Great Writers -- C
Cadence Skye Harrison has Texas roots dating back six generations. She is an avid lover of Mother Nature, yoga, coffee, and kindness.
Peaches
There are no obscurities when it comes to grief.
It is simply a part of you.
It’s the pit of a stone fruit, lying in the center of your perfect peach.
It’s the light leaking out from a break in a cloud,
causing shadows to dance on your brightest moments.
It’s the aging of your hands,
worn and weary,
with the creases growing more evident as the years pass,
reaching for that peach – that tender, ripe peach – wishing
they could share it with you over a bowl of Blue Bell.
It’s their soft leather chair,
mahogany, and impressed with the memory of their seat,
remaining empty on Christmas Day.
It’s celebrating their would-be birthdays on a cedar plank deck
built inches above the Gulf,
with no one there to blow out the candles,
besides the brackish bay breeze.
It’s finding old photos
and wanting to share them with the world,
because then – maybe – it would stand as a testament
of their life’s meaning.
Maybe.
But it will never suffice for feeling their laughter
fill an entire room,
or picking Fredericksburg peaches
together
on the side of the road,
or having them walk you down the aisle,
all dressed in white,
on your wedding day.
No, there are no obscurities
when it comes to grief;
it is simply a part of you.
Cameron Hoormann grew up in South Carolina but now resides in Corpus Christi, TX. He feels at home in the cobwebbed corners of the gothic castles in his mind.
My Dad’s Mask
My dad’s favorite holiday was Halloween, which was strange because he didn’t seem like the type. For eleven months out of the year, he was a total cotton puff. He’d scream when he saw a spider in the house, but starting on October 1st, he was all about witches and goblins. I can still remember my dad sitting at the table year after year with many stout pumpkins in front of him. He’d saw off the tops and scoop out the wet insides and throw the slop on old newspapers. He’d take his long pumpkin-carving knife and cut out the traditional triangle eyes, noses, and the jigsaw grins. Dad put thick white candles inside each jack-o-lantern, and the cold wind outside made the crude faces shiver in the shadows.
Every year, we had the best-decorated house on the block. With so many ornaments about and orange lights strung up the yard, it was more extravagant and grand than the same old artificial tree he put up each Christmas. Dad took me trick or treating every year, and he always wore the same old boogeyman mask. A cheap, plastic thing that couldn’t have cost more than $5 at the drugstore. It had one of those little strings on the back, and dad had to tape it back on a few times. The mask was green and had a bulbous nose; thick black eyebrows were painted on above two little eye holes and the mouth was a red frown.
Dad loved Halloween so much that I couldn’t help but love it, too. He made it so much fun. We’d come home after trick or treating, and he would let me stay up late, and together we’d eat candy and watch monster movies on the couch. I’d pass out from too much candy, and he’d carry me to my room, and I would wake up the next morning still in my costume. The day after Halloween dad would take down all the decorations and pack them away until next year, and he would return to his cotton puff way.
Dad would be distant, too, even around Christmas. He would put on a smile and go through the motions, but I could see in his eyes he had lost his light. His step was a little slower, and his voice was a little softer. It felt like I only had my dad for one month a year, and after so many years of this, I grew to resent him for it. I was born just ten days before Halloween, and the day I turned 11, I told my dad I didn’t want to go trick or treating anymore.
My dad just looked at me at first, speechless and stone faced. We were sitting at the table and he was carving another jack o lantern. He put his knife down and said, “But why, son? You love trick or treating.”
“My friends are gonna play video games all night, and since it’s a Friday, I wanna spend the night there.”
Dad’s eyes started to get wet, and he was doing that familiar whimpering he would do when he was about to cry. Finally, he muttered, “Ok, son. You don’t have to.” He put his face in his hands which were stained orange from the pumpkin guts; pumpkin seeds were stuck to his knuckles. Even though I had come to hate Halloween I hated even more seeing him so upset. This was the only time of the year he ever felt happy, and I didn’t want to take it away from him. Later that night, I told him I could play with my friends on another night and I would go trick-or-treating with him.
On the evening of Halloween, I put on the scarecrow costume my dad got me. He put on that green boogeyman mask, and we walked past all the jack-o-lanterns in our yard and crept down the street, going door to door, my bag filling with candy and my dad right behind me. My dad was so excited, and I couldn’t help but feel happy for him. We had started early, even before the sun went down. We hit every house on our street and then we went to the next street, and cleared it just the same. Then we went to the next street over, and by the time the sun had died and the moon had been resurrected, we had covered the whole block, and my bag was full with candy, but my dad said we should keep going. I told him my bag was heavy but he said from behind that thin mask in a breathy voice, “Ha ha, don’t worry, I brought another.” He took my full bag and gave me an empty one.
“I’m tired,” I said. “My feet hurt.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not so bad. Don’t you wanna be the kid with the most candy?”
“How much longer?”
Dad stared at me through the little eye holes. Shadows covered the mask, so I couldn’t see his eyes; only saw those little holes and the bulbous nose and the thick black brows and the red frown. He crouched and came to me face to face and grabbed me by the shoulder.
“Now look, you’ve been acting like a little brat all night. I brought you out here to have a good time, and you’re just pissing it away! I’m sick of it. You are going to stop all this whining and act like you’re supposed to.”
He didn’t give me a chance to respond. He pushed me forward, still clutching my shoulder, and we marched to the next house, where he angrily rapped upon the door. The door opened, and there stood an old man.
“Sorry, folks, we’re all out of candy,” he said with a smile. “I forgot to turn off the porch light. You folks have a good night.”
He started to close the door, but dad put his hand up and kept it open.
“It’s bad luck not to give a trick-or-treater candy, don’t you know?”
“Well, at my age, you don’t have much use for luck. Everyday my back hurts, but what can you do? That’s why you should stay young, little scarecrow.” He smiled at me. “Now, if you’ll let go of the door I’d like to go to bed.” Dad slowly let his hand fall, and the door was shut. We heard the deadbolt latch.
We walked off the man’s porch and stood in the beam of a streetlight on the sidewalk. My dad looked up and down the street for more houses, but there weren’t any other trick-or-treaters out, and the houses were all dark with the lights turned off.
“Dad, can we go?”
Dad looked at me, then down the street, and finally, his head slumped forward to the ground.
“Ok,” he said, defeated. He took the mask off and held it in his hands. Suddenly, he threw it at the old man’s house, but the pathetic thing didn’t make it far and fell face down in the grass.
We got home, and dad went to the couch with the full candy bag and turned on the TV to the monster movie channel and said, “Take a seat, sport.”
“Nah, I’m gonna go to sleep.”
I left dad sitting in the glow of the TV and went upstairs. I took off my costume and lay down in bed. I fell asleep to the sound of old monsters moaning and candy wrappers rustling. Dad took the Halloween decorations down the next day and never put them back up; he packed them away in cardboard boxes in the corner of the garage and left them to rot. My dad took great care of me for all my life, but I never saw him truly happy ever again.
All the Sand in the Desert
It was sundown and the desert sand was the color of blood. Cliffton Barnes was fleeing on foot from the vengeful posse who were chasing him through the desert. He had run his horse to death the previous day. He was wanted for the murder of Jessica Smithwick. Above his head two vultures were circling the sky, waiting for the dead man walking to walk no more. The rising pale moon behind him looked like a tombstone and the man in the moon winked at Cliffton and welcomed him to his new home. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the charge of men on horses gaining on him.
He kept running, short of breath and with trembling legs, and his mind was only on one thing. Jessica Smithwick with her green eyes and matching green dress. How those eyes turned black when he took her life. Her rosy face had turned as pale as the moon and her sweet voice was replaced with a gurgling, choking sob. Of all the things he had done, that was one he wished he hadn’t done.
Now, he saw her ahead of him in the desert, dancing on the sand. She was happy again. But then she saw him, and she screamed. He reached out to her and said, “I’m sorry, I’m sor-”, and he was cut off as he tripped over a rock and hit the ground.
He turned over and saw the death circle of vultures above him, and now he could hear the low thunder of charging hooves coming to drag him back to the hangman. Cliffton had been running from the law ever since he shot his first pistol when he was 14 years old. He used guns and knives to make his way in the world and laughed at lawmen and gunslingers alike who tried to take him down. Now here he was, cornered like a wild dog, about to be put down. He started crying. This was the end. No chance to make amends. Jessica Smithwick asked, “Why?”
A gust of wind blasted him with sand. “Stop that,” another voice said, not Jessica’s. This one was harsh and mean. Cliffton opened his eyes and saw a brown and white horse standing over him. Brown like the sand, and white like the moon. Cliffton yelped and tried to get to his feet but stumbled on weak legs and fell back down.
There was only one horse there, no rider in sight. One of the posse’s, no doubt. Got away from the rider. They were getting closer. “Get on,” the voice said.
Cliffton looked for who made the noise. He drew his pistol and was ready to die in a fire of bullets, the way he always thought he would die. “Who said that?” He scanned all around but saw no one. He could feel the scratchy rope around his neck already, the sudden drop through the trap door, and the quick jerk that would break his neck or strangle him to death.
The strange voice again. “You heard what I said; now get on!”
Cliffton turned back to the horse without a rider.
For the first time, he watched the horse speak. “Look, pal, you got two options, giddy up or die in the desert!” The horse’s mouth moved with every word, and there wasn’t a soul around. The heat and the exhaustion must have fried Cliffton’s brain. Maybe this was the ghost of his dead horse, come to trample him to death. But this couldn’t be his old horse. It bore a passing resemblance, but there was a dark aura around this beast.
“What kind of horse talks?”
“The smart kind, stupid, now get on and keep your mouth shut!”
Cliffton was unsure of what to do, but if he hesitated any longer, he’d be strung up at sun up. The sun was setting, and the sound of charging hooves and firing pistols scared him. He didn’t want to die this way. He wanted another chance to go straight. To start over. He climbed onto the horse that had no saddle, gripped the black mane, and the horse raced off west, carried on the wind, bound for the unknown.
They sped away, and the posse in the east faded, quieted, and were gone. The horse carried on at this impossible speed, and Cliffton had to hold tight and lean forward to stay ahorse. Every lightning-bolt stride of the horse’s powerful legs threatened to throw him off. The horse smelled rotten, and its hide was hot. The beast ran like hellfire shot straight from the devil’s pistol. The moon had risen and the sun had died and the world was dark. Through the dark they went until the horse slowed, stopped, and said, “We’ll rest here. Now get off.”
Cliffton jumped down off the horse and tried to gauge his location, but he was lost. It was as if the horse had carried him to the end of the world, and now this abomination was his only friend. “What are you?”
The horse whickered and said, “I’m just like you.”
That made Cliffton flinch. “What do you mean?”
“You’re Cliffton Barnes, ain’t ya?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’ve seen your wanted poster hung up next to mine.”
“What?”
“I ain’t really a horse. I’m a man like you.”
Cliffton shook his head and figured he must be back in that part of the desert where the posse had him dead to rights. Maybe they decided to forgo the noose, and they shot him in the gut a dozen times over, and now he was having a dying dream of a talking horse while the vultures picked his bones clean. If he could have done things differently, he would take it all back. Every bullet, every kill. He looked at the beast that glowed in the moonlight. This demon had carried him through the gates of Hell on blazing hooves. For Jessica, he thought he deserved it.
“Go ahead and rest,” the horse said. “We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
“Please go away,” said Cliffton. “Just let me die.”
The horse laughed, a cruel sound that only a human could make. The horse got on its side and closed its eyes. Cliffton lay on the cold, hard ground and stared at the tombstone moon and wished it would just fall to the earth and crush him and this horse and the entire world. Closing his eyes, he saw Jessica Smithwick, dancing and laughing in her green dress. He opened his eyes and stared at the distant stars, too far away to help him. Finally, he passed out, and the darkness wrapped him like a second skin.
One long nightmare repeated itself.
A hard hoof in his shoulder woke him. “Get up,” said the horse.
Cliffton jerked awake and stood up. The surrounding desert was empty, save for themselves. “Where are we?”
“The land of salvation.”
“Why did you help me?”
“Because you’re the type of ornery cuss I need; Cliffton Barnes, killer, robber, rustler.” The horse listed off Cliffton’s crimes like they were awards. It was true, though. Cliffton’s gun was quick and sure. But he didn’t kill Jessica with a gun. It wasn’t over a card game or during a hold up. “I was lucky when I saw you. Best thing that’s happened to me these past few days. Here I was running through the desert like something was calling me and then I see you, Cliffton Barnes, running from the law. What did ya do this time? Shoot the sheriff?”
“No.”
“Well, I hope you still have some bullets in that gun. There are two men I want dead. I need you to help me. You do that, it’ll pay you nicely.”
“I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”
“Is that the thanks I get for saving your life? I seem to remember you crying in the desert with a noose practically around your neck. You wanna run off now? You think you could outrun me?”
Cliffton placed his hand on the iron at his right side.
“Don't bother," said the horse. "You have no idea where you're at, and you'll die before you find water. I can take you to town."
The wind groaned, and the horse's mane shivered. Cliffton had never had a problem drawing his iron before, but now, in these unknown lands, dealing with such an ugly beast, he was too nervous to try it. Cliffton looked around and saw dead cactuses throwing cursing arms toward the sun. No sign of water. Animal carcasses were picked clean and scattered about.
"What's in it for me?"
"Gold."
Gold could give Cliffton a second chance. With enough money, he could go far away. He could live an honest life. But could he live with himself? Jessica Smithwick laughed in his ear. Cliffton took his hand off his pistol and let it drop to his side.
"Smart," said the horse. "Now, let's go."
"Where is the gold?"
"I'll tell you after you help me."
"How do I know you're not lying?"
"You don't. But you're a man with few options. Say no, it won't stop me. I'll get someone else to do it. And I'll leave you here until the sand blows over and buries you six feet deep."
Cliffton was tired of killing and running, but if there was a reward in it, a chance to start over, he decided just one last hit would be worth it. He had killed for money before, but this would be the last time. He'd never kill or steal again. He climbed onto the horse, and they flashed away. For miles, they raced until the horse slowed at a sign that read HOT ROCKS, and a crummy town lay just ahead. They had ridden silently the whole way, but now the horse gave orders.
"Pay attention. We're gonna go into town and you're gonna sit at the bar. A man named Fredericks should be in there. He's a sorry-looking son of a bitch with a red mustache."
Coming into town and trodding through the streets, they arrived at the bar. Cliffton led the horse to the post but without any reins, there was nothing to tie it down. The horse parked itself against the post as any normal horse would and whispered, "Bring Fredericks outside."
Cliffton pushed the swinging doors open and walked to the bar. A smoke and a drink were just what he needed. He lay a silver piece down, and the bartender handed him a cold mug of beer and a shot of whiskey. Cliffton asked the man next to him for a smoke, and the man happily obliged. Taking it from him, Cliffton saw that the man had a large red mustache.
"There you go, friend," the man said.
"Thanks," said Cliffton. He lit his smoke and took a deep drag. Before he could take a drink of beer, he heard the horse whinny outside. He ignored the noise and took a big swallow of beer and then knocked back the shot of whiskey.
"What's your name, friend," Cliffton asked.
"Ben Fredericks. And who are you?"
"Just a stranger passing through."
"Well, here's to ya, stranger," Fredericks lifted his mug in cheer, and Cliffton clinked his in return.
"It's good to have friends, you know," said Fredericks. He was heavy drunk and leaning into Cliffton. "You never know when you might need one to help ya when you're down and out. Drink up, friend. It could be your last."
The horse was stamping and crying outside.
"Mister, I think your horse needs tending to," said the bartender.
Cliffton finished his cigarette and said, "Yeah." He ground out the cigarette into the ashtray and watched the cherry flame die.
"What's wrong with your horse, friend?" Fredericks put his hand on Cliffton's shoulder. "I love horses. I know how they think. It's like I can talk to them." He got off his stool and headed outside. Cliffton finished his beer in one large gulp and followed.
Fredericks had his hand on the horse's face, petting it gently. "There, there," said Fredericks. "It's ok. He's a beautiful animal. Good breed." He ran his hand across the flank of the beast's belly. "I'd purchase him from you right now! But I spent it all on whiskey, hahaha!" He turned and stood facing Cliffton. "Yes, sir, mighty fine animal you have here. You ride him without a saddle?"
The horse turned as quick as a hiccup and kicked Fredericks in the head with one of its back hooves. The horse turned around and trampled Fredericks' body, breaking bones and crushing organs under powerful legs and stamping feet. The horse blew and snorted and its eyes rolled white with insanity. Fredericks was pummeled into the ground, a shallow burial. People on the street were screaming, and men from the bar ran outside, but no one dared to stop the horse's dance. Finally, the stampede broke, and the ugly beast ran off down the street, kicking and neighing.
At first, everyone held their breath, now that it was over. But soon the voices were collected, questions were asked, and fingers were pointed.
"It was him," someone shouted.
One man pulled his pistol. Cliffton pulled his. The two of them held each other in the sights of their barrels, and no one breathed.
The horse came running around the back, and Cliffton ran to it and leaped across the side, and the horse dashed away. Cliffton sat himself upright on the horse and held onto the black mane. Guns fired, and bullets whizzed by his head, but none hit their target. The horse caught the wind, and in a flash, they were gone.
***
It was night, and they were around a campfire, Cliffton sitting in the sand and the horse standing. They each looked into the flames. The horse's black eyes were filled with fire. The tombstone moon was now full, two halves making one whole. The horse told him they had one more man to kill.
"Who are these men," he asked the horse.
"Fredericks, me, and this man Cooper turned over a coach that held a box of gold. We took it to our hideout. There, we talked about splitting it up, but we...disagreed. Cooper tried to take more than his share, and I shot that bastard. I took the box and split, but Fredericks caught up to me. Shot me in the back. Shot me while I was riding my horse. He told me Cooper was still alive and was gonna get his share. If that son of a bitch is alive, then he's for sure in our hideout still, lying in bed with a bullet in his gut. I should have shot him twice. Fredericks aimed his gun at my head and pulled the trigger.
But I didn't die. I opened my eyes, and I was in a cave. It was dark. Couldn't see anything in front of me. I walked forward until I saw a little light at the end. I kept walking, and the light got bigger, so I started running. It got so big and then just exploded. When I opened my eyes again, I was like this. I've been running for days."
"What are you going to do after we kill this man?"
"I don't know. But I can't let that son of a bitch live," said the talking horse about the dying man. The absurdity of it all.
"I don't think killing that man is going to do you any good. Why bother with it? You say he's already dying. You can just go on. You've got a second chance at living.”
"You think I wanna live this way? Killing him is all I got left."
Cliffton just wanted the gold and to be done with it. If he had to put one more bastard out of his misery, he would do it. Then, he would try to live it straight.
"Only thing is, this time, you'll have to kill him," said the horse.
"Why me," asked Cliffton.
"He'll be in the loft, most likely, up a ladder."
"And where's the gold?"
"His share will be there. Fredericks and him were friends. He would have left it with Cooper where he could see it. Fredericks would have been looking out for him until he got better."
"Then let's go." Cliffton was done waiting. He was sick to his stomach from all of this but was ready to do whatever he had to. Cliffton kicked sand into the midnight fire and choked the flame to death. He climbed on top of the horse, and they took off.
The hideout was a little push-over shack with two stories. The blowing wind could have knocked it down at any moment. No light came from inside so the man Cooper must be sleeping, if he was there at all. He pushed on the door, but it was locked, so the horse kicked the door with its back hooves and knocked it off the hinges. Cliffton shoved the door, and it hit the ground. Dark inside. Not a sound. The horse walked into the house and sniffed around and searched the first floor. A table, a stove, three chairs, a bag of coffee, a stash of ammo, but not Cooper. "He's up there. I smell him.”
A ladder carried up to a second-story loft, a small landing with a window. Cliffton climbed up the rungs, and he saw a man sleeping in a cot draped in the moonlight that came through the window. Sleep brought him no relief, as his face was covered with sweat, and it held a twisted grimace. To Cliffton, it looked like he was having a nightmare. Next to his cot was a bedpan, wadded-up bandages, and bottles of whiskey. And the box of gold.
It was open, a few pieces were on the floor, and a few on the bed. Gold coins scattered like rocks in the unsympathetic desert. The dying man clutched his gut, not the gold.
"What's taking so long? Did you do it?" The horse was getting impatient.
This man was defenseless. A pillow over his face would get the job done. So sad and weak, Cliffton wondered what the dying man's final thoughts were. Was he sorry he lived the life of the outlaw?
Cliffton climbed down the ladder and landed on the floor with the gold box in his left hand. The horse asked, "Is it done?"
Cliffton threw the money box at the horse's head and drew his pistol, but he was not quick enough. The horse reared and kicked Cliffton in the chest, and he hit the hardwood floor and looked up at the rearing horse, ready to pummel him like he did Fredericks, but his pistol came back quick and true, and he emptied all the cylinders into the beast's belly. The horse came down and collapsed onto Cliffton. The massive beast pinned him to the ground. The horse tried to move on no fuel other than hate, but it could only flail like a dying animal does. Heavy breaths came from the snout, and the tail flipped and flopped, but the blood ran free, and the breathing slowed, and the tail waved no more.
Cliffton lay in a pool of warm blood. He was wheezing, a broken bone had pierced his lung. He had run away from the noose, but his breath would still be taken from him. Like how he had strangled Jessica Smithwick. She loved another man, and he couldn't forgive her for it. But then he couldn't forgive himself after what he did to her.
Of all the bad things he had done only for this one did he ask for forgiveness. He didn't regret killing the man up the ladder. He was in pain. He had it coming. Take your pick. But Cliffton wanted it to be a mercy. A guilty mind is more painful than any bullet wound.
The three of them lay dead and guilty. Their bodies were found and buried. The horse was interred without any gravemarker, but the two men had modest stones listing their name and year of death. All the gold pieces were collected and taken by some nosy wanderer who had no qualms about robbing the dead. Cliffton's final moments were short, stabbing breaths under the weight of all the ugliness and sin he had ever trespassed. Jessica spun and danced in her green dress until Cliffton's eyes closed forever.
Carter Little is an avid horror fan who grew up in Colorado. After living in Corpus Christi, he returned to Colorado.
The Green Dress
A tremendous flag wove exuberantly. Illuminated by the many potently bright spotlights aimed, not at it, but the woman who stood on the edge of the bridge below it. She stood there, dressed in a dark green dress that contrasted against her dark brown skin in the terribly powerful lights that were shining down from below her. She heard them screeching, cawing, some sort of electronic voice whose sharp edges angered her and cut into her like the hot razor winds that blew her long black hair this way and that. Perspiration beaded across her face and on her arms and dark circles had gathered around under her bosom and arms. She had been up there for some time. So it goes. The sweet grasp of death is instantaneous. The journey to the bridge takes a lifetime.
A couple walking their dog had noticed her first. Though they didn’t do anything, granted and in their defense, they didn’t identify her as an individual who was in crisis. She looked to them like any other woman with a listless look on her face. It’s true, she could have been only just worried of mundane reparable things that we all get frustrated over and end up resolving in our own right. She could have been sad, a victim of mistreatment or abuse–a cookie cut printout of the average battered woman. She could have been depressed, afflicted by the natural order of the modern world and its chemical influences. She could have been under any form of duress, and they thought that she probably was. However, they didn’t think she was in an immediate crisis and thus continued on their way.
It was some while before she was noticed again. Too, it was some while before another soul wandered near her. This soul, a wild spirited anxious young girl who in her most angsty moments chose to wander to release her fears and woes walked past the beautiful woman in a green dress who had mounted the railing at the break of the fence. Her delicate yet full and potent frame hung dangerously over the ledge as she stared downward onto the darkening streets below her. The young girl, in her fright at seeing someone in so precarious a situation stopped dead in her tracks and tried to make as little noise as possible so as not to scare the scene in front of her into action. Tightness gripped her chest as her mind raced with all of her options. She opted against calling out to the woman, trying to reason with her. It was only the day before she had put herself in a similar situation with a razor blade–cowardice being the reason she still walked.
It was a very short time after that that a vehicle passed by coming the opposite direction of the girl with dyed hair who hid her face from the world by means of a hoodie jacket. This motorist observed the woman in green, her skin barely shimmering in the heat and light of the late evening. At first the motorist didn’t register to the actions of the woman on the bridge. At first, they didn’t react. The individual in the driver’s seat just happened to be an off-duty police officer. And when the sobering devastation that accompanied the realization She’s going to kill herself sent their finely-honed crisis response mechanism into action, they picked up their cellphone and dialed 911. This paid duty-bound Samaritan, feeling as though they’d achieved their civic duty continued on their journey as uniformed officers arrived on the scene of the woman who had perilously placed herself on the railing of the massive bridge that overlooked Corpus Christi. Black and white vehicles with flashing red, white, and blue lights directed traffic a hundred yards from the subject of the crisis, and lights flashed below. More reds and blues, and a couple of large spotlights that had centered their bright beams onto her as the sun disappeared beneath the ocean. A young officer, his name was Anthony Garcia, had been the very first to respond to the scene. He attempted to reach out to the woman, to calm her down and coax her from the ledge. It had been in vain however. He tried first to communicate with her in English, and he quickly realized she didn’t speak any at all. He began trying to converse with her in Spanish, to get her name. Her situation, ask her if she had any family. Another officer arrived on the scene and immediately called for additional backup as she too tried to coax the woman in crisis down from the ledge. They tried tirelessly to get her to respond, to get her to remove herself from danger so they could get her somewhere safe. There was nothing they could do however, and when they tried to get close to her to attempt a safe takedown, the woman had reached into the open back of the green dress and pulled out a gun which she started brandishing to the police who were on the bridge behind her.
“My Love My Love I must be with him!” She screamed over and over again. They asked her each time who her love was, what his name was, and finally she revealed his name.
“Emmanuel!” She cried bitterly into the whipping wind that blustered her long black hair all around her face in a typhoon of fury and ferocity. She screamed his name over and over again as she sobbed. Her chest heaved as she finally grew silent and she dropped the small pistol to her side. The police thinking she’d given up began to advance; then she looked back.
Anthony could see the terrible darkness that surrounded the woman as she glared deep into his soul leaving it burnt and caked in the horrid excrement that’s left behind at the sight of real pain and unadulterated fury–of unending lamenting sadness. He was stricken, and stopped in his tracks. All three of the officers who’d made it their duty to grab her from the ledge, all of them seemed to stop at the sight of the darkness that surrounded that woman’s face.
Then she fell. It all happened so fast, Anthony wasn’t even sure it had. He watched her adjust her weight, and watched as her head slipped below the threshold of the horizon of the bridge’s ledge. He watched as the space in front of him vacated leaving the vacuum of a woman scorned, only a cloud of sadness in her wake. Then the three officers ran to the edge to watch, as is the way of the macabre and the human fascination with it, as she plummeted to her death. There they saw her in the air, floating as it were, or as it seemed at least. Her green dress billowing around her, her black hair whipping with the wind seeming to stick straight up behind her like the exhaust out of a plane or rocket. Her face was obscured by the long black strands once again, and Anthony could no longer see into those deep brown eyes that had startled him so just seconds before. And with that, mere seconds, the whole thing was done. She had hit the dirt far below in a small cloud and the three officers who stood watching from above observed as emergency services began to converge on the spot where she had landed.
Anthony got into his patrol car and flipped around orienting himself in the direction of the bridges exit which spat out very nearby the awful scene he was absolutely sure awaited him below. He drove with purpose and arrived very quickly to the crash site. There was a frenzy on the ground, frantic police officers and paramedics were darting this way and that. Anthony joined in the fray trying to figure out what the chaos was caused by. He caught snippets of yelled conversations over the cacophony of voices.
“Gone!?”
“She’s Disappeared?!”
“Make sure we’re looking in the right place!”
Anthony knew they were though. Anthony had watched as the plume of dust had risen from right in front of where he now stood. He knew it was the correct place. He knew because he had watched. And right there, in the center of a depression in the earth was something that made his heart grow cold and sent a horrendous shiver down his spine. Never before had he felt such immense terror than when he stared down at that small torn scrap of green cloth.
The same green cloth as the dress had been made of.
By Carter Little August 12th2023
The Black Cat
“He’s confessing to more?” A dumbfounded expression struck Detective Gitch. Gitch because Gitchorovskiye is too hard to say in the field. Not twenty minutes before Gitch was thinking how happy he was everyone called him by a shortened name, because if Williams had to spell out the full thing before saying duck he probably wouldn’t have in time, and he’d be six feet under with nobody to cry over his grave. Him ducking down, dodging the bullet, that turned the tide of the battle and because of it Gitch and Williams were able to rush him from either side. Come to think of it Gitch knew the perp could’ve shot again. He had ample opportunity and a nearly full clip. Why he hadn’t had haunted the seemingly endless drive back to the station. When asked about it, why this why that. All the guy would say was the cat made him stop. Told him to preserve his own life, suicide by cop is no way to go out.
Well, apparently, now that cat was telling him to confess to a long string of unconnected murders across thirteen states. That fucking cat. Its eyes. They were creepy. Most cats are sweet enough. Loveable even. Some give more regard to their position than to who’s around them. Then still, there are others, so aloof you couldn’t tell there was anything behind the eyes. This one, this feline. A beautiful example of a black shorthair with velvet fur that shines like it should reflect as clearly as a mirror, but all you see is the dark, empty void. It has eyes like yellow dinner plates that follow you with intelligence far beyond reason. That look. That look he knew, but only from humans. The cold calculated stare of a serial murderer. He’d never seen anything like it in an animal, couldn’t have dreamed of anything like it in an animal. Standing there with a dumbfounded expression on his face, thinking about it made him feel nearly as insane as he thought the cat may be. But an insane cat? Anthropomorphizing pets wasn’t his every day. He didn’t have any himself, no time with the work and such. Crime never sleeps and all that.
“Let me talk to him. Have you advised him of his rights? I’d have expected the first thing this dirtbag would do would be lawyer up.”
“He’s been fully advised. Expressly said he didn’t want one. Said there wouldn’t be any use because we already have too much on him.” Williams said confidently, even though Gitch was sure he wasn’t as confident as he was trying to appear.
“You’re damn right we do,” Gitch said feigning the same confidence. He knew as well as Williams that all the hard evidence they had was a witness with a hard-on for the guy who’d fingered him out of spite because of some bullshit he’d left on his lawn. But now, to confess. He must think they had the whole gambit. Fingerprints, DNA, a godamn photograph of him at the crime scene stringin’ the guy up on the flagpole. That’s how he did it. To the fucking school’s flagpole. Brought the body out in the middle of the night. It’d already been drained of blood. Slaughtered like an animal. Then he roped it up and drug it up and flew the nude pasty salesman up for the world to see. The entire murder made no sense, no reason behind any aspect of it, and Gitch would’ve been as stumped as a cut-down tree if it hadn’t been for that nosy neighbor who swore he hadn’t been home the night of the murder, and that he was always home on Wednesday nights because that was his poker night with his guys, which he also neglected that evening according to her. It was all ridiculously suppositional, but it was all they had to go on. Now, they had him at the very least on attempted assault with a deadly weapon since he did shoot at Gitch, but it sounded like there was more to the story than even he’d anticipated. A murderous cat, what preposterousness.
ii
“My partner tells me you’ve admitted to the murder of Ronald Jensen. That’s serious business. You also shot at me. That’s even more serious business. Now you’re telling me there are twelve other bodies in twelve other states. All killed in different ways?”
“That’s his cycle! He was finished with me, see, and I didn’t know what he was going to do. Not after everything we’ve done together over the years! I figured when he said he was done with me he was going to string me up like that poor traveling salesman. He had told me, ‘If you don’t have your poker game tonight that nosy bitch across the way will call the police. She’s on to you. Don’t be a buffoon.’ It told me just like that, I swear! So, I got an idea in my head, because I was worried about what it was going to do to me when it was all over, and I didn’t have my poker game, so that bitch would call the police. Good enough she did, and now I just want to live the rest of my days out behind bars where I can never see another cat again in my life! And IT can’t get to me.”
Gitch eyed him. He’d never heard such an absurdly ridiculously unnecessarily played-out story from a desperate man trying to save his own hide. Especially told with perfect truth and clarity. He knew the fucker wasn’t lying. And hated him for it. The difference was this guy wasn’t trying to get out of trouble. He was trying to get as much time as possible.
“You’re trying to tell me,” he began slowly, “that over the course of some number of years.”
“Thirteen,” the handcuffed man said quickly interrupting the detective,
“Thirteen years. This cat, the same one we have in the other room, waiting on animal control to come and pick up and haul off at your request because you couldn’t imagine anything happening to your sweet pet. Those were your words, weren’t they? Your sweet pet?”
“That’s what he forces me to say! I just follow orders, I’m terrified of that cat, I have no idea what it’s capable of. And it gets in my head. I don’t want to do what it tells me to… I just have to!”
“Yes of course you have to. This cat that you have to obey has guided you around the country for the past thirteen years, murdering innocent people.”
“Some weren’t so innocent,” the man said flatly.
“What the fuck do you mean by that.” Gitch snarled back at him.
“Well, there was this one man. He was a rapist. I caught him in the act one night, saved the girl he was… well… uh…”
“Go on.”
“And it was great! I felt like a godamn superhero. His blood on my hands, it was like the warm righteous feeling you get when you pray real hard for real long. Like I was doing some sort of divine work.”
“But they weren’t all bad men.”
The eyes of the perpetrator fell to the cold steel table. Gitch could see himself in the reflection of those eyes, and his unamused face. This sort of thing should shock someone, when had he become so jaded?
“No. They weren’t all bad. Some were innocent,” the man said slowly.
“I’m going to need you to tell me about all thirteen. Speak as clearly as you can into this microphone.”
iii
“You’re here to put me into that box. Aren’t you?”
A voice. From fucking nowhere. Like if God decided to speak to you all of the sudden. Clear as day, bright as a bell. Strong, European but implacable in origin. The kind of voice that was listened to when it spoke, given attention even if it wasn’t consented of. Never had Gitch heard anything like it in his life. Never had he wanted to, because that cold calculated voice chilled his blood and forced goose pimples to erupt over every square inch of his body.
“The fuck? Did you just say something?”
The taste of vomit was still strong on his tongue and the bitter scent of it wafted up into his nose when he opened his mouth to speak. As soon as Gitch thought he’d become the jaded example of a perfect cop something came along to turn his stomach inside out with some profound human horror that he couldn’t handle. It proved to him his humanity. Proved to him he wasn’t like they were. That he’d never become like them.
“I was listening. I know you’ve heard of my work. Admired it even. That’s why you couldn’t keep from regurgitating. Beauty comes in many forms, sometimes something is so ghastly we just can’t keep it down. I should know, I’m a cat. Have you ever smelled Perfume? Gah. The first time I smelled it I hurled. But it was beautiful still. The mix of scents so artfully articulated. It is in the eye of the beholder, and I know you can see the beauty in my work even with your mouthful of the flavor of your innards dancing around with that salmon salad you had for lunch.”
Gitch couldn’t deny any longer. The cat’s ears even twitched as he accentuated words. His head moved, it had body language. Voices in his head were the last thing he needed today. He had a fuckload of phone calls to make now because of this asshole and his godamn cat. And now he swore he just heard the thing’s voice in his head. But that’s not possible, a cat talking about the beauty of murder and a distaste for perfume. A cat talking isn’t possible at all! Telepathically or otherwise. Where was he at? In some ridiculous 70’s science fiction flick with a mind-controlling murderous feline?
“You really can hear me. And I can hear you. More than hear you, I can read your memories. I know you got your first bike when you were seven years old. I know you don’t like my kind very much because the neighborhood cat once scratched you to smithereens and your mother made quite the scene about approaching wild animals and trying to drag them home. I also know your first sexual conquest in your teens was a fallacy, and shortly after you redeemed yourself with another girl only to jump from female to female in an effort to assert the dominance you lost on your first altercation with the fairer sex.”
“The fuck did you know that”
“I told you Don, I can read your thoughts. And see your memories.”
“There’s no way this is real. I’ve just had a mental break. I think I’m going to take a vacation.”
He said the words out loud, louder than he wanted to. Because he wanted them to be real. He wanted to be accurate when he said he was having a spot of psychosis, and it would pass. He’d seen one too many dead bodies was all, and soon he’d be fine again.
“Hush. You’re going to draw attention to yourself, and I’m not finished with our conversation. Of course, I can read your thoughts. There’s no need to speak out loud. I certainly can’t. Though I know and understand your language; I’m still a cat.”
The feline opened its mouth and let out a polite and sweet, yet somehow still blood-curdling; Meow.
“You gotta be fucking joking me” Gitch started frantically looking around the room. There had to be something to explain this bullshit. Some sort of device, like a speaker or an electrical apparatus. Something sci-fi and weird that he didn’t know about must be beaming this voice into his head.
“There’s no device Don. I really truly can speak. I’ve chosen to speak to you because I believe your position could be advantageous. You see, my last caretaker. As I choose to call you folks since, seeing as I don’t have opposable thumbs and rodents are less plentiful than they used to be, need someone to operate this modern food system and procure those cans with your modern money. I was finished with him, as I have been before. My cycle is thirteen. He already told you that. I heard him think it. I heard your entire conversation in the other room. Every sordid detail he decided to tell you. What he didn’t tell you was Why. Simply because I never told him. He was somewhat of a simpleton to me. Easy to control, easy to manipulate. You should have seen how excited he got when I first started talking to him. He jumped straight over the crazy train and went right to believing I was some sort of God. Then our work began.”
By this point Gitch had stopped searching for a device and was beginning to warm up to the idea that this insanity may be in fact reality. He stared hard at the black cat who had positioned itself in such a way to present intelligence and dignity. Right on the edge of the table; proper and astute. He even seemed to throw his head back in feigned laughter as he spoke about how amazed his last caretaker was when meeting him the first time.
What did the cat want? That was Gitch’s burning question. Why him, right then?
“Their work?” Gitch thought to himself.
“Yes, our work.” The voice of the cat responded in his head almost instantaneously.
“I’ve been ‘employing’ humans for the work that I’ve been doing for millennia. You see, I’m from a very ancient breed of cat. One from Egypt. Specifically, the court of Ramses the III. I’m sure you’ve heard of his legend. Supposed to have been immortal? And so, he was. And so, he gifted the curse of immortality to all who he wished. Upon whimsy he would curse legions of men and women, children and their pets. They made him immortal armies that could never die. Terrible tragedies occurred, but I was one of the fortunate. For I accepted my gift with fervor and read and educated myself over time.
I concentrated specifically on the crimes that people perpetrate. The torture they exact on cats, and dogs, other animals, and each other. Anyone with half a mind could see it can never be stopped. But some things can be avenged. Others can be made examples of, so their progeny don’t make the same mistakes. I’ve been doing it so long, I’ll admit, some of the killing is for the sheer fun of it. I am a cat after all. Nature’s most perfect killing machine.”
“You’re a monster.”
“I very well may be. By all reasonable definition. Something that hides in the shadows in wait, only to pounce at the last moment. Some evil being that kills and tortures. This is irrelevant, for those definitions are modern in effect. Entire throes of history are littered with the murder of innocents by people who would be considered far from monsters. This you must agree with me. Even in this country, there’s a whole day to celebrate a man who murdered, and raped, and tortured–all in the name of progress. He’s no monster. He was merely a product of his time. And so am I. Merely a product of my time. And I invite you into my world. I ask you to join me on my quest. Help me make the world a better place, or at least… Have a little fun along the way.”
The cat bobbed its head and caught the light. Its huge green eyes seemed to glint, and then one of them closed as the cat winked at him slyly.
“I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re going to the fucking pound.”
“You really should stop swearing, it’s bad for the brain. I was hoping you’d see things my way, but I see we only have a short period before we’re disturbed. Possibly after being under my control for a time, you’ll begin to see more clearly than the cretin the other room. Plus, you’ll only have me for thirteen years. I’m not permanent. There will come a time when I’ll be finished with you, too. Hopefully, you’ll be smart enough to keep yourself out of trouble.”
iiii
“You know. I think I’m going to take the little guy home with me.”
Williams looked at Gitch like he was nuttier than a loaf of banana bread.
“You’re seriously going to take that cat home with you?”
“Yep, I think I am. He’s certainly not going to be able to.” Gitch pointed at the perp in the interrogation room.
“With all the hours you work. How the fuck are you going to feed it?”
“I figure he might come with me once in a while. Seems to have taken a liking to me.” Gitch commanded the black feline off his shoulder and down onto his desk.
“See, smarter than a dog.”
The Shadow
Published by Black Cat Books 2023
Copyright Pending
All rights reserved by Carter M. Little
Reproduction during Copyright pending period is ill advised and just totally not cool. So, don’t steal!
The Shadow
He noticed it only subtly at first. Maybe he’d move his arm, or one of his fingers, and it wouldn’t follow. It wouldn’t keep up. He’d move his head, and of course, in the act of moving his head, be unable to track the movement of his shadow but he knew it didn’t move at the same rate he did. It moved a little slower. Because it had to mimic. God forbid he ever found out where the thing came from. Damn him if he ever did find out. Because it was just there. Not one day, then the next. The next it was there. Whatever IT was. Or is. He’ll never find out now, because it got him. Just like it gets all the rest.
The day was shiny, blue, reminiscent of every other gorgeous sunny day that anyone’s ever had anywhere. A jogger with his dog had stopped for the dog to expel and graze for a moment, and the canine looked up at our friend, the subject of our story who may remain nameless, as his name is irrelevant to the story, because it’s happened over and over again and I can guarantee you my friend, it may happen again and you aren’t safe if you think it could never happen to you. Well this nameless individual, whose name was actually Timothy Werner, corny name, right? Decided later on that this dog looking up at him wasn’t the thing that caused it to follow him. Because he had continued on past that jogger in that park down the path where he was headed just to walk. He wanted to clear his head, and the day was gorgeous like I’ve said before. He was enjoying his walk, and never did really notice that the dog had looked up at him until he gruelingly played that day over and over in his head for some sort of answer, some sort of clue. As he stepped on the blacktop his shadow acted just like a shadow should, based on the scientific principles that rule and govern the presence of light and the interruption of photons. Acted just like a shadow needs to so one can believe reality is truly governed by a set of invisible unwritten laws that act in the infinitesimal omnipotence of a true law. And his shadow went bobbing along as he strutted down that path towards the few trees the park offered as shade. Usually nestled in this shade was the wild human that inhabits every municipality that’s ever hosted an economic hierarchy. Today the bottom echelons of this omniscient class were elsewhere, and the thicket of trees was vacant. Our friend, Timothy, decided he’d like to sit under one of those trees. Something he thought on par with a connection with nature, or at least one he could fathom with his citified concrete jungle upbringing. His mother panthered around every high-end store she could find, and his father crossed the rugged terrain in a black automobile fit to kill worth as much as most people’s homes. He’d tasted their luxury, and wasn’t doing too badly himself in his own career, which isn’t relevant to the story. The relevance lies back with that tree he decided to sit under. Which was the only strange thing he could remember doing that day. So, there he sat, under that tree. On top of a board left there as a seat from one of the feral humans that normally occupied the space under that tree which he currently inhabited. He sat there for a short while and watched as the sun moved slowly in the sky and his shadow moved with it. He remembered in that moment, later on as he wasn’t necessarily conscious of his immediate wandering thoughts, that he watched his shadow and became fascinated with it. He watched as the sun moved above him and the shadow moved over each blade of grass, one at a time, slowly scraping across the slightly rough slightly furry blades. It was mesmerizing, until he noticed one of the ruffians was encroaching and he figured he’d better make a quick escape.
` So that’s all it was. He sat under a tree and ended up with it following him. In the throes of his later madness he played the day over and over again in his head, like I said before, trying to figure something out that would explain how him sitting under that tree, right then, right there. Just existing in that space, that place in time. Just existing gifted him the consequences that he was currently dealing with. He had no Idea what was on the other side of that board, or what was beneath it. He had no idea what extracurricular activities the feral humans were involved in. All he did know, the only thing he could figure out, was that was the only obscure out of the ordinary thing he’d done that day. And it was the next day when the insanity began. Although he hadn’t realized it. Much like the dog’s gaze bending upwards towards him as he walked headfirst into his fate, the first subtle signs were so subtle he didn’t notice them for what they were immediately and it was only after recollecting those days that led up to his madness that he realized his shadow had become more solid. It was a subtle thing, and it was still disappearing. Acting and behaving just like it should. He didn’t notice, as he stood there at the gas pump, that his arm that splashed across the ground painted of black silhouette didn’t retract when he moved the arm above it and shoved the nozzle of the fueler into his tank. He was too busy staring across the fuel kiosk at the ragged broken-down truck that housed a down on their luck couple who were having a quiet argument in the privacy of that truck. The thought sauntered across his mind’s eye that he shouldn’t have stopped here–that he’d have had plenty enough gas to get back into a better neighborhood. He was so fixated on this couple and the potential danger of his surroundings that he completely ignored the fact that arm strewn across the ground didn’t move until he grasped the completed fueling nozzle and placed it back on its rest. It retracted just like a shadow should, and he looked at bright expansive daylight lit concrete where the rubber of the soles of his shoes and of his tires both hit the pavement connecting their greater forms to the lesser silhouette of their shadows. He observed the elongated and nearly comical effect the late afternoon sun had on the car beside him, the effect it had on the cars shadow. It looked to him as though the car were made of many great mountains and his own, strewn across the parking lot in tandem with the cars, looked like a great island attached to a long slender peninsula. It was then that he noticed his own shadow seemed a trifle darker than that of his vehicles. This wasn’t something he noticed immediately either. His subconscious picked up on it, and he even said to himself absentmindedly “Oh my shadow seems darker, it must be the way I’m standing” and never gave it a second thought as he pulled the car door open glad to be rid of the sound of blustering romance.
The next time his shadow misbehaved was slightly less subtle. Or maybe it wasn’t. After wracking his brain for any remanence of a memory after the darkened shadow and the arm that didn’t move that he didn’t see, that only you the reader know about, he couldn’t find a single one in the latter periods of his madness. Only you the reader will know, as I tell you now, that the disease that plagued our subject, our friend. This individual whose life we are peering into, progressed slowly. It permeated only the absent of his mind, the very deepest recesses and corners and never allowed itself to be observed, until it wanted to of course. I could tell you of each of the other times the shadow didn’t move, or how it began to like to stay in a singular position at certain times, for as long as it could before it inevitably had to disappear before it was discovered. A disembodied shadow, could you imagine? Anyone who saw that would scream. Or laugh, or both. Or freeze. Really there’s no telling. Our guy, the guy we’ve been talking about, the first time he saw it he wanted to do both. He wanted to laugh because he thought it was a prank. Of course he did, anyone in their right mind would think it was a prank. A floating shadow, come on. Seriously? Could you imagine? But that faded quickly as he looked around and realized there was nothing there to cast the shadow. No major light source. He was looking at a shadow in a softly lit room staring down at him from the wall while he lay on his bed.
Staring might be the wrong word to use, because of course the thing had no eyes. Glaring might be a better choice. Because the terror that ensued as our guy, this individual the story is about, realized there was nothing to cast the shadow and no earthly way for the thing to reasonably exist he let out a little shriek and instinctively turned the three-power lightbulb–which he’d always preferred over a conventional bulb–up to the highest notch blanketing the room in heavy comforting light. He wasn’t exactly sure when the shadow had receded, or where it had gone. It seemed benign enough, the interaction. And it was easy for him to resign the experience to a combined lack of overwork and sleep deprivation as he’d been stressed out at his job that, while probably interesting to him, isn’t very important to the telling of this story. This rationalization he chose to employ comforted him and removed his worries about the terror that had suddenly gripped his kidneys and tightened his chest, and gave him finally enough comfort to find sleeps embrace, but not without the typical deluge of unrelenting thoughts that now included every so often the terrifying presence of this obscure shadow of his own creation that had cast itself in an ungodly and physically impossible manner.
Thoughts of the strange occurrence with the shadow followed him into the next day, and at every turn he followed his silhouette as it painted itself across many canvases. Once the coffee counter where he followed the exact path of his arm as it carried the decanter across that counter and poured the dark liquid–which also cast a shadow–into an awaiting cup. The next was at his desk, and the thought of the former night’s incident had flashed harrowingly through his mind, and he watched, as the papers he held in his hand that he intended to file scattered flutteringly towards the ground casting many different shadows, and he caught sight of his own. It was a puny thing. Nothing more than a large splotch on his chair as the office lights that were to cast a shadow were directly above him. It didn’t seem very supernatural. It certainly didn’t menace him or show any signs of dementia or malice. It just looked like a shadow. And our subject felt silly for feeling the fear he did at that time. Sitting on top of a benign splotch of darkness he shook his head and picked up his papers and went back to concentrating on his menial proletarian existence.
And he was successful. He successfully concentrated on the mundanity and civility of the office he worked at surrounded by the other smartly dressed, crisp young professionals who he couldn’t imagine having the same kinds of problems that he did with love and life and women. Married men who cared and loved and were loved. Somehow, he was able to convince himself these people who surrounded him were of that plane, the plane of happy living and joy. The plane of exuberance and elation. It’s a shame he wasn’t able to apply the same denial into ignoring that terrible feeling of being followed that seemed to strike him every time he was walking somewhere alone. He never felt it when someone else was around. Then again, why should he? If someone werearound why would you get the funny feeling something was following you. You only get that feeling when you’re alone. Something he quickly realized was a luxury he was no longer allowed. To be alone.
It was the worst in his home. A feeling of being followed can also be interpreted as a healthy sense of self-preservation that’s a crucial aspect of the human condition. The necessity for that primal urge ends at the threshold of a locked door, or it should at least. One would only be so safe to assume that once they put themselves behind a locked door whatever’s there behind that door along with them would be removed from whatever’s on the other side, and if there were something maleficent on the far side of the door the individual on the locked side of the door would be safe from that evil that floated on the opposite side of the door. Thoughts like these of rationalizations and reasonings, bargaining with himself. I’m crazy! No I can’t be crazy! I swear someone’s here with me!
He’d have these thoughts, rationalize with himself. Argue with himself, and finally submit to his own needs and search his apartment again for the umpteenth time for some trace of someone. Someone or something that would explain the maddening feeling of being watched and followed. Subconsciously he knew, he knew what was really there. Subconsciously he was fully aware of his shadow and the fact that it followed him everywhere. Subconsciously he knew the shadow had stopped growing and receding like a shadow is supposed to. He knew all of these things, but he denied them for as long as he was able to. Denied them until the denial became his reality and when his paradigm shifted suddenly his psyche couldn’t handle the strain. When he finally came to the realization that his shadow was solid. That it was just there, and it would always be there, glaring at him. Staring. Mocking him. He couldn’t handle his unwanted company and he began trying to sever ties with his shadow but nothing worked. How can you cut off what isn’t actually attached?
Darkness was his answer. He knew it would come for him eventually, he knew it would do something. He knew it would try. Try Something. What something was he didn’t want to find out. And so, he sequestered himself into darkness. A modern hermit stuck in the darkness of his own mind. He walled himself up in that apartment where he’d lived so benignly for so long. Sitting in the darkness both metaphorical and physical so his shadow could not exist for fear of what it may do. He sat that way, as his apartment grew filthy and infested, as he chose to see nothing and wouldn’t brighten the space for any reason whatsoever. Nobody came, nobody questioned his disappearance until the smell became unbearable and the neighbors called the police. Thinking him dead and decomposing they had the landlord open the door.
There they found him sitting in a circle of his own waste muttering “NO LEAVE ME ALONE YOU’RE GOING TO LET IT OUT” He said these words over and over again in rapid succession as the police tried to reason with him. Then he raised the weight he’d had that had anchored him to reality. The only thing in his possession that he thought might be able to stop the beast if it ever truly escaped.
He heard them scream, and he heard the blasts of several rounds of gunfire and felt the fiery sear of his retribution tear through his emaciated body as he fell.
Perhaps they set him free.
Pyrgos and Pediada
Though all the Sirens used to be
Attendants of Persephone
And where Demeter's daughter bound
Gardenias sprang up from the ground,
But then of all the nymphs alone
Had gentle Pediada shone
As one who loves to nip and wear
The fragrant flowers in her hair.
Such fine perfume did Pyrgos sense
And follow over fold and fence
Until he reached the hidden glade
Where lovely Pediada played.
He watched her bright, white blossoms raise—
A snip to star and more to blaze—
And once a garland graced her mane,
Go galloping along the lane.
Her graceful movements and her smile
The shepherd stayed to watch a while.
Just briefly did he meet her eye,
For ere he chanced to wave goodbye,
A centaur cantered 'cross the lea
And carried the fair nymph away.
So, lacking Heracles' great bow,
He was resigned to let her go.
Long months did Pyrgos search in vain
For both the goddess and her train.
In grief, he walked along the beach
With Pediada out of reach
But swiftly turned to fetch his fid,
For something he caught sight of did
His hope in finding her restore:
Gardenia blossoms washed ashore.
Against the current, quick he sailed
That Pediada might be hailed,
For Pyrgos knew the eddies well
And piloted as if by spell.
He traced through waters rough and vile
Back to the Anthemoessa isle,
And as he leapt out like a fox,
His dinghy dashed against the rocks.
Not far above the ocean brine,
The bitter Sirens stood in line.
Intent on turning rotten deeds,
They cursed the pomegranate seeds
And prayed for metamorphosis
In voices sour with emphasis,
From Naiad to foul, feathered form,
To slay men like a scalding storm.
Whereas the nymphs now granted wings
Would lure him as a temptress sings,
To such sounds he could not succumb
Since Pyrgos was both deaf and dumb,
But Pediada, yet unchanged,
Looked on from where the Sirens ranged.
Ensuring she would understand,
He wrote his plea upon the sand:
Think not that I would you forsake
As Hades did your mistress take;
See though I can not speak or hear,
Yet many mortals hold me dear.
You are too sweet to lure and slay,
And I have traveled all this way
To help you in escaping from
The monster that you might become.
Then tears of joy came to her eyes
On reading words so kind and wise,
And rather than give in to hate,
She found the strength to choose her fate.
She left the tarnished birds of prey
And walking to where Pyrgos lay,
Bestowed a kiss upon his cheek,
And Pyrgos suddenly could speak!
Together fast they turned to flee
And dived into the open sea,
But as they tried to swim away
The Sirens wailed out in dismay.
Still, Pediada was not swayed
And could continue unafraid,
But Pyrgos paused in utter fear:
The Sirens' song he now could hear!
Thus, Pediada swam along,
And raised her joyous voice in song.
As Orpheus before the mast,
She sang 'til they were safely past,
But even with the Sirens gone,
Cold hours threatened ere warm dawn:
Though land was not so far away,
Sheer cliffs stretched out beyond the bay.
While daunted by the walls of stone,
The couple had not been alone,
For moonlight split the ocean shield—
An argent pale on sable field—
And smiling on the forlorn pair,
Selene drew in the tidal air.
As soon the waters quickly rose,
They crawled on shore to find repose.
With peaceful sleep, they both awoke,
But Pyrgos first arose and spoke:
"The time has come for me to go.
Such is immortal life, I know
No nymph can love a man who fears
The clip of Atropos' sharp shears;
Nevertheless, I was so glad
To comfort you when times were bad.
"Your gratitude has lifted me
More than the moon just raised the sea.
If you should need a friend to find,
I will be sailing right behind."
Then, heading towards the distant dock,
Off Pyrgos went to tend his flock,
But she sat on the coastal shelf
And wrote of Pyrgos and herself.
Once Pediada's ode was done,
She praised the sister of the sun
By donning dress inspired by
The shining orb of midnight sky
And teaching local youth to sing—
Her lyrics through the hills did ring—
And so she grew to great renown,
The Siren in the silver gown.
The Lay of Falel Fogelnacht
I met an elf named Fogelnacht who stalked the woods
Alone at night
With silver hair, a mithril sword, and hooded cloak—
A ranger knight.
He would keep so still, keep so still,
But then suddenly he flew.
I saw him in the trees beyond the castle wall
Outside of town.
He looked upon me with his owlish eyes of age
And swooped right down.
He took my hand, took my hand,
Lead me off the forest path.
O Falel Fogelnacht,
O Falel Fogelnacht,
O Falel Fogelnacht,
Fly!
He said his name was Fogelnacht the woodland elf,
Or just Falel.
He grabbed his bow, let fly a shaft, and slayed a beast;
He shot so well.
He soon lit a fire, lit a fire,
Cooked and told me his dark tale.
"A jealous prince once set all of these woods ablaze
To capture me.
The smoke brought tears for years whereas my horse and I
Had tried to flee.
My horse coughed and died, coughed and died;
I escaped to hide in caves."
O Falel Fogelnacht,
O Falel Fogelnacht,
O Falel Fogelnacht,
Fly!
"The prince had tried to woo a rich and lovely lass,
But she loved me.
So in a rage, he stabbed the king with arrow shafts
He stole from me.
The prince had me framed, had me framed,
Now he sits upon the throne."
"Although the queen has turned her love away from me,
Her fate is sealed.
Now as the forest has recovered from the blaze,
My heart has healed.
I must fly away, fly away."
Then as the fire died, I ate and sighed and said:
O Falel Fogelnacht,
O Falel Fogelnacht,
O Falel Fogelnacht,
Fly!
- Cary W. Tucker © 2003
The Queens of Avalon
I was weary from the battle,
And I sunk into the saddle,
As I rode out from the highland
T’wards the overclouded island.
‘Midst the clamor and the ringing,
I had heard the lovely singing
By a queen of graceful motion
Who now lead me near the ocean.
Then stepping down, she smiled at me
And turned to hail the misty sea;
She called out in her gypsy song,
And answer came to us ere long:
Propelled by neither sail nor oar,
A faery barge approached the shore,
And on the deck, another queen
Was standing steadfast and serene.
So leaving her horse by the pier
And moving to quiet my fear,
The queen of the song took my hand
And walked off the troublesome land.
As soon as I shuffled aboard,
The boat turned aweather and soared,
And cutting through fog for a while,
We came to the Avalon isle.
The cove was such a joy to see
As blue fish sailed o’er the clear sea,
Red dragons basked on rocky banks,
And trees arrayed in iron ranks.
I walked on past each guarded post
Out to the castle on the coast.
In the high room, I came to rest;
There, a third queen would end my quest.
She clapped her hands and through the halls,
Music and warmth spread from the walls;
As tongues of fire danced at my feet,
My wounds were healed by mystic heat.
Then turning east, I cast my eyes,
And strove to scan the cloudless skies:
Like rising crest of golden crown,
A new sun touched the angel town.
The Faerie and the Tailor
We met in the woods by the pines and the willows,
Though she was a faerie at home in the forest,
And I was a tailor escaped from the city.
From above in the canopy branches, I heard
The aeolian whistle of gossamer wings
And the resonant echoes of magical song,
But I understood not a word of her lyrics
Throughout her descent on the melody rainbow
To gracefully land in the meadow before me.
Hearing only the rustle and creak of the oaks
And the beat of my rapidly vibrating heart
Which was calmed by her smile and comforting touch,
I mirrored the sway of her hands on my shoulders
And danced in embrace to the cadence of nature –
Our dialogue made through the language of movement
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I Never Thought We’d End Up Here
The message said
Your daughter has been found dead
With a bag of cocaine located next to her
Please give us a call
To identify her body
My fear response has never been to
Fight or run
It has always been the absolute and abrupt
Board-stiff lack of movement
I said no
Over and over
Like a chant to bring back the dead
Or travel through time
Though the words were muddied
By dry tears
Choking my throat
As they clawed their way out
My husband stirred
Shook me
Asked what was wrong
I didn’t move
I read the words over and over
White letters cast out from a green thought bubble
Such a common morning task
To check one’s phone
We had no conversation of substance
For more than a year and a half
Before these letters introduced themselves
To my eyes
Sunk my heart
Into my bowels
The freeze thawed from my body
The shaking and shrieking
Took over
And I felt my husband’s hands around my pregnant waist
His sobs pushing deeply into my back
I wondered silently
How I would live through this again
Her voice on the other end
A soft and scratchy
Hello
Brought my tears to the front
Poured out of my body
Straight from my heart
That was almost crushed from the reality
Of what I read
The sounds that came from my mouth
Made no sense
But the message wasn’t reality
Like a police officer texting wasn’t a reality
At my most vulnerable
She told me she loved me
Over and over
And apologized for some stranger’s terrible prank
That felt very much like it was scripted for me
And this isn’t diminished
Even slightly
By her message twelve hours later
Telling me that the phone call I made to her
Was inappropriate
And that I should not expect emotional support
From her
Because I am an adult
And it isn’t her job