Damned Words 8

July 8, 2014March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 27 Comments

Nothing Lives
Jon Olson

Reflections in windows tease and haunt, showing what was, and what is no longer. Do not look at the glass! Damn, too late. Reflected before me is a tree. Its trunk, branches, and leaves, all on display. I want it to be real. I roam these empty streets. Searching, hoping, and praying to find someone; something; anything. People, animals, and plants are all gone. Concrete, steel and glass remain. I call out and listen, but only my echo replies. This city is dead; nothing lives. The sky is grey; no sun or clouds. Life has abandoned this place; abandoned me.

In Everything
Zack Kullis

They watch and wait in everything. I can feel their hungry eyes and thrusting glares, pulling for the acknowledgement that would seal my fate. Stupid therapist called it Pareidolia.

Demons, creatures, faces and things of terror live in almost everything. Seeing them draws them into your head where they eat your soul. I avoided them until today, overcome by a single glance at a building, a window holding the tree and cloudy sky – all of them full. I heard them coming. Two ice picks saved me, one for each eye. With the windows to my soul ruined, I was free.

Apparition
Magenta Nero

It reflects her suffering, an enticing apparition. “Ease the regret, press your fingertips to mine. I can take from you the memories, I can turn back time.” Its huge empty eyes drip in black streaks, it twists and sighs evocatively. She reaches for its ghostly hand but she pauses, her fingertips tremble, hovering just above the glass. The apparition buckles with rage, the glass rattles as it slams against the surface, begging for release.

“Not yet.” she says and turns away. She wraps on her coat and scarf and heads quickly out the door; she is late for work again.

The Hill
Craig McGray

Neighborhood kids told stories about The Hill, regurgitating false truths that their parents told them. Tall tales about what really went on behind the mirrored glass and towering brick walls, but I learned early on that most parents were full of shit, mine included.

My father told me they did ‘things’ to bad people on The Hill and I should stay away from there. My dad was an asshole, but he wasn’t full of shit.

He should have taken his own advice because they, I mean WE, really did some horrific things to him when he came to The Hill.

The Mill
Nina D’Arcangela

I look out upon all that is left. Sunlight scorches this land; with morning comes heat, an assault upon existence. With evening, a frigid wind; though still a brief respite. I squint as I glare down among those who wallow at my feet. My stone begins its grind, my furnace stokes; a rival to the blistering rays without, but only barely. Their faces turn up, beseeching. I watch as they enter my opening maw; again as they depart in concert with the tenors screech from my bowels. Stragglers dally, grubbing for scraps. Something needs fill the stone on the ‘morrow.

Looking Out
Leslie Moon

curtains brown, tattered and torn

reflections were once welcome

swatting away evening’s flies

light, life, color, have been exiled

I wonder to where they have fled

***

Dark shadows of night interpose

greedily they suck the last drop of day

beating away the memories of her, of us

“futile” I murmur

there is nothing left to hold dear

***

In response the fluttering starts to sneer

night’s sinister incessant chuckle

It loves to remind me

there may still be bloodied remnants

in swiss dotted fabric that the flies have missed

white now turned rusty

I tell myself “better not to remember”

Nothing
Joseph A. Pinto

Nothing will stand between us; nothing will keep me away. The cruelty, locked in your silent world. All you hear is nothing, even as I shout your name. What see of you beyond the reflection of spirit-churned skies? What know of you within that haunted heart? I shall shatter your glass; recover your incarcerated soul. The cruelty, shackled in your listless words. All you think is nothing, even as I cry your name. What suffer of you behind bricked walls? You wait eternally; I say wait no more. Nothing will deny sky from its horizon. Angels of their fall. Nothing.

The Conductor
Thomas Brown

Fingers clutch at the crumbling windowsill. Outside, light spills across the apartment blocks and the gardens beneath.

He calls it a garden but it is little more than paving slabs on which she reclines and smokes and dies a little death each night. She loves cigars. Fat, Cuban things in her slim hands. The whole of her is slim. When she stretches out he imagines taking a stick to her ribs, beating them, making music with her bones. It is not enough, just to see. Beneath his practised hands, her bones could sing. A symphony of human sound, in harmony!

Glass Portrait
Blaze McRob

A picture forms in the panes of glass as it does every day before dusk becomes night. Clouds and trees tonight. Maybe an impending storm. Yes, that’s what I need. Evil must be displayed!

Even now the clouds twist and turn as they darken, and the trees are blown away from the glass portrait. The tranquil scene changes before me. An evil face forms in the glass, hideous in its deformity, mocking the world with its visual display of arrogant intent.

I walk inside and look in the vestibule mirror. “Dorian Gray, you look as young as ever,” I say.

Tainted View
Tyr Kieran

I used to love the view. I’d sit by the sill, mindlessly picking at the cracked paint and I’d watch life happening on the street below; the hasty flow of businessmen scattering off to hard-earned paychecks, health nuts jogging in tight clothes with their leashed, oversized dogs, even the filthy down-trodden vagabonds that stumble from meter to meter—all symptoms of life’s intricate dance; of life’s beauty. Oh, how wrong I was! Now, I see the gritty reality. Ever since my wife hung herself in that goddamn tree, I’ve realized that the window shows the truth. It only shows pain.

A Trip to the Old Country
Hunter Shea

“That’s it right there,” Donal said, pointing at a four-paned window on the second floor. It was one of the few that still had glass in the barren building. The clouds had begun to darken and the air smelled like spring rain.

Finoula pressed her hand against his cheek. “If it’s too hard, we can go back.”

“No, I’m fine.” He kissed her palm. “Professors aren’t supposed to diddle their students, but some do anyway.”

“Bastard,” Finoula said, her gaze locked on the cloud-swept window.

Donal grinned. “You’re standing on him right now.”

He gave the soft earth a stomp.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent.
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

Mergers and Acquisitions

July 1, 2014June 30, 2014 ~ zkullis ~ 20 Comments

“Demosthenes, bring my drink.”

His voice was a command. His words an edict. This was how he ruled his business, and business was pretty damned good. Beleth relaxed in his large chair and held out his hand expectantly. The drink had better be in his hand before he grew tired of waiting or there would be hell to pay.

The telltale sound of his servant approaching was music to his ears. Demosthenes was exceptional and would have been hard to replace. Wiry fingers carefully placed the cup in Beleth’s hand. He took a sip of the scalding liquid. It was perfect.

Demosthenes waited for his master to savor the drink before he spoke. “Sire, your next appointment is in 30 minutes.”

Beleth relished the time he had to relax, but understood that some mergers and acquisitions required his presence. Not everybody was okay with dealing with his underlings. Some were pompous enough to demand a visit with the big dog himself. What those idiots didn’t understand was the extra cost incurred when dealing with the person at the top.

Demosthenes was nearly out of the office when he stopped abruptly. He turned apprehensively and spoke in a tone riddled with fear. “Master, your appointment has arrived early and requests your presence.”

Beleth almost spilled the rest of his drink with sudden fury. “What? Early!”

He stood quickly, his tall form moving with a predator’s agility. This new acquisition was not going to go well for somebody. Beleth strode over to Demosthenes and handed him the drink.

“I will finish this later,” Beleth growled. He started to walk towards the door when he stopped and turned. A sinister smile curled the sides of his lips. “Domesthenes, I will call for my drink in a few minutes. I will have need of you in the appointment.”

Domesthenes bowed excitedly – he knew what this meant.

A long, dark corridor lead from Beleth’s office to the place where the meetings were held. There was no light between here and there. Only darkness. It made it possible for Beleth to approach his next acquisition unnoticed and see what the man was going to try to use as leverage in the negotiation.

Beleth stood at the end of the meeting place, concealed in the thick shadows, and watched the man who was waiting. This one was perhaps forty-five. He kept himself in good shape, was obviously wealthy, and appeared to be extremely confident in himself. Beleth looked around to see what the man had brought for the negotiation and soon found what he was looking for. There were papers, offerings both symbolic and literal, but the man seemed most dependent upon what he had in his hand. This was going to be easy.

Beleth stepped out into the dim light and stood motionless in front of the surprised man. An oddly cold wind played around the above ground graves and ‘oven’ vaults, moaning as it whipped at Beleth’s pants and buffeted his silk suit jacket. The man stumbled backwards a few steps as the Louisiana night strangled the air. Beleth looked into the mind of his newest acquisition. His name was Steven.

“Steven. You look shocked. Is my appearance not what you were expecting?”

The man tried unsuccessfully to regain some composure. “Maybe this will help.” Beleth twitched his hand and the expensive suit he had been wearing drifted away like smoke. He stood before Steven with clawed hands, a large horn growing out of either side of his head, and wings folded behind his back.

“Is this what you wanted to see? I think it’s a little cliché. My form is what I want it to be and I don’t give a shit about your expectations. Let’s get to it and talk about the deal you want to make with me.”

Steven quickly shoved his left hand forward and displayed the silver ring he had purchased at great expense. He stuttered hopelessly for a few seconds before he regained enough composure to speak.

“Beleth, I have summoned you. You are compelled to make a deal.”

Beleth raised his left hand and showed an identical silver ring. “You are a fool. I was already willing to make a deal. But you insult me when you bring such feeble talismans and spells. You are treating with a prince of Hell, not a simple imp or lesser demon.”

Steven looked down at his hand and toyed with the ring that had done nothing for him. He opened his mouth to speak but only swallowed his words when Beleth approached him.

“You had the balls to start this early because you thought you held all of the cards.” Beleth stood tall over the doomed business mogul and spoke in gritty tones. “This is my business deal.”

His voice boomed and tombs shook as Beleth called over his back. “Demosthenes, bring my drink.” There was a stirring in the shadows deep within a large tomb and Demosthenes emerged from the depths of the vault. The old man carried the cup and slowly walked towards his master, but his eyes were bright with vicious hunger as they locked onto Steven.

Beleth took the cup and drank deeply. Steven’s eyes shined with horror-derived lunacy. With the cup empty, Beleth gave it back to Demosthenes and looked at Steven.

“You are wealthy and powerful, yet here you are, ready to ask for more. This is what will happen instead. You will destroy this precious life you have made for yourself. Once you are done, you will be mine.”

Steven’s face twisted with the warring emotions of fear and fury. “Never!” he screamed.

Beleth stepped to the side as he spoke, allowing Demosthenes to get closer to Steven. “You can either die now, or you allow Demosthenes to manage this deal for me. You will answer to him. What do you say?”

The prince of Hell held out his left hand for Steven. Steven looked at it, then looked at the seemingly fragile Demosthenes. The business mogul shook the infernal hand in front of him. Beleth smiled as he pulled away, taking Steven’s ring along with him.

“Smart man,” said Beleth. The demon turned to his elderly servant. “Demosthenes, it is time for you to walk in this world again. Are you ready for the merger?”

Demosthenes chuckled with malicious delight and slowly approached Steven. “Yes,” he croaked, “I am. It has been far too long.” He stopped in front of Steven and reached for the businessman’s chest. Steven tried to knock Demosthenes to the side but was stopped with a simple command from the old man.

“Invocato potestas…”

Steven’s hand stopped. Demosthenes lifted frail fingers and slipped them inside of Steven’s hand. The business mogul shrieked like a scolded child, then howled with horror when he realized the old man was inside of him.

Demosthenes sighed and his eyes fluttered with nearly orgasmic pleasure. He hobbled to Steven’s side and slipped his entire right arm into Steven’s right arm. The hand started to jerk as if in the middle of a seizure, but soon relaxed and began to flex and turn. Steven watched his right hand in horror, his eyes wide and unblinking with the realization that he was no longer in control of that hand.

The old man began to whisper into Steven’s ear. “Your body is mine. You will sit in the back of your mind, aware of everything around you, helpless to do or say anything. I will ravage your family, your wife, and will do all of those things that hell has kept from me. I will ruin the dynasty you have so carefully built, and I will use and consume your body with unbridled passion and lust. When all is done, all is gone, and you have witnessed the shame of it all, you will die a horrible death and I will drag you down to see your master.”

Screams of profanity turned into unintelligible shouts and verbal fits that bounced off the cemetery vaults. Beleth watched with demonic glee, tasting Steven’s torment and drinking in his frenzied terror. Demosthenes slowly shuffled behind Steven and began to merge into his new body. Steven’s shouting began to diminish; the screams of dread slowly turned to moans, and then faded to pleasant laughter. It was done. Demosthenes smiled with his new lips, displayed his perfect teeth, and laughed as Steven wailed from deep within.

Beleth walked up to the businessman who calmly dusted off his clothing. “You look good, Demosthenes. Have some fun.” Beleth grinned as his new acquisition walked back towards the city.

Business was good.

~ Zack Kullis

Damned Words 7

April 22, 2014March 7, 2018 ~ The Tale Weaver ~ 29 Comments

Anger Falls
Zack Kullis

It trickles at first, barely perceptible, moving slowly towards an inevitable end. Heat blooms, melting what once was controlled in an icy grip. The trickles collide, begin to coalesce, mingle and fuse.

The calm silence swiftly flows towards a thundering rumble. It pushes against its boundaries with a hint of its violent potential. There is no damn to hold back the deluge.

Anger swells, mounting, growing exponentially as I yield to the unstoppable. I feel the precipice as the fury carries me over and plunges me into the tumultuous abyss of wrath. This is fury’s terminal velocity – Anger Falls.

The Pool Below
Jon Olson

My heart beats rapidly; anxious with excitement. I brought the children like it told me to do. That was so easy. The water is still, like glass, before spilling over into the pool below. Somewhere in those depths, it’s watching, waiting; and hungry. It wants them. Laughing, the little ones are unaware. The movement is ferocious, the scaled grey hand frightening, the laughter silenced; and I am alone. I pull my eyes away from the violence, back to the calm. A deep breath, an exhale and I relax. It’s over, for now, until it grows hungry again. And it will.

Amber Vision
Nina D’Arcangela

Sluicing beneath the calm amber surface, she admires her own form; long sensuous limbs encased in umber scales glinting iridescent, claws meant for rending soft flesh, eyes the barest taint of rust. She floats these waters from another time, another place – all but forgotten. Spying one wading to catch its meal, she allows the flow to carry her near, masks herself as that of something much smaller, permits her seeming capture. A smile parts her lips as her hooked fangs insure its death. She playfully rolls onto her back, the two tumbling head first into the raucous waters churning below.

Spawn
Joseph A. Pinto

This; this place where first I laid eyes on you, beckoning from atop the crest. I would rip gods from the skies just to be with you. I fight the currents. I swallow deeply our Acheron; your vile taste leaves me reborn. Thunder in my ears, cascade a veil cross my eyes. I cannot refuse you; how I relish the way you bloat my throat. Allow me rest; but for a moment, will you…the gravel bed serves me well. Speak my sacrifice at the headwaters; slice free from me my spawn. Let me swirl like detritus amidst your feet.

Keen
Tyr Kieran

In this moment, I am keen. Saturated. Aware. A dominating flourish of life swarms my senses—every detail becoming known and prominent. The breeze caresses my face. Bugs and birds chirp in merry discourse. Dazzling, the sunlight peaks through the foliage overhead and crystallizes brilliantly in the water below. The wood planked bridge behind me sways ever so slightly, subtle creaking that hums in harmony with nature. I feel alive. My heart swells, pounding faster and faster, blood surging. Then, the gurgling lullaby of the creek and everything else ends suddenly as the bristled rope around my neck snaps taught.

Unknown
Craig McGray

Even as a young boy, I’d often wondered what was beneath the roiling water of the falls. Mesmerized by the clarity, clear and untainted before cascading onto the rocks below, crashing into the time-worn rocks huddled at the bottom.

Life, like a crisp mountain stream, starts as something pure, innocent, before running its turbulent course, eventually reaching a precipice and plummeting to something else, something we can’t be positively sure of.

Over the years, I’ve tossed many screaming souls from this very spot, and I’ve yet to hear back as to what they found at the bottom of the falls.

Trespass No More
Blaze McRob

Unseen hands hold Craig’s face beneath the swirling waters below the dam, rubbing it to and fro, the jagged rocks on the river bottom cutting his face to shreds. The unseen entity lifts Craig’s face from the river and says, “You fucking anglers think you can disregard signs. Stay out means just that. You’re not special. This river is mine.”

Enraged at the blood pouring into his beloved river, he shoves Craig under once more, slamming his head repeatedly against the moss-laden saws designed by Mother Nature. His job completed, he releases Craig’s body.

“You will trespass no more, mother-fucker…”

No Swimming
Thomas Brown

From the outside it doesn’t look like much: three warehouses painted a pale cream. Sometimes there is a van or two, parked in the vacant bay beside the river. Plumes of white smoke. A sign, announcing where I am:

The Dream Factory.

Visitors report to the holding bay for guided tours.

You couldn’t pay me to cross the low wire-mesh fence. I’ve seen what leaves this place; not in the vans, but the adjacent stream: transparent fat, pinkish globules, and if you look closely, long, effervescent faces, mouths stretched, eyes wide: nightmares, skimmed from the vats into the quick current.

Kiss
Magenta Nero

The all encompassing roar of the water, a frothing primeval anger that rises from deep within the earth, takes back each useless tear as it rolls off my cheeks. I have spent a lot of time here lately. Poised on this edge. Thinking. Your body slapped against rocks, broken and swept away downstream. Like waste. From the split in your skull leak your extravagant lies. You remember this place don’t you? The place of our first tender kiss. And now our very last. Your mouth open but silent. Your eyes, wide, incredulous, staring back up at me. As you drop.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent.
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

The Wrong Guy

April 15, 2014April 24, 2014 ~ zkullis ~ 17 Comments

Jon stubbed out his cigarette and took a mint out of his pocket. The mint might have seemed odd, given the circumstance, but it was for his enjoyment rather than consideration of the man in the chair. He rolled the mint around his tongue for a minute before he pulled it out and placed it next to his cigarette.

It was time to get started. The leather of his imported loafers made a gentle scuff-tap sound on the aged concrete as he walked. Jon’s cultured voiced bounced across the large room. ”Greg. You’ve had enough time to think about what happened yesterday.”

The man in the chair breathed unevenly through his nose. Jon knew Greg was exhausted. Certain steps needed to be taken before things could be corrected, but Jon was ready to be free of this problem. “I need you to think about what happened four days ago, and I don’t want you to respond until I’m ready for your input. Do you understand?”

Greg nodded his head. He was broken and compliant.

“Good. Four days ago you were driving down the turnpike shortly after 8:25. You were in a Jeep. You cut in front of somebody in a vintage Jaguar.”

Greg’s breathing sped up.

“The individual in the Jaguar briefly flashed his lights at you. Do you remember what you did next?”

A drop of moisture fell from Greg’s nose as a quiet whimper sounded in his throat. Jon felt a sudden spike of heat in his chest and head. “Answer me,” Jon screamed.

Greg sobbed through his nose and shook his head dejectedly. Jon backed up and cleared his throat. “I apologize. A refined man doesn’t need to raise his voice. Besides, I should have remembered that you are not allowed to speak yet.” Jon straightened his shirt and toyed with the cuffs until he was calm and collected. He opened a box of latex gloves and began to put them on.

“Back to four days ago, Greg. You slowed down, dangerously, and then pulled behind the Jaguar. Then you proceeded to follow the Jaguar, flashing your lights, driving erratically, and endangering other people on the toll way.”

Jon’s voice lost its refined tone and picked up an angry edge he could no longer hold back. His heart beat heavily as adrenaline started to flow through his system. “You followed the Jaguar into the city, stopped in front of him at a light, jumped out of your Jeep and began to scream obscenities. I want you to tell me the last thing you said to the driver of the Jaguar before you left.”

Cold silence filled the room.

“Don’t forget what happened yesterday when we did this,” Jon warned. “I only want to hear one thing from you.”

He turned on the industrial lights, filling the large room with their intense glow. There was a table covered with an array of dirty surgical instruments. The wood of Greg’s chair was sprayed with stains, old and new, in a horrific mix of colors and odors. Greg’s right foot sat in a dark pool of coagulated blood and gore. His left foot, ankle, and half of his lower leg had been carelessly removed. The frightful stump was still raw and stinking from being cauterized yesterday. Greg’s arms were secured tightly to the chair’s arms, his thighs tied down to the seat, and thick bands kept his shoulders pulled flush against the chair’s back.

Jon’s manicured hands deftly pulled a knife out of his pocket, slipped the curved blade under the dirty material tied savagely around Greg’s head, and slashed through the gag. Much of the material had been tied in a large knot and shoved into Greg’s mouth. Jon yanked the material and pulled the foul-smelling knot out with a dry flop. A soft mewling tumbled incoherently out of Greg’s mouth.

“Now, Greg, tell me the last thing you said to the driver of the Jaguar. If you don’t, I will cut both of your hands off at the wrist. It will hurt much more than what I did yesterday.”

Greg moaned pathetically. His words passed over his dry tongue like sand over boulders. “I told him to watch who he flashed his lights at. I told him that one day he was going to fuck with the wrong guy.”

There it was. Greg had admitted it. Jon felt the fury swell, but he did nothing to hold it back. He no longer needed to. The way was clear. Greg had admitted his impropriety, had exposed himself for the ignorant wretch he was, and now it was time to excise this cancerous growth.

Jon slipped the knife behind the dirty blind fold and cut it off. The rag fell from Greg’s head. His eyes, hidden from light for the last three days, opened and shut sporadically as he tried to see where he was. He finally stopped squinting and looked at his captor. It was the guy from the Jaguar.

“Please no,” Greg wailed.

Jon smiled as he felt his anger move beyond the point of no return. He only had a few more minutes of self-control before he lost all composure. Jon hated people like Greg, and he had known more than a few. He viewed this as a social service he offered to educated and polite people who had to share their oxygen with human waste like this. His vision started to grow dark around the edges. His time for coherency was coming to an end, so Jon decided that he had better start now while he could still remember some of the cutting. It was his favorite part.

He picked up the medical bone saw, something he was very familiar with, and turned towards Greg.

“It was you that fucked with the wrong guy.”

~ Zack Kullis

Damned Words 6

March 11, 2014March 7, 2018 ~ TheDamned ~ 27 Comments

Isolation
Dan Dillard

Bars on your windows, so old and ornate.
At your driveway’s end lies a chained and locked gate.
These both in attempt to circumvent fate.

Huddled … lonely inside your own tomb.
Your domicile morphs into some sort of womb.
You peek through the blinds hoping nothing might loom.

And the world spins around you, life goes on for most.
You should celebrate each day that comes with a toast.
But instead you hide praying you don’t give up the ghost.

The joke, Dear, is that there’s no hope for the dawn.
For wherever you are, Dear, death watches on.

Wrong Turn
Leslie Moon

Darknesses hollow whispers
death’s gripping fingers splayed
mind the path twisting, turns there
don’t divert well-lit ways
*
many drops of blood’s been spilt here
dagger’s sharpened, long caressed
sightless skulls aimed and leering
the spirit must of you assess
*
bodily theyr’e rendered lifeless
gather, on moonless eve
momentarily seek some solace
wander, they eternal grieve
*
seeking, mind if they see you
your retreat may never be
run swift rusting gates through
you again will not be free
*
darknesses claiming whisper
death’s fingers greedily splayed
mind the path, aims to trip dear
don’t divert from well-lit ways

Atomic Number 26
Joseph A. Pinto

And still you’ve no understanding of my stories lost before
you, words stripped of their most basic composition and
left to crumble in a fitting tribute of oxidation. You’ll always

view me that way, nothing more than your atomic number 26
while the greater part of me flakes bit by bit over time. I mourn the
days when my message rung true and beauty gleamed through my

imperfection. Now I go unnoticed, a broken tale; a gate
through which nothing can ever pass again. Such a wasted thing; left
here, your tainted breath corrupting every last line of my expression.

Insomnia
Thomas Brown

They say dreaming is dead, but I still dream. Clear skies. Cool breeze. A little sunlight on my face. I would like to walk somewhere with you, hand-in-hand, and not be alone. I choke to think of what could be: flesh and blood and bones that sing my name, my song, our song, rising into the wind. We should be so lucky.

They say dreaming is dead, but I still dream of a way out, an escape, a different life to that behind this iron gate; this tarnished prison, this nightmare in which we have trapped ourselves, furry with sharp-blood-rust.

The Other Side
Jon Olson

There it is. I cannot believe it is still standing. My body goes numb as I stare at the place that for many years I called home. The same black iron fence surrounds the property like it did when I lived there. Now the paint is peeling away exposing the rust underneath; reopening old wounds. How many times did I grip the fence wishing, praying that I could someday be on the other side? And now that I am on the outside I don’t feel free. I am still trapped within its grasp behind the padlocked gate, never to reopen.

Hush
Nina D’Arcangela

Been so many years, I don’t even remember the sun no more. I hear ‘em muttering, let ‘em talk. I’ll die in this box no doubt. I even heard they sealed it with the name. Trying to shame me I s’ppose. But I have my trophy; I pick my teeth with it every day. Wearin’ it down, but then it was so small to start with. Seems people dislike what I done, but that’s only ‘cause they don’t understan’ it. See, the sweet meat – it’s like veal, you gotta eat it when it’s supple, ‘fore it grows and loses the flavor.

What Lies Within
Blaze McRob

The rusted chain and lock cannot possibly hold this unholy gate in place much longer. Do I dare attempt to break the obstacles and venture within? I must; I have to know!

A well placed kick and the fragile metal breaks. I walk down the stone reinforced tunnel and get closer to the impenetrable darkness. The scent of sweet musk tickles my nostrils, and I smile.

“Lord Azazel, what you long for resides within.”

A torch is lit and I see my prize. Upon an altar she lies, and her glories call out to me.

She screams at my touch…

His to bring…
Zack Kullis

He looked at his charred body. The thugs had chained his security gate moments before they threw the Molotov cocktail through his window.

His fingers still gripped the old iron. The flesh was black like charcoal, and flaked away like the burned paint of the gate. Lips, hair, skin, and anything identifiable had been burned away, leaving a macabre grimace. Death had taken him hours ago.

Fury and lust for revenge damned his soul to this place like the chains had damned him to the fire. He was a wraith, and he welcomed the damnation. Hell was his to bring.

Claiming the Condemned
Tyr Kieran

The end came faster than anyone anticipated and all the prophecies were wrong. It wasn’t failed science gone viral or a cleansing trial to better mankind; it was Hell claiming the condemned—every last one of us. It began with a tortuous plague the turned the sick into blood crazed cadavers. They were the lucky ones. They didn’t suffer the tenuous and futile existence that was always moments away from being torn into a million bite-sized morsels by rancid insatiable teeth. I was the last, eaten alive behind safe gates as I clung expectantly to my wife’s once still corpse.

Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent.
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.

Talk of the Devil

January 28, 2014January 16, 2014 ~ zkullis ~ 27 Comments

The house was always cold. It didn’t matter what the temperature said on the thermostat. Troy begrudgingly took his coat off and put it away. For years he had assumed his house was simply cold, but it had been getting worse over time. Now he knew why.

Floor boards moaned and squeaked as he walked down the hall. He could hear noises from the boy’s room. It sounded like the television as usual. Troy slowed his pace until he stood outside of their closed door. He could hear the chilling voice in the movie perfectly.

“Your mother is in here, Karras. Would you like to leave a message? I’ll see that she gets it.”

He was about to knock on the door when Mary called to him as she walked through the front door. “Troy, are you home?”

He went to her and pulled her into the kitchen. “Mary, we need to talk about the boys. I think they’re getting mixed up in something horrible.”

Troy pulled a handful of pages out of his case and placed them on the granite counter top. “Do you know how many times they’ve seen that movie in there? Do we know what else they do while we are at work? Carson is only 9 and Scott is 7 for hell’s sake!”

Mary looked at him skeptically. “Troy, they are just boys watching movies. What harm can come of that? I think you are blowing this out of proportion.”

“Oh yeah?” Troy asked as he pointed to his papers. “I’ve spent the past few weeks reading and studying at work. ‘Talk of the Devil and he is presently at your elbow.’ Have you ever heard that expression?”

“No I haven’t,” replied Mary with growing concern.

“It’s an old English proverb. Did you know that there are similar phrases in over 50 different cultures? This shit is real, and I think the boys are inviting the devil into our home.”

Mary picked up the papers and glanced through them. “Just what are you saying, Troy?”

“Have you taken a good look at them lately?” He asked. “Have you heard them talk? Watched them eat? I’ve looked at dozens of cases of possession and exorcism, and I’m telling you that we have a problem. If you don’t call a priest, then I will.”

Mary placed a hand on Troy’s shoulder. “I can’t stand to see the family torn apart like this. There is a group of priests that have been close to my family for generations. I’ll call them.”

Troy sat down as Mary walked away and talked in hushed tones on her cell phone. He could only hear bits and pieces of her side of the conversation.

“… so tired of this.”

“… need this exorcism so we can be a family again.”

“Come tonight. Bring them all.”

Mary finished the call and stepped back into the kitchen. “They will be here tonight.”

Troy grabbed her hand, surprised at how quickly she believed what he had been talking about. “I’m so glad. I didn’t know if you were going to believe me or not.”

“Don’t worry, everything will be okay,” she said as she placed a hand on his chest and traced wary circles around the crucifix under his shirt.

***

He had fallen asleep on the couch. Troy opened his eyes and couldn’t see. It was completely dark. Fear pressed him against the soft couch. Strange sounds and hushed whispers had woken him up. “Mary?” he called out.

There was no response. He started to see faint outlines of furniture when he heard the footsteps. Mary came around the corner with a candle in her hand. “Ah, you woke up. The power has been out for a while so I let you sleep. It’s sure nice to see you boys together,” she said with a smile.

Troy turned his head and jumped off the couch. Scott and Carson had been sitting on either side of him the whole time. They sat on the couch and looked at him with vacant eyes. Carson looked like he was barely breathing. His lips were torn and bleeding, and a ghastly smile threatened to tear his lips even farther.

Scott sat on the other side of the couch and simply looked at his father. The little 7 year-old’s chest moved quickly as if the boy were hyperventilating. Scott’s face was as blank as his eyes.

“What about the priests?” asked Troy as he stood next to Mary.

“They should be here any time. I want you to sit down in this chair and try to relax, okay? It will be okay soon enough.”

Troy sat in the chair across from his boys. Mary turned around and walked down the hall, casting the room into darkness. Troy tried to see his boys through the darkness. He gripped the edge of the chair as he hissed a threat to whatever had possessed his children. “The exorcists are coming for you.”

“They are already here,” Carson said in a voice that wasn’t his. “We are ready for the exorcism, Troy. Are you?”

The front door opened and people wearing long black robes came into the house. Troy relaxed a little as he watched the hooded priests carry in various items. A few of the priests lit large, white candles and began to place them around the room. Carson and Scott just looked at Troy from the couch. Their faces occasionally flashed with the ugly images of the heinous things inside of them.

Priests positioned themselves around the room. Troy felt the tension build when the priests started to chant. The temperature of the room plummeted as Carson began to speak in another language.

Troy stood up and yelled. “Shut up and get out of my boys!”

Scott got off the couch and held up a small hand. Everything in the room became quiet. Scott looked at Troy and an ugly sneer spread across the small boy’s face. “Don’t interrupt the exorcism.”

Troy was confused. It was as if the demons wanted the exorcism. Deep laughter rolled out of Scott’s little mouth and shook the walls of the house. “Yes, we want this exorcism. But it’s not the kind of exorcism you are thinking of.”

Mary came around the corner. She was wearing black robes. “The boys need a father that can accept his unique role, Troy. This exorcism was never for the boys. It’s for you.”

Troy looked around the room. The priests each pulled off their hoods, revealing beautiful and grotesque masks. The white candles burned, showing the black wax underneath the white façade. The horror of it all was too much to understand.

“Let’s begin,” said Scott. The little boy stepped in front of his dad. “Sit,” he commanded in an infernal voice.

Troy sat in the chair and grabbed the crucifix under his shirt. Mary flinched and looked worriedly at her sons. Scott chuckled before he spoke to his father. “That artifact only works for those with faith. Let me show you something easier to believe in.”

The priests began to chant again. “Veni, omnipotens aeternae diabolus.”

Troy’s wife stepped closer and spoke softly. “Don’t fight it, Troy.”

“Agios o Satanas,” chanted the priests.

Carson stepped closer to his dad. His voice returned to normal as he pleaded. “Please, dad, join us.”

Troy was sweating, but his crucifix felt cold in his tight grip. He watched as his little Scott held out his hands. The priests around the room started to chant more quietly. Doubts festered in his mind. He should be with his family. Scott’s eyes turned completely black as he spoke in a loud, demonic voice.

“Dies irae, sovlet saeclum in favilla.”

Carson stood next to his father and translated. “The Day of Wrath, will desolve the world in ashes.”

Troy felt conflicted as he listened to his sons.

“Teste cecidurent, quantos tremor est futures, quando Vindex est venturus.”

Carson translated again. “As foretold by the Fallen, how many tremors will there be when the Defender will come?”

Scott’s voice became thunderous and deep. “Tui sunt caeli et terra.”

“Yours are the heavens and the earth.”

Troy was in a daze. His mind had grown cloudy. He needed a sign to tell him what to do.

“Oriens splendor lucis aeternae, Lucifer veni, illumine sedentes in tenebris!” screamed Scott.

Carson took out a knife and cut his palm, then spread the blood on his father’s face as he translated again. “East of eternal light, come Lucifer, illuminate the dark!”

Unlit candles that had been placed all over the room burst to life, their flames a deep purple. Scott put his hands down and looked at his father. His voice echoed across the room and the walls shook again. “Is that enough of a sign?”

Most of Troy was ready to give in, ready for peace, ready to do what needed to be done to have his family back. But a small part of him stood relatively firm. He couldn’t do it while he had even of a sliver of faith. Troy shook his head wearily.

Carson and Scott began to speak in unison, the demonic and false cherubic voices sounded like a choir of the damned. Troy closed his eyes and began to squeeze his crucifix as he heard and felt what his boys were saying.

“Open to us, accept what we offer.”

Troy squeezed harder, unsure of what he wanted, but aware that he had made up his mind. He pushed his fury into his trembling hand. The boy’s voices filled the house. “As this emblem is changed…”

Silence filled the room. There was no movement. If felt like he was falling through a dark hole. A single voice spoke clearly.

“… etiam muta cor meum.”

It had been his voice. He spoke those words. He knew those words, and he translated them himself with a hoarse whisper. “… so change my heart.”

Troy lifted his head and looked at his wife and children. They had never looked so perfect. Troy stood up, pulled the broken cross off his neck and embraced his new family.

~ Zack Kullis

The Manipulator

November 19, 2013November 19, 2013 ~ zkullis ~ 25 Comments

Nothingness, absolute and pure, was broken by a suggestion.

~Rise~

Slumber torn asunder. Twinges of tissue and cognition, and then he WAS.

~ ~

Tired. So tired… Confusion and disorientation numbed his mind like cotton wrapped hands. Thoughts felt like a jumble of dusty moths bumped plaintively against a dim light bulb. He couldn’t grasp where he was – what he was doing. His limbs felt stiff and unused.

The stony grip of anxiety seized his mind and burned in his lungs. A deep breath was impossible. Thin air pulled slowly through his nose, bringing with it the smell of fresh clothing and an acrid smell that reminded him of a dissected frog. His anxiety doubled when he realized his mouth wouldn’t open. A hand finally responded to his slow mind. It moved sluggishly, fumbled around haphazardly until it found his lips. Glue. Somebody had glued his lips shut while he slept. Anger and the inability to get a full breath drove his fingers to tear at his lips with a horrible frenzy.

Dry tissue tore without pain or blood. Thin air cascaded over his teeth and dry tongue. His lungs responded mechanically, filling, expelling. Fingers that slowly gained dexterity and feeling touched what should have been painful tears in his lips. He was grateful it didn’t hurt and started to relax slightly.

Another strange sensation penetrated the musky fog of his lethargic mind. His eyes felt like they had something in them. The total absence of light wouldn’t let him see what he was doing, so his hands touched their way past his torn lips, his cold nose, and found his eyes. Tufts of cotton had been stuffed between his eyelids and his eyes. ‘What the hell,’ he tried to scream, but it came out in a hoarse growl. “Wwuu du hehh!”

His hand shot out in an effort to throw away the cotton when it struck something solid. The loud ‘thunk’ reverberated around him as if he were in a closed space. The frantic movement of the severely claustrophobic possessed him as his legs kicked and struck out all around him. A cacophony of quick echoes filled the tight space. His fists pummeled the surface above him, to the side, underneath, and beyond his head. Wordless screams bounced off the smooth walls.

Animalistic fury filled his mind and fueled his raging muscles. His hand shot out in front of him, and struck the surface above his face. The welcome sound of a loud crack met his ears. Lungs pulled at the failing air in massive gulps, like a doomed fish flopping on the shore. A primal scream erupted from his bloodless lips as he struck out violently against his prison.

“Unnghh!” he screamed between breaths. The sounds of his attack morphed from groans and creaks to the splintering of broken wood. A fist erupted through the fissure; his dry flesh scratched, torn and shredded against the sharp edges of his prison. Small pieces of something cold fell onto his face. His hand and fingers vaguely recognized the material as he started to pull his hand back inside and tear at the prison. Realization of what was falling on him came along with the avalanche of freshly dug dirt.

Adrenaline, or its mystical counterpart, burst through his system. ‘Damn this place’ he thought as he struggled against the wood and dirt. ‘Damn whoever put me here’ he thought as he finally got to his knees. The weight of loose dirt above him pressed down on his shoulders and head. Arms tried to push through the soil and pull him up. Hands searched frantically for leverage, for anything. Nothing.

There was no point. Dirt pressed against his eyes, stuck against the dry orbs, preventing him from the tender mercy of a blink. Not even a blink. Small bits of soil worked into his nose. The smell of loam and old decay filled him. Gagged him. He thrashed his head. How long since he took a breath? Fighting to keep his mouth closed was in vain. The muscles in his jaw worked against him. ‘Don’t open’ he screamed in his head.

His head thrashed wildly when his mouth opened. Dirt, a few rocks, and who knows what else poured in. His movements slowed against his will. Hands stopped grasping. Arms stopped reaching. He was dead – or would be. The cold hand of eternity gripped him tightly. He would pass, and be finished with his awful fate. Soon. Please.

There was nothing. His mind still worked, toiled against being stuck in this cold between. Then there was something. From above. A presence. It waited, knowingly. It beckoned. Then it spoke in his head.

“Rise…”

‘Can’t move,’ he thought in reply. ‘Can’t breathe.’

Dark laughter filled his head. It remained silent long enough that he decided he had gone mad. ‘Yes,’ he thought. ‘I’m mad.’ The voice filled his head again.

“Mad like the Arab with his Kitab al-Azif? No. Forget who you were, that which was is no more. Stop struggling for air. You no longer need it. Rise!”

It seemed too much, but he couldn’t deny the voice. It knew. The voice was more than suggestive. It carried with it an air of command that left no room for questions or derision. As a marionette moves at the behest of the manipulator, so too was he compelled to move. He pushed deeper into the earthen barrier, inched upwards, and endured the agony of his impossible climb. He fought against the spasms of his lungs craving oxygen they no longer needed as he heeded the call.

Fingers clawed through dirt and grasped at moist air. Forearms broke through soon after, quickly pulling his head past charnel soil. His eyes worked to blink away the earthen mess they had gathered. He hung his head forward, disgorging a voluminous pile of graveyard dirt that had filled his mouth and esophagus. Once the dirt was gone, he pulled in air. Not for a breath, no, he cried out with a nightmarish mix of relief and malice.

He lifted his head up to find the voice. The manipulator. His eyes absorbed the tenebrous night with preternatural ability. A huge moon hung far overhead, shedding its gossamer rays over a small clearing. Spanish moss clung tenaciously to an old Cypress tree.

“Here,” rasped a gravelly voice. The voice spoke in his head as it sounded in his dirt-filled ears. He turned his head and saw the Manipulator standing underneath the Cypress tree. It was too dark under the ancient tree to see the owner of the voice, but he could see a figure of absolute darkness and haunting shape beneath the heavy limbs.

“You are reborn, freed from death’s hold through this necrotic birth. I have not given you life, but something utterly different and blasphemous. You have breached this unhallowed soil which is your second womb. You enter this world bloodless, severed from humanity and unbound by all law but mine.”

The Manipulator raised an arm, cloaked in dominion and despair. A withered hand moved in lesser shades of dark and prompted the reborn man to finish rising. Enthralled by his master, he pressed his now powerful hands against the ground he had crawled from. He pushed, struggled, and cried out with the effort. At long last he dragged himself from the loose soil and ambled towards the Manipulator with manic obsession. The filthy clothes, clean when the man had been buried two days ago, dropped clumps of dirt and soil as he made his way to the Stygian shadow under the Cypress tree.

He stood under the tree and shook with necrotic joy. Eyes bright with malicious zeal looked excitedly at the being that had given him all. “Come,” said the Manipulator. “You and I have work to do.”

~ Zack Kullis

BACK ROOM DEALS

April 2, 2013April 12, 2013 ~ blazemcrob ~ 31 Comments

Something’s wrong in Club Blaze tonight. I can’t put my finger on it, but the heaviness of the air is pushing on my lungs, and I can hardly breathe. The metal band playing their rolling, heavy rifts would normally have me sky-high by now, but I’m anything but.

“Come on, Zack Kullis,” I say to myself, “get it under control. The bar is hopping. If you want the big tips that come with Friday nights like this, you better keep your ass moving.”

The fucking Blazing Skull fresco plastered on the wall behind the performers appears to be smiling, leering even, and I swear it’s staring at me. Shit! It’s not just staring at me, it’s trying to get into my head. It wants my thoughts known to it.

Wow! What’s come over me? I’ve worked here a long time, and I’ve seen some strange things go down but I’ve always been able to look the other way and not worry about them. But the very atmosphere tonight is a choking, threatening force, an entity even, one intent on wreaking havoc on me.

The mere scent of beer coming from the bottles as I open them causes my stomach to retch, and as for pouring one on tap, it’s nausea city. I can hardly stand, doubled over the way I am from the pain deep within my gut, forcing its way up my esophagus, and lingering in the space between the back of my throat and my trembling lips.

Sweating like I’ve just stepped out of a sauna, my fancy bartender’s garb – black tuxedo pants, cumberbund, long sleeved white shirt, and a hideous black bow-tie – is drenched and trapping the heat against my body. Steam! My God, I feel like steam is pouring out from within and frying my skin. Boils pop up before my eyes, and I rush to run cold water over my hands to keep the burns down, knocking Joe, the other bartender, to the side.

“What’s wrong with you, mother-fucker?!” he shouts.

Pointing to my blistered hands, I say, “I have to get water on these burns now!”

“What burns? You’re one crazy fuck tonight!”

What the . . . ?

There are no burns! How can this be? Just moments ago they were all over my hands.

The fresco laughs at me, the fleshless skull opening its mouth wide, flashing those perfect white teeth in my direction. The flames go wild, and within seconds the back drop to the stage ignites and the band is engulfed in a deluge of red, orange, and yellow. The dancing armada of heat demons sets the leather jackets of the band members on fire, and soon their faces match that of my nemesis, as peeling flesh falls from their faces to the floor. Five flaming musicians cavort on stage as if possessed, the intensity of their music reaching a crescendo unlike anything I have ever heard before.

Wild, burning banshees sing of a place much like the stage is now, one filled with torture and pain. But . . . but the band doesn’t appear to be in distress. Can it be? Is this their normal state of being?

Before I can react to the fire, to get to an extinguisher at the side of the bar, the flames reverse themselves and traipse back to the fresco, where they once more become mere paint and fabric. And the band . . . the band and all that was once consumed by the fire is now back to the way it was.

My head! What is going on? This can’t be happening? The painting is causing this. I know it is.

“Damn you!” I shout, staring at the painting. “Stop this shit!”

Joe pulls me back from the edge of the bar. “Zack! Calm down. Go outside and get some air. Pull yourself together.”

Yeah, that’s what I need. This place is closing in on me tonight. That’s all. A little air and I’ll be just fine.

It’s no easy task working my way through the patrons. The joint is getting more packed with every minute. But I have to get through. Even the participants in this crazy drinking, dancing, and orgasmic frenzy of emotions coming from I don’t know where are looking non-human. Their outward personas vanish beneath their false veneers and I see them for who and what they really are.

Putting my hands over my eyes, I force myself through the gathering of miscreants and, after what seems to be an eternity, I find myself in the parking lot. Oh, shit! The parking lot is empty. These people inside; where did they come from? How did they get here?

“A little confused, are you?”

I turn and see Mr. McRob leaning up against one of the porch supports, striking his match against the timber and lighting up a cigar. Cuban. Damn, I remember the aroma from the pre-embargo days.

“Remember these, Zack? Ah, you do, don’t you?”

Before I can answer him, a lit cigar is in my hand.

“Go ahead, my friend. Indulge. I have plenty.”

Standing a few feet apart, puffing on the best of the best, and wondering how he got to me so fast, I simply say, “Thank you, sir.”

He laughs. “Call me Blaze. Everyone else does. Well, almost everyone else. Sometimes I get called rather vile names. People can be rather crude, you know.”

I’m not sure what’s going down, but I haven’t physically laid eyes on Mr. McRob since the day I was hired. And that’s been a long time. Why now?

“Why now? I’ll tell you why now,” he says.

How does the bastard know what I’m thinking?

“Let me explain what’s happening here, Zack. Club Blaze is a little more than a gin mill with heavy metal music. Well, that’s a bit of a lie. Damn me. Truth be told: it’s a lot more. See, we cater to some pretty special people.

“Alas. The special people are pretty much gone. You know the back room where you thought the high stakes poker games were going on?”

“Yes.”

“The games were going on, but other things were happening as well.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Please, call me Blaze, Zack. Deals were being made. Special deals; deals with a purpose, a special meaning.”

I’m still confused. What does all this have to do with a full joint, an empty parking lot, a wall painting becoming alive, and non-humans hiding inside the bodies of what appear to be humans?

A sarcastic laugh reverberates around me from all sides of the parking lot. “Oh, Zack, you are such a virgin when it comes to the ways of the world. My world, anyway.”

He walks to the road and beckons for me to join him. Gingerly, I walk to where he waits for me.

“What we have here is a crossroads, Zack. Two paths intersecting; two choices to be made. And for me, deals to be made. Some people are rather unhappy with their lot in life and work out a deal with me to gain riches, a longer life, or maybe some guy wants a hot floozy to scratch his scrotum for awhile. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

I totally understand what he’s saying, but I don’t know if I can believe it or not. This is too far over the top. It just flies against logic.

“Fuck logic, Zack. You’re working for a bit of a bastard. Sorry you have to find that out, but better now than later, huh?”

“Yes, Blaze. Better now than later.”

“Great! We have some common ground. Now we go back to choices and deals. What do you want from life?”

“Nothing much. I have a job, make some decent money, and my wants are really not that exorbitant. I’m pretty content with things the way they are.”

“Oh, Zack, come on now. Surely you would enjoy riches and all that comes with it.”

“Not really. I live alone, and my salary here is quite good. I enjoy my job, for the most part, anyway – tonight was wonky – but there’s not anything else I need.”

“Women?”

“I’ve been burned too often. I need a break there. When the time is right, things will gel. Until then, I’ll just wait.”

Blaze is pissed. He wants to make a deal, and I’m not amenable to his little game.

“Let’s up the ante, Zack. What would happen if you were fired from this job, you searched high and low to find another one, only to find out you’re too fucking old to be considered? What then?”

“Social Security, maybe?”

“I don’t think so, Zack. It’s not very secure anymore, is it?”

This isn’t sounding too reassuring. I’m thinking my job is heading south, and my options are not too high in the sky.

“So what are you suggesting, Blaze?”

“There we go, Zack. I’m just suggesting we make a deal. As you can see, I’ve tapped into everyone else around here. My present clientele is waiting for their time to pay up or shut up.”

“So I’m fresh meat?”

“Interesting way to put it, but it’s true.”

“Fuck you!”

Blaze is really pissed now. “You don’t have a choice in the matter.”

The final ashes fall from the exquisite cigar, and as I stomp the butt out in the lot, I stare into the faces of everyone from inside the club.

“Well, Zack, it seems to me that keeping your job is pretty high on your list of wants. If you don’t deal, that job is gone. What do you say?”

Fuck, he has me. I need a job. “So what’s the deal?”

“Usually, I would love to play some poker, but we have an audience. How about we flip a coin? You call it. If you win, you not only keep your job, but you’ll own the club. What a deal, huh?”

“My coin, and it’s heads.”

“Fair enough.”

I take a quarter out of my pocket, stare at the entourage around me, and flip it high into the air. There is electricity in the air as everyone waits to see which way the coin lands.

“Hey, Blaze” I say, “it’s heads. Heh, heh. Looks like I win.”

The assemblage murmurs in shock. This is not what anyone expected.

A rumbling comes from deep beneath, its intensity building the closer it gets to me. The ground opens under the club and swallows it up. My parking lot companions, other than Blaze, turn into so many variants of wispy personas and vanish into the night.

“Blaze,” I say, “I thought the club was mine.”

“Oh. It is. We just never discussed where the club would be when you owned it.”

A sinister laugh taunts me before I stand alone at the crossroads.

I turn my coin over in my hands. Go figure. This quarter has two heads . . .

~ Blaze McRob

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