Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

FFF #26 - Hidden Reminders

What do you see when you close your eyes?”


“What kind of symbols?”

“I’m not sure how to describe them, they are so unique-” I hesitated, “but, I guess I can show you some of them.”

“Show me?”

“Well yeah. I draw them as I see them.”

“And you carry these drawings around with you?”

“Well… Kinda.”

“What do you mean exactly?” My counselor asked a little confused.

I would have never offered to show the renderings to my counselor if I had not of been dressed to meet up with a few girlfriends at one of the local night clubs afterwards that evening.

I saw his greedy eyes as I slipped off my black leather jacket. Standing up, I slowly turned around to face the wall. At the view of my open backed top, I heard his sharp intake of air.

“I think each one of them means something to me, like they are trying to tell me about a part of my life or that something is going to happen.” I heard him get out of his reclining chair and approach me. I shuddered as he lightly fingered each of the patters that lined my back, shoulder, neck and arm. “Please don’t touch me Mr. Schafer.” I quietly requested. His touch had set my skin on fire and I uncomfortably reached down for my leather jacket again. After donning it, I returned to my seat on the couch.

That was during one of our earlier sessions together. Today, I knew, was going to be our fifteenth session.

“Ms. Thompson, have you been seeing any new symbols lately?” His voice was heavily burdened today with desire or lust. I couldn’t be sure.

“Yes Mr. Schafer, I have been seeing one.”

“And what is it?” Eagerness filled his voice and could be seen in his eyes. “And how long have you been seeing it?”

“I’ve been seeing it now for the last few weeks. Do you have some paper? I think I can draw it for you.”

“You haven’t had this one done as a tattoo yet?” I shook my head no. I could see the disappointment on his face at not being able to see my back again.

He stood and went to his printer and pulled a piece of paper handing it to me along with a pencil. I started to draw the image that had been burned into the back of my eyelids for the last three weeks.

“An eye?” He asked as he carefully looked over the drawing. “What do you think it means, Ms. Thompson?”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure, yet.”

“Well, shall we reflect what we’ve decided the others mean?”

“I’ve been told by various tattoo artists that all of mine are tribal tattoos.”

“That’s right. Now let’s start with…” He pondered a moment, “the one on your shoulder, the circle with a wolf head.”

“The Circle with a wolf head – means that I have a connection with animals.”

“The one just below the wolf/circle one that looks almost like a person playing a piano?”

“Oh, the one on my shoulder blade- means that I inspire through my talents.”

“What about each of the dragons?”

“The three dragons each mean that I possess the intellect, power, and courage of the mightiest of all beasts of prey.”

The one on your lower back—”

“that’s the night bat – showing that I have power over darkness and even in people’s minds I can make them happy – make them see the light.”

And together we said, “And the horse on my left shoulder blade…” Mr. Schafer’s voice died out as I continued, “is there to show leadership.

“And the one on your neck represents your life as a two way highway.” I nodded. “So what then does this latest one mean that you’ve been seeing? Hmm?”

"It’s the evil eye, Mr. Schafer, and it’s been looking at you through me for quite some time.” I watched as he scribbled notes or thoughts of what I said in his notebook, seeing his look of confusion I continued. “I see the way you look at me, I can read your thoughts through your eyes.”

I could tell that this caught his attention because his head jerked up and he stared intently at me from his chair across the room.

“Because of your helpfulness, I’ve brought you a gift.” I pulled from my bag a blindfold and took it to him, laying it across his hands. “Put this on Mr. Schafer.”

As he secured his blindfold, with a smile on his face, I took out a needle filled with a sleeping agent and quickly injected it into his arm.

“What the Hell!”

“It’s okay Mr. Schafer, you’ll get what you want before our session is over.” I taunted him in my sing-song voice. As I waited for him to drift into a peaceful slumber, I setup my tape recorder and began telling my story of the day before:

Walking down Fifth Ave I stumbled upon a medium. I just knew that was what she was. We began talking and she told me she doesn’t like to touch people but found it difficult to not touch me. She wanted to touch right where a tattoo, a symbol, was. I allowed her the pleasure of telling me my story and found her information to be fascinating.”

By now my counselor was out to the world, and I quickly began to pull out the needed equipment. On his forehead I began stenciling a copy of “The evil eye” on his forehead. As the night drug on, I continued to tell him more and more of my encounter with the third kind.

“Through her, I found that my body has survived the ages, that it has indeed been a body to serve some of the most ferocious women in all of history. In this re-incarnated state, part of my memories come back with a symbol to help remind me of what I’ve forgotten in previous lives.”

I concluded my story as I put the finishing touches of ink into his newly acquired tattoo. He began to stir, and upset by his evil thoughts about my body and his, I took the needle gun in my hand and started to stab him in the eyes leaving him with only the third or evil eye.

Mr. Schafer screamed out in pain as he came to enough to feel the needle in his eye over and over again. Finally sniffling he settled back into his chair whimpering, “please please let me go.”

“I have a feeling Mr. Schafer, that this is going to be our last session. Enjoy being alone, and feel free to send me your crazies. Oh, and I almost forgot, with you newly acquired tattoo, you’ll be able to show the world what type of a person are you—EVIL.” I gathered my items, stopped the tape recorder and placed the cassette in his semi opened hand. With a smile on my face and a skip in my step, I unlocked his office door and headed off to find where I had parked my car.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Guest Write - Ryn Cricket

Red Dust

“A rooster can eat a snake, you know.” Li told the older boy in the school yard.

“No, it can’t.” The boy countered. “The snake would kill it before it could even try.”

“Each animal has its own strength.” She insisted. “And if the rooster were provoked. It would kill a snake.”

“I don’t believe you.” The boy taunted.

“Alright, you go get a snake, and I’ll get my rooster.”

The boy ran off into the trees behind the school and Li crossed the dry, red, dirt road to her house on the other side. Her parents weren’t home, so they wouldn’t know that she had taken “Sawan,” her father’s prized rooster. She had to be right.

They met back up in the dusty school yard within minutes. “Alright,” the boy said. “When I count to three, we will both drop them in front of us. Ready? One…two…three.” And the boy almost threw the snake on the ground and it started to slither until Li released Sawan.

Sawan started squawking as if he had already been caught. He ruffled his feathers and flapped his wings in a frenzy. The snake just watched quietly and hissed; watching and waiting. Sawan almost caused himself a heart attack in his noisy display, but he must have known that if he ran away, he could be swiftly attacked.

“Come on, Sawan! Eat him!” Li half-cheered and half-pleaded. Sawan started to calm down. The snake was not attacking him. Maybe he was safe. And in that very moment, the snake lunged, biting Sawan perfectly on the neck. The rooster collapsed almost immediately into a mound of flesh and feathers.

Li fell on her knees in the dry dirt next to the bird and her little mind began to connect the dots.

They found her body floating in the river hours later because she understood that she would always be the victim of snakes.

When Ryn was in the seventh grade she thought she wanted to do three things when she grew up, she wanted to be an English teacher, a writer and a mother. All of that traveling, adventure, and Peace Corps was just research for what was to come. After more than twenty years of being told she would never be able to have children, she had two beautiful baby girls, a year and a half apart. She spends many of her daytime hours teaching English at Case Western Reserve University, and all of the rest of her time, inspiring her two little girls, or being inspired by writing at the writers’ workshop she calls “home.” You can find more of her work online HERE.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

A new Publication I'm in!!! WooHoo!

A welcome surprise graced my day yesterday when I found that I have been published in yet another 6S book called 6S Word of Mouth. What surprised me even more is that my short piece of Flash Fiction is the very FIRST piece found in the book!

My 6 sentences of flash are about helping others find religion.

Buy your copy of the book HERE!

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Departure of a Soul Mate

Straining to hold back tears, she begged herself not to cry.

It had only been a week since his departure – and with an aching heart she sat on the edge of her bed filled with too much pain to move.

Knowing that a week of bliss had to end and that it would be near half a year before she would see him again, she had lived every moment with him trying to remember every smile, whisper, kiss, touch, and each second of their glorious love making.

Eyes closed and picturing his tender smile, she ran her fingers gently across her legs, stomach, and breasts, reminding herself of his heavenly caresses.

Reminiscing in the memory of the final night where they had made love in her bed, she whispered his words out loud to herself as if challenging his voice to be heard, “We are meant to be, forever, more than any words or touch can proclaim.”

It was then that she could feel his hands upon her, brushing lightly with his fingertips, covering her in soft kisses that could be blown away with the wind, and in her moment of pleasure, the silent room echoed the call of his name.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

FFF #25 Bad Karma, Wild West Style

He had been told crawling would get him nowhere. But somewhere deep down inside he knew that even if that was all he had left, was to crawl, it was better than giving up.

Bill Hornsdorf, why did you ever think of marrying that crazy ass bitch anyhow? He kept asking himself over and over again. Oh, that’s right, you fell in love with the woman who gave a good screw and stole your horses.

Seeing her in front of him on the horizon in the setting sun blowing smoke from her six shooter only made Bill more determined to make it home alive. He was going to kill her, even if it was the last thing he did before leaving this life.


Sally Skull knew that her third husband Bill Hornsdorf was becoming too involved in HER business. After all, she had been trading horses since she married her first husband, and once divorced from him, Sally started selling not only horses, but her body. They seemed to go hand in hand when times were tough. She could always find a posse to whore with when needed, then steal their horses in the middle of the night leaving them stranded. She didn’t have anything against them, it was just business.

What was she going to do with Bill? She couldn’t just let him walk away from their horrible marriage with half her stock and half her money. By God, all he does is sit in the saloon playin’ cards, drinkin’, and whorin’ with other women, what right does he think he has?

She wasn’t adverse to killing men, hell she had killed over three score – enough that she couldn’t count them anymore… and they all seemed to blend in together. The only man who stood out was her second husband, the lyin, cheatin, som’ bitch, who she killed out of cold blood. The bastard tried to sell her off to some Mexican cattle rancher.

She had whipped him raw then tied his 'man lovin’ ass' and gagged his 'lyin’ ass mouth,' and just to make him pay, drug him behind her horse. After he was pretty much done for, she hung him in a tree and left him there to die. When the lawmen came asking questions she told them she had been out on a drive and that he was supposed to be selling two horses to some fellows south of the border.

If there was anything good that came of that second marriage, it was the last name. No horse trader, man or woman, could ask for a better name. It was one that just stuck. Granted dressing like a man all the time and learning how to shoot like one seemed to help tremendously.

Skull lit up another smoke as she paced the length of the corral. I hate the dirty rotten bastard, she thought. Finishing her smoke the idea hit her and eagerly she planned out the rest of her evening.


Bill never saw it coming. He figured if he had to he could beat her into submission if he must, but only as a last resort. He knew he had asked for a ridiculous amount, but felt that from a marriage of hell, it was worth it. Besides, he felt he would get most of what he had asked for after threatening to take her to the law if she didn’t. He knew she had killed more men from trades gone sour than any other outlaw he had heard of in these parts.

Bill had taken his sweet time getting home. He was drunk, happy, and knew his wife wouldn’t expect anything from him.

Wait, what? Had been Bill’s thought when he walked into the house and Skull told him she wanted him to ride with her and check the property boundaries for any disturbances and that she needed to get a new head count on horses she had helped round up over the last week.

Bill couldn’t refuse; she had already packed everything and was completely ready other than having the horses saddled. They rode until the sun was touching the horizon and stopped to fix some quick supper and make camp.

He didn’t notice that she never unsaddled his horse, probably too busy thinking about getting something whipped up to eat. She picked at her food, but she did that frequently, so nothing new there. He watched her go to her saddle and loosen the leather ties holding the bed roll on.

He watched her lay hers out on the ground and then found himself staring at her as she began to unbutton her britches. Oh, how long it had been since he had been with her and seen her naked! She smiled mischievously when she had seen his reaction. Reaching into her pant let she drew a six shooter that had been holstered to her leg.

Bill felt the rounds penetrate his stomach, one in his lower leg and one in his shoulder. Three shots then she smiled and said, “Have a great death Bill, I never really loved you, it was only out of convenience… No, I didn’t have anything against you, it was just BUSINESS.” She turned and shot her horse – one of the lesser stock in her herd and took to his, riding off into the slow sinking sunset.


“Mr. Hornsdorf?”

“Yes Sherriff… Deputy… How can I help you fine gentlemen today?” Bill nodded at both men.

“It’s Skull, Bill. She’s been found dead.”

“You don’t say?” Bill feigned a shocked look.

“Can you tell us where she was headed to or from?”

“And where you’ve been?” The deputy piped in.

“All I know was when I saw her last bout a week or so ago, she told me she was headed to Mexico to round up some new horses as well as deliver a few that didn’t go the last time round.”

“And…” A silent pause, “where were you?”

“Why boys, I’ve been right here, or at the Bar trying to get one of those new French saloon girls to let me take a ride, but Henry won’t let em.”

“Skull was found pretty beat up, Bill. Almost didn’t recognize her ‘cept she was wearin’ trousers. Only woman I know who wears trousers in these parts. Her face was smashed in, broken bones, and looked like six shooter bullets shot right into her chest. A rattle snake was jammed into her mouth and bite marks were all over her body. Looks like she suffered.”

“Must have pissed off the wrong horse trader if you ask me.”

“Speaking of horse traders, Bill, that’s other reason we’re here… came to see about cutting a deal about some new horses…”

If you are interested in reading more about Sally Skull, you can find it here: Old West Female Outlaws

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Guest Write - Robert Crisman

I decided to post two pieces from this week's Guest Writer, I hope you'll take the time to read both and comment as well...


Time was when horror meant Bela Lugosi, Dracula, that stuff. These days they’d take Vlad the Impaler and punk-slap his ass, and make him turn tricks in an alley.

Horror’s address? It used to be Hollywood backlots, wherever it was that Lon Chaney slapped on his makeup. But now? Well, say you live out on Elm Street or Beavertree Lane, in a house or a condo, or maybe you live in some ghetto apartment, or an exurban enclave with guards at the gate. It’s all right outside, seeping in through your walls and your pores.

And Freddy Krueger is nowhere around. They’d punk-slap him too…

Horror schmoozes and blusters on cold downtown streets. It gives you the stinkeye at bus stops. It sprawls like dead winos in alleys. It’s a date with a stranger whose smiles hide switchblades.

You can go to the store for some two percent milk on a Tuesday and rub up against it, bad breath and all, at the checkstand or back by the frozen foods section. It might follow you out to your car, picking its nose and averting its gaze as you fumble for keys in your pocket or purse.

Could be it’s the Son of Ted Bundy! Why not? Your priest might be Son of Sam, Jr. And the football coach at your high school? Well, since that girl went missing who lived on his block, you might want to check out the woods there in back of his house…

Not everyone is a killer, of course. Those Rotary gongos drooling like monkeys as girls spread their buttcheeks in strip clubs? They’ve no need to kill; their clown show is nasty enough by itself...

America’s a room full of short eyes and rape-dogs with duct tape and shovels stashed under some tarp in their vans. The roof’s falling in and horror’s the air that we breathe.

Quotidian rebop the whole fucking way.

Despite what Robert Crisman said about Hollywood horror, werewolves still scare the hell out of him.

Coyote Agonistes

(Part 1)

Wile E. Coyote? A junkie strung out on bunk dope…

What’s the visual you get with this guy? Yep, it’s this flea-bitten yoyo plummeting earthward from 5,000 feet as that beep-beeping sonofabitch of a bird waves goodbye from above and boogies on into a tunnel or something.

But then, on a deeper, more human level, you find that—already!—you can relate to the trials and travails of a predator nitwit who will not go out and chase rabbits or horned toads—creatures he might even catch—because he’s got to do what’s never been done, and eat what has never been sucked down a gullet in life.

The question is, what put him there in mid-air, hurtling toward lizards and hard rocks below?

I’ll tell you exactly:

His classmates in high school, especially that fine little blonde with the legs and the lungs who sat by the window up there in front—they all put him down as a nose-picking dweebster right from day one until that morning he slunk to the freightyards and hopped the first boxcar that took him to Yuma and into the desert forever.

You remember that blonde, do you not? Yes indeed…

Hey, snap awake!

The point here is, Wile E., a cultural icon of ours, is chasing the dream, the American Dream—that somehow, some way, he can deep-six that putz jacket once and for all, the minute he gnaws that damn bird off the bone and washes it down with a Bud.

He also dreams of a day that will come at long last—the day he attends his high-school reunion…

He lands his Lear Jet on the fifty-yard line of the field where once they wouldn’t even let him haul water. He blas├ęs on into the banquet room there and surveys the crowd with a casual smile. All chit-chat stops. A cathedral-like hush grips the room.

The beautiful blonde with the legs and the lungs… She sees him there haloed… Her eyes go way wide. Her breath quickens now as he smiles her way…

She gets up from her chair and walks toward him slowly, entranced. Her eyes probe with questions, seeking the sign in his eyes that will transform her world.

A deafening silence…

She melts in his arms…

Wile E. is king of all he surveys!

He dreams the dream we all dream of!

His story is ours!

Quick note: I’m talking to guys here, of course. Not that women don’t have their dick dreams, they do. They too want to rule, that’s a given. It’s just that, a lot of their dreams involve daycare and stuff, and unless the kid’s screaming and she’s got the car, a guy never ever gives daycare a thought…

(Part 2)

Anyway, Wile E. He dreamed the impossible dream. He did seven bits in the joint behind charges involving explosives. His hospital bills hit the moon. He owed Acme billions.

He risked and lost all, or damn near…

And then finally he said, to hell with this falling off cliffs! Fuck dancing with trains in those tunnels!

Forget that damn bird!

These days Wile E. is a vegan! Yessiree, Bob! In October ‘08, he inked a fat contract to push Bird’s Eye’s new veggie health foods on prime time TV. The guy’s stacking bank like a one-man cartel!

And in June of ’09, he dropped in on his high-school reunion—via parachute, man, right out of that Lear Jet!—and, cool as Denzel, he scooped up that blonde with the lungs and the legs and took off for a small private beach in Aruba…

Dreams do come true!

Robert Crisman watched the Roadrunner cartoons when he was a kid and empathized with Wile E. Coyote, some days more than others. Most guys do, whether they want to admit it or not.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Please Tell Me it's Just the Drugs

Laura had been awake for so long now. She knew she was headed over the deep end. The voices had told her over and over again that this was the beginning of the end.

With weary eyes she looked into the mirror again. She stared at herself stoned out of her mind. A small demonic creature crawled over her shoulder and laughed a horrible laugh back at her. With flailing arms she lashed out at the little minion from hell. Smacking the mirror over and over again, it shattered sending shards of glass every which direction.

The adrenaline rush was amazing mixed with the high she had already reached. She could feel her pulse in her neck sending what seemed like gallons of blood to her brain. Surprisingly Laura felt tears beginning to run down her face. Picking up a larger piece of broken mirror she strained to see her face in the dim lighting of the room.

Blood red tears were streaming down her face and within the reflection she could see the miniature minion getting ready to whisper something into her ear…

“I’s ‘ere to show you da way to da staircase o’ hell.” It hissed.

Laura had done some trippy shit, but never had she seen or heard things like this…

Sunday, March 14, 2010

FFF #24 - I Know That You Love Me

A kiss as sweet as the feel of rain on my skin in the middle of a hot summer’s day touched my lips, jolting me back to a life I had forgotten – a life where love was all that mattered and living life was just something to do.

Forgetting had been the easy part. Suddenly life had become important and all consuming. Love was placed on a back burner of our stove as our lives took on a whole new meaning of busy.

Busy was an understatement once graced with children and love was no longer a feeling but just words said in the passing on the way to work, before hanging up the phone, and right before bed…

Mixed feelings of love, desire, excitement, hatred, disappointment and disgust rushed into my head, heart, and body as I hesitantly returned the kiss to the owner of the soft lips that had just taken me for a ride down memory lane.

Before I could cover my feelings of confusion you caught a glimpse. Placing your hands on my hips you pulled me to you. Your arms wrapped around me provided me with feelings of comfort and relief that I’ve been craving but haven’t been able to find inside of any bottle of anti-depressants.

Holding my chin in your hand, looking into each other’s eyes you softly whisper to me, “Everything will work out, you’ll see.”

Bursting into tears I don’t quite see how. You brush the tears from my cheeks then without warning surprise me with a gift of yet another kiss – sweeter than the one before – sending me to a happy place where even memories dare not to tread…

Friday, March 12, 2010

Guest Write - Michael D. Brown

Intimations: Black Velvet versus Ebony

When lights are on, and I close my eyes, I see black velvet. When I close my eyes in the dark I see blackness opaque as ebony. In both instances, I'm well aware things exist which I cannot make out, but behind the velvet I surmise these things have rounded contours. In the blackest black I am afraid if I brush against something, I may receive a bruise from its sharp edges. In that instance I am more likely to remain motionless.

In the velvet there is poetry, as if only definition has disappeared. In the other instance, time may have passed, and I am more concerned with what may have occurred and less with exploration.

In the velvet the darkness seeps into me and is immediate. The ebony surrounds me and is infinite.

When I experience the velvet it is usually out of choice. Contrition and awareness are only a blink away. Otherwise, it makes no difference and sorry seems unattainable. Fear is pervasive.

The velvet comes often. It is a trifle. The ebony is always behind the door. It is the door. Once it slams, opening it takes some doing.

In the end, for everyone, forever, as we have no choice, is jet black ebony, the blackest black. Starless and eternal night wins. No one has ever broken even. All lose, one at a time, each and every one. For those who await their turn, closing their eyes and experiencing momentary velvet; trying to recall the lost, snatching a fragment here, a memory there, the light returns, and the darkness recedes. It, too, waits. For its winning is ineluctable, inevitable and complete. It comes when it will. As if it knows resistance is futile.

Do not go gentle...

But go you must—eventually.

Michael D. Brown lives and writes in Chiapas, Mexico. You can read more of his work at Outside-In.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

FFF #23 My First Night

I had to kick out the back window to escape. I had heard them talking about the funeral being tomorrow. The mortician, my uncle, had locked up for the night, and the only way out of the freezer was through a window in the back. I had helped my uncle enough times to know the morgue like the back of my own hand, which, no longer looked quite the same.

My hand grazed my chest feeling where the stitches were, making it known that an autopsy had already been performed. I bet the new guy did it, he had to of, especially after the looks he used to give me, the sick bastard!

I wandered aimlessly - sticking to the darkest shadows of the night and avoiding all light. I really needed some new clothes. The sheet I had stolen smelled of death and seemed to glow in the night. I felt like it was a neon sign saying: take a look, naked girl in a sheet right here!

A delicious smell stopped me in my tracks, a grilled steak with a hint of garlic. My nose seemed to lead the way without any prompting; I didn’t know how long it had been since I had actually eaten anything. A few days unconscious (not dead because after all I did wake up) without food and my stomach was grumbling in complaint. Well, I guess you could say I was dead… then reborn, but I like to think of it as unconscious until I suffer a true death.

Anyway, the morgue sat on the edge of town as to keep the smell as far away as possible. I knew I had trekked quite a ways when I found where the smell was coming from. Sitting on the corner of Kestersons and 12th, my dinner was waiting. He was dressed in a black trench coat smoking his cigarette, his back facing the building whose shadow I was hiding in. His hair hung in neat sheets down to his shoulders and I might have almost mistaken him for a woman but I just knew based on the smell coming from him that it was a man. I couldn’t explain it, but somehow I knew. I licked my lips savoring the flavor on the air.

I watched as he stubbed out his cigarette.

“May I have one?” I asked my voice barely above a whisper.

“Sure.” He didn’t even turn around to face me, just held his arm above his head a fresh cigarette between his index and middle fingers and a lighter between the thumb and index. I shuffled over to where he was sitting and took them from him. I quickly lit up and took a drag. My mouth watered even more for that delicious meal waiting for me. I handed the lighter back.


“Yeah, whatever.”

I took another drag and shuffled back into the shadow of the building. Taking a deep breath then sighing, he stood and turned around to face me. I kept my head down not wanting him to recognize me in case there was a picture of me in the paper. I watched as he carefully looked me up and down. I smiled.

“You need a ride somewhere?”

“No,” I smoothly answered, “I’m really just in the mood for something to eat.”

“Have I seen you before?” He stepped a little closer to me, I shook my head. “Maybe we’ve met?” I shook my head again. “Well then, how about I make you a deal?” He waited in silence for me to answer.

“What’s the deal?” I calmly responded.

“I’ll take you to dinner, if you’ll give me some dessert?” The smile on his face showed his intentions long before the words were out of his mouth.

“Sounds like a deal.” I smiled a tantalizing smile and took one last drag off my smoke. I rubbed the end against the building and threw it in the ditch. He took my outstretched hand and I felt him shiver from my cold touch.

Down a few dark alleys and side streets, we were now completely encompassed in darkness.

“Your eyes, I’ve never seen anything like them.” He whispered in my ear as he pushed me up against a wall. “Are they contacts?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I allowed him to kiss my bare neck up to my ear before I felt my fangs extending. I gently kissed his neck in return before taking the first bite.

Drinking his blood was like being served a gourmet meal by one of the best chef’s in the world. I just couldn’t get enough! With my nails dug into his back, and my leg wrapped around one of his, I drained him dry. His head drooped onto my chest and moving one of my hands from his back, I placed it just under his head in order to move it and felt my chest, no more stitches! I quickly let go of my victim and pulled the sheet off from around me. There were no marks whatsoever on my body, completely healed.

I quickly pulled the clothes off of his crumpled body and donned them. If each of my meals were going to taste this good and be this easy to come by, then hell, my new life was going to be great.

Walking back to Kestersons street, I thought about what I knew of vampires and the rules. Did they all apply, or only some of them?

Gawking at the moon, it was pure chance that I even noticed him walking towards me – my attacker – the one who tried to kill me. He grabbed me roughly by the shoulders and shook me.

“What the hell are you doing out? You still have another night!”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded taking his arms off of mine. My fangs salivated wanting a taste of him too. How does that saying go? Revenge is a plate best served cold? I had to get retribution for the things he had done to me that night…

“You were supposed to be in the morgue another night!”

“So they could bury me? Ha! Fat chance!” My smart ass comment didn’t seem to impress him. He led me away and to the place that I now call home, and so shall you.

It didn’t take me long to extract my vengeance once he finished explaining the rules to me, and just so you know… if you cross me, I’ll kill you just as easily too.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Guest Write - Jeffrey S. Callico

The Burning

His hands were on fire, they were burning hot. He shook them but couldn’t get them to stop burning. The flames shot from his hands and he felt the heat on his face. He had to turn his head to keep the heat from burning his face.

There were no flames; his hands were burning but they weren’t flaming, they were just burning hot and he couldn’t get them to stop their horrible burning.

He tried everything. Water. Cold air. Ice. A woman’s cold hands. He tried thinking of extreme cold, tried to get his hands to stop burning. Nothing worked. He couldn’t get them to stop. He was burning up fast.

Night came and the burning continued. The burning lasted until morning but didn’t stop. He got no sleep, no rest, no release from the awful burning. His hands were aflame but from flames he couldn’t see.

No one could see them, but he knew they were there. The invisible flames were destroying his hands. They were destroying him. He couldn’t get any of it to stop.

Days passed, the nights, he got no sleep, got no relief from the burning of his scorched hands. His hands were red with unseen fire. He left the house, he entered a crowded building, he clamped his hands onto the faces of everyone, he screamed for mercy, he pleaded for someone to do something about his fiery hands. He stood in the middle of the crowd then fell to his knees with his raised hands burning in the air.

No one could do anything but watch him burn.

Jeffrey S. Callico aka Wiredwriter writes using a different writing style that is yet to be duplicated. You can visit his eZine, Negative Suck, or his blog to view more of his writing.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010


May I find that elusive lucky clover?

And maybe my life will look up?

Remember the days when a smile was all it took?

Can I find what I’ve left behind?

How many times will I have to dance in the rain?

Maybe this MARCH I will find the lucky clover that will make my life look up and a smile will light me up like the old days that I’ve left behind after dancing in the rain one more day.