to consume
shared without invocation
born in deeper pools of black
languishing
lingering
festering
Swallow, choke, die.

wolf_rule_full_sat

UNDER THE GUN

Such a crafted hand
eviscerates
splays skin until bloody ribbons
speak my story so precisely
and just as I wish to scream no more
my tale starts anew
another chapter split open
truth seared
raw.

wolf_rule_full_sat

THIEVERY

He lived to see another day
That poor prick’s heart still beating within his chest
He’d stolen it
With dull blade
And a shaking disloyal hand
Devoured it; consumed joyously all his own.
The last remnants
Not the crimson dripping from chin
As some would have you believe
But the jackhammer thud of taken essence
Screaming bloody murder between his lungs.

wolf_rule_full_sat

BLISS

Promise me
The drink you pour will be my last
For I’m beyond saving
Yet still a good tip in your pocket
If you keep me alive.
That brew will send me to the gutter
That brandy will keep me in the streets
This booze will deliver me to the gates
I thought I could never find.
You seem to be my Maker
At least on this night
Because you’ll right all my wrongs
And make my wrongs worse than what they were
Thank you
May I have another?

wolf_rule_full_sat

RITE

He’s barely cooled
And you’ve got him packed
His entire existence fit neatly
Into department store bags
The likes of which
He’d never been welcome inside before
His gentle presence shoved
With careful consideration, mind you
Of how one end might interlock with the other.

Heartless cruel bitch
You wiped him clean
From your blackened slate of memory
Already smudged
Of chalky goodbyes
No thought given
To any thread of lingering
For you’ve cut the strand and made it to burn.

The final indignation
Does not resonate with the fact
That you’ve left him no chance to cool
But the absurd notion
That I’ll grant him
This
His final ride
In a procession of stale boxes.

Oh no
He lives on otherwise in my grassy field meadows
Not your yellowed department store bags.

wolf_rule_full_sat

I AM

I am rattlesnake
I am earthquake
I am lightning rod
I am heart attack
I am cool hand
I am cold heart
I am motherfucker
I am father love
I am old dog
I am sly fox
I am lone wolf
I am broken man
I am deep sea
I am shallow thought
I am long kiss
I am almighty fuck
I am bright sun
I am evil dark
I am black sheep
I am wise one
I am.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2013 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Sweet Nothings

Little bitch.  Thought I’d never find out.  I found out all right. Oh yeah, I found out.  Knew it from day one.  Just kept my mouth shut.  Knew it all along.  Six months and counting now.  Kept my trap shut about it.  Sealed my lips.  Think I’m crazy, don’t you?  Think I’m pretty sad for sticking around.  Keeping her.  Hey, I know what I’m doing, man.  Been waiting it out.  That’s right.  Patience is the best revenge.  Fucking hard to do, man.  But I been waiting it out.  My girl’s been playing a game.

Too bad by my rules.

You know the best part?  My girl’s been coming home late at night.  Shit, the wee hours of the morn.  Me all in bed like I’m sleeping when I’m not.  Watching her in the dark, eyes squinty and all.  Watching her peel her clothes off.  Feeling those titties I’ve had in my mouth a thousand times brush against my arm as she gets into bed.  I make believe like I’m waking up and all.  Run my hands over her tight little body even though I know she been worked over by other hands not too long before.  Course, she’s gotta lay there and take it.  Then my prick gets hard and we fuck.  I fuck her hard too, cause she can’t deny me.  Can’t make me suspicious.  I fuck her hard.  There’s a nasty grin on my face.  It’s too dark in the room for her to see it, and I laugh to myself when I whisper all sweet shit into her ear.

Little bitch.

I know what her guy looks like.  Passed him a few times out on the street.  Once in a bar.  He don’t know who I am.  Don’t know me from Adam.  Besides, I blend with the crowd.  That’s my way.  None too special on the outside.  Just special on the inside.  That’s what momma always told me.  I was special on the inside.  Nobody else quite like me.  Took me awhile, but momma set me right.  Told the truth.  If she was still around, she’d be proud.

I know where my girl’s guy calls home.  Some apartment.  East side of town.  Where trouble lives, at least that’s what they say.  Gotta laugh when I hear that.  See, I was born on the west side and made trouble too shit scared to stick around.  That’s the only reason trouble lives there nowadays.  On account of me.

I told you, patience is the best revenge.  Been biding my time like a big old dog slobbering over a bone.  Never get too tired of gnawing on it.  Oh no.  Not at all.  Tastes sweeter the longer you work it over.  Understand what I’m getting at now?

Paid her guy a visit today.  Don’t look at me like that.  I had to do it. Only so long you carry a charade.  Look at me, using big words now and all.  Yeah, momma would be proud.  All grown up and I finally know what I want to be.

A better man.

Yeah, had a nice face to face with her guy and all.  Told him the way I see things.  Good thing to talk your grief out with another man.  Real good being social.  Separates us from the animals.  Told him I didn’t appreciate him fucking my girl.  He understood.  Told him I didn’t appreciate him getting my girl home late at night.  Not safe.  Plus it ruins my night’s sleep, especially when I get up early and all to open the machine shop.  Boss depends on me.  Got to give a good example.  Can’t do that with eyes half shut.  He understood that, too.  Real good being social, I told him.  We’re getting somewhere.

Then I slugged him with the claw hammer I had under my coat.

Gonna leave a nasty mark.  But you never know.  He’s got long hair and all.  Might just cover up the dent.  I apologized to him.  I have a conscious, you know.  Yeah, I apologized.  Except he couldn’t hear cause I knocked him cold.  Hey, I tried.  Counts for something, doesn’t it?

Dragged him into his bedroom.  Spread him on the floor at the foot of his bed.  Yeah, the same bed he been fucking my girl on.  Gotta make that right somehow.  Gotta balance things out.  So I strip the pillowcase off a pillow.  Maybe the same pillow my girl’s head been on?  Maybe.  Probably.  Don’t matter anymore.  Drop the pillowcase at my feet.  Close my eyes and jerk off across it.  Think of my girl as I do it.  Feel closer to her somehow.  Like we just had…what do you call it… a menash ah trah, or something like that.  A three-way, for Christ sakes, is what I’m saying.  When I’m all done, I shove the pillowcase into his mouth and gag him.

He’s stirring a bit.  Coming around.  See, I didn’t hurt him all that bad.  I slam the claw hammer across his knee.  Just to make sure he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.  Eyes damn near pop from his head.  I grab his throat good and tight.  Just getting his attention.  I think I got it.  Tell him if he wants to walk again, he best stop flapping his arms and leg around.  He listens.  Good.  I pull pliers from my back pocket.  A box cutter from inside my boot.  Then give him his choice.  Your fucking fingernails come off one by one.  Or I cut your dick off and shove it through your fucking eye socket.

***

I find a Heineken inside his fridge.  Import shit.  But it’s beer.  And it’s cold.  Bites the back of my throat a bit, and that’s all I want.  I scrub my hands real good.  Pulp going down the drain makes me laugh.  That poor fucker never had no choices.

It’s gonna be a long night.  But I can’t wait to see my girl later.  Gonna fuck her.  Kiss her hard.  Look into her eyes.  Tell her I love her.  I really, really love her.

There’ll be a nasty grin on my face.  It’s always too dark in the room for her to see it, and I’ll laugh to myself when I whisper all sweet shit into her ear.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2013 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.


Heed the Tale Weaver: A year of decrepitude we have suffered at the clawing hands of our Damnlings; now the punishment is upon us. Come forth from the shadows, “WANDERER”, and claim from us our Damned souls as your prize!

Visit this wicked, wandering one at secondstaronther.wordpress.com


Sex-Starved Thing

Nails grate across stone; she comes for me.  Hellish echoes impaling the frailty of my senses through the back of my skull.  Scratch, ssssscratch.  Blistering pants herald her arrival from somewhere deep within my institution of darkness.  Blistering, born sodden with covet, sin.  I am unsure to whom those breaths belong.

She comes for me.  My sex-starved thing.

Beg

Limbs twist; these cords bite into wrists, offering little freedom, holding fast my famished body to this chilled limestone.  So chilled.  I strain to see her; this dark surrenders nothing.  I shudder with the callousness of a desperate want.  So desperate.  Nails grate across stone; ever closer she slinks.

Beg

“Choke me,” into obscurity, I gasp.

Nether’s inviting ledge…always upon which I teeter.  A void exists below, an oblivion so familiar; I will be lost should I fall.  Much the same as this thing…this thing the light of sun has never licked.  “Choke me,” mouth too careless, eager.  My dick throbs, pulsing with a life I wish I myself had known.

I will taste you first

Toes curl; shadows shift so subtly beyond blind eyes.  Fingers clench; shadows shift so subtly beyond screaming senses.  She is all around me, shifting so subtly beyond wildest imagination.

Open

My sex-starved thing I never disobey.  Mouth parts; beads of moisture tease my lips.  I arch against my bed of gypsum, slam inhibitions atop stone, aching for her to break me.  Delirious, this wait.  I swallow dank air, the fester of her home; finally, her tongue fills my mouth with the sweetest taste I could ever despise.  Swirling, swirling over teeth, probing, probing deep into ragged throat.

Fire, raging through my head.  I gag; her tongue clogs my passage.  I desire more.  Always more.  “Choke…me…” I bite down upon pulsing meat in my mouth.  Chew upon festering wretchedness.  Deeper her tongue thrusts, sealing pharynx, sealing remains of wasted breath within my gut.  Endearing, her plague, burying my last wail deep into chest…snuffing life as I asked…interring me with the usual disclosure: she will never belong to me.

I have found the perfect end.  She was born to make me hurt.

Nether’s inviting edge beckons; body numbs, stars bursting behind my lids the only light mine.  From the cusp of unconsciousness, she gently rouses me.  I cannot see.  I am blind.  Her leer fondles; the skin crackles over her jaws.  Somewhere from deep within, the dissonant scuttling of things bloated with far worse than abandon.  She nuzzles my cheek; her tender, moist lips nuzzle my own, grazing so softly the diseased affection left unspoken.  With razor teeth, my sex-starved thing rends flesh from my face.

Sweet agony.  Howling…so desperate for her tease.  Fingers rake my heaving chest—Heaven.  Hades burns beneath her nails.  Squirm squirm squirm I do—her little slug.  These cords do not yield; in turn, she yields no hope.  Into my abdomen, sink her nails.  I spit the contagion of my devotion from reverent mouth, screaming for more.

Within the deadened, inky blanket of her lair, the fervor of her gaze singes my engorged organ.

“Consume me,” I offer.

My sex-starved thing snorts cruelly over my body; the chill she illicits delicious.  Breath swirls across pelvis.

Beg

Those bloated things, they scurry away.  Reverberating between the stalagmites, feelers seeking some other form of rot.  Done with me before even they start.  My beautiful destroyer, she has only begun.  “Consume me!”  A challenge from bloody lips.

Beg

“Please…”  Terribly deft fingers wedge a spreader bar between my legs.  “Consume…”  Cuffs snap, bite into ankle, nearly to bone.  “Me!”

I am numb to her affliction.

A chortle, repulsive beyond limits of known sanity.  Brutal, pitiless—a stony palm seizes my shaft, squeezing as her sadist mouth engulfs, razor blade tongue sucking, lapping.  Shredding skin from my dick, shredding as she bobs.  Coarse hair pricking my stomach, shredding shredding until I erupt; an orgasm of blood.  My essence, it escapes in rhythmic pulses, filling her mouth—the seed of all my sin.  Slowly I bleed out, for me, for her.  Body stiffening; this sensation of depletion exquisite, my only regret that no longer do I die virgin deaths for my sex-starved thing.  She has murdered me more times than I can count.

“Now steal me…”  Mouth betraying me always.

My sex-starved thing lies atop me, my death rattle commencing beneath her jaded eyes.  She laughs, the sweet music of all gone wrong.  Lowers her head.  Tears my throat apart.  She eats, she snickers; spits blood, semen back into the wheezing hole in my neck.  Taunts some more.  The joke is always on me; I love my sex-starved thing.

She slides along my body.  Nipples graze skin.  The stone, it chews spine.  I remain mutilated beneath her—an emasculated piece of nothing, a chunk of meat detained by her lure.  Broken, so willing for her promise.  Ruined, left yearning for more.

Blistering, the tortured pants between us.  Still unsure to whom those breaths belong.

“Steal me,” pleading to the worst of all I am.

She obliges; it is what she does.  My curse the blessing she delivers.  Fist deep she plunges into my chest, twisting, tearing at my very corruption.  Her brutality unmatched, rending my heart free of its cage.  The lump of flesh now my dick twitches.

It belongs to me

She devours my heart.

The gagging nearly immediate.

The gurgling incessant from her mouth.

Resurrect…me…

Somewhere in the dark, she collapses.

“Never,” voice oily in her lair.  I wait until silence clots my ears, shred wrists free of her knots.  For all the Devil in me, I love my sex-starved thing.  I could never tell her of the poison within my heart.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2013 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Run

A run; a run no different from any other morning that had come before.  The sun groped with lazy fingers the mounds littering the reed-choked hills.  Above the slickened grass, the evening gasped its last breath in wispy tendrils of fog.  Boots pounded broken road; dew kicked up against sodden pants.  A run; a run with the dirt-laden shovel cradled in his arms.  The mounds forgotten at his back.

But on this morning the old-timer sat.  Waiting.

He froze, keen to the presence of another set of eyes, sweat in long strands down his cheeks.  Tongue darted corner to corner along his mouth, tasting, swallowing.  He enjoyed the tang of his toil.  Eventually he cocked his head.  Saw the old-timer slumped within a rocker, set up on a sunken porch just off the lane.  He stared the old-timer down.  The old-timer stared back.

“Ayup,” old-timer grimaced, lips pinched by unseen fingers.

Gravel crunched beneath boots; slowly the shovel lowered from his arms.  “What are you doing out here?” he uttered, stoic in the middle of the backwoods road.

Old-timer: “Naw much.  Jus joyin anotha morn.”

Chest heaved despite his calm; he took a step closer to the old-timer’s ruined cabin.  He had run past it a dozen times.  Always seemed deserted.  He regretted that he never checked.  Never bothered to force his way inside.  “Too chilly for your bones, don’t you think?  A fellow your age should keep inside.  Stay warm.”

“Wutha-man says gonna warm soon nuff.  I believe in wut tha wutha-man says.  Don’t ya?”

He looked around.  Chewed at the bottom of his lip until it oozed coppery satisfaction.  From the road: “I don’t believe in much at all.”

Old-timer: “Nope, I s’pose ya don’t.  I s’pose ya don’t look tha type ta believe in anythin tha wutha-man might have ta say.  Ya look a different type ta me.”

“And what type might that be?”  The blade of the shovel tapped his boot; fingers squeezed upon its hilt.

Old-timer laughed; a warbled thing like a frog caught in death throes.  “Type tha takes mattas into his own hans.”

He propped the shovel against his side, studied his hands.  Nails chewed and rimmed with dirt, calloused palms caked black.  Intrigued, he looked back up.  “Never seen you before.”

“Were ya s’posed ta?  Ya do nuthin but run.  Run is all ya do.”

His eyes narrowed into slits.  “So you’ve watched me.”

Old-timer: “Ayup.  Lotsa times.”

He clutched the shovel again, scraped it along gravel in the road.  “I enjoy my runs,” hissed through clenched teeth.

“Course ya do.  Yer fit as a fiddle.  I wus like tha once. Long time ago… long time.”  Old-timer shook his head, jostling sparse white hair.  “But things change afta long times go by, ayup.”

He stepped closer to the cabin’s decayed porch.  “Time changes everything.”  No bother taken to disguise the rattlesnake in his tone.

Old-timer, squinting: “Yer him, I’m sure ya are,” then swatted at ghosts circling his skull.  “People been talkin bout ya ‘fore tha wutha-man comes on at night.  Yer him, yessir ya are.  Tha runner.”

Eyes drifted to his boots, laces awash in mud.  “I told you, I enjoy my runs.”

Old-timer nodded, pleased.  “Ayup, tha runner.  Knew it was ya.  Just knew all tha time.  So tell me, runner, where ya runnin to?”

He stalked deliberately, leaning against the old-timer’s fence post, rotted and crooked as a hag’s nose.  Shovel tap-tapped atop his boot.  “I’m not running from a thing.”

“Nah, ya wasn’t hearin me.  Ya wasn’t listenin careful nuff.  Didn’t say ya was runnin from somethin.  Asked what ya runnin to.

Doubt lit his eyes.  He always had answers.

“Man runnin from somethin is a man in fear.  Man runnin toward somethin is a man ta fear.  Ayup.”

Tongue slithered inside his mouth, toyed with a pulpy strip caught between molars.  He had eaten not too long before; suddenly the urge to eat again seized him.  He licked at his lips.  “You have something to fear, old man?  Maybe something like me?”

Old-timer quipped: “Fear ya?  Not t’all.”

He always had answers.  Now he searched for one.

Old-timer jerked his head.  “Lemme see em.”

“See what?”

“Yer hands, course.”

Hesitation.  Eventually he raised one above the fence.  Old-timer, eyes sparkling a shade below madness, rose from his creaky chair.  Head crooked atop stooped shoulders, old-timer hobbled down the porch steps, across the front path, alongside the fence.  “Ayup, tha runner alright.”

“I’m getting tired of this,” he hissed, the shovel slowly ascending above his head.

With deceptive speed, the old-timer sprang over the fence, seized his free hand.  “Tha runnerrrrr…” he cooed.

They remained that way, runner and old-timer, hands interlocked like lost brothers now found, eyes fixed and steely.  The runner blinked first, noticing the old-timer’s chewed nails, crusty black around the beds, grime etched into wrinkled skin.  The shovel lowered.

Old-timer’s hands.  So much like his own.

He always had answers.  Always, his victims spoke to him.  Now he had none.

“I wus fit like ya once.  Long time ago… long time ago.”

He jerked his hand back, but old-timer would not let go.

He glanced over old-timer’s shoulder.

“Somethin ya should know.  Somethin ya should learn right quick.”

He looked beyond old-timer’s cabin.  Glimpsed what had been hidden from his sight for so many runs.  Glimpsed for the first time the uneven rows, the shovels pitched crookedly into the dirt, marking each grave.

Mounds littered the hills, both new and old.

“Ya see, I wus tha runner long before ya came ta town, son,” old-timer sang quietly.  “And I gots no fear of ya t’all.”

He broke the old-timer’s grasp; shovel clanged to the road.  For the first time, the runner ran from something.  Ran, boots stumbling across divots in the backwoods road, rising sun looming large in his frantic eyes.  Ran from old-timer and his dirty, chewed nails.  Ran from old-timer and all the ghosts that kept pace at his side.

“Wus a runner long ‘fore ya came ta town,” old-timer continued to sing.  He turned and hobbled back atop his porch.  Hobbled into his chair.  Sat.  Waited.  He had plenty of time.  Even more shovels.  “Be tha runner long after yer gone.  Ayup.”

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2013 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Grieve

Enter.

Sit before the Tale Weaver.

Through this open sash wafts the spice of golden autumn, yet lulled into complacency dare be not.  A harbinger, this essence, of sinister entities soon to stalk the sanctity of your threshold.  Hastened your pulse, and so should it be.  For in due time the graveyards beyond shall be born once more.  My skeletal hand now take, and open your dormant senses to such truths as only the Tale Weaver can reveal.  Yes.  Yessss.  One foot fore the other; step now from my tenebrous haunt.

Behold my playground!  Behold the majesty of rot neath your apprehensive feet, these glorious, rusted arches serving as gateways for the dead.  Across the chilled flesh of your cheek doth flit moonlight embers, or so your consciousness should have you believe.  Tis the fingers of lost souls caressing your countenance, mourning the shell of humanity you now possess.  This wayward wind aches under the weight of their listless repose; cease the shuddering of your limbs and heed their moans!  As you are now so once were they; for what they are now so soon shall you be.  Death, perhaps for you, is final, yet for these entities only in death do they flourish.

Cautious, ever cautious should you step tween the ever-sentient monuments and moss crusted sepulchers; their domain you tread.  Respect these hallowed grounds, respect this kingdom of decay, for to the purveyors of putrefaction tis their crown jewel.  The swirling mist; it jerks at your wrist, starving and desperate for your attention.  Yes, ignorant one, tis the dead!  They watch us…watch you…their doleful eyes shimmering tween the slender silvered cobwebs of the tombsTheir tendrils seek you, enamored with the stink of humanity, and in slow solitaire turns do they wish to dance at your side, their darkened cathedral of sorrow echoing with the strained chords of the damned.

The pathways, the hills, teeming with specters of eras long gone; this necropolis of the horrific busying itself for its grandest day — All Hallows Eve — so bear witness the blessings of death these hapless beings do perceive.  In turn, treasure your own worthless existence and end your common grievances, lest you return, doomed and fated to roam deeper chasms of despair than you can possibly comprehend.

Your attention…drawn to the small clearing just yonder.  Investigate you may; the ghouls I shall restrain whilst you stride tween the jagged teeth of plot and stone.  Yet you turn to me, confusion etched deep into your brow.  Aye, tis what you believe it to be…here the obscure sorrow more profound than anywhere else…here the cloying agony more suffocating than anywhere else…here the tiny monuments adorned with docile lambs, yet greater in stature than anywhere else…the final resting place for the young souls given no choice tween exemption and sin.

Dare not judge me, for your God I am not and do not wish to be.  Even I cannot fathom the laws of what you call fate; aye, nor abide by its rules if I could.  But these younglings I do watch from the distance, ever mindful of their misplaced light in this land so very lost.

You hear her, do you not?  The long, drawn mewls of agony and torturous sobbings of a heart long since raped; tis the guardian of these younglings, there…there…tattered wings draped in black strands over the faceless, nameless tombstone upon which she perches.  Yes…she…the dark angel for these beacons of light.

Gaze upon her grotesque beauty, this devourer of purity, yet your head turn from her tears.  Her anguish respect.  Protects these younglings at all costs and yet mourns her greatest loss, this dark angel does.  I speak of a soul abandoned by its Maker; a soul denied entry by equal parts Heaven and Hell.  A soul delivered from the abyss, cast back to the abyss.  For eternity has the dark angel brooded upon her cold throne of shattered dreams, compassionately embracing the young that seek comfort at her thorn laced feet whilst inconsolable her own charred essence bleeds dry.  For eternity agonizing over the light left unclaimed as her own.

The dark angel seethes – such is the price of unsatiated grief.  Mouth jagged, a twisted hole of silent fury; swarthy locks entombing stricken face.  Yearning, yearning for the sunbeam she may never hold.  Beautiful, wondrous and macabrely awful…the dark angel bemoans what is beyond even my capacity.

Leave now.  I command – leave now!  Across unholy crypts do run with tail tween legs, and pray your ragged breath not be stolen by the ghouls at your heels.  No longer I offer protection; no longer your welcome honored in our sanctuary of desolation.  For on this Stygian night the abomination I am becomes something wholly else; only on this Stygian night do I ignore my own sentence of perpetual condemnation and become something other than the insidious being you loathe.  Into these debased arms do I lift the dark angel and remove her from her watch.  On this endless night of Stygian nights, protector I become.  Upon my lap I lay her wicked head down, my sweet angel of depravity, and so she will mourn.  And hold her evermore, until all that remains of us is the rot tween our bones.

Until next I summon you, be gone.

So the Tale Weaver speaks.

~ Joseph A. Pinto as the Tale Weaver

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.


As a proud participant in this years Coffin Hop 2012 blog tour, I’m giving away an e-copy of my novel Flowers for Evelene, plus a print copy of Twisted Realities: Of Myth and Monstrosity featuring my story Memorial.

If you’d like to be one of the winners of my give away, please leave a comment on this post, and on November 1st, two random recipients will be chosen.

Don’t forget to visit the rest of the Coffin Hoppers at coffinhop.wordpress.com!

Dissections 1

Hand Poised On Knob

You’ve had your bags packed
For a very long time
No chance to think it over
Just grabbed your essentials
Essentially you’re gone.

But still you remain
For what or why
You’re not sure yourself
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?

And that’s a problem
Isn’t it?

Remaining behind the door
Hand on knob
Certain of the monster behind you
Not sure of the monsters beyond
Duffle bag on your back
Mouth dry as cotton
Frozen
So you remain another day.

But your bags are packed
And in your head you’re gone
Living your life this way
One day at a time
One monster clawing at your back
God knows what waiting beyond.

Living Dead Girl

The dead ain’t for living
Still you’re living dead, girl
This six foot hole home way too long
Only so many ways to dig dirt
Before it piles up
Crumbles back down
And ruins all your hard work.

So many ways for living
Still you’re living dead, girl
You’re so better off going about it alone
But even then it’s a mockery
Having dirt thrown upon you
After you worked so hard
Cleaning up your hole.

But the dead ain’t for living
Still you’re living dead, girl
And that six foot hole is a long way down
It’s okay to close your eyes
Just drop in; you’re not alone
See I’m down here, too
Digging all the while.

Fakes Need Not Apply

The thing about this mask
Is that I choose not to wear it
I’m comfortable
Exposed.

Without this mask
You see me for all I am
So shame on you
For not seeing me coming.

But you
And your kind
You wear the masks I choose not to
You wear the masks I see through.

A brilliant disguise?
Please
Spare me.

I walk raw, naked and senses alive
Even while the rest of me dies
Just do me this favor
Only this one
When I’m gone
Display this mask alongside my casket
To serve as constant reminder
For the fakes who attend.

Husk

The call came
that you were gone
and all that remained
was the simple act of driving
to see you one last time.

But you left the party
long before last call
too soon
after the final hello.

Your own terms
abided
always
something I will admire.

You left me
a husk
something you never were
something hard to erase from memory
something unforgivable.

And during that simple act of driving
when all that remained
were your terms
I remembered the final time I lay with you
A husk
the party long over
the curtain long drawn.

Of A Darker Art

Got hell in mouth
Devil on tongue
Voodoo mama on brain
Demon in heart.

Dig bones from dirt
Bury spleens in hearth
Keep gris-gris round neck
Darkness never part.

Never sell this spell
But steal your charm
Tongue flick tail rattle, baby
Yeah, snake round arm.

But hell in mouth
Need devil on tongue
Voodoo mama on brain
You the demon in my heart.

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Beast

Enter.

Sit before the Tale Weaver.

Be still; your incessant fidgeting only diminishes your concentration.  Do you not hear it?  There.  There.  Aah, stark terror glazes your eyes…but it should not be so.  Relish instead, such a strange and horrid note, that awful baying from beyond the window sash.  Silence yourself!  I share with you now what knowledge I possess of the beast.

Yes, beast I say, but beast quite not.  An unspeakably magnificent specimen of what should not be yet most certainly is.  Born to walk this earth of two legs, but through the nether, hunts upon four.  A most fascinating creature of wretched beauty, resigned in its existence of perpetual condemnation between its own genesis of dawn and gloam.  Humanity its filthy cage.  Bestiality its cherished home.  Torn and ravaged by the tumult within its sorrowful soul.

You gaze upon me in naked incredulity, yet persistent your hands do wring; aye, even you cannot deny the awful splendor laced within the hoarseness of its throaty howls.  Be attentive!  Open not only ears but your narrow mind…listen beyond the ferocity of the echoes in the valley.  Tis true, this abhorrence of nature will rend of you flesh and bone as a child strips wrappings from a gift if its disposition should see fit.  The hunt it relishes, for only then does it truly live, the timbre of its environment razor-sharp, ally to its preternatural senses.  You cannot outrun this thing, for how do you outrun that which already resides within you?

Swift, powerful, majestic…a wholly somber and evil thing.  But I inquire of you – what is the gist of evil?  The unnatural to your eyes; the obscene to your senses?  Or is evil some broken yet unbowed pet, unwilling to yield to the shackles that seek it bound?  If you should learn one thing from me this moonlit night, then heed this—true evil is the fiend that hides behind man’s mask, not the beast that allows its mask known.

Listen closely to that mourning song, that pitiful melody lamenting of deprived freedom from behind unseen bars, for tis the true conflict deep within its dark, fated core, and so it starves.  Longing for the wild.  Longing for the matte of fresh dew beneath its pads and the sparkle-slivered caress of Mother Moon across its rippled back.  Longing…forever longing…this beast so much more than man.

Leave now then, but be mindful to keep a hastened pace along the timber’s fringe.  Pull tight the collar to your neck, and do not afford yourself a moment to pause.  For if the long howl of a doleful ballad plucks at your heartstrings, and the hapless allure of eye shine keeps measure with your gait, pray to your god that on this night the beast remains satiated.

And the man within it holds fast to its rein.

Until next I summon you, be gone.

So the Tale Weaver speaks.

~ Joseph A. Pinto as the Tale Weaver

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

The Vampire I See

Enter.

Sit before the Tale Weaver.

Heed me now.  ‘Tis not a chronicle I do recount, nor a fable spun beyond your wildest imagination.  Aye, I impart onto you a warning, and if wise, measure my every word you will.  Beware the beast that drinks not of blood but feasts upon the essence of your very being.

‘Tis the psychic vampire I speak.

Once entry is gained into your mind, there is no stopping these fiends.  For that is where they dwell…and breed.  Spawning their miasmal infection deep, deep into the root of your brain.  Imbedded, only the hourglass marks the moment your soul succumbs to their detestable will.

Scoff you do?  Hold your tongue, lest I cast you from this blog and into the feculent depths from which these creatures emanate.  More powerful than their undead brethren, they stride unhindered beneath sun and moon.  Obscurity they prefer; yet unabashed they roam.  Aberrations of ourselves, yet so closely tethered by common threads.  You know who they are, yet their guise renders them unknown.

You fidget within your chair.  Look not queerly upon me then, for the chill snaking along your spine betrays you.  It is them.  Even now, they reach with inconspicuous, needy fingers.  Groping for you.  How the virulent taunt.

Appetites unsatiated, they hunger your vibrance.  Listen now and understand their ploy…they wish you not dead, but rather live not alive.

Do you not recognize the abhorrent ghouls now?  Then introduce you I shall to these miscreations!  Look and forever shall you know – friends and family and strangers their masquerade!  And the cruelest of truths have I saved for last.  There.  There.  Your eyes do not deceive you.  My mirror doth not lie.   Aye, the most wicked of abominations stares you back.

The torturer within.

Until next I summon you, be gone.

So the Tale Weaver speaks.

~ Joseph A. Pinto as the Tale Weaver

© Copyright 2012 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.

Judge

Steady hand.  Fluid wrist.

He commences, conducting an orchestra of pain across flesh.  Razor twinkles.  Nary a wince.

Slash Slash Slash

Rinse.  Repeat.

Torrid water singes skin.  Crimson rivulets streak throat.  Razor kisses flesh again; long unhurried strokes abuse corporeal canvas.  Pauses.  Countenance he measures within warped polished metal anchored into wall.  Glimpses little.  Save distorted haze of ruined reflection.  He smiles.

 Good.

 Slash Slash Slash

 Rinse.  Repeat.

Water murky within stainless steel sink.  Chunky with gore.  He has no business dipping fingers into scorching bath.  No business doing anything at all.  Beyond unforgiving bars of his cell swells heinous cacophony.  Thunder low and throaty upon hollows of the valley.  But this is not thunder.  This is anguish.  This is hopelessness.  So delectable.

This is hell.

Swirls razor into steaming mess.  Watches idly frothy, bloody rings cling to sides.  Ruined tissue.  Barely audible, a squeak from behind.  “Are you afraid?” he deadpans.  Interest seized by serumy whirlpool churning within sink’s bowel.

Scampering.  Feet seeking purchase.  Harried breaths.

“You shouldn’t be afraid.”  Razor to flesh.  Skin yields in neat flaps.  Fine meat under honed slicing blade.  “Not yet, anyway.  Didn’t I tell you this would happen?  I did tell you, didn’t I?”

Outside the bars, wails.  Chaos.  Lunacy.  Choked voices plead mercy.  Invoke God.

 “Yes, I’m pretty sure I told you.”  Air trembles.  Ripples with disorder.  Sniffs air, he does.  As canine, no.  No.  Inhales as predator.  Bite of sulfur.  Copper.  Sickly sweet in throat.  Delicious these nuances of suffering.  “Yes, thinking about it now, I’m absolutely positive that I told you.”

Pops from beyond.  Another, deafening, just down the hall.  Again, a whimper from behind.  “It’s rare when one holds steadfast about something.  Very rare.  Take personal belief, for example.”  Razor to jaw.  So steady, hand.  So fluid, wrist.

 Plop.  Plop.  Plop.  Chunks plummet to sink.

 Slash Slash Slash

 “I believed this day would come for a long, long time.  I’d have bet my life on it.”  Long strokes.  Graceful.  Measured mutilation.  Rinse goes the razor.  Plunk goes the flesh.  “No, no.  I stand corrected.  Can I do that?  Can I correct something already said?  Why, I suppose so, if I’m the one doing the saying.  So no, I would not have bet my life on it.  But I would have bet my soul.”  Chuckles.  “Can I share something with you?  You won’t judge me, will you?”

Gunshots once more.  Outside bars.  Just down the hall.  From here.  From there.  From here and there.  Each extracts a strangled sob.  Behind him.  Closer to the floor.  “I don’t like to be judged.  Really, who does?  Did you enjoy it when you were?  In the literal sense of the word, you were judged.  You received, what, nine years?  Already had a few strikes against you, a few prior convictions.  What did you expect?  I’ll tell you what you expected—you expected not to be judged.  Your life was hard.  No proper upbringing.  You expected them to understand.  You expected someone to give a damn.  But instead, you were damned.”

Outside bars, screams for a child.  A boy.  His name rips from father’s mouth.  Wishes to hear it, perhaps, before he dies.

“Yes, I’ve been judged as well.  A long, long time ago.”  Blade to forehead, above brow.  Steady hand.  Fluid wrist.  Left to right.  Left to right.

Slash Slash Slash

Rinse.  Repeat.

Splashes scalding water into eyes.  Rinses free the gore.

“I didn’t like being judged then.  All because I simply saw things…differently.  All because I held firm, positive in my sentiment.”  Teeth clinch.  Snare vicious drawl.  “Judge not lest ye be judged.”

Outside bars, prayer in wild howls.  Fades.  Cloth tears.  Rending fills the void.  Then an awful sound.  Pigs to trough.  Jackal to meat.  Wet.  Slobbery.

“So, yes, I did tell you this day would come.  Yes.  I’m positive now.”  Din deafens.  Maelstrom of degeneration.  Yet one voice heard above all.  “I’ve enjoyed talking to you, by the way.  Enjoyed your company these past few years.  You’ve been a good egg.”

Body slams into bars.  Mangled.  Glistening.  Chewed.

He stares into distorted mirror.  Hand hovers inches from face.  An artist, he applies the finishing touches.  Long, fluid strokes.  Graceful, sweeping curves.  Not much longer.  Not much longer at all.

 “Listen, you’ve got nothing to worry from me.  Not a thing.  I will not hurt you.  It’s those animals.  Out there.”  Jerks head in direction of bars.  Ploop ploop ploop the crimson splatters shoulder.  Prison garment soaks.  “Those things, they’re you.  What you see is only yourself.  So look, this will go in one of two ways.  Release your inner self, become them and serve.  Or simply become part of them.  I’ll give you a minute to decide.”

 Putrid decay seeps into cowering shadows.  Madness reverberates against walls.  Tang of suffering clots the air.

“Time is up.  Sorry, but I haven’t all day.  Places to go, people to see.  Lots planned.  Bet no one thought the end would ever start here.  I mean, it is a penitentiary, after all.  The monsters are supposed to be on the inside.  But not anymore.”

Razor drops into sink.  “I blame all this on your judge.  He thought he had all the answers.  Problem was that he never asked the questions.  Now it’s too late for that.”

He pirouettes. “He tried to make you into his image.  Aren’t you tired of wearing his mask?  I certainly am.”

And last of face oozes down chest.

“So what’s it going to be, hmm?  A brand new world awaits.”

~ Joseph A. Pinto

© Copyright 2011 Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.