Hello everybody! Firstly, sorry for not getting this post out yesterday. I ran late with homework, and then was too tired to write, but I’m back today with yesterday’s post, and below I’ve transcribed something I wrote in English class yesterday. It was an in-class exercise where we were given several lines and just asked to write, and this is what I came up with. It’s made up off of some ideas I have running around in the back of my head, but that’s all I’m going to say for now. 

I couldn’t stay to take care of him. Duty called me forward. All our memories together, all the time we had spent side-by-side, training, I pushed it all away. I had to. Because I knew that if I didn’t, I would stay frozen, unable to move, caught in a decision I knew one day I would have to make.

For days I forced him to keep moving. We couldn’t stop. Death came from behind us, and nothing lay before us. He did not want to continue. He complained about his wound, but I knew. I knew he wanted me to carry on without him, that he was worried about slowing me down. I chose not to heed him.

They passed eyes at each other, knowing we were brothers. Our reputation preceded us. But oh how striking the difference now. Men who had seen death never were the same, but my brother’s eyes were not those of a man who had seen death. No. They were those of a man who had seen something so terrible that nothing else could exist. Nobody knew what had happened to him after I left him. Not even he.

He swore that he hated me, that he could never trust me again. I expected it. He couldn’t even recall our best times together, let alone our worst. I didn’t want him to recall. He had been through enough already. Why tell him of the tragic moment when he forced me to abandon him?

“I was at their mercy,” he said today. Before I could ask him what he meant, officers showed up and took him away. They claimed that because he remembered, they had to debrief him. They do not understand. My brother is a broken man.

That’s it. The first lines in each of those paragraphs were extracted from a poem we went over in class. It was a very interesting poem to say the least: 911, by Gil Cuadros. It contains some graphic language, which is just a forewarning in case you decide to go read it. Not exactly my style, but hey, it’s English class, what can you expect?

Tours yruly


The Tree and the Rock


A wise man’s tale:

I wake up in an open plain, looking at the sky. When I stand I see a tree to the East and a rock to the West. The tree grows and grows, but the rock does not change. People come, and cut off some of the tree’s branches. More people come, and chip away part of the rock’s surface. As I watch, the tree continues to grow, but the rock does not. Once again, people come, and cut off some of the tree, and chip away part of the rock. The tree grows. The rock does not.

Then, from the north, I hear a terrible sound. Loud, and oppressive, it is the sound of a quickly moving fire, urged on by a strong wind. I watch as flames envelop the tree and the rock. I lie down to escape the heat. When I stand, I see a stump to the East and a rock to the West. The tree does not grow, and the rock does not change. People come, and they carry off the last of the rock.

Tell me, which fared better? The tree, or the rock?

Alright! That was an excerpt from a dialogue that happens in Eternity. Hopefully you guys found it interesting in interpretation. I’ll let you guys try and decipher what it means now, but it actually has quite a bit of context in the story.

Today is Tangent Tuesday! That is, I get to write whatever I want, pretty much, and it’s not constrained to any particular thing. However, I just wanted to talk about the crazy things that have been happening. For the past few days, our heater has stopped working, so, as you can imagine, the house has been freezing. It’s even hard to type. =P

Beyond that, I lost power to my room on Sunday and it was only fixed on Monday, so that was pretty wacky as well. I also was nearly unable to register for my classes over the weekend because the school servers were down for me and up for other people. Fortunately I managed to get in though, so that was alright.

Anyway, my question for you guys is, has anything weird, unusual, or crazy happened to you guys as we lead up to finals? If so, I’d be very interested to hear about them. =P

I think that’s gonna be it for this post. I don’t know how much longer my fingers can type in this cold, and I have to save some of it for school. =P

Tours yruly

…it is coming. See to the necessary preparations.

Our Last Witch


That does look delicious. =P

Here arrives another storyling for the Monday’s Minute Challenge! This one follows the story of Hansel and Gretel after they killed their first witch. Ashamedly I admit to having to read the story here, just for a quick brush-up, but that’s only because I’d read it once when I was a kid, so give me a break. =P The word count is 297 and I used the prompt:

  • Write a passage either incorporating or based on this phrase: “I told you we shouldn’t have done that.”


Ever since Gretel and I had decided on this old witch, I’d had a bad feeling about the whole plan. We didn’t lack experience, no, Gretel and I had killed many more witches in their ovens since our first, but this one felt different.

“Stop worrying,” Gretel admonished me.

Not wanting to seem afraid, I said, “I’m not. I was just thinking about Father.”

Gretel sniffled, and I feared that I might’ve upset her about Father’s death again, so, trying to brighten us both up, I whispered conspiratorially, “Do you think she’ll be as rich as our first?”

“They’re never as rich as our first,” Gretel complained, and wiped her nose.

With similar quiet discussion, we eventually came to the house in the woods.

“Does it look familiar?” I asked Gretel.

She ignored my paranoia and broke off a piece from the window.

No sooner had I snagged a piece off the roof than a voice said, “Nibble, nibble, gnaw, who is nibbling at my little house?”

In the unison of months of practice, Gretel and I replied, “The wind, the wind, the heaven-born wind.”

Then the door opened and an aged woman appeared. She smiled a smile full of missing teeth and invited us inside. We followed her like good little children. The door shut abruptly behind us, but this was normal.

We sat down in the offered chairs and started gobbling up the food she laid on the table. Abruptly I straightened, feeling my eyelids droop. Gretel looked at me, her eyes already half closed. The woman stood in the corner, smiling at us, and I realized what I had seen before. This was the witch’s sister.

My last words were, “I told you we shouldn’t have done that.” Then I fell over, unconscious.

Tours yruly

Meeting Someone I Knew

This is actually from a really cute short film called "Signs"

This is actually from a really cute short film called “Signs”

So, real quick, this is a short little storyling descriptive thing I did for College Comp. It’s about when I first saw Anna in person. I know, I know, there’s been a whole bunch of stuff about Anna recently, and I promise this blog isn’t gonna turn into a lovey-dovey mess of stuff, but the other posts I’m working on are fairly lengthy projects, and I don’t have a lot of time for much more than school assignments. However, rest assured I am working on actually finishing Cold Hands, you should see updates about that soon. Until then, enjoy. 🙂

Nobody can truly describe the overwhelming moment which I have undertaken to describe: that of seeing someone for the first time. More specifically I mean seeing for the first time, in person, the girl I had dated for over eight months. Nothing will ever compare to those magical few minutes of July 4, 2015.

Our tryst occurred in the heat of the day at a public, unromantic locale. Summer’s warm sun beat down remorselessly, making everything and everyone uncomfortably hot. All the clouds had fled, abandoning our skin to the tender mercies of the scorching dryness. Even the breaths I took smelled like roast air. Behind me an irregular row of caravans, RVs, and other recreational vehicles stretched out, their air conditioners humming at various pitches as they strove to combat the forces of nature. To my right extended the gravel road providing access to each of the aforementioned mobile homes. It continued a little further to my left before turning right, looping around a playground, and disappearing into the distance. What might have appeared to the casual observer as a nondescript car sat complacently on the gravel, and from it, my girlfriend approached me.

My heart echoed with one word: Anna. At that moment I knew every single video call had lied to me; in person Anna had no equal. Her golden brown curls gleamed in the sunlight, but, if one could consider such a feat possible, her beaming smile shone more. She wore a sleeveless denim jacket over a gray shirt with simple but pretty design, and jean shorts to match. But her beautiful blue eyes, just as they had the very first time I saw her, captivated me most of all. In that snapshot of time I did not hear the noisy caravans, did not smell the trash bin, and did not feel the hot sun, because in that snapshot of time, Anna solely occupied my world.

That moment with all its ironies and magic brought me joy unfathomable, and with its end came the beginning of an adventure, one I could never have predicted. But then again, life enjoys its unexpected twists and turns, and I will hold my meeting with Anna, another unforeseen twist of life, in my heart forever.

Tours yruly

Worse Than Murder

There's a coming of age ritual where you stick your hand in a glove of these...

There’s a coming of age ritual where you stick your hand in a glove of these…

So this is a piece I wrote a while ago using an experimental style. It’s just a short story with maybe a darker undertone to it, though it’s really just a mystery. (There seems to be a theme these last few days XP). Anyway, yeah. I decided to post it before I decided that it wasn’t worth posting, so here you go. Enjoy. 🙂

A corpse oscillated slowly from side to side, suspended by a stout cord roped to a ceiling fan. Constables from Scotland Yard vacillated around, observing with great pompousness trite details while completely disregarding the salient female carcass that swung silently as a breeze from an open oriel caught on the muted clothing adorning the late Mrs. Parkins.

The suicidal scene – for such an explanation all evidence corroborated – had taken residence in a small flatlet on the top floor of a three-story boarding house. In a warped piece of irony, the wallpaper encapsulating this gloomy locality was garnished liberally with daisies in varied orientations. A drab dresser adorned the only bare wall in the room, which coincidentally, as if fate feared to soil the dull beauty elsewhere, was where the quietus had transpired. Lace curtains, which none dared draw back – possibly for fear of desecrating the dead – filtered the light that entered through the murky panes opposite the beforehand mentioned oriel. This all conspired in a collusion to render the men of Scotland Yard ill at ease.

A deviation from the gloom surrounding this locality came rushing in like the angry finger of a wild storm smashing in a window, and with it came Chief Inspector Carter Mendavelen. With the stereotype of a man possessing a mind elevated to greater heights than that his fellow beings, Carter was clothed with a cliché neglect for garments. His wild hair was made increasingly so by the gust of wind that accompanied his unethical entrance, and blue eyes equally stormy searched the room, taking in any detail, no matter how picayune.

“Sir,” the nearest constable began respectfully, as if placating his superior officer for the perpetration of an unknown crime.

“Yes?” Carter demanded, his countenance forbidding any faltering that his inferior was about to undertake.

“The crime scene sir, here it is.”

The detective gave a dismissing nod, and striding rapidly across the carpeted floor, he threw open the drapery and swung open the casement. Light rushed in like a rabid dog, permeating every corner and bringing illumination to the tiny particles of dust that drifted unprepossessingly in the air. The policemen shielded their eyes as the bright noonday sun sent its minions to irradiate everything before it, including the suspended object of interest. Carter stepped back and dipped his stubbled chin in his calloused hands as he studied the body. He looked up, however, as a bumbling specimen of law-enforcing humanity entered the room.

Every enlightened mind requires one less endowed which it can disabuse, and such was the bulbous Inspector George Howard to Carter. Why this was so is difficult to understand, for the two were as contrary as a fork and spoon, yet in nature’s incongruity, they meshed together as perfectly as a well made puzzle. Perhaps this bond was strengthened by yet another factor; the two were, after all, cousins.

“So Carter,” George said, as he sidled up beside his intellectually gifted relative. “What’s your theory about all this gibberish eh? What has the exceptional detective seen that the blinded populace of Scotland Yard missed this time?”

The austere detective snorted at this piece of glorification, but George knew he had pleased his co-worker.

“When one approaches a puzzle, it is important that he first does not engross himself in it with no knowledge of the entire picture. You see these men examining the room. They stare, focused on a single point. Look at Godfrey there, studying the cushion with such meticulous care. And for what purport? Does he have a reason for acting so? No. See now, stand here by me, examine this apartment, and tell me what you discern.”

George, almost gleefully – for being the younger of the two, he looked up to Carter unreservedly, and relished learning from his friend – stood where Carter indicated and gazed around.

“The apartment is small, tidy, and well kept,” George began, and his mentor nodded encouragingly. “This is the living and dining room in one. The wallpaper is old and in a fair amount of disrepair, yet the ten books on the mantlepiece above the fireplace are remarkably well kept. The floor is aged, as is the ceiling. The oriel does not close properly. Everything however is very clean. There is wallpaper on three walls, but on the wall there with the dresser and the – corpse, is it not? – is not papered.”

“What would you say should be the main focus of our attention?”

“Why the dead per–” George stopped himself short. Carter had always cautioned him against making rash conclusions, so he went over what he had gathered. This complete, he felt confident enough to say, “The reason and cause for death.”

“Very good George,” Carter said, patting his protégé on the back. “Now our victim was a librarian, as is evinced by her general tidiness and extra care for the books on her mantlepiece.” The detective approached the dresser. “See here George, she has here a golden pince-nez, indicating that she was studious, and either had a magnanimous patron, or was once a lady of fortune.

“Now we examine the body. Following our previous train of logic, we examine the hand to see if she perhaps once was married. There is no ring, meaning she is most likely a spinster, yet this cannot be proven, as sometimes the ring is removed. However, counting on the fact that she is most likely unmarried, we can imagine she had a rich benefactor.”

“Y–es,” George interrupted, for he was perplexed. “Yet I do not see how all this applies to our main points.”

“Good– very good,” Carter smiled. “You are cautious on the expense of your mental faculties. However, I will explain in a moment why these seemingly insignificant observations apply.”

“Do you mean you have already figured it out?” George was distraught.

“No, George,” the detective said reassuringly. “Nothing is ever completely figured out until there can be no question as to each link of the logical chain, and as of yet, there are many open links in my chain.

“Now, I was about to move on to the cause of death. It is somatic of course, as you cannot kill someone any other way. We examine now the body. At first glance it appears as if suicide was the intention. The rope from which poor Mrs. Parkins now hangs certainly looks as if she had purposefully tied it to the fan, and mounting her desk, hung herself. Yet first glances are not always what they seem.

“Look here at this dusty footprint on the desk. Made by a shoe no doubt, which the carcass is wearing, however, what do we know about Mrs. Parkins? She is a librarian, and thus exceptionally clean. Where would a source of dust like this come from? No. This is much too conspicuous. Now we examine the Lilliputian – meaning very small –” this being added at George’s questioning look. “Details.”

“Sir,” one of the constables said, coming up to Carter. “Me and the boys figure that, with your permission of course, we’ll go and leave you and Inspector Howard to your thoughts.”

The detective did not seem predisposed to answer, so George said with a small smile, “Certainly.”

“Here George,” Carter said, calling his cousin to join him where he crouched below the dangling corpse. “Look at this, four grains of wheat, just below her feet. Also,” he stood back up again. “Her clothes; they are rumpled, as if she was in a fight. I believe she was murdered. Now the question is why?”

George knew that the question was rhetorical, but he spoke anyway, “Yes, why?”

The instant he spoke the words, there was a sharp report and he jumped, but his companion did not seem in the least perturbed.

“The oriel,” he murmured, as he circled the late librarian, and looking towards that orifice, George realized that indeed, the window had slammed shut. This also brought to his conscious certain other realizations, such as the unremitting darkening of the flatlet as night’s relentless hand spread her dark veil over the land.

An hour elapsed as Carter examined their environment from every angle. In this time, relief that assumed the form of a full moon thought fit to cast shimmering white light through the same casement from which previously had come the glory of sunlight. This incessant white glow seemed to take form as it permeated the room seemingly hunting for something, finally coming to rest on the books that adorned the mantlepiece. George found himself staring dreamily at the cabalistic manuscripts that rested on the shelves, and thus was completely startled when Carter called him sharply.

“Yes, sir?”

“Look at these books. Tell me what you observe about them.”

George lumbered closer to the neatly arranged tomes and gave them a cursory inspection. Then, detecting nothing out of the ordinary, realized he would have to look deeper. In a moment he had it.

“These nine books are Shakespearean plays, but this one is on agriculture!” George exclaimed pointing to the fourth book from the left.

“Tell me, George,” Carter said composedly, drawing the volume from its resting place and thumbing through its contents. “Have you ever heard tell over a group known as the Farmers?”


“They were a cultist group originally developed from a group of farmers and nature-lovers banding together against industrial technology. It appears that our dear Mrs. Parkins was involved in such a group.”

“So you are saying the Farmers killed her?” George asked, unsure as to the direction his cousin was heading.

“What I am saying is that we might have here something worse than murder.”

George was dumbfounded. Worse than murder? How was such a thing possible? Carter held the book up to him, and George stared on silently. The detective had his finger on the fourth word of the fourth sentence of the fourth paragraph of the fourth page.

“‘Field’,” George mused. “Why ‘field’? I assume the fours have some connection with the wheat, but why the word ‘field’?”

“Tell me George,” Carter said, as he replaced the book. “What place in London has a name that sounds like ‘a field’. Or rather, should I say, ‘an field’.”

“Enfield!” George said excitedly. “So that’s their meeting place? Enfield?”

“The chances of that certainly do seem to be in our favor,” the detective said, unwilling to commit.

“Well, what are we still here for?”

“What would we do if we did go to Enfield?” Carter asked with a humorous smile. “Accuse them without evidence? Come come George, you are better than that surely.”

The inspector seemed rather abashed at this, and he remained silent as his superior lit a fire in the fireplace. The fulvous flames flickered and flashed fractiously as the detective stirred the fuel on which the inferno fed, but the limited glow it gave was welcome. They both took adjoining seats on the couch facing that container of angered heat and were silent in each other’s company. In the moment of warmth aroused in both physical and psychogenic areas, the morbid situation was forgotten, but a creaking of the ceiling fan impertinently brought it forth again.

George glanced over his shoulder trepidatiously and squinted at the dangling corpse suspiciously, for darkness brought on many formerly unfelt fears, both mental and supernatural.

“Jumpy?” Carter joshed with a small smile.

“Just making sure the dead stay dead,” George grumbled back, then shared in the hearty laughter that followed.

A compressed squelch followed by a squeaking cut off both their laughter abruptly and they slowly turned to look at the corpse. It still hung in a similar manner, and after a split second’s silence, they both turned to each other and said in unison:


This led to another raucous bout of laughter, broken only by a thump from directly behind them. The two whirled around in their seats and stared skeptically at what they had missed previously. The front door was swinging on its hinges, and sprawled between the doorjambs was the body of a police officer; the one Carter had referred to as Godfrey.

Both men simultaneously drew their weapons and advanced towards the carcass that had so tactlessly intruded on their solace. The detective knelt down by the body while George checked the stairs.

“I don’t see anybody here,” George whispered, peering into the darkness outside. A disgusting squish sound combined with a soft rolling from near his feet caught his attention. He looked down and then looked away quickly while Carter stood up hurriedly.

“God,” the detective ejaculated as he looked into the blackness as ineffectually as George had. “Who would have the audacity to behead a constable?”

“Frmhrrs?” George’s voice was muffled by the pudgy hand covering it, but Carter’s mind was traveling a similar enough route such that he understood what his companion meant. He gave a silent nod, then he dragged the corpse in and covered it and the severed appendage with a bed sheet. At the end of this process, both George and he had to sit in the couch for several moments to accrue their disseminated facilities.

Finally, George voluntarily shattered the silence by asking, “What did you mean by ‘worse than murder’?”

Carter was silent. He stirred the embers of the fast evanescing fire, then tossed in another piece of firewood. Slowly he eased himself back into his seat, and George knew that his cousin was preparing for an especial narrative.

“Among psychologists there has always been speculation as to whether the mind can be controlled. Hypnosis and other methods have been attempted. Such ideas tend to be especially prominent among cultist groups. Then there are others that play on the way a human mind works, brainwashing and harnessing the fight-or-flight response being such methods. Emotional control is also possible. By exploiting things such as religious beliefs, folklore, pain, fear and other culturally associated things, a state called ‘horror’ is created.

“In this state of mind, the subject is utterly under the control of terror and instinct. Depending on the level of horror created in the patient, any number of irrational decisions can be made. The type of control the person in power has is completely relative to the personality and experiences of the victim. If it is a timid person who is forced into this state, they will listen to what is known as the ‘guiding force’, or the voice of the evil fabricating this ‘horror’. If an especially courageous or lucid subject is brought under control, they will attempt to do the opposite, or fight back, and in this manner, can be manipulated.

“According to my hypothesis–”

The detective stopped as George slumped onto his shoulder, snoring loudly. He smiled, then, also feeling the need for rest, took a more recumbent position and gave into the pleas of an unnatural sleep.

When Carter awoke, it was with a considerable sense of unbalance, and he had to sit still for a moment. At the terminus of this period, when his vision finally ceased to swim, he found himself in a location disparate from where he recollected being. He was in what struck him as a basement of sorts, and George was missing. His first action was to reach for his gun, but it was also absent.

He then examined his surroundings on a closer scale than he had before. The walls were earthen, but lined with stout wooden beams. The floor however, was composed of multiple stones upon which his captors – for he no longer had any doubt he had been captured – had thus unkindly laid him. There was a ladder on one wall, and a torch, mounted on the opposite wall and out of his reach, was the only source of light. The creaking of the ladder as somebody descended caused Carter to face it, and he waited with no small amount of trepidation as to what was about to come next.

As the legs of the approaching man showed, Carter thought of a scheme. He dashed forward and grabbed the man’s legs in a valiant effort to pull him down. Unfortunately, the climbing person was obviously accustomed to such occurrences, for with a sharp kick that was deleterious to Carter’s health, he sent the detective staggering back.

Carter resolved not to try again, and instead studied the approaching man. However, all he could glean was that there was a distinctively sylvan air about him. The newcomer paused when he reached the bottom of the ladder, then he turned around, and Carter was shocked to see a hollow socket where his right eye should have been. Ten more men descended, and before the detective could do anything, they had seized him.

“What are you doing?” he grunted as he struggled.

The man missing an eye, obviously their leader, advanced slowly. “You are very smart Chief Inspector,” he said in a gravelly tone. “You found that Mrs. Perkins was in a cult, you figure out our meeting place, and finally, you know how she was killed do you not?”

“Horror; the state of horror,” Carter said clinically.

“Yes, very good, Carter. Yet, despite saying it, I know you do not believe there can be any way a person as strong as yourself can be controlled by me. Still, that is beside the point.

“You know where we live, you know what we do, and you have a case of circumstantial evidence against us. I don’t believe we should allow you to live anymore. Now that we have decided on that, the next best thing would be to choose the best method with which to kill you, and I think it only fair that you should die in the same way you deem impossible.

“Now,” the man began pacing. “You may be wondering what method we will use to put you into horror. Well, our favorite, and the only one we use is torture.”

“Where’s George?” Carter cut in. He had faced death before, and hearing his fate so casually outlined barely disrupted his sang-froid. However, the instant torture had been mentioned, his mind had flown to his missing companion.

“Your friend is still asleep where we gassed him,” the man chuckled. “No, you need not worry. I do not resort to torture of a person’s companions. Though, if any should interfere, as that officer, Godfrey, then they will be removed as efficiently as possible.”

“You monster,” Carter spat with unquestionable loathing in his voice.

“You will know me as more than that when I am finished.

“Tell me, good detective, have you ever heard of the bullet ant? No? Well, men say that its bite feels like that of a bullet wound. See here?” and he showed Carter a bottle filled with live ants. He signaled to his men, and despite Carter’s desperate resistance, they pried his mouth open. Painstakingly slowly, the torturer unscrewed the bottle and emptied the furious insects into another, larger canister. Then, drawing back the cuff of his hermetic robe, he reached in unhesitatingly and removed a struggling ant. Turning to Carter, he smiled savagely and placed the ant on the detective’s tongue.

The numerous agonies that followed  I shall not relate here, for they were too horrendous to be put on the pages of any story. Suffice to say, when they were done, Carter collapsed feeling as though he had been shot in the most exquisitely painful places imaginable.

“Now, good sir, here is what you are going to do. You will die anyway, so I am giving you an easy way out. Return to Mrs Parkin’s apartment, string yourself a noose beside her own, and hang yourself. Now, if you do not do exactly as I say, we will know, and you will die still, but from these little friends of ours.” And Carter shuddered as the torturer held up the ants, once again ensconced in the small bottle.

Stumbling to his feet, the unfortunate detective started towards the ladder only to be halted by his captor. From a copious pocket the man drew out ten grains of wheat, and handed them to Carter significantly. With vacant eyes, he ascended the ladder to do his master’s bidding.


When George awoke from his slumber, he was appalled to find his cousin’s body swinging gently besides the corpse of the librarian. For a moment, the inspector was too stunned to do anything, then his sharp eyes caught sight of three grains of wheat directly beneath the feet of his companion. Scrambling to the books, George drew out the third volume and thumbed to the third page. He scanned down through it until arriving at the word indicated by the three grains:


Tours yruly


Google images with a lil editing... =P

Google images with a lil editing… =P

This has got to be my favorite poem that I’ve ever written, just saying. Or at least, it’s up there. That first statement was perhaps justified by the effort I put into writing this 144 line poem. XP Believe it or not, the entire thing was inspired from one word. It appears exactly three times in this post. I’m sure you can guess what it is. Anyway, this is a fairly lengthy narrative poem with an abstract story of mystery, intrigue, and darkness. Sounds exactly like me if I do say so myself. =P I’m really happy with the way it turned out and with the quality of writing. It sure took a long time. Anyway, that’s enough preamble. Enjoy. 🙂

There are tales which are sometimes told
Of wraiths, of wrath, and woe,
And blankness so profound and cold,
It could rival even Poe.

He was as void as a simpleton’s mind.
He did not hear the mothers’ crying.
His face was etched with lines.
He heard and gave no sign.

They told him he was depraved,
And that like a madman he’d raved.
They asked him if he was saved,
And through the bars for him they prayed.

He had failed to heed the law they said–
He had list’n’d and not obeyed.
He had pushed them much too far they said–
He had done what they forbade.

Someone had died; he could hear her call.
She had been killed; he had seen the pall.
They told him he had made her crawl
Over knives and nails, and her gall.

The moon was out; the stars were bright.
They cast on the ground an elysian light
Which was cold to touch, though fair to sight,
And black at heart though shining white.

He shivered in the temperature drop.
Both inside and out it would not stop.
It bit him as he bit mutton chop,
And on his ice-covered skin it hopped.

The wind and snow froze his heart
Like the blizzard outside the mart.
The storm inside tore him apart.
It was just a simple shopping cart.

In the locked meat locker, they looked.
She dangled there on a hook.
Her body cold – a code – cooked.
At her feet there was a book.

They said he’d broken the law.
Men hit him in the jaw.
They beat him till he was raw.
He looked and saw death’s maw

Killer, they breathed in his ear,
Over and over again, as if he could not hear.
It’d been what? A year.
In his blank heart they built up a cold fear.

He was sinful they believed.
Ironically they were as bad as he.
Deep inside him he felt grieved,
But when he begged mercy she denied his plea.

Remorse filled his soul.
Regret chilled him like cold.
Real pain made a hole.
Repent’s what he was told.

But really there was nothing inside,
For it had all run off to hide.
And though many methods they tried,
He never ever cried.

Zephyrs of mist stalked shades and sprites
While fog ensconced the starry night.
Then through the vapor shone celestial lights
Which ignored the lady’s desperate plight.

Gentle winds caress her curls,
Nescient of the fate to unfurl.
Around her neck are twenty pearls.
In the distance there sounds a merl.

A shiver stalked down her spine.
The clock struck its nightly nine.
Dread– Oh! She needed a stronger sign.
Death ceased to remain benign.

Now entombed in earth she lies,
Her life surrounded by mystery and lies.
Her death more so, for it implies
For the deed he had no allies.

When darkness takes hold and paints the sky black,
When astral beings seem to flout the almanac,
When of wrongful doings there is no lack,
Then the predator hunts and the prey guards its back.

He cannot remember what he did–
All he knows is sin he hid.
They tell him all that he did–
They know everything he hid.

He’s diagnosed as mentally insane.
The darkness rules in his brain.
For some strange reason he can feel no pain.
The source of his sin is arcane.

Turned as cold as gneiss and marble,
Their words to him are a garble.
He would not be scared or startle.
He didn’t even fear the harmful.

He had no power to recall.
Is it they who’d made his mem’ry stall?
All he saw was a lengthy hall.
It was like in his mind there loomed some wall.

Obsidian-colored sky overlooked the scene.
The moon’s gleam made it no more inviting.
One figure dragging another remained unseen,
And passed betwixt shadows with no sighting.

An impenetrable blackness lurked inside the building,
Awaiting poor souls fooled by its home’s satin paint gilding.
As the night grew older, blood from the mall’s walls came spilling,
And sought every person’s heart with the chill of a killing.

Sombre raiment pronounced grave eulogies.
Sorrowful clothes intoned sad elegies.
Black dress suits were beneficiaries.
Blue uniforms signified deputies.

Why had he gutted her?
Would his actions recur?
Why’d he the blood transfer?
Had he– dissected her?

Shrieks drew scars in his mind.
He hadn’t left her behind.
Every step he’d defined.
To her pain he’d been blind.

He couldn’t run; they were in pursuit.
They called him a beast and a brute,
Assured him that he was the root.
The pain he’d caused them was acute.

He jumped and spasm’d as they tortured him,
And stopped when his eyes grew dim.
They didn’t halt, but with their faces grim
Pushed him to the very rim.

He had to preserve his ultimate try.
In ice he left it with a sign,
A beacon to call those who’d hear his cry,
A hope they’d understand his mind.

Years ago he’d forgotten.
Now it was autumn.
His case was not uncommon.
He’d had no pardon.

The wall before him was bare,
And at her face he’d forever stare,
Because none knew of her glare,
And they did not remember her lair.

Age had stolen his pale color away.
Soon too in the grave he would lay.
His life worse because of his last foray,
He never saw the light of day.

Then, as the lights twinkled from their blank canvas,
Each an emblem of the odds against his chances,
The planets continued in their trip through blackness,
And here ends this serial story of stanzas.

There are tales which are sometimes told
Of wraiths, of wrath, and woe,
And blankness so profound and cold,
It could rival even Poe.

Tours yruly