 
# 7 Slices

Smashwords Edition

Donny Swords

©2014 Donny Swords

All rights reserved.

Edited by Jennifer Herring

Primal

Publications
Sparks

Boots?

The Cleansing Bar

Sandra

Scotty

Dark Places

Only a Dream Away

Foreword

Dear readership,

This collection covers a few bases. I wanted to try to give readers some of my short stories that appeared in other publications without receiving much attention, and a few stories never released before. I want to offer the eBook free, to help these stories gain a little traction. Since I am offering this book for as little as I can or free, I would greatly appreciate your reviews on Amazon.com or Goodreads.com.

The mix of tales is eclectic, as I wrote some of them for the Indie Collaboration. I have chosen to collect them here. I enjoy working with the collaboration, and the verdict is still out whether I will put more stories out in their volumes in the future. For now, I plan to focus on Primal Publications and the high quality standards we maintain with each release.

While four of the stories here are horror, the first, Sparks, is not- nor is Boots?, the next story. The third tale, The Cleansing Bar, is the start of a broader novel entitled, Favor of the Gods, due out in 2015.

Time for further darkness...

The next story, Sandra, is from The Bitter Ends- Other Side of Town. This is the newest novel in the series. If you are not familiar with BE, each story is based on the character that is its namesake. Scotty comes next in all his insanity, fresh from The Bitter Ends (volume one). While intriguing, these two Bitter Ends shorts barely scratch the surface of the novels they originate from. If you like zombies, you will love these books. Check them out.

The next story, Dark Places, might stir something inside you...

The final story, the most obsidian, foul, and twisted tale I have ever written- Only a dream away is definitely not for the faint of heart. Consider yourself warned.

Thanks for your support,

Donny Swords

Sparks

The fatal error occurred around the hemi quadrant. Signs of oxygen leakage were apparent enough as the Dirvak race faced its last omen. As pressure escaped the cabin, it began to buckle. A thin vapor scented the air, the control panel sparked...

With one tiny electric pulse, one minute spark, thousands of years of hiding came to a close. The Dirvak's war with the Scala ended with the deaths of the last Dirvaks- Fula, Tantas, Zena, and Koat.

Damish, king of Scapinia had his victory, so with the combustion of Ranca, the Dirvak's ship, he ordered a new course. They would go home in triumph. The Scalas put their present galaxy behind them, shifting into hyper drive.

Forgotten were the few stones passing as planets in the insignificant galaxy. Forgotten once again was Ranca's wreckage, the Dirvak Vuls, and those things that when lost might be found.

Ranca burned like a firefly in the cobalt sky. Where Ranca's wreckage reached, ghostly light glistened glamorously over emerald greens and delicate ivories across the mountain prairie, orange and lurid. Ufburk, a mountain man of the Taraks watched the ship fall in fiery rain, as he sat frozen in the field.

Cultural eons separated the viewer from the viewed. What fell was alien to the Tarak race, and to Ufburk's dismay, it fell nearby, smoldering in the drop cliffs near Whispering Stream. The explosion's blinding flash still haunted his primitive mind, one that would have been as shocked to see a wheel as a detonating space transport from 57 galaxies away. Inventions, other than a few weapons of wood and stone, or netting were rarities to the bearded native.

For 23, Ufburk was fiercer than his peers were, though peak ages in his clan usually numbered a dozen years higher. In his 35th year, a Tarak became a hunter. This period marked the peak years of their physical prowess. With melancholy, he stared after the fawn he had tracked as it fled fleetingly, leaving him little or no hope of returning to camp with supper.

As pieces of searing shrapnel shot towards and entered the atmosphere, they howled through the wind, shrieking like the banshees at Tib Summit. Ufburk paid rapt attention knowing whatever he saw did not belong. His hackles harassed his hardy disposition, tingling his backbone like thorny feathers.

The frigid air chaffed his high cheekbones, as the wind whipped his knotted mane sideways and back again. He felt nothing- nothing other than the surmounting curiosity, and odd superstition. Where the sky bled disintegrating teardrops in millions of torrid torches tumbling from the heavens, Ufburk sighted a few pieces actually reaching land, near the stream.

Whispering Stream was a dangerous place- especially at night. The stream itself lay in a gulley, cut deep and dividing the land for hundreds of miles. The steep climb down, while treacherous, at least afforded a false security for Ufburk. Footholds located themselves under his searching feet, and handholds came easily. He wondered if he could locate the debris under the darkened night the gully granted.

Progress was steady, though the wind gusted sporadically seeking to throw him from the cliff face. He persevered; his thick muscles remained capable amidst the heavy strain. As he descended the darker places, swathed with shadows, his survival instincts excited him. He almost went back up several times. There was no telling what he would find. Whispering Gully seldom had visitors. As he made his way closer and closer to the floor, the scent on the air was thick- the smell of burning plastic and white hot metal.

The frozen floor crackled as the crust gave way to Ufburk's leather moccasins. He cursed his luck. Sound carried well in Whispering Gully. It radiated from the stony surfaces and ice faster than the predators lining the forest floor to his southwest soon would.

They did; their cries sounded awful, like a person slowly torn in two. Ufburk heard some of their strides and he marked their trajectories accordingly. He pulled out his stone cudgel, prepared to fight now that it came to it. His weapon was weighty, its head formed by ebon granite and iron. Most men would have died it the next few moments. Hearing a crinkle from a few yards off, he whirled with his weapon swinging in a round, vertical arc.

A strange cat, with striped fur had jumped at him, but now it lay broken at the spine and ribs, dying from internal bleeding. More came but Ufburk smote them. The exchange transpired in a blur of motions, shadows, and misting scarlet. Shattered and strewn about were Ufburk's assailants, failures trans-mutated to pulp with dust for bones.

He kept moving, low and silent. Waiting around freshly killed flesh was folly within Whispering Gully. Bad things could happen. They often did. He wondered if he was mad, not knowing he had the same disease every man has. He wanted answers. Knowledge, or the search for it, often precedes violent conflicts... and rivalry- a kind of knowledge linked to jealousy.

Something drives men in ways unmentionable. Compulsions trigger actions, perhaps set by genetics, maybe by culture. The concept of death does not dissuade the pursuer. The tribesman hunched lower, moving lightly to not disturb stones or soil. Things tracked him in the thick trees, often on higher ground. Here he was extra cautious.

He found a thin path, lit eerily by ghostly starlight, too far away, affording him an advantage as far as remaining silent, but still a creeping trepidation concerned him over what had made the trail. As he kept to the path, a kind of necrosis settled in making his skin crawl... paranoid thoughts took hold, forming questions.

What things had made the road he trod?

What lunacy possessed him to risk himself and explore such dangerous forests?

Nothing by way of satisfaction came to him; he would keep going. The only way was forward. There would be answers down the line. He cross-referenced his memories of the falling debris to where he presently was, comparing this result again, with where it came down. He felt confident the trail would lead him at least partially there, if it did not deliver him altogether.

He did his measured best to keep his ears open wide for the tiny dragons who found small game in the gully easier to corner. His father, Tiber, had fought with these beasts. The young barbarian had an advantage because of his father's bravery, and his tales about the scampa, the dragon-bred tribesmen who offered war to his clan every twenty or so years... well those stories added to his unease.

Luckily, Tiber claimed that most of the dragon-men and the beasts they intermingled with were dead- killed by his war hammer. Superstition kept most away from the gully, so confirmation one way or the other was not forthcoming.

The wind picked up, sounding shrill as it whipped through the branches. Looking upwards, Ufburk could not even see the cliff landing he had come from. Doubling back might prove a challenge. Perhaps he would find Tiber's ropes still hanging by the Falls of Ern.

Where they lacked technology, the barbarians, the Tarak people, had built a society advanced enough in language for going on forty ages now to have a working alphabet. Nothing happened without a recording of it, and though Ufburk's main function for his people was as a scout, he often studied the tablets old Valera kept in her basement.

Presently, he recognized the scene before him. The debris would be past the clearing, at the side of the westward knoll. Nothing heard him and nothing challenged him as he moved his hulking frame with feline suppleness and surety across the jungle floor.

Soon the jagged cliffs and jutting palms gave way to open skies and Ufburk did find himself in the clearing. No dramatic fires burned about, though a thin thread of smoke did rise on the other side of the five-mile wide western clearing.

The dragons would hunt here, if they still lived at all. Ufburk did not make a sound; he just crouched, waiting to ascertain if anything diverse had noticed his presence. He felt sure nothing had. Reaching out, he took a strand of tall grass in between his thumb and forefinger, dry enough to rustle considerably, too wet to burn swiftly. Perhaps it was a blessing that the debris, seen smoking in the distance had not burned down the field, though it left him a test as well.

Crossing was his only course of action to take- unless he went back. He was not fool enough to expend his energy and not achieve his goal... Ufburk was not quitting now. It took time. When he was finally across the field, and a few feet at best from the small object, the smoke had abated and the sun was high overhead. Making his way, the barbarian had used extreme caution, and though it was time consuming, he negotiated the grassy field without frightening so much as a reptile. He was proud of his achievement, though it was not in him to boast.

With the reason for his quest lying just a yard away, the scene felt surreal. It was. It wasn't because of the birds singing in the scattered trees a touchdown off, nor was it for the level of brightness in the otherwise dark gully that day, nor was it for the dangers he'd met, or for those he avoided. No, the reason was the content of the scene.

Presently, a young man, not yet a hunter, stood over an object unlike any on his world. Its shape was atypical of his society and did not fit in there, or on his planet. But Ufburk did not know of such things. He had never seen metal, except in its natural form, pressed as minerals in stone. The thing gleamed- a bright, chrome silver, gaudy and out of place. It was lengthy to one end, sausage shaped and wide, the other came down in an L-shaped section, wider, a grip, and finally underneath was a round guard, large enough for one finger, and inside of this- a lever.

Man and object locked in that single moment, when Ufburk, presented with something he could not comprehend stared fixedly at the gleaming object.

What am I seeing?

What should I do?

The answer came to him at some length. He had to bring the object back to the village; his father, the Chieftain, could decide the fate of the shiny thing. Well, that was the logical solution, but his instincts fought him. Each time he reached for the silver photon blaster his hand jerked back unwilling to see the reason in touching the thing. This cat and mouse game went on for a time, until he heard a cat cry out in the distance. Not wishing to fight that particular variety of cat, Ufburk put his hand out and touched the handle, curling his fingers around its cold, calculated grip...

Suddenly he felt more powerful. As peculiar as it was, his brain, already seeking to decipher the identity and uses of that which he clutched in his hand, his forefinger found the lip of the trigger guard and slipped inside... to touch the trigger. Those same instincts caused him to jerk his finger away as from fire, as if fingertips sense more than their owners do.

Nervously turning towards camp, Ufburk unknowingly applied tactics often taught to the bowmen of the village. He held the weapon out in front of him, almost as if he was a cop, although understanding police on his world would have proven just as difficult as it was to explain the space blaster protruding from his fist. He traveled in a hushed reverence, marveling at, and learning to like the weapon. Its lines were magnificent, its traceable design splendid, it fit his hand well, and it had good weight.

Ufburk had always been an upright member of his tribe. The Tarak people were a peaceful group, aside from their brushes with the dragon-men and Tiber's warring with them. They lived in peace as well. Unknowingly, Ufburk's find could change everything for his people, for his planet.

Would things really change?

His father would make the decision, not him... Or had he already made his choice? Ufburk had fallen in love with the shiny space blaster... He began to imagine not going back, and keeping his prize. It was his after all.

Heat rose from the forest floor, bringing steaming mists as high as his armpits, hampering visibility for footing. He kept the blaster away from the mists, selfishly worried they might tarnish its finish. He carried the weapon, still ignorant as to what it was, what it had done, and who once wielded it.

Ufburk did not need to remember, the weapon had memories all its own, and under the grip, a hidden compartment held algorithms and settings to kill many things too large or menacing for normal fire. For as much trouble as he had gone to, he still did not have answers. He thought he did, that his new bauble would tell the rest... unfortunately he might have been right...

Finding the cliff face he had used to reach the floor, Ufburk took a moment to thank the gods for delivering him without incident. Then he began to scale the cliff wall, his rigid fingers finding purchase as the pillars that passed for his legs found footholds, helping to propel him upward. His wide shoulders and heavily muscled back supported his massive arms and legs in their quest to reach the top as sweat beaded at his flattened brow, pulled taut the same as his muscles by determination. A few birds singing from the path above gave him all the extra he needed, and soon he was pulling himself over the ledge and standing alone in his people's forest... His mind warned him of danger, and he mistook that warning for outlying enemies from the forest, not for what it was, intuition.

He carried that which should not be... and his pride of possession would not let him go. As night began to give in to day, Ufburk allowed the blaster to enthrall him. Though he held the weapon outward, while still not understanding what it was, or why he did so, the Dirvak weapon actually held Ufburk captive. He resisted its curves, lines, glamor, and gleam not at all.

As sunrays began to warm the tree tops, the foul living there issued morning songs, decorated with some mystery Ufburk had never understood. He was a mystery now too, not the man he was even a day before. His discovery had changed him.

Tiber kept the topside (above Whispering Gully) well patrolled. Ufburk began to sweat, not from the rising heat of morning, or from expending energy, but from nervousness. For no reason, his teeth began to chatter, spasms pulled at his tendons, making his limbs difficult to use. His hollows leapt inside him. The sky grew brighter, and the weapon shone brighter. His mind, sensing some sort of pandemonium ahead, began to wrestle with his reality. Some clarity of thought had continued within his narrowed mind after all.

He was an outcast.

He knew that now. Ufburk was not sure why he was heading back- not anymore. Rightfully, he could escape, he reasoned. Tiber would not see him as an enemy. This would keep his father from sending the war dogs after him, but it would not see him left alone- to his devices...

The weapon was his! He had found it. He would keep it...

Yet reason clung on, an imposter to his ever-growing population of possessive thoughts and actions. Unaware, Ufburk began to creep along, his eyes narrowing to slits...

A beast, four-legged, of a race of stocky, long-haired cattle came crashing through the bushes startling the daydreaming Ufburk, whose transformation into a different person was still underway, as his sense of ownership grew, and the insidious promise of power, seductively disguised behind the outward beauty of the object of his desire, drove him on. He became unwilling to speak, even to Tiber. He would gather his belongings and leave... There was in fact no motive for even letting them see what he had. It was not theirs, but his. He would keep the ray gun and do with it what he wished...

And still, even while at the verge of casting his lifestyle and culture aside, Ufburk did not wonder what he held. Some say souls recycle themselves and that no matter the level of peace, others constantly threaten sanctity from the outside in. His life had been a bore. He was not his father. He did not want the Chieftain's rod...

Lifting his hide tunic, Ufburk tucked the thing away. Out of sight was far from out of mind. Out came his cudgel, in case someone saw the laser gun sparkle and tried to take it. On that day, greed became his new ruler, his father, nor anyone held sway over his wishes... even if he barely knew what he wanted... A life with his new bauble- yes, but what else would he have?

Would it be a life as emptied as his mind? With a singular desire, to keep the weapon from anyone else, not because of how they might use it, but because it belonged to him... No other would have it. It was not up for bargain, and neither was he. Ufburk's once open mind had begun to cloud. A new word found its way to his heart and mind- dominion\- He would make a new life- away from prying eyes. The weak would follow him, and under him grow strong, for the gods had given him a gift, which he intended to put to use. He was too weak to question himself, his reasoning, or motives, so he kept on.

Falk saw him to the gate, appearing put off by the larger Ufburk and his eerie behavior. The barbarian had entered his village home for the final time. Something spoke silently to him as he made way to his hut. It was not meant to be. Falk had already sent a message to Tiber, who in turn sent a summons delivered by Rumson, which Ufburk received then. Duty-bound but conflicted, the near rogue Ufburk went to his father, to hear what he would...

The village, made up of logs, mud, and thatch was set up around a central well. Avenues were constructed to accommodate Tiber's orders, after the great fires of Genghis Galna, the dragon leader who burned the old village to the dirt....

As Falk led Ufburk to his father, Tiber sat on his chair, fretting over what he would say to his son- to better his people. Tiber lived long, his years outnumbering the eldest of the tribe by a count of 115- young still for a Chieftain. Tiber's own father, Edils, was 259 the year he was born. Recordkeeping was an art amongst Tiber's clan, but as the scribes passed on to the great expanse so too did their wagging tongues.

Power is fleeting. Put in the leader's role, few are commanding. Tiber had no such problem. He sat atop his chair, a mountain of muscle with accomplishments that went back to his 20th year... when they had come. Edils had tried to appease the angry gods, the largest of which were the size of several huts- scaled, horned, wild-eyed, and fire breathing... the others, the worker class, were the lizard men of legends, the dragon people. The gods had been unwilling to hear Tiber's elder leader.

War- if one called it that- broke out. Edils fell to Barak, the dragon commander, his stone axe turned to dust by Barak's synthetic hammer, which sparked against the darkness as Tiber watched his father die. The Fair Gods ignored Tiber's pleas... and he had made Barak pay his debt- with his very life.

That was long ago. Presently, Tiber sat bolt upright awaiting his beloved son. As a father, he desperately longed for his son, oftentimes stubborn, to hear him and obey. The Dark Gods did what they wished, toying with his race whenever their messy lives spilled over onto the Taraks.

He might have avoided much misery or averted it altogether by telling Ufburk the truth. Tiber did not know what his son had discovered- and not knowing tugged at his sense of ease. He only hoped it was not too late. But the signs were telling. During Tiber's 94th year, a change had swept over his limited state. So, feeling something astir within, he went on his pilgrimage, to the channel of Miasma at Earth's end. There his core powers came to him. Each year his empathic impulses grew stronger, focused.

What his instincts said then came through the muck of unease, cloudy and worrisome... Tiber awaited his son, uncertain, but hopeful...

Ufburk appeared in front of his father nervous as before, with greed gnawing at his guts. The pistol no longer in plain view, his motives deftly concealed. Tiber looked every bit the Chieftain, with his arms folded across his chest in a gesture of outright dominance. His hunger ate at him, so overwhelming that Ufburk questioned his presence there- though truly his mind was actively searching for a retreat. He wanted to take leave of his father's knowing eyes, his penetrating stare. Near his father, the barbarian felt rather small and at 23, he could not make a case for his own wisdom versus Tiber's in the best scenario.

Rumson bowed to Tiber and departed when dismissed. Tiber assessed his son, to make certain to address him fairly. As Ufburk's sire, the ruler knew his son could be hardheaded.

"Son, where did you go to during the firestorm?"

"I did not wish to worry you. I followed the fire tails to the gulley."

Behind him, Ufburk heard the maiden Iredell gasp, a murmur swept through the chamber.

"Enough! Bal please encourage our company to take leave."

Upon Tiber's command, the chamber emptied at once, leaving only Bal, Tiber's two guards, and Ufburk alone within the room.

"Son, come to your father; take my hand, and let me ease your confusion."

Tiber ordered the others out, saying nothing more until their backs had long since blackened the doorway. Ufburk began to regard his father coolly, as his nerves subsided, and his curiosity took root. Father never acted the way he was then, and his son sensed the significance of his circumstance.

"What I am about to say can leave this chamber only in your mind. You may also choose to keep it in your heart- though to do so might hurt. Pain can be avoided my son, for everyone. When you took my hand, I felt what you carry."

Ufburk stiffened, attempting to stand, though he did not recall having sat. Tiber pushed his son back down smoothly- not roughly- before speaking once more...

"What you carry is evil, as are its creators. They called themselves the Dirvaks or the Scalas... it does not matter whom that thing you carry comes from- it must be quarantined. We cannot expose the Taraks to this danger. You must trust what I say as the truth, for I am your father, and I know what I am saying."

Seeing the confusion in his son's eyes, Tiber chose to explain further.

"You do not have to decide now. Follow me, where none shall hear us, and I shall explain everything. It's okay son- you can trust me. I will let you make your own choice, though what you hold is no longer a secret to me- come."

As Tiber stood, the significant Ufburk felt dwarfed by his father's towering status. Turning, Tiber motioned for his son to follow him, as they set down the brick corridor to the Chieftain's chambers, where beyond that, Ufburk had never known what rooms existed, or what they held.

Tiber came to a halt near a curtained wall, southward of his sleeping quarters.

"Beyond lies a piece of our history that only I know. Not even Falk knows everything. The following burdens me to speak of, but you must understand telling what lies beyond is an offense punishable by death. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Tiber traced the bricks with his meaty forefinger, where he pushed at the upper edge of one. Ufburk quickly cataloged the location of the lever, even as the wall stood open, revealing a deep stairwell cut into stone. Torches shot into life, and the barbarian's eyes widened at such sorcery, appalled that his father would allow its use after Shay brought the Tarak's lives to desperation in the frozen age.

Though the landing held a small stool, Ufburk knew he was alone with his father in the chamber. The secret pathway silently sealed behind them. They descended the stairs slowly. As he followed, Ufburk counted the steps as he descended. They reached the floor at 448. Darkness curtained all but the small area the torches lit, but the black chewed away at the illumination, leaving no edges where the ebon swath addressed the light.

A fated chill stole its way down Ufburk's spine.

Tiber stopped abruptly.

"Here son, are all of my secrets. I have shame in admitting this, though I must face my responsibilities. You may disagree with my tactic, but I have kept this world from failing through them. The peace we enjoy I created with my warring. For this, I offer no apologies. I wish I could have told you the truth."

"What truth father?"

"We are not alone son. The dragon priests and their men-gods no longer walk our lands, but in the stars overhead, their wars wage on. Several years back, I made my quest to the life stream. The Miasma said what it wanted for the bargain. I accepted so I could force the dragons from our world. What you are carrying must remain here, below us, so it will not alter our society by influencing greed and apathy as it tries to foster in you. You must let it go son- it's the only way."

Ufburk stiffened at his father's words. Backing away with his torch out before him, a rush of jealousy, greed, and confusion swept over the young barbarian. He was about to learn things he would rather forget...

Tiber hurled his torch behind him, where it brought light to a myriad of suspended faces, stone like and still.

"Behold, the masters of the forgotten, defilers brought low by the Miasma's love for the Taraks... Their alien designs conflict with our customs son. We would not know war at all, were it not for them. So here, the Miasma keeps them. I am only its servant. The dragon men still at large seek what you hold, if it does not stay here, they will find it."

"Ha! Yet I have found it! Pity you two shall not see the kingdoms I will topple and build. But luck has you losing..."

Still concealed, the blaster felt warm on Ufburk's hip, and as Falk addressed him and his father things began to make sense. Falk had always seemed odd...

Tiber blurted out his confusion, "Falk! What is the meaning of this?"

"I have come to free them," Falk's eyes sparked in the dimly lit cavern, exposing his true nature...

"Draco..."

"Yes Tiber, and I have come back- er- forward to offer you my revenge... You should not have harmed them Tiber... Now you must pay!"

A flash shone across their faces, lit by silver light, and a crimson beam cut through the air, vaporizing Falk in one scorching blast... The smell of charred flesh was all for a long, heavy second.

"May I keep the weapon guarded, or do you chose to kill me too?" Tiber implored of his son.

Ufburk did not move, and he did not reply, and while he waited to decide his and his father's fate, the world hung in limbo...

Boots?

Calmly- that's how he did everything. No move or gesture was dramatic. He moved with an effectiveness that subtly spoke. He knew things, had been around. He was experienced. The lines in his face said so. His easy manner suggested he learned from those adventures. Where he wore wrinkles, lines suggested happiness. He had earned those wrinkles while smiling.

It was dawn when we sat down at the table in his kitchen. We had pulled an all-nighter. I still could not believe it. I had nodded off for around ten minutes, while he had gotten up to stretch his legs a bit. When he came back in reeking of cigarettes, I was already up, with a cup of Joe in my hand.

"Sorry darling. Had to go out. Some of these are powerful memories. Whew, the shit I've done. I hope Jesus still loves me."

He had just said one of his famous lines. I had to pinch myself. I was in his kitchen, holding a coffee cup... I had his poster on my wall when I was 14. I am 32 now. It is funny. I do not think my feelings have changed.

"What do you say we go down to the beach? They can serve our breakfast out there."

"Sure," I smiled, probably awkwardly. I still wanted to pinch myself. I could barely speak. He reached out his arm, I hooked mine in his, taking his hand. Here I was, writing his story...

Sid Justice.

"Thanks."

"That's my pleasure darling."

Outdoors the air was refreshing, warm, but not sweltering, pleasant. The seaside sparkled as we walked down the beach, his beach; the whole island was his. Sid was smart when it came to his royalties. I wondered how he did it. How he was able to keep such a low profile. He let go of me and began to speak. I fumbled with my notebook and gave him the recorder to hold as he spoke.

"Toronto."

"Why was Toronto so wild?"

Did I really ask him that? It felt like a dream.

"Me."

"You? What did you do that was so crazy?"

I felt grateful for the recorder as Sid sat on a stone, knowing that I had not begun taking notes. That is the last time I worried about the notebook. The tape did turn out to be my savior...

Sid began to speak.

I could barely see his lips moving behind his beard, graying in places... He still sounded the same as he used to on TV or the radio, though he looked radically different. Gone were the long wavy tresses and full head of hair he had once enjoyed. His head was clean-shaven, a long beard helped interrupt his brazen baldness. His skin, a tanned bronze, shone shiny, clean, and soft in all the right ways. I realized I was swooning a bit. Even though Sid was in his late sixties, over twice my age, he still had the power to magnetize.

"I woke up at 8:49. At least that is what the clock said.

Dang it, I'm late again.

There was no need to put on my blue jeans and look out the window. The van was gone. I knew it. The guys never stuck around.

Somehow, I always found my way...

How I made it to everything was beyond me to comprehend, above anybody's ability in fact. It was only my second long road tour, in support of "Love Smokes," but I was already a road legend. I dragged my jeans on anyhow, trying not to wake up the red haired sweetie I brought back to the motel, and did not remember.

My feet felt sore on the shag.

Looking down revealed too much about the night before, the debris, my cracked feet, their tenderness, and scabs... the beer cans, liquor bottles, clear, green, and brown, all told the same story. Half the trip had ended like this. I frequently woke up with women, in strange places, barefoot, often broke, and lost. At least this time I had landed at my own motel, much easier to manage.

I slipped on my soft blue t-shirt with my bandmates' side project artwork scrawled over the chest stating, "Paper Zombies." I found a pack of cigarettes on the bathroom counter, and picked them up as I searched for my boots.

I could have panicked. The year before, in similar situations, I had. Things came simpler this time around. Often, I absentmindedly went about my actions, rolling through a kind of mental checklist.

"Girl?"

"Check."

"Is she awake?"

"Nope... Good."

"Showtime?"

"8 PM/Eleven hours."

"Boots?"

"Damn it."

I put one of the cigarettes to my lips, half-sneering, half-smiling as I stepped out of the motel room. The girl just kept sleeping. I let her. It was always better when they slept.

"Wheels?"

"Nope."

The band had grease-spotted me again. I often found myself in such predicaments, finding nothing but oil drippings where the tour van should have been.

I would have to make it to Toronto by eight... I checked my wallet- plenty of cash. No problem. I headed towards the gift shop. It was open. Ah, what a small miracle- I had woke up in my own motel. That was a good sign. The sun above was another one. I hoped it would be a nice drive or ride... or whatever form of transportation I would end up taking to the show.

The clerk greeted me as I came in.

"How may I help you?"

"Do you sell boots?"

"Yes. Only the two pairs. I have most the sizes in stock." The elderly woman motioned to the opposite wall. This was where mental conflict normally took place for others. Not so for me. I went to the boots, seeing the ones I wanted before I saw the other, less expensive ones.

"Do you have a 12 in those?"

It only took about a minute for her to find them.

"How about a pair of socks, do you have any?"

"Yeah, we have single pairs. You'll save money if you pick up the multi-pack though."

"No thanks, one pair works."

"Suit yourself."

She frowned as she looked at my feet. They looked rather beat up, as if I often went barefoot. I did, just as often as I blacked out. I got wild, whether the chips were down or not. I partied like a rock star, and rumors followed wherever I roamed.

The boots shone sleekly, and they should have, for $800. Eel-skinned and fancy, with silver tips... just the thing I needed for the Sky Dome that evening. I was going to rock, plain and simple.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

"Yeah, do you have any black denim jeans, and a belt that might match the boots?"

"I have a few."

She pointed them out, and soon enough I was leaving with my purchases. My wallet was $1300 thinner. So what? I made more cash every day. It was nothing but a thing.

I finally settled on a taxi, which cost an excessive amount. I sat in back doing rails and drinking vodka straight from the bottle. The driver kept asking if I would be able to pay, so finally, my nerves growing thinner, I slapped a wad of cash on her seat.

"Just drive, and don't mind me darling."

Looking at the cash, she was aghast.

"Where did you get so much money?"

"I'm no criminal- if that's what you are implying sweetheart. I'm a singer. A damn good one, when my head is right."

She smiled sweetly. I noticed her for the first time, not half-bad, for an older chick. I had my share last night. I sat back feeling confident I would make it to the show on time. Saying nothing, I stared at the forest going by on my right. Canada is a great place, but a cold one. I chuckled. I felt fine.

Toronto or bust!

I soon grew weary of staring out the window, falling asleep. I sorely needed sleep. I had not slept much the prior evening. Hell, I never slept. The driver was good for her word, dropping me at the Sky Dome ahead of schedule.

Dale was standing next to the van when I got there. After listening to the bassist's snide rhetoric, I balled Dale out for grease spotting me. I went inside for the sound check. It rocked. My voice cut through the stadium like a buzz saw.

I strolled off the side wing, without speaking to Alan, (the drummer) or Peter, (the guitarist). Five hours until show time... I went and found something to eat, a couple small sandwich wedges provided by the venue.

Sid Justice, I was two touring years in, and already the band was headliners. It was my name in the lights though. If they kept leaving me behind, I would do the same to them- permanently.

I went back to the dressing area, stripping by the small shower and got myself cleaned up. Then I went out to the van and found a new t-shirt, one not so stiff from spilt beer, or so spent.

The crowd began arriving around three, packing the parking lot. Hoots and hollers rang out over rumbling muscle cars playing thunderous heavy metal- turned up a notch above ten in most cases. This was a heated crowd, and a hefty one.

Surveying them, I was not nervous. A wide grin cranked my cheeks upwards, my eyes lit with enthusiasm. It was the show of a lifetime. I was ready.

I went out into the hallway, somewhat blasted by the substances and alcohol I had consumed, for the better part of the day. With me, this went with the territory. I had never missed a show, not even a note. So what? It was fun.

Alan was pacing the hall where it turned left towards the room where the sandwiches were. Sweating, and agitated- again. The drummer's nerves always failed him before the show...

"Dude, Alan, chill out buddy, no use having a coronary."

"That's easy for you to say."

"Yeah? How so? Last, I checked I have a bucket load of words to remember. I'm front and center. Honestly man, just keep the beat. You always do well, and, nobody can see you all that well anyhow. Get ready; we've got to rock their socks off. It's our night man. Don't let us down."

"That's why dude- it's a BIG gig. What if we mess up?"

"We won't- never do."

"Here puff this, it will mellow you out. I'm running down the hall for a snack. Want to come?"

Alan followed me down the hall. Dale met us there, his face full of desperation.

"Guys, help me hide- she's back!"

I smiled, "Here's your chance Alan. Everyone else has been there."

The bassist's face went rose in embarrassment.

"Nah."

"Where's Peter?"

"Where else?"

I should have known better than to ask. Peter was up to trouble. Guitarists often acted out, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake.

What else was new?"

Sid paused. I could see him process and disqualify what he was going to say. Any journalist ever to interview Sid Justice had to be patient. If I was going to succeed where my peers had not, I had to remain personable. It had not been easy to get this interview. I am not a pushy reporter. Maybe this is because I am not established. I did not get to speak to Sid on merit. I went through different channels. My goal was never a single interview. I want to write his memoires. You see, Sid is my hero.

He bent against the wind, palming an orange disposable lighter, propped a cigarette into his crooked mouth, and sparked it up. Three perfect puffs of smoke came from his mouth, as he turned towards me with a thoughtful look on his face.

"See, thing is darling, I might not want to talk about that afternoon."

"I know my fellow journalists pressed you, but I won't. Thing is Sid- well that is my point actually. You are Sid Justice. Everyone expects you to have a crazy story or two. I am confident it won't affect your image, whatever you choose to say."

"Damn, you're good sunshine, but I'll just say this."

"Girl?"

"Check."

"All good?"

"Yep, feeling fine."

"Showtime?"

"Ready."

"Boots?"

"Hell yeah."

We hit the stage at exactly 8 PM. Thunderous riffs sliced through the air like a giant broad sword. Applause carried over the wall of music, as dual bass drums shook the ground and heavy metal- my way- came to town.

All was mayhem. All was bliss.

My right hand made a fist around the microphone as I bent towards the stand, my hair blown back by fans, and my right eel-skin boot propped on the monitor speaker, left fist in the air.

"I can hear you scream,

I control your dreams,

I will make you fiend,

I control all things,

I can see your eyes,

You don't want to die,

I can feel your pain,

Stick the needle in your vein."

The crowd was electric and large, numbering in the high thirty thousands, and Sid Justice was on fire- kings for a night. Objects of affection and offerings of appreciation found their way to the stage.

By the end of the first number, I had to ask the crowd to hold back so I could introduce the band...

"Alan Parker on drums!"

"Dale Foster on bass!"

"Peter Paul on guitar!"

"Who am I?"

I bent towards the crowd, cupping a palm over my left ear.

"Sid Justice!"

"That's right!"

"When I ask you who you are, you say Toronto! Are you with me?"

"Yeah!" came the crowd's reply. There was working room.

"I couldn't hear you! Now, you can go around being sheepish, or you can rock. Lemme hear you one more time!"

"WHO ARE YOU?"

"TORONTO!"

"That's right! Goddamn, I think you have that licked. You know who you are. The question is what do you do? Why are you here? Why?"

The drums pounded out an infectious groove, the bass joined in. Spirits were at stake.

"Well I'll tell you why. It's why I'm here. It's why we're all here. When I ask what we do? You say 'We rock!' Got that?"

The drums kept on, the stage lights were low. A single spotlight shone over me, silver light framing my silhouette against the drum riser.

Now, what do we do?

"We rock!"

"Aw, c'mon, now I know you can do better than that, and you know it. Put your organs into it... WHAT DO WE DO?"

"WE ROCK!"

"That's right!"

Peter Paul's Stratocaster cut in, announcing Sid Justice's early song, Dreamweaver. The riff was enthralling, entrancing, evermore... it pumped pure magic into the air, igniting the crowd.

"Razor's edge,

Cutting blade,

No running to shelter,

No hiding from pain,

Shell of a man,

Lost in isolation,

A victim of love,

Martyr of hate,

Dreamweaver."

The second song had the crowd in pandemonium. Mosh pits erupted on the floor, crowd surfers rode on thousands of outstretched palms, and rockers wrestled for position, struggling to get their hand on the rail, the final barrier to the stage to avoid the ocean of bodies sweeping them away.

Alan's beat segued into the next number without pausing...

Dale's bass pumped a solid rhythm to the masses...

Peter's Am arpeggio sounded bell-like, beautifully blending with the rhythmic beat...

"Hey Mister- what's wrong with you?

What kind of thing did this to you?

Hello in there, is everything alright?

You're kind of drooling, and you look uptight.

Hey-ay-ay-aa-ay.

Hey Mister."

When the music stopped after the third song, we had won Toronto over. Whenever a group plays a show, the first couple of tunes put the audience on the fence. It is up to us to tip the fans our direction, no matter our legendary status. "Hey Mister" was a genuine crowd pleaser. I had a formula, the first song always rocked. Always a fast number, the opener had to give the fans release, a chance to pump their fists in the air. The second song had to engage the audience. By the third, they had to be singing along.

Toronto sang.

With every tune, the excitement grew. Bras and thongs, photos and signs flew onstage. The party was full steam. The audience sang every word.

"Chains" was the final song we played, the thirteenth tune that evening left the crowd in smithereens, rocked to the point of exhaustion. "Rock-xhaustion!"

"Another world brings us back,

High on sin,

Running with the pack,

Forever lonely,

Lonely is my name,

I can't live down my shadows of fame,

Sitting in a cloud of smoke,

Mind is blowing,

It's all a joke-

Chains."

"I didn't really care for the lifestyle, you know? I know it sounds like I did, free times, free dope, loose women- booze. It was all a front. I had to make a living. Toronto changed that somehow. Hell, it changed me. The after party was off the hook..."

As Sid spoke, I began to come to grips with who he was. I felt his wisdom, and sensed his kindness. He was genuine, real. I have met a few stars in my time, but none carried themselves like Sid.

"By the time I hit my dressing room, things were out of control. I remember the girl I brought along, and two others meeting me there. I don't think it's appropriate to kiss and tell, so I'll move on. But, that isn't why I mentioned it. They had vodka- about a pint I guess. It got me started. I went on a roll fairly soon after.

Occasionally, experiencing stardom is rewarding. We joined the actual party after my band had. As soon as I hit the door, I was signing photos. Someone handed me a beer in a red plastic cup. We laughed and joked. The girls I brought from the dressing room fanned out in the room. Soon, they were magnets on one of my bandmates' arms.

Funny how that works, these girls make their rounds- no offense.

Dudes passed me handfuls of party supplies- weed, pills, and booze kept coming... a lot of illegal stuff. I just took it all. If somebody said, "Here, take this," I did.

It got crazy. Things went askew. Hell darling, I probably drank a gallon of booze. Least I remember that much.

Booze is the great eraser. I can tell you that.

Dudes raced me with mugs of beer. We did rails in between... One girl kept rolling me joints. I remember talking to Alan with a gal draped on my arm. I was fully dressed- That's it."

Sid looked serious then, his lines stretched taut over his forehead, his lips parsed by his beard.

"Funny thing is that's actually a sweet memory. My companion was worth spending time around. Her raven hair, dark eyes, and curves amazed me. Guess I couldn't tell you her name if the horsemen showed themselves and the only way I could save us all was to know. It isn't too snazzy, just the truth.

Waking up was the crazy part. Now, not waking up per say. I came to. The world had been moving, and me with it. I just didn't remember a lick."

We came to a gazebo, and Sid motioned me to a seat. He produced a flask as he sat down opposite of me. His eyes sparkled gently, devilishly.

"When my brain finally knew what I was seeing, I sat on a bench, staring at my beat up feet, cursing under my breath.

Someone had spoken to me. I had my hand cupped to my forehead, frightened to look up. I did. As shock hit my system, the homeless man seated next to me stated the case.

"I don't know who you are, but you sure can party!"

The guy was blasted. His matted hair framed a deeply wrinkled face. What teeth my new companion had were stained a dark yellow or broken stumps. He was clutching a bottle of black label whiskey. I had one too. I had to look away.

I was screwed.

I surveyed the city in front of me.

Manhattan.

The city sparkled that day, the twin towers still stood... I took it in, shocked, and scared..."

"Blackout?"

"Yup."

"Girl?"

"Nope, worse."

"Showtime?"

"8 PM."

"Wheels?"

"Nope."

"Cash?"

"Nope."

"Miles to go?"

"300 or more."

"Dang!"

"Boots?"

"Nope."

"Things went differently then. We had phones in boxes, they took coins, but you could call folks collect. Sounds crazy now, but that's how it was done in the 80's. It took me two hours to find one, I kept asking people what time it was.

I remember dudes giving me strange glances. It was wild. Bless Jesus. I was only a kid. I had a devil-may-care chip on my shoulder. I don't remember how I shook the bum. I just remember finding a newspaper vendor. Following a blackout, it's always good to find out the date. Nothing could describe my relief fairly. My black out occurred the prior night. This good news diminished the odds I caused any lasting damage in my wake.

Finding a phone booth made me feel a bit better- except for Mike. Mike, our manager had gotten tired of my messing around. He was not happy. Even as he spoke to the operator, I heard his animosity."

Operator: "I have a collect call from Sid Justice. Do you accept?"

Mike: "Oh yeah of course. This ought to be good."

"Where are you?"

"Oh man, he was livid. I couldn't imagine how red-faced he must have been."

"Hello? Where are you?"

There was no use sugar coating anything.

"Manhattan."

"Damn it!"

"Lucky for you, the band plays Rochester tonight. I'm wiring money."

The agent explained where I needed to go to pick up the cash.

"Did you lose your boots again?"

"Yeah."

"I hate you."

Mike hung up on me. The phone went dead. I set out. You know the rest. That evening we recorded our live album and video, "Live at the Gates."

After The Gates released, Sid Justice became a household name. He wears a black silk shirt, blue jeans, and ebon motorcycle boots in the film. I used to play my copy of The Gates to death.

He rocked.

Sid spoke quietly as he cupped his palm to light another cigarette...

"Would you like to hear more?"

The Cleansing Bar

Freddy was just a little boy when it happened.

It was a dark night, on a cold winter evening. Though he was only five, he could still recall it in his dreams, not the type of dreams that healthy boys have. Quite to the contrary, the unwanted dreams were nightmares. Waking from the dead of sleep was an ongoing turmoil, the kind that hurt his mind in ways untold. Before that night, when all came unraveled, the same evening his parents died, he could recollect with dimness at best. His memories felt hazed and skewed by his adoptive mother, Terra. He could not say why, it was something within, a warning, or a calling, and it told him not to trust her. Somehow, Terra was controlling his dreams, his wakefulness.

It was not easy to live the way he did, in constant turmoil between fantasy and reality. In time, he began to doubt his suspicions about his dreams. Fitful as they were, they felt darker than his reality. Terra was his mom now. Trusting her was not possible; though he could persevere. Some days like this one, she seemed a more viable option than the uncertainty he would face if he left home, the only place he had known for so long. Throughout all of it, the thirteen years he had spent under Terra's roof, she still seemed a stranger, and stranger she grew.

Time had not been easy on her.

Theirs had been a life of simplicity. Nevertheless, it was an uneasy one. As he grew, Freddy began to suspect things of her, rotten things. It all started with the most innocent of acts, when he was eight, tall enough at last to operate the kitchen sink by himself. They had gone out berry picking, and the juice had stained his hands. He had gone to the sink to wash up. Not knowing, he reached for the odd grey lump of soap on the sill. Terra had a fit, one full of scorn.

"Never- don't you ever touch that," she screamed.

Confused, he dropped the cleansing bar into the sink. Terra had gone off in a tirade, until to her relief the bar came away undamaged. It was too confusing to bear, too easy to misread what was happening.

That night, the same as many before, he went to sleep recounting the horrid events that claimed his parents' lives and the beast that slew them. He could still hear its grunts, like sounds from an ape. This was not how it appeared. He could never forget. The memory etched its way into his cortex like the lines of a marble statue, and it refused to go. Not that he had ever seen a statue. In fact, he had never seen anything but Terra's world.

Since that night, he lived in an alternate world, away from all the terrible folks.

As he toiled day in and day out, he began to wonder about the things he dreamt. For each of his suspicions, none checked themselves. They all seemed warranted. So now, he began to wonder more with each coming day.

He wondered who or what Terra really was.

There was no way of knowing. Truthfully, he felt crazy. Whatever he thought- it could not be true- or could it? His dilemma grew in strength, until he was no longer himself. It seemed as if he was outside himself looking in.

He was almost a man now, and more confused than ever.

He sat there, at the breakfast nook, staring at the cleansing bar, unaltered throughout his entire stay. It had become more than a lump of soap. It was Terra's not so secret, secret. Why was that thing so important to her? He was at a loss to explain it- the lump, (never used for cleansing to his knowledge) was actually hideous, so it was not its beauty... but what was it?

He had to know.

Every night he slept like the dead. There was no way to watch Terra, or to find out why she obsessed over that misshapen bar. Sleep was a drug. For his nightmares, willpower was of no use. What would it be like to see the moon? Such daydreams drove him, as did the shape and scent of the trees, the appeal of nature, its beauty, and wilderness...

Freddy thought that he would never know anything other than how he lived then. For every night before sundown, his eyes glued themselves shut, eager to replay the horrors once again. They would not surrender, if even for one evening. The dreams were changing, and he felt as if they were altering him.

"What are you dwelling on son?" Terra looked tired, wicked really. Her jetting tufts of knotted hair made her look bestial, and from the rings under her eyes, Freddy knew she had not slept again. She rarely rested well. Truthfully, he could not recall ever seeing her asleep at all.

"Nothing really."

Somehow his response passed by Terra's scrutiny. He wondered why, she was always attentive. Nothing got by her.

"Well instead of doing nothing, go get us a hen. Pluck it better this time."

"Yes ma'am." Another chicken, oh joy. He looked again at Terra, she looked worse than he originally had thought, her eyes shot red with a yellow tinge. Her skin seemed pasty, but thicker, rougher somehow...

Terra turned, seeming exhausted, and then moved slowly away. She almost dragged her left foot. Freddy trembled, and somehow, his eyes again found the lumpen bar. Then he discovered something he had not noticed before. A tiny knobby portion, no longer than a centimeter was missing. As if his brain was waking, curiosity took him over. His inquisitive mind drew him towards it like a magnet. There he stood shaking; he did not want to believe what he saw, a single hair, which matched neither Terra nor himself.

Transfixed, he stood staring. His eyelids twitched excitedly, even as his throat and stomach plummeted spiritually. Sinking sensations took him to the depths of dread. His eyes burned, his cheeks went cold. The stiffness of his frame went unchecked. He did not notice the swelling pain. Tensions were there nonetheless. He felt these. A racing brain, awakening now, was trying to tell him something. He could not hear it. Despite the lack of blood flow to his skin, or its coolness to the touch, he began to perspire.

He thought his bowels would let loose.

No matter his will, the thing drew his unblinking gaze. The stinging in his eyes grew, and wells of tears began pooling from them, their trails only slightly evident because of his cold sweat. The thing could not cease to be evil, that unfamiliar thread. Frayed it was. Then his eyes found something worse, upon the wounded cleansing bar, a single scarlet drop...

Terra was there, in the hall. He did not hear her. He heard nothing, not even himself. His vision narrowed, not caring what was good for his brain. Locked in a scowl, she stood, seeing what would inevitably come. Delightful. Sublime... revolting... life charged such bitter tolls.

"Freddy!"

Terra's voice ripped his attention away from the scarlet strand, its reddish, entrancing call... shoving his mind from one twisted sight to the other. Ringed eyes rent with fever. Burning anger. Locked in a torture zone, with horrid tension, silence thick, he felt fear as he never knew before. Her hair seemed gnarled and nappy, more than when she had gone out.

It had not been that long, had it?

Truth was, Freddy could not say. Terra would punish him. Anger blossomed, staining her countenance. Cold hatred showed plainly in her pupils. Racing, reckless adrenaline coursed through him, until his hands splayed spasmodically at his sides. A revolution had occurred. His nerves betrayed him. Emotionally naked before Terra, he shook as if he was riding winds of a maelstrom.

Terra stayed away. Shadows played tricks with his viewpoint. She seemed to change temperament almost immediately. Her rigid stance relaxed.

"Son, go get the chicken. Pick a fat one. I am not feeling well. I'm going to lie down. Wake me before supper if I fall asleep."

Right away, he did not believe it. It was impossible. She was being kind to him... then he saw her tell revealed. A sharp sparkle in her sentient eyes, speaking of desolation and bloody death. For the span of a blink, it gave him the one clue that might save him.

For that was when he knew he was doomed...

"Yes ma'am," Freddy said normally, though he wanted to run... not knowing what to do. Only craving to get somewhere, anywhere, but there. Shock came then, but not with horror. Terra's demeanor softened. Edginess vacated her eyes. They were no longer cold. She stood there for a time, not speaking. As he took the sight of her in, Freddy still felt trepidation, his heart fluttered as it did previously... a warning.

"I apologize child. I have not been feeling well."

"I haven't been myself lately. Although I despise having to do so, I fear I need to make a trip. There is a doctor over the hill. I am going to visit him. Perhaps he can patch me up... You are going to have to stay here alone tonight. The trip is too long to take in a day. Do you think you will be alright without me?"

Now, Freddy worried. Terra had never left him by himself overnight. Never. He hoped he was concealing his fears well enough to fool her. He doubted it, even as he replied, his voice betrayed him, quivering slightly, exposing his dread...

"I think so. Do you have anything you need me to do?"

God, he hated himself. You would think that throughout a lifetime of secrecy, he would be better at deception. He was not. He watched Terra's eyes, somehow understanding that when a woman lies, her eyes still reveal the truth...

"Well, I could not sleep at all again last night, so I spent some time in the shed. It is unruly, quite the mess. You can steer clear of that... and the turnips in the first two rows are ready to be harvested, could you be a dear and pick them for me?"

It was there, briefly, that hard spark of cruelty in her lying eyes. He pretended not to notice, feigning concern.

"Yes ma'am."

"I sure do wish you felt better. I'm going to miss you... Picking the turnips won't take long- it leaves me with a lot of time. Is there anything else?"

"Go ahead and do some weeding, but leave the shed be. I will handle it when I return. If you still have too much time on your hands, read the Bible."

"Okay. When are you going?"

He hoped it was soon. Freddy had no idea what he would do while she was away. He wanted to run, but the truth was, he had no idea where to go.

"Good. I am going to wash up. After I am done, I will cook you some breakfast. The trader was by before dawn, I bought us some fresh bacon. How does that sound?"

"Delicious. Thanks!"

He meant it. He loved the trader's bacon. It had never occurred to him that the vendor and he had never met. An early riser, he supposed.

"You are welcome, Freddy dear. Now be a good boy and get that chicken. I will put it in broth before I leave. There is some dough in that bowl over there, you can make the noodles."

Terra walked away, but he felt no relief. He tried not to think about that hair, the scarlet drop. Going outside, he went to the henhouse, and chose the fattest hen. He winced as he put its head on the chopping block, and watched in fascination as its headless body ran amuck for the brief time it took for death to override its nerves. If he lived a thousand years, he thought he would never understand why chickens did that. Goats did not. Neither did deer. Spasms in death seemed normal. Running did not. Busying himself with plucking and cleaning the hen did nothing to remove the nagging memory of the hair, or the drop.

By the time he went inside, he was deeply troubled. Even the bright morning sun had failed to make him feel better. Usually it did. Somehow feeling its warmth had always helped, until that day.

He found Terra seated at the nook when he entered the kitchen, hen in tow. Her hair, combed and damp, her eyes less ringed. Her voice tired, but kind.

"Could you bring that here? I would like to see how well you did..."

Normally, he would have been frightened further, but he doubted that was possible. Without a word, he brought the hen to Terra for inspection.

"See? I knew you had it in you."

A compliment? Hair raised on the nape of his neck, telling him to beware. In all his years with her, Terra was not complimentary; she was often the opposite, trite, unfair... Her eyes kept striking Freddy- in places he could not fathom... but just then, they seemed sad.

"Thanks," he said offhandedly, sounding awkward, his voice shaking, while uttering only a single syllable.

"Put it in the sink. I will get started with breakfast in a second. Before I start, come and have a seat."

His heart hammered, his guts flipped. A cold stream of sweat rolled down his back. Speaking again, he was surprised he sounded normal.

"Yes ma'am."

Attempting to appear nonchalant, Freddy went to the sink, doing as Terra told him. Nothing could have prepared him for what came next. The cleansing bar was gone... his knees buckled, and he lost his balance, rapping his chin on the edge of the counter smartly. It all came quickly, his returning to his feet, attempting to regain his composure.

"Are you alright?"

A tense silence followed Terra's remark, seemingly an hour; realistically it lasted merely a couple seconds...

"Uh yeah. I just slipped, that's all." He rubbed his chin as he replied, feeling it already swelling, making his sore jaw feel taut.

"You should watch where you're going. Come and sit down."

Terra's voice was clipped, and to Freddy, uncaring.

"Yeah."

He seated himself beside her. Uncharacteristically, she took his hand. His pulse accelerated, racing once again. The sweat returned, warmer this time, dampness soaking his palms, streams rolling down his spine, under his pits.

"I wasn't going to tell you this, but there is a chance my trip might take longer than I hope. There is something wrong with me Freddy, frightfully wrong."

No kidding, he thought, as she pressed on.

"You might have to stay alone for a while. I am unsure. If that's the case, eat as you see fit, I will not trouble you over it. A growing boy needs nourishment. If I am not back within a day or two, kill a goat. It should keep you fed for longer than the hens. It would be best if you saved them for last, eat the ones who do not lay eggs first. I hate doing this, but it is better I take care of myself. I am of no use to anyone in this sorry condition. I hope you understand."

Freddy sat silently. She was lying for sure. He could not run. She would know... The sweat stopped, going dry. He forced himself to answer, fearing her response. Again, he pretended to be concerned...

"What is wrong?"

As soon as he asked, he knew he should not have.

"If I knew that, I would not need to visit a doctor!"

Terra did not raise her voice, but her response was grating. Then, as quickly as her anger showed itself, it vanished, as if in thin air.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay boy. I am just agitated."

"I understand. I am worried too."

A genuine response, he was concerned, only it was for himself.

"I will be leaving soon after we eat. Leave the shed alone. It is chaotic, but I have a plan. I will sort it out. If you get restless, dig a pit. I will bring us a hog to roast after the doctor fixes me."

Boy? Dig a pit? Now his concern was not concern at all. Panicked, his palms began to itch, as fat beads of sweat clung to his brow, until they rolled uncaringly into his eyes.

"Yes ma'am. Please get well. I don't want to live without you long."

Terra searched his eyes, as he made a conscious effort to relax them.

"Very well," she replied, dropping his hand dismissively.

"Now, about breakfast."

It turned out to be the finest meal they had ever shared. Freddy's favorites- fat strips of bacon, eight each, laid out beside three eggs, sunny side up, four fluffy buttermilk biscuits and boysenberry jelly. Terra said little else, and if she did speak, her words were pleasant. She prattled about scripture, recommending passages from the dog-eared bible she kept at her side.

Before she left, bearing a backpack, a walking stick, and two jugs of water, Freddy had looked in her eyes. They were not flinty, not unkind, reflecting love and a virtue he had not known in them. Watching her walk away, Freddy felt remorse and a foreboding that riveted him there, gazing after Terra as she disappeared in the dense trees.

When at last he could see her no more, he sighed, feeling a fright he had not thought he could have- uncertainty.

Terra felt his eyes upon her back as she went, trying to appear casual, letting the warming rays of Sol ward away the destruction of dusk, the haunt of the insidious Luna. All through it, she had wanted to run. Her leg would not permit it. The hunt had taken a hunk of it, and it was only through iron, heated to an ember red and placed on her unwitting flesh that she still did not bleed. Too many years had transposed themselves over the sense of impending doom she felt for her simply to let them go. She had checked the stars, read her charts- Freddy's. She saw his secrets there... She hoped that she had done enough, that his curiosity would keep. His path, hers, well those depended on this trek.

Under the canopy of the oaken forest, Terra felt the physical omen of her enemy. A shadow lingered cold and unrepentant over the veil of reality. She saw the ritual she performed, the rites desperate and defiant. She felt her presence, the cloaked one, and Terra felt the hold the maiden held over the land. Jezebel swayed many away from the shadows of the great beasts that reigned this expansive forest and the swards beyond. There was not much in the way of hope, she sensed the wound festering. Little time remained. She had no other choice; she must go to the shaman, though they had never met eye to eye.

Perhaps, even if old Blayock would not heal her, then at least he would send one of his ravens to Van, whom a winged messenger might still find in this realm. Storms were brewing, the order must know of them.

Some miles off from the homestead, she no longer felt Freddy's penetrative mind. There she sat, against a tall oak, whom she knew as Maggie, glad for Sol's rays cutting like a magical sword through the clouds and treetops to lie upon her chest. The lovely caress of the sun warmed her heart, and Terra found hope for her kind, the Galendiers, whom the one god forsook. She pulled out the napkin and ate the bacon she brought along, knowing that as she chewed slowly she would not dine on cooked flesh after that instance. It would be some time off when this form would contain her spirit again. She drank deeply from the water jug she held, as she savored the meat, praying within her mind to the god of balance, asking for courage in the face of adversity, for cleverness in low odds.

Her lunch was the last act she languished over on the jaunt, and the last time she donned her mortal disguise. Finishing the meal brought back the burden the restful nourishing had granted, and her beloved Sol, the sun god who brought all life and watched all deaths indifferently in his solar dominion became obscured by clouds. Herein, as she sensed an angry storm brewing, she felt Dagon's eye upon her, and she cursed him as she had always.

Terra emptied her pack into the soil, procuring first the jewel of Isis, secured on a golden rope, which she hung over her neck, to ward away the unwanted. This necklace was a gift from a vampire Terra once knew, whom had found it in a tomb near the burial place of Ra... it blinded Dagon. In response, the god of storms gave protest, and rain pelted suddenly through the trees as lightning cracked and thunder clapped. This did not dissuade Terra from her task, as she bent over a bowl, swirling her sacramental potion, which would ease her transformative flesh and sooth the aches of growing bones as she shifted...

Blayock was long off, an arduous run.

Freddy felt exhausted early, as if his energies magically turned to mist, floating away in the blackening sky. He felt a dimming shadow, creeping over his mind. Gooseflesh excited his trembling arms, and he felt little desire to stand. He lay on his bed, the dog-eared Holy Bible held aloft by his ever-weakening arms at midday, his eyes heavy and wanting sleep. It was a battle lost, sleep was claiming him, and he was worthless against its fortuitous embrace. He meant to stay awake, had thought he could for once see the moon. Drooping now, sleep inevitable, his eyes stole over one last line from Jeremiah, as the Bible sat lazily on his chest:

"I will appoint over them four kinds of destroyers, declares the Lord: the sword to kill, the dogs to tear, and the birds of the air and the beasts of the earth to devour and destroy. And I will make them a horror to all the kingdoms of the earth..."

In his dream, he stood in a glade. Disjointed images flitted by in a surreal abundance. Rings of smoke rose at the edge of a campfire, and he watched as figures, mostly shadows masked by the glowing embers that hurt his eyes, laughed gaily over words he did not comprehend. He felt his stomach rumble, and smelled the raw meat a bearded man struck over the flames on a forked stick. Within the dream state he was the alien, he did not sense so much as know it, and he wondered why it felt so natural.

Then as he snuck towards the joyful group, a black cloud erased the dream, leaving nothing but an expansive abyss in its wake. Freddy slept like the dead, and it was hours before he woke to birds singing and rays of sun peeking through the shades. He felt angry then, sure it had been Terra. Positive she had slipped something into his breakfast. His head was cloudy. Sitting upright, he went to wipe away the sweat from his brow, noting he must need a bath, because he felt foul. His hand came away crimson. For the longest time he just stared at the red swatches, his stained arms, and the black grit under his nails...

He was frightened, though he was not. Confused, but clearheaded, Freddy stood and walked throughout the house looking for any evidence he could find that would help him understand how he came to be filthy, nude, and bloodstained... Going outdoors, he found the hen he killed, and this offered his answer, which he readily accepted as it had happened once before. It had always been his job to harvest the chickens, he must have been dreaming about it and sleep walked. Terra had caught him doing the same thing before, leading him inside, and telling him the next day after inquiring over what he recalled.

Freddy cleaned the chicken properly and brought it inside, glancing with solemnity at the place the cleansing bar once rested. Everything was still a mystery, a way unknown. Sighing, he exited the kitchen and drew a hot bath, placing the hen inside a pot to boil. Having already decided on soup, Freddy was half there. Despite all of his contemptuous feelings for Terra, he missed her. Her cooking had a flair his could never match. He scrubbed away the stains from his hands, never giving them a second thought. Wondering at length over Terra's haggard appearance, the frayed wits she displayed before her departure vexed him.

The bath was warm, and despite having slept the prior evening, Freddy fell asleep. Dreams did not find their way into the sheet of blackness he lay under for some time. Eventually his senses picked up the aroma of cooked chicken, and his eager stomach prompted his wakefulness. Cleansed, he stood up, stepped out, and began pat drying the cold water from his puffy, wrinkled skin with an over-sized towel.

He went about deboning the chicken, a simple task, as the meat fell away from the bones easily. He added his noodles to the broth, and vegetables, carrots, peas, and celery. Sitting outside on the stoop, he watched the darkened clouds as they lolled against the azure sky like cloaked villains. Freddy had completely lost himself; he could not recall Terra's instructions. He just sat staring at the sky, waiting. What he was waiting for, even he could not say. Certainly, it was not the soup. Something other than the clouds that crept like death over the sapphire sky the cumulous shape shifters put their stranglehold on lurked in the back of his brain. A darkness fell over the yard, deep, over the emeralds of Terra's garden, and grey over the chicken coup, gave off a surreal impression. On this ordinary day, Freddy's mind had fits. All seemed to be in its rightful place, but something was decidedly off...

The pot made hissing sizzles, stirring him from his seated position, and like a robot, he rose, obeying the over boiling fluid beckoning him. Nearly catatonic with self-absorption, he mechanically shut off the burner and pulled the soup from the heat, sloshing some over the stovetop. Terra would have been livid had she seen this, though he did not notice the mess he had made. Walking away, he went to his room to lie down, forgetting entirely to eat.

He did not feel right. Shutting his eyes against his swimming head and the nausea it held, he fought the waves, a growing headache... his vague concern.

Night came rapidly. He watched its shadows like long fingers at first, tickling the surfaces of the family room, growing like morphing beasts in the pale afterglow of the sun...

Mocking laughter followed her homeward. Blayock had been unreceptive, unwilling. The change had come. She had no way to ebb it. Why the old mage did not lie dead in a drying pool of cooling blood that very moment was beyond her comprehension. Blayock had his strengths, but wounded or not, she could have done away with him. In this form, few represented a threat.

Feline and swift, Terra ran, darting across glades with the ease of a gazelle. Wildlife parted before her like the Red Sea did for Moses, dashing to hiding places she knew all too well. They need not fear her tonight. Her nose drove her, like a beacon she smelt the blood she must spill. It was too late for anything else. Even in this shape, Terra felt sorrow, knowing where her selfishness had driven her, where it drove her now.

As if in league with the dark spirits who hold dominion over this realm, the clouds spit and thunder crackled as lightning forked the sky. She slatted her eyes against the sheeting torrents of precipitation, and pressed her limbs harder, energized by the damp. Deterring her seldom occurred. Nothing impeded her swiftness, or delayed her if she set her mind against it.

Terra was going home; the gods would just have to play other games...

Inside the shed, Freddy was aghast. Seeing the stains, blood rust, smelling the inhuman scent, which left him doubled at the waist- heaving. Disbelieving eyes scanned the sight before him, laid coldly on a slab. At first glance, the cleansing bar, sitting in a puddled mess of gelatinous skin, fats, and blood- before what appeared to be a man. Until he looked at the spot where hands would have been... What was he seeing? Had the bar performed this cleansing?

The bar was a weapon, a tool to wipe away the disguises of beasts amongst men...

What it revealed... Did Terra stop such beasts?

"Why did you come in here when I asked you not to?"

Terra's firm voice made Freddy jump, and he reeled around, adrenaline surging within him. She looked vital then, and he... A craving swept over him, and he fell, bones stretching swiftly, fur and claws sprouting from beneath his pale skin...

Terra's eyes widened as she backed away. Hearing his bestial cry rising sharply from the shed behind her... she fled on all fours, her present form could not match threat for threat this time. Freddy rapidly shifted to a shape Terra had held hope against facing, and she, a mere witch, could not stop him. Her powers could not stop his kind. So she ran... and he after her, as Luna stared blankly upon them.

Freddy found his freedom within that first hunt, his place in the night woods, where his hauntings would continue, and those who wandered the dark forest were lost and never heard from again. His red eyes rimmed with his wolfing hunger, as his teeth snarled at the wind, eager to taste Terra's blood, as she prayed to gods who did not care.

Read the full novel: "Favor of the Gods" by Donny Swords in 2015.

Sandra

The town had always been a sleeper. This did not matter. Life can be quiet when you want it to be. Living is not always hard. Hell, it is as natural as breathing. Things are not as they seem.

Sandra believed this. The damn thing could be round for all she cared about it. The world, that was. Trends held no gist where she lived.

Woods are dark places. In the middle of the Bible Belt, they got even darker. Sandra could not have given a damn. She was 76, what was there to give a hoot about?

Life is full of surprises.

Like that morning, when she walked. Some days, walking became an issue. Others, it was an all-out war. Like today, hell she had to fight to get her knickers on. Only God knew how her shoes had made it on her feet. Simple as that, she stood frozen in arthritic paralysis halfway to the mailbox. That damn arthritis came in fits, she should have known better anyhow. Any time it was this hard to get dressed she ought to stay in bed...

The woods were deep where Sandra lived. Time came harder, but it kept her moving. She would freeze for sure if she stopped for too long. That kind of life was for cop-outs, soft people. In these parts, things came away with splinters on them if they came at all.

Sandra had lived long enough to endure her fair share. The world held staggering beauty, but it was full of abundant bunk as well. What difference did it make? The whole world seemed to want to move on without her. This put her at odds with it. She did not hanker to perish.

Sandra's 76 years accomplished several key things. Of all of them, the smooth ones, and hardened too made her love life. Life offered more each day, if one would only let it.

That thought got her moving.

Sandra Tanner would rather fight her condition and go on than be one of the softies. They just gave in, whining. Yeah it hurts to die. It hurts to fight it too. This was every morning, wrestling with death. All her thoughts circled on it.

Everyone she knew had succumbed to it. Even her beloved fell.

She had other things to do but dwell on her issues. Some effort got her creaking legs moving. Her place was slightly less than a mile down from the main road. The post office refused to deliver down her long drive. She made the walk most days, when her knees permitted.

The drive, a pair of ruts for most part, ran through the deep woods, followed by a clear-cut. The forest was a wild one, overgrown- gone to nature. Needing a way to tame her land, Sandra sold the timber. It cost nothing to clear off the fifteen acres. The timber sales lined her pockets. Ideal. Cutting the trees was the hardest part.

It was for the best. An old woman walking to her mailbox alone required a clear view. Dark, shadows even, bothered her. Things lurked in the dark spots- had to. She had seen them on the property, wolves, predatory cats, even bears. The cats loved the shadows. Homicidal things creep in the dark.

Crowded places, busy ones, were not her forte. The open field at least seemed less permissive to misdeeds. She could only hope.

Arriving at the crest of the hill, where a view of the clear cut opened, Sandra stopped for breath. It was peaceful at first. The temperatures were warm for Summer Vale, but pleasurable to her arthritis just the same. The walking had loosened her up. She actually felt good for a change.

Sandra was early.

A few nearby birds sat chirping and this was the only noise, other than the slight moan of the wind brushing her hair back lightly. She would wait where she was. Marilyn did a passable job as a mail carrier, but talking to her was another matter.

A gleam flashed across the field and Sandra saw Marilyn's mail truck turn the corner to Thayne Street. Then, she saw something else, from the parameters of her vision, where things stretch and skew. Something shadowed, scary, and silent. One awkward jerk later, it was gone... vanished, poof!

Not daring to ask herself the tough questions, Sandra stood on the hill. Despite the warm day, she shivered, inwardly and outwardly. Her eyes tried to follow the shadow, but it had gone. Despite the view, and its lack of trees, the field still had a few small Muscle Woods. Her eyes froze there, on the trees, wishing she had not left them standing, seeing nothing, and not knowing why.

Something remained hidden in the dark shadows the trees cast, and now she could not see it. Sandra scratched her neck. Something bugged her about the shadows she saw.

When scanning the tree line proved fruitless, she debated going home. The mail would be there soon. Should she stay and wait, or just go home? Home was a powerful motivator. No reason to fret over mail, the issue was whether she wanted to stand still, while the thing that made the strange shadows hunted her. She had not gotten this old without great instincts. A voice inside her, working on her nerves, her guts, told her something...

It said, run.

Running was another matter. Sandra left her sprinting suit at home. There would not be any running from her today.

The sound of the mail lady's jeep changed the direction of her thoughts. Sandra was just about to turn back when thoughts of Marilyn, the mail carrier, sent shocks to her system. The shadow had not headed towards her. It went towards the road.

The jeep angled towards the turnaround. Marilyn often stopped and walked the mail over from the turn out.

Probably safer, Sandra reasoned.

Sandra did not think it was safe, and was about to open her mouth to warn Marilyn when a shrill shriek shot by, sonically tearing reality apart. The cry split the air, tinged by agony and regretful sorrow. All emotions tied to dread were present in the scream. Horror came thru plainly. Fright showed its ugly side. Revulsion addressed disgust and bitter distaste. Helplessness and despair settled in. Nuances in sadness and powerlessness tagged along. All of it in one scream...

Her eyes followed the sound.

Whatever was happening was behind the jeep. Sandra could not see the whole incident. The zombie's silhouette and Marilyn's spasmodic legs, jumping and twitching before her final throes took her had been enough. It wore a businessman's suit, and it meant business. Marilyn stopped screaming, leaving behind deafening silence.

Shortly after, the figure emerged from behind the jeep, framed in sunlight, and sinfully still ensconced in shadows. Sandra caught clear sight of only one feature, the thing's hungry, malevolent, sentient eyes. Grey eyes, not cold as much as calculated, eyes she would never forget.

The significance of a moment makes all the difference. Often passed over as unimportant, seldom does a single moment change everything. Scarlet ribbons, dappled by sunlight, spread like missiles through the air. They shot out, and they too disappeared into the shadows, the same as those silver eyes had.

Sandra got the gumption to get moving before the actual moment. Then, the eyes returned briefly, long enough to unsettle her, to mold her, to make her frightened... desperately and deathly afraid.

She knew who he was.

She got moving. Her body responded, somehow granting her a reprieve. She was not going fast, but she was moving.

Get to the house... Get to the house...

Her brain did not register more. Pressure does funny things to people. Sandra felt sideways.

A zombie killed Marilyn?

Looked like it.

Rheumatism was the last thing from her mind. Gone were her years and thoughts of death, her present and reality had awoken her one desire. The desperate need to live quickened her.

She pressed harder, debating whether to call the Sheriff or the State Troopers first. Deciding on the State Troopers seemed easiest. Their field office was closer.

Her mind raced, though every backwards glance rewarded her nothing to go on. She had no visual confirmation of what she feared. The eyes had vanished, albeit, their memory had not diminished.

Aches tugged at her in several ways, and sharp jabs, stabbing darts of pain rippled in places. She ignored her body's protests. She was trying to save her hide for crying out loud.

The silence felt like a prophecy, her open prison without sound. Melancholy snuck its way into her psyche, attempting to derail her escape. Consternation came into play. Remembering those calculated eyes, dead, though animated, dull, but sentient, left her pleading with the Lord under her huffing breath.

She had stopped looking over her shoulder, straining to hear the warning before death's claws gripped her. If Dietrich had gone mad, well, then that bastard meant more than trouble. He always had been a pebble in her shoe. He was back there, somewhere, a boulder now, waiting to bowl her over.

Intuition had always aided Sandra, and now as she fled and her cabin grew near, she knew what she must do. She could not have said how such awareness led her where she went. Her actions came across as desperation, though they carried her amnesty.

Temporarily, she heard rustling. Perhaps it was twenty yards back. Maybe the crackling of twigs and the soft crumbling of leaves fell twenty yards behind her. Perhaps he was closer.

Her voice escaped her unwillingly.

"What do you want? Leave me be!"

A moan, closer than she thought issued from her pursuer... something, the cord of sanity, wound so tightly inside her brain, came unraveled. Sanity eluded her.

In a panic, she bolted, forgetting age, cursing God and gravity. She lunged at the front porch, caught her right toe on the stoop and fell, face forward, into the front door. Her face smacked the jamb, as she sprung quickly to her feet, depressing the lever on the door handle.

Essentially, she should have died there, outside her home. Dietrich was at the step before she hauled herself through the door, his fingers brushing her dress lightly. Then the door slammed in front of the zombie, bolted, and locked. Sandra grabbed a dining chair, wedging it under the handle.

Presently, she cursed herself for selling her shotgun to Deputy Washington. She glanced about. There was no way. She could not save herself. Nothing within her home, especially her, would stop Dietrich...

His eyes had not lied.

Violently, the door began to rumble as he shook the handle. The world had shrunk. Gone were the birds, the trees... friends... A single foe was all that remained.

As suddenly as it began, the door stopped trembling.

A ragged breath gushed from her lips.

Time melted away, leaving only the present. Fear shot like electricity throughout her. She suddenly felt weak.

Dietrich's silence was worse than his hauntings.

Then, the quiet broke... with a crash, and the tinkle of windowpanes falling in splinters and glass shards dropping onto the tile in the family room. Sandra shot a sideways glace towards the din. Cold with shock at the sound, she felt ill, though action found her once more seeking salvation. His eyes became the catalyst for her every deed.

She had to escape those eyes.

Rushing, she bounded towards the kitchen, halfway skidding to her destination by sliding on the cool tile on her heels. She heard him hauling himself through the window... His feet touching down on the broken glass...

Sandra ripped open the hatch to the root cellar, recalling the axe down there. Jerrod had put a heavy bolt inside the lid, telling her, "Look, Grandma, I put this here in case you get stuck. You never know what might happen. An elderly woman without firearms in the middle of nowhere might find this useful. Let's hope not. It's there just in case, okay?"

"Sure," she had said, "but it seems silly."

The bolt did not seem silly now, as she closed it, praying aloud.

"Lord Jesus, grant me the strength to persevere."

Adrenaline betrayed her then, as a cramp clinched her calf, causing her to buckle. Above, she heard Dietrich, his feet clomping abruptly across the floor.

It was then, as she huddled on the steps, too weak to descend towards the axe leaning on the wall, that hope left her. Horror swept in as she realized her ailing leg planned to keep her where she sat. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she imagined the world outside.

What had made the world change?

Why was Dietrich Baldric standing on the hatch above her head, howling like a man wolf?

The howling went on for hours.

Finally, Baldric fell silent.

She stayed there, barely daring to breathe and hardly convinced she wanted to anymore, imagining his grey eyes boring through the hatch, surveying her.

She heard footfalls above, and to her dismay- moaning.

The creepy grunts and groans issued from several throats.

With a whimper, she found the strength to back down the steps, sliding on her buttocks until she reached the axe. Picking it up by the hickory handle felt somewhat reassuring, but she knew her mind frame was nonsense.

There was no way to ascertain whether it was night or day, and Sandra was grateful. There was only one entrance to the cellar, and there was food and drink...

There she waited, clutching the axe, her life preserver in a sea of chaos, wondering why she fought so hard to live in a world gone wrong.

Scotty

Scotty the Worm sat fraught with peril. The preceding days had all been a blur, one deviant act arriving at the heels of the other, barking like dogs. His desire to wreck his sober mind was fuelled by more than simple regret. Were it not for regret, or for quiet desperation, Scotty would have had no fear. That is not to say he was at all upstanding. He had been, once upon a time. His moniker suited him justly, a badge to identify his true nature to others.

The events of last few days only came in segments, no matter how he pressed his mind. Rushes of voices, songs, and wine. Buckets full of Chardonnay, chilled on ice. The smell of perfume lingered in his memory, a bouquet of flowers mocked through chemical design. He saw Darren dancing, glimpses of Sheila, who loved to be naughty by night, her ivory corset exposing the pink rounds of her nipples, laughing gaily. There came a swatch here, a smidgeon there, but none of his recollections proved useful.

Frowning over his nickname, Scotty the Worm peered over his knees, to his lowly feet, always so willing to lead him astray. He often stared at them for hours, for they were closest the ground... where worms dwelt, lowly, grimy from wallowing in the dirt and wastes of not only nature, but civilization as well. Long after he was gone, the worms would still be there, disposing of the wastes and death that entered their earthy domain. It was terrible and awesome to imagine, the tunnels, an array of carven paths, not so mindless after all, guiding the unseeing to sustenance and renewal.

Nicked, scuffed, and braised, his feet sat restfully on the padded floor before him- on stretched out legs. They were unwilling to tell where they had been, teasing him they sat coldly... there would be no answer there.

There really was no way to pin things down, but in studying his enclosure, the Worm knew that whatever he had done, there were hoops to jump through, lies to tell and half believe before his freedom would be obtained. He wrestled with the conflict, half dreaming that he could join the worms, find a chink in the padding and bore his way to safety. Away from the white coats, with their hypodermic sedations, the endless doses of Thorazine. It was such a deeply planted seed, the desire to shed his skin and go underground that he found difficulty facing reality. He was no worm, aside from his lowly deeds. He was no quester of the underworld, though he prayed to it, calling on the powers there.

Not a pinprick was heard. The padded cell gleamed in its phosphorescence, making his eyes water.

"What did I do?"

His whisper fell flat, dulled by the thick padding throughout. He began to press his mind, having no other avenue to pursue, with his feet so unwilling to tell. So ungrateful, but it was the rest of his body that troubled him. It fought him for his every dream. Each transgression against it came with protest, grumbling bones, stiff joints, illness, wracking coughs and swollen lesions full of volcanic, festering pus.

Each time it was the same, a fruitless endeavor.

Flesh was a liar, especially his own. It resisted its calling, carving out falsities to support its claims, but no matter the species, feathered or ground based, they all returned to the ground. There the worms found them, dissolving their essence in communion with flesh and earth. Their powers so hidden, so undervalued, but the worms went on, turning the hideous outcome of death into nourishment to sustain true life.

Scotty had many doubters and fewer followers still. Some had seen his mind, and taken what he told them as absolute truths. He would not be returning, not this time. The decadence was over; his experiments had proved themselves flawed. There was only one-way to understand the worms, he must join them. Transformation had proved fruitless, but perhaps he could transmute himself prior to the end, encasing and spellbinding his now reeking medicinal body, so his soul might find a vessel for him to enter. The nurses had scrubbed his crust away, his shell against the impurities of the chemical world. It was too much to bear; the cloying aroma of disinfectant and institutional soaps and cleaners... the cell was a deathtrap, a sure ticket to cancer, a violation.

Above ground, there was a disturbance. Scotty barely heard the commotion. Little could he have done. He was unaware of anything other than his internal mountains; which he could no longer scale, down was the only way. Dreamily, he scrutinized his veiny arms, taking in the web of veins below the skin. He spoke softly in gibberish, his mouth foaming.

A siren wailed. Upon hearing it, he remembered. He remembered it all, the orgy... the drugs... the communion. Obsessively, he replayed his recollections, while in the street, near Gateway General, Clay and Anna addressed their circumstances in frantic shock. There was no way to mark the passing of time, so there Scotty was- locked away, and soon to be released from the mediocre life he had lived above ground.

His thin, scraggly head bent forward, as he heard panicked shouting from some place outside his cell. His mind drew an obvious assumption, at least for him. Scotty was so caught up in his web of lunacy. They were reading his thoughts; he did not know how... but they planned to stop him!

"No," he pleaded.

"What chance do I have? Let me go you- let me..."

Something inhuman bellowed outside, and lunging at the door it banged furiously. There was a square patch of glass, thickly cut and shatter proof on the thick door. The would-be assailant repeatedly threw his shoulder to the door, but it shook not at all, the percussive nature of the assaults stayed muffled by the padding.

A lunatic does not view a matter, or anything, as a more normal person might. Scotty was convinced that he was being thwarted; that the individual on the other side of the door was part of a larger conspiracy, a global one most likely- to suppress the truth; worm-kind ruled the world, not humanity. For no matter the achievements of any man, they returned to the soil, lying forgotten, until their bleached bones fell to dust, and their decomposition found its communion with the soil.

This was his time. It was not theirs- no, he would end their lusting, their insolent interference. There were more now, bashing the door that could not be broken.

"The fools have forgotten their keys!"

The news was compelling, so eager were they to stop him that they had subjected their plan to failure. Without the keys, the door would not open soon enough for them to stop him. They could not best him now.

He was winning the race.

To show his persecutors what would come of his plan, he stood, his hip creaking eerily. At the door was a revelation, a defiance to his sense of order. The undead faces growled and lashed, and it was then that he understood. They stood in morbid defiance of the underground, refusing, even in death to join the worms, recycled by the natural order.

The Worm had his own streak of rebellion, and in that moment, his beliefs centered on the indisputable truth that the hounds outside the door had come to cheat him of his immortality. Gibberish came spilling from his lips. As he went faithfully forward with his dialogue, Scotty felt his body grow lucid; his mind washed out. With his eyes planted on the door pane, he raised his meaty forearm to his face.

To his surprise, a puff of dust shot out of the door molding. He was aware that he must press on, and that it would be a hard-won victory. He would deny them his flesh. They wanted to imprison him like a brain-dead landlocked salmon, useless other than to spawn more deviants. He would refuse all of them, joining the underworld, where one day he would rise up and snatch away the above-grounders, enslaving them to his earthen domain...

His unshaven stubble pricked at his skin as he placed his mouth over his brachial artery. His jaws clamped down, a signal shot to his brain, a mechanism of self-defense triggered by his nerves. He refused it, biting harder, his incisors cut through his epidermis, where the pain grew maddeningly overpowered. Then he shut down his mind, focusing on his new existence to come. Where power is not measured... but rather lies waiting for the end of it, to find another planted in the earth, where all stand, roots flourish, and foundations are built.

It all came from the underworld; Scotty saw that now.

The zombies were still at the door. That was not what terrified the Worm. No. It was his final fleeting thought, before his front teeth finally broke the wall of his artery.

"What if I'm wrong?"

Then it was over- blood spurting forth crazily in rhythm with his pulse, his legs weaker, the rising howls against the door... he slumped.

Then there was nothing

Dark Places

Dark places, where even in the brightest day things unimaginable hide. Those hallowed hells, pits of ruin found not only in nature, but also in men. Within the recesses of the mind, we find them. In hearts, they linger. They fester in thoughts, and grow with deeds. Ebon and foul, unholy and scorned, they prosper through despair, with desperate longings, through unrequited love.

No one truly fathoms where sorrow takes the mind, where anger drives it, or where hopelessness leads it. We are all unique, similar but wholly different, wonderment, and despicable.

All we need is a catalyst to set us forth. Oh the shadows we could see, the dark places we would know, not only in our hearts, but also in the world, above and below. What drives one man to the brink of insanity is another's breezy day.

Not all of us think the same; take Kenneth, a normal man and once a good one. His spool had wound rather tightly before he rented his flat on 736 Laughlin Lane, before she came to him. Sometimes it only takes one tug, and all comes unraveled.

"Well then, just sign there and it's all yours."

Kenneth took the pen, still slick with sweat from the pudgy manager's hand. He found Mr. Baldric's nervousness peculiar, and a bit unnerving. Baldric did not smell pleasant either, sour cologne and perspiration hung heavily in the air.

Kenneth began to read the contract, taking his time to appease his expectations. He did not notice the beads of sweat collecting at a rapid pace on Baldric's brooding brow. Nor did he see the tremors the man underwent as he read, and satisfied everything was in order, signed the contract. However, Baldric's expelled sigh of relief did strike him as odd.

"Are you feeling well?"

"Oh yes Mister Moreland, quite. It is just a bit stuffy in here, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes. Yes it is. So the place is mine then?"

"Why of course it is, you've signed the contract." Evan Baldric's eyes sparked mischievously, "Do you require anything else?"

"No, that is all. I bid you good day Mr. Baldric."

"Very well, good day Mr. Moreland, don't mind the noises on windy nights. The boards do creak infrequently. If you have any questions, or are in need of repairs, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Thank you, I will."

Baldric nodded and put on his fedora, departing to the landing. Kenneth did not let the man out. He knew the way after all. The front door made a hideous creak. I am going to have to oil that... he thought. He went to the dining hall and after a bit of a hassle with the swelling boards, managed to raise the windowpane. The smell of fresh lilacs was a welcomed counteraction to Baldric's aromatic repugnance. Good riddance.

Kenneth made the call to the movers, who surprised him by showing themselves promptly on his stoop at a quarter past nine. Led by an interesting druggie from Belfast named Quinn, the workers were actually quite orderly, moving in a pattern throughout the house, setting out the furniture just so. At eleven, the unpackers arrived. They methodically went room to room putting away his personal effects just as they were in his old home, socks found the top drawer of his dresser, undergarments the second, silver went in the drawer nearest the stovetop, platters in the right cupboard, above the silver drawer. The moving crew gave each room meticulous, methodical, attention, and at first, Kenneth found it fascinating, soon after, he became listless, choosing to sit in his study and edit the play he had composed for Evelyn.

Ah Evelyn, such sweetness, so sensual, seductive, and sassy. Twelve years her senior, Kenneth found her too alluring to pass over, even if his scruples suffered somewhat because of winning her. Her charms he could not and would not resist.

The play was her idea, a few days after Aryana's death. A true travesty that, though it left less strings... albeit small sorrows. It was quite by accident, after all his wife had just had her brakes checked. Although he missed her, tensions were on the rise. Aryana permitted him mistresses in the past, though sex was his motivator then. Evelyn was different from the start. Her mind endeared his heart to Evelyn, her flaxen hair, whiles, and taut body, only lent her extra appeal.

Kenneth worked laboriously, changing this word to that and vice versa, picturing his lover's lips as she spoke them. It had to be perfect. She was his discovery, his star. Finally, his writing had a voice, an exquisite one. Audiences the world over would become enraptured by his monologues, delivered to them by a beauty unmatched.

By four that evening, his move in was complete. Pictures hung on walls as if they always had, and each nook and cranny looked lived in, albeit tidy. Everything was in proper order. The old adage rang true: you do get what you pay for.

A chubby woman, older than her years suggested, crude, but kind, led the unpackers. She asked him if he would like anything for supper and he obliged, stating what he wanted.

"Spaghetti and garlic bread- a tossed salad would do nicely as well. I trust I can supply my wine?"

"Yes sir."

"Very well, take the extra bills and buy dinner for your crew. They did a splendid job."

She thanked him, though not emphatically. Her eyes said something other, suggesting he was too frugal. Kenneth responded kindly, unaccustomed to portraying a snob...

"Please consider the cuisine as a separate transaction."

"I shall settle up for your labors upon your return.

"Thank you."

"Not at all, when can I expect you?"

"I will be back in scarcely an hour."

She left then, with the rest of the movers and unpackers. The house fell silent. Standing had informed him of his burgeoning bladder, and so he retired to the washroom to relieve himself. He felt spry after, and curious to inspect his surroundings a tad closer. What he discovered was a marvel; everything was immaculate. They had arranged his books just as he liked them, by author, and his LPs in alphabetical order. All his effects were as neat as a bug in rug, perfection.

Everything gleamed. It left quite an impression. Satisfied, he went to the bar and poured out a scotch. He savored it, not wasting its flavor by tossing it back in one gulp. Kenneth abhorred gluttons.

He studied the garden, outside his den's window, which was in a state of disarray...

I will call out some gardeners in the morning.

The woman arrived with a box, steaming in the briskness of the cooling evening. He proffered her with a hefty stack of bills and sat in the dining nook, eating slowly, dreaming of Evelyn. The pasta tasted delicious, and the garlic bread heavy on garlic and buttered lightly, just the way he liked it.

In fact, the entire day had gone without a bump.

Pushing away his supper, he finished the last slice of bread. He had eaten more than normal, having felt ravenous. Now came the time to polish off the wine, and turn in.

The thought warmed him.

That night was unlike any other. The wind raced through the eves, and under the foundations. It seemed to rattle the walls. His dreams came disjointedly, full of violent and disturbing images. Even though he dreamed of obsidian deeds, what he did not see, the suggestions his subconscious mind made, disturbed him more.

Insidiously the nightmares began painting his new love, Evelyn, in a harsher light. All the while, his deceased wife grew in sainthood. The dreams recollected her in crystalline clarity, and pointed him to the sacrifices she had made- because she loved him.

Whispers in the dark began telling him what he had not known. It was a ploy- all of it, to gain his wealth... to make him Evelyn's puppet, this is what the voice told him. It said he was a fool. It tried to make him a bargain. He shunned it. His mind grew silent, though nakedly horrific images still danced in his mind.

He awoke with a start, hearing a loud bump and scraping near the outer wall. A branch, it had to be a branch. The wind is having fits. He flipped his covers back, swung his legs to the side of the bed, put on his slippers, and went out to investigate. He had not bothered to turn on the light, as it would likely give him a headache if he did, so instead he relied on the residual illumination streaming through the windows from the streetlamps and moon.

Scrape! Thud! The sound of trotting feet, light and bare over the floorboards...

"Who's there?"

Nothing.

Kenneth tried the light switch nearest him... nothing.

He went out to the hallway to search the drawer of the small table near the front door, where he kept his keys and a flashlight. The packing company has quality employees it will be there, he thought. His heart responded with a pair of bump, bumps.

A shadow ran over the wall. Kenneth let out a small cry, nearly forgetting his plan to get the flashlight altogether. Then he broke for the table, pulling the drawer with enough urgency to cause the flashlight to roll crazily. He snatched it up. The shadow sprinted across his face. Clicking the light on, Kenneth scanned the room.

Nothing.

He cursed.

The wind reached a crescendo, howling like a pack of wolves as it licked at the eves, awnings, and floor from below the foundation. The light beam caught on two amber eyes, and then they vanished. He heard trotting feet again, and then, these too disappeared.

"Whoever you are, you're unwelcome!"

Giggles rolled down the stairwell.

"I am telling you to leave at once, or I will call the authorities!"

Silence.

He went towards the stairs, fighting to control his nerves. He twitched, and jumped nevertheless. The flashlight clattered to the ground, the batteries spilled out, the landing went dark. Something wiry had tackled him, his face mashed into the flooring. Whatever it was, it was strong. It lifted Kenneth's head, smacking his nose quite hard. He heard it crunch, felt the sting, his eyes grew blurry. He tried to fight. His attacker had other plans. It drove a knee into his lower back, pushing him back down to the floor. Long, greyish fingers, covered his mouth, and in the pale moonlight from the panes, he saw his blood glistening as it ran over the attacker's hand... another hand gripped his windpipe.

"You know what I want. Three days Kenneth Moreland... all you get. Otherwise, I shall come for you! Now sleep, dream, I will return."

Kenneth awoke to misery. Yes, the birds sang and sunlight bolted through the shades and windows... His scene appeared rather light to the naked eye. The dark, already sensing his weakness, his desire to surrender succumbing to salvation or sacrifice, had taken root in his arteries, in all regions of his brain... his cells.

His soul sensed the separation. Flesh ideally served only as housing for the energy defining him... He peeled his face from the pool of dry blood it rested in slowly, glancing at the clock... 12:07 PM. By his estimation, he had slept for at least ten hours, as the demon spoke within his dreams. He had already missed his appointment with his trainer, and was late to the theater.

Kenneth was a mess.

He required a shower, and then a doctor. He could not make himself leave. Besides, Evelyn would be by at three. He needed to see her, wanted answers. If what Racknell said was true... well, he needed explanations.

Was the little demon right?

How could he have been so gullible?

When he had made his way to the washroom, he had a look at his nose. It was broken, but not too bad. Sure, it swelled, and smarted, no worse than the bops he had gotten playing soccer as a kid. He would be fine, at least his body would. All bets were off concerning his soul.

Anticipating her arrival made him ill at ease. His was a rock and a hard place. Gravity seemed harder to fight, flesh felt tenuous at best housing his soul. This is where distinction had led him, his vanity, and for all his handsomeness, flesh was only a vessel, the same as a jar or vase, just as fragile, as easily shattered.

She did not phone. He began to pace between shots of scotch, fretting over his decision. No doubt, Racknell was watching- no doubt. He peered through cracks, or through the stairway, from some shadow some place, a darker location possibly, a closet, from under the bed, Racknell saw him, he knew. Oh, yes- the bugger knew. The demon spawn understood inner trappings, private thoughts; the language one's body speaks as his was then.

At 3:05 PM, Evelyn pulled her sleek sports car into the drive. Kenneth heard the pop music she always insisted on listening to when they coupled before she came into view. Her heels clopped down the sidewalk. The bell rang. He fetched the handle, trying to smile, despite the unpleasantly of his nose.

"Darling, you are ravishing."

"Oh lord Ken, what is with your nose?"

"No worries, just a rather nasty bump."

"Well it doesn't look good, you should have it checked."

"Perhaps."

"How is your new place? Did you rest well?"

Her eyes seemed like a pinprick for only a second.

"Yes and no. Could we discuss something?"

"Why of course. Here? Or would you rather pour us a drink?"

"Follow me."

Kenneth led her to the sitting room, to the bar there.

"Pick your poison," he said half-jokingly.

"I'll have rum, over ice, with ginger ale."

He poured out a scotch, neat, three fingers high, and made Evelyn's drink. He had rehearsed and re-written his speech all day. It felt high time to unburden himself. Strolling back to his seductive visitor, he handed her drink over.

She took a fair sip, moistening her plump lips after.

"So have you met Racknell?"

He spat out his whiskey, dropping his glass, which shattered on the floor. The shadows played tricks with his eyes then, the darkness wanting to betray him, to take him with it to some darker place, where angels die.

"Racknell! Come on out, it's time to bargain."

Wide-eyed and panic-struck, Kenneth said nothing. His windpipe had abandoned him. The world swam, and he felt again how loosely his flesh clung to his soul, and just how simply he could cast his body off, becoming a ghost.

Thump, smack! Footpads on floorboards, staunch trepidations, searing needling dread, his ripened ambitions trumped, had he been a poser? Racknell maintained he had. He heard the demon, made more real in the light of day, whistling as he approached- a Yankee song, "Dixie."

Absurd, he thought, Oh how cruel life is! I am a buffoon.

"Kenneth."

The voice was not Evelyn's, not as magical as that.

For heaven's sake, I cannot look at him... I shall not, Lord please.

Nothing heard him. Kenneth had no choice but to obey. He had choices to face up to, unpleasant choices, dark or darker decisions, and indecisions. Turning his head to the voice, determined he might see the demon who haunted him the prior night he expected to see Racknell. The demon who haunted him the evening past, with a straggly u-shape bowl of hair, stringy and oily, framing a haunt of a face, with sharp coal eyes, capped off by an angular jaw, and a jutting chin, lined with rows of pointy, jagged teeth, sporting spiky, hairy ears, sitting on a thin neck, adorning a frightful skull. Kenneth imagined the menacing head arriving in his field of view riding atop a torso with hard packed sinewy muscles drawn taut over squat and strangely longish, impish bones, with slender lengthy fingers coming along for the ride on angry, assaultive hands, replete with thick, sharp nails, and attached to capable arms...

This, he did not see.

Baldric had come, using Racknell's voice, his hair and the demon's the same as Kenneth had just imagined, his skin the same dead gray... long fingers...

"Listen to her, and do not run. You die if you run."

Like a moth to a flame, he had taken to her, the Jezebel, the temptress, of desirous flesh, and fancy. She tricked him!

"Racknell gets over enthused in the wee hours. I will give you your explanations, and then, seeing how mighty I am, how I own you, I believe you will become my champion. It was your command of words that first caught my attention. It is a talent. This I cannot deny. I would let you serve me, as Racknell has for the past two thousand years, if you agree to pluck the souls I deem. You will become a mark, a blight to some, and my creature. I will spare you your soul if you do. You see, Racknell has served his term, so I must allow him his leave. I need someone new to take his place in the darkness of dreams."

"Will you serve me?"

"My wife- you killed her!"

"Why of course I did. I am Jezebel, a queen. She stood between my desires and me. Now, what is your desire? Do you choose endless damnation or to serve me? My flesh is still yours, if you still long for my embrace. Give me your answer now, you have run out of time- choose."

Kenneth's first thought was about her last offer, of her flesh, and he wondered if Racknell had gotten the same deal? Had he shared his devious lover with the demon? Certainly. The choice was an easy one, despite the foulness it promised.

"I shall follow."

"Good boy."

"Racknell, please lead him to the altar."

When he looked over, it was no longer Baldric, but the beast with whom he kept company. Racknell reached out, taking Kenneth's hand in his, and together they walked away.

Men like to hold onto false idealisms, choosing to see only what lies on the surface. They live only for satisfaction, for power, for money, for women, or for beauty. There is an old saying that goes: Beauty is only skin-deep. Kenneth Moreland learned this firsthand. Trouble wears a disguise, and now he did, his soul swapping bodies for Racknell's own vessel, his old flesh, home for the troubled demon who would pose as him thereafter.

Kenneth went on with Jezebel, to darker places than he had ever known, haunting for the sake of it, and learning to relish his duties. Regardless of her ugly side, she was splendor.

Freedom was overrated.

Only a Dream Away

What was it about her? Edwin didn't know, though as intoxicated as he was cognizance was the furthest thing from his mind. A pressing need brought him here. So low. How could God love him now? Clearly, he was too far astray. The pieces did not fit. Nothing he was before her was the same. Where had he gone? Where was the debonair Edwin Taft he once was?

Shattered. In remnants, lying alongside the empty bottles and glasses, the trash, the soiled undergarments of Sharon's party guests. What in God's name brought him to be such a fool?

"Oh Lord, forgive me," he muttered as he stepped over a young girl, nude, with her oversize artificial mammary glands standing tall, saluting the sun. This was not his scene. He left her lying there, feeling not at all proper either. Who was he to judge? The things he had done...

He did not find Sharon in the backyard, where he woke. Fragments were all he could recall. Bits. He remembered the orgies, the wanton abandonment. All morality stripped itself from him. He was no longer an agent of God. The Lord could not forgive him, and he knew he would never forget. The prior night washed itself away, though he still knew enough.

He had sinned.

Of the commandments, he must have broken them all. God might forgive him for such deeds, even though his sins ran deep... He remembered Sharon squishing his will- until he became putty in her hands. It had not taken long. One smile on her sweet lips disarmed him. Resistance was a word stricken from not just the mind, rather it emanated in his heart, places the soul breathes. Those pieces inside a person usually locks away, driven by fears their lovers might actually know them. If the debauchery brought him anything slightly positive, it was that she knew him. Every tick of his heart, every breath he took was privy to her scrutiny, her judgment.

God help him, even still he did not care. No amount of shame would dissuade him. He belonged to her now. Her wiles were indefensible. No one resisted. She took whatever pleased her, and she never apologized for it. Why would she? No one wanted anything other than to adore her, to touch her. Lie with her...

Lies. Sharon told them sweetly. Seduction came naturally for her. One bat of her lashes, one feigned look of sadness, and people groveled before her...

The first day he met her there was a rehearsal at church. Standing at the podium while reading his sermon, he did not notice the woman in the blue dress slip into the pew. The memories of their meeting came richly whenever he recalled them. His tired eyes stung after he removed his reading glasses, tired, and emotionally spent from three trying days spent at the hospital where a member of the flock spent his last days. It was the last unselfish act he committed.

Looking up, he saw her wide brimmed sun hat first, a lacy black. Her eyes met his, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. Sharon. She made it all real, viable... love, pain, sin. Edwin always believed he was beyond such deviance; his will and the Lord's grace gave him immunity.

Whose sins are greater? Or rather, who will judge such matters fairly? None but God... Not anymore, the devil won. Sharon would milk him, suck him... bleed him dry, discarding him to despair and abrupt death. She took lives as freely as carnal pleasures, wine, drugs, money, and souls.

Crossroads are a peculiar thing, and not as literal as one might imagine. There are places, ages hallowed, which can carve away the soul. Often, maps cannot reveal such locations. Rather we find them within the minds and spirits of people. Forces orchestrate our path. Perhaps this is God's will. Perhaps not.

Sharon, she was a force from Hell. The prior week proved this in irreproachable, undeniable terms. Satan had him now. He offered his soul freely. His crossroads? Middle age. Regrets. An empty hole straight through his heart. It was an emptiness faith did not fill.

The rubble and decaying decadence defied logic. A girl and boy curled up here and there troubled him less than men doing the same did. Edwin often worked on the flaw. Prayed over it, nonetheless, it held on. No matter what he read, no matter what he did, he could not shake his fear of homosexuals. He did not hate them; they scared him. Over the past few days, he certainly had not acted as if he was afraid of gays...

All his life, he also feared murder. His actions betrayed that opposition as well. Edwin was himself no longer... and his world, well it had turned upside down. The scene slowly gave way to darker sights. Such a debacle, such a malevolent landscape of sin fell around him, that he wept. At first, he cried over the grim ruination, the death, but then the scene's beauty moved his tears.

He did not know why. Recollections came few and far between. These tidbits of information, coming hazily in spurts, did nothing if not horrify him. All he wanted was Sharon. Finally to have her, to know her flesh. Again, as he did that first day...

"What was that?" he muttered.

Daydreaming and deluded, Edwin began to sober. It was not as if the drugs were gone from his system. God no. He should be dead, like... His eyes began to scan the patio, where he presently stood and revelations came crashing in. He stopped, stooping low, his stomach on fire, and his sides about to burst. Foam spewed forth, the sight of it pained him. He dropped, retching violently. The foam came in sticky fonts, mixing with the debris, worse still than his offering.

Putrid as it was, vomit was clean in comparison to that before him. Near his feet, a nude woman, not more than thirty, lay on her side. Her throat was gaped, where blackened clots hung, sticky and stiff. Blood spread outwards, in a deep crimson-brown pool. To his eyes, there was nothing beyond the puddles, intersecting like rivers to the sea.

There was no way around the bodies. He had no reason to count them, to mourn. Nevertheless, he took the scene in. Men and women, all bearing the mark- Sharon's mark. He was no longer disturbed. She deserved them. Sinners- the lot of them.

Is a sinner worse lying on his back in his own blood? Edwin asked himself that same question. He doubted it. As he busied himself judging, he grew weary. Their faces distorted, as if before a torturous death. Rapture. That is what he saw. Heaven would not have them, and this pleased him. Staring at the wall nearest the sliding door, he picked his way over the cadavers.

Memories passed by, with the lifeless faces. Fearful he might break under the strain, knowledge best left tucked away, he looked upwards. Choosing instead to stare at the wall, rather than face the memories... They came anyway.

His dirty member certainly was a busy beast. How many of them had he taken? All? That man and the girl beside him... the ones scattered nearby, in fact, mostly everyone. They were gone now. His seed still inside a few of them... The moment they died. No. He did not need this. Owning up was inevitable. This just was not the time for it.

He knew anyways. Now he could not forget. He could not have avoided the debacle if he tried. It was true. As apparent as the letters, written in coppery crimsons and blacks on the wall before him. "Bleed for me," the message said, and he had.

Sharon was demanding.

Before her, God had been his cloak against trial, a shield to defend, a voice of reason. Those days were behind him. Sprawled about him, now that the memories sought to tell him, was the only evidence required to tell of how far he had fallen. As a preacher, he had never liked the term. To fall meant you were lofty, higher in station than others. He strove for modesty. Alas, he felt humbled now.

His mouth went slack, his feet leaden, his heart sinking, his soul barking from the pits of his private hell. The imagery was no longer detached. The grim setting fully sunk in, as he remembered:

Seeing a brunette snapped his brain into high gear. Lovely Allison. Oh God. She was no longer lovely, no need for pretense any longer. Had she been crying? Yes, she had. He went to her then, stoned on ether, flat out destroyed. He fucked her callously... and when she begged...

"Lord help me."

It was just like him. Hypocritical as he was. A fool. Selfish. His truest, largest flaw. He thought only of himself- with her... them all. Denial might save him. At the frayed ends of sanity, he dangled, sliding into the pit again.

With Sharon, the pits grew deeper each day. He was not as interested in valleys as he fascinated over peaks. Not at first. Not after his life, his former pulpit. Last night he-

"Jesus save me."

"When will you ever learn Edwin? It is not selfishness; not indifference that has brought you low. It was pride. You thought you could take her. Make her yours. My sister is un-tamable, remorseless, she will only give you sorrow. The pleasures will fade. You have not strayed so far. Trust in me. You can be saved, leave now, before she finds you."

The voice rang heavily in his brain, bell-like, darkly musical. The voice of an angel. Why would an angel talk to him? Perhaps it was Sharon, playing her games. She liked to lead him to the unwilling, forcing him on them in offensive ways. It pleased her.

Putty. Edwin was mold-able, malleable.

Still standing, his bare feet deep under the blood- He faced up. He wanted to bite them, screw them, and kill them. Sharon just made it easier. There had always been this voice. Sometimes it was small. It whispered. He hardly heard it at all. Other times, it grew. It shouted. It begged...

Therefore, he had turned to God. It had not been enough. He confessed it to no one. He was sick. Somewhere. Somehow. He prattled about salvation, but the parish was often half empty on Sundays. They knew too. The flock. He lacked conviction. Floating behind the shell, the wall he created to contain the monster he was inside.... The bastard he really wanted to be. The devil's son...

Sharon allowed it, endorsed his every sickness, and she repaid him... Cold kisses, full of ripe, chilling passion... Her eyes... Edwin stirred, trying to wrestle himself into action. He hemmed and hawed. Dreaming. Something kept him there, reading the scrawl, written in blood repeatedly.

"Bleed for me."

"Bleed for me."

"Bleed for me."

"Bleed for me."

"Bleed for me."

Disillusion. Revolution. Sinful flesh- fetishes. They wanted such things more than he did, than she did. Their pleas were as open as their throats. Their mouths as wanting of his sex as was Sharon to drain them... He did not want to remember. It was too late. No avoiding it. Now he saw it all, and it did not sicken him. Lord help him, it pleased him sweetly. Touched him tenderly. The departed ones were all bare skinned. He was nude too- not lifeless; blood still warmed him, stirred him...

It aroused him.

Wrapped up in his pleasure, he did not hear the padded footfalls coming down the sidewalk. Unconsciously, his hand found his erection, and before the inscription, among the bodies and pooling blood, he began to pleasure himself. It set him free.

No one else would dare! Finally, he was defiant. Strength might betray, but weakness fails absolutely. He had no time to fail, as God had him do...

"If this is how well you listen you will not last long."

Edwin heard the voice, it was the same, though now... he reeled, cock still in hand, to turn and face his visitor. He nearly slipped in the slick blood, and there, dappled in sunlight...

"Who are you?"

The impossibly gorgeous woman just smiled. Kindly, unflinching. Her gesture was only brief, her raven tresses drooping seductively over her porcelain features. Her beauty tore his heart out. Absurdly, regret came. Sharon seemed dim... distant...

"So she has not mentioned me? Did she even say who she is? What is she calling herself?"

The woman was stern, bright. Not to toy with... impossibly magnificent... Putty again, Edwin responded:

"No, Sharon has not mentioned you, though you have not told me who you are... I am sure I would know you if she spoke of you at all..."

Lament... hungry to feed on him, a tidal wave of guilt- agony. Tears welled within his eyes.

"Sharon? Makes her sound like a bitch- concise... As for who I am, unhand yourself and come over and introduce yourself properly. Good graces Taft, have you lost everything? Wise up- have some manners when you meet a woman."

Shamed, Edwin cast his eyes downward. He stared at the drying pools, humiliated. His cock shrunk backwards before his hand even came away, symbolic of his shrinking convictions, his declining belief in Sharon. This woman was more powerful, shockingly gorgeous, not cruel... He cried. Not crocodile tears, pure ones, tapped from the deepest recesses. Places he buried memories alive, dark holes he dared to hope were too deep for them to crawl out from- pits of ruin.

Edwin Taft sunk to his knees, the blood splashing him in thick splotches, the dead closer by. Symbolic once more. Through it all, the hole denied him peace. God could not fill it. Possessions made it seem deeper. Love denied him. He could not fill the gash, his purgatory. Tears fell like rain, exciting the blood where a film of separated plasma jiggled in ripples.

"You cry only for yourself. I cry for you all. You are pitiful. Rise up fool!"

Taft did not budge. However, his soul begged him to... The bodies... he knew. Like a suicide, they volunteered... He remembered. Raising his eyes, he saw her, ghostly pale under the bright golden sun, her hair stark in contrast. Regal. His member swelled again, dripping slightly, as pre-semen pulsed from its tip...

"I fear I have had misplaced hopes in your case. You are abhorrent. I cannot aid you. I must be going Edwin. Remember, it is your selfishness, your pride, ego- keeping you pinned down. I have no choice but to leave you to my sister. You must change- kill the monster. You know what I speak of... If you change your mind, if you repent... I will know. Do not follow Jezebel- If she asks- tell her that Lilith told you not to. Mind you- this is not to help you. She will be angry, but she will leave you alone after you say my name. You might also know- and it is nothing personal... All of my sister's followers have this nasty habit of dying. I am unsure if you will be different. If you are, you have your work cut out for you. Best get started."

Lilith turned, her eyes cold, yet not cruel. Seductively swaying her hips, she sighed musically. Edwin stared after her in devastated awe, feeling regretful loss, abandonment... he panicked. Having stood, his feet like concrete blocks, he moved not at all, while sorrow filled his vessel. Stubbornly, he still refused to hear her message. Uninterested in the truth, Edwin watched her go, until at last she was beyond sight.

He felt so alone, desperate. Hollowed, he yearned to weep. He could not. The well was dry...

Reality, brutal and incriminating as it was, did nothing to put him in action. Quite the opposite, he turned only enough to read the inscriptions anew...

"Bleed for me."

There were so many ways. To bleed, letting life seep away. Edwin knew many parishioners who felt dead inside, animate only by pretense. He had always doubted them, life was a gift, yet they could not see the light before their eyes. Instantly, he was changed.

"Yes. I see now..." The tears came.

She meant so much to him, and now he feared he would not find her, fearing her touch the same. Conflicted, confused in a muddled haze, Edwin felt limp. His body obeyed. He fell face down, amid the muck, ripe with copper scent and carnage. Fleetingly, he flailed his arms outward, in effort to break his fall and he suffered for the effort. Impact came hard, stiff as stone. He felt his jaw crack, as splintered teeth spewed forth to join the grisly pools below. His heart raced, as raw nerves delivered painful signals to his frantic brain.

Jerkily, he halfway attempted to stand, but midway upwards the pain in his jaw put him low, forcing him to plop backwards onto his bare buttocks. Unconcerned over the fate of the many dead about him, nor the sickening scene, the pain, anything, Edwin clawed his way towards the door, hands and feet slipping in puddles of blood. No thought of empathy entered his brain, not a trace of dignity was his.

If only they could see him now.

Frankly demoralized, Edwin was beyond caring. Sharon was all that mattered. What sanctity in life did he have but her? Devoid of grace, he crawled slowly at first, then quicker, as if he was a reptile... Finally reaching the door, he willed his legs to cooperate, and stood to check the handle.

Locked.

No doubt, Sharon locked it, to punish him. She liked to do that, to rub his nose in impurity. However, nothing denied him. Weak no longer, with adrenaline coursing throughout his entire body, he punched the door. He heard a crack, but the window held only a smudge. Not even a finite line shown on its gleaming surface. Laughter drifted downwards, and this enraged Edwin, who threw himself headlong at the door. Stars before a fading reality were his only reward.

The door remained the same, unmerciful, unyielding. He lay there for a time, contemplating the stabbing slivers in his jaw and hand. Fractured in four places, the fingers swelled urgently, purpling, fat, and along the backside, it ballooned outwards, a ghastly sight, equaled by the pain it provided. The physical trauma was nothing in comparison to his mental state.

Wounds of the soul sometimes never heal.

Why was she keeping him out? All he wanted was she, to smell her hair, to be inside her heart. What a crippled love it had been. From the start, he knew it was a long game, and one with low odds for success. He went to her anyway. He had to know, presently he still did.

His soul had already told him the truth, but he wanted to deny it. Yes, denial might save him. Lilith's warning lost, Edwin left the patio, surer now. Sharon would be his, someday.

He turned his back to the scrawl, and the death. Dappled sunspots covered him, but they never took away the shadows. As he went along the path to the laundry door, hope found his troubled mind. "Maybe this one isn't locked?" He dared to want it, for it to be true. "The door will open." He knew it. She needed him too. Such thoughts consumed him, as he passed carelessly along, unperturbed by the decay of decadence assaulting his eyes from every direction. He began to rush, his legs energized by his sense of hope. It did not take long before he stood before another door, a second chance. Reaching out, his hand shaking, he tried the doorknob.

It was not meant to be.

Turmoil. He fell harshly, opening up his knees with vicious scrapes, his skin completely pulled away. Oblivious, he broke. The well was full now; there would be no denying his haunting sorrow. Of all things, why did God keep her away? He jerked reflexively; it was not God doing anything. It was Sharon. Even so, the tears came... Perhaps it was not intentional, her hurting him so. He tried to find reason. Nothing came, no revelations, zilch. There was only one way to be sure, he had to see her. To hold her.

Her eyes would tell him the truth, even if her actions betrayed it. Again, Edwin stood, acting unaware of his condition. His hand, jaw, and knees forgotten, he went forward.

For love.

Frazzled and unstable, Edwin found another chance for love...

"Another door on the side of the house- two doors there." One of them would open, bringing him back to his lover. He wished that he had stayed beside her, through all of it. She would have known his love then. Who could have seen such dark times ahead? He had of course, and this was what wrecked him. He had known all along...

Just because you want something, does not make it yours.

If she could see him now, beating himself up for love, that would show her. Would it not? He knew the answer. No. Sharon did not need him. She had other needs, ones to be denied her if she stayed with him. It was practical, her shutting him out like this.

Distraught, feeling rejected, he thought little about himself. He dreamt only of Sharon, her happiness over his... such a lonely feeling... and so tragic. He paid no attention to the man passing beside him, headed towards the pool. His desperate eyes saw only one thing. Her. She would complete him. She could do it- fill that gap she left behind in his Godless heart. If Edwin had been paying attention he would have seen the man's striking resemblance to him, not then, but a week prior, headed expectantly towards the woman he also desired.

Things change, Edwin did not know it but even the wind had. He left everything in his life behind the day he met her. Quickly, she became his reason to be. Nothing could cure him, he was sick, broken, doomed to go on wanting her forever. What other woman was there that made him feel like Sharon did? None.

So he trudged onward, not even dimly aware of who he really was anymore, wanting what he would never have. Destiny repeated his mistakes for him. He had not needed to do it for himself, his life was a circle, always leading him here...

To loss.

This, an emptiness like no other, was unique to him. Mirroring only remotely the vast scope of loss, its damage to the human condition. Loss was everywhere that day, but Edwin only felt his. Loss- in all its confounding, terrible ways- ripping apart lovers, eroding security, destroying homes, values, beliefs, it was lost to him. No one suffered as he did. In his mind, he was the only one. Edwin could not feel empathy; in fact, he felt only the hole beckoning him to Sharon... Still he did not dread her.

Ah dread, an emotion built on the foundations of loss...

He felt it when he checked the first side door, and then the other. He was out of doors, so he sat down, weeping inconsolably, knowing she was gone forever, stuck in a moment so painful it bent his soul. He cried, knowing that he had to let her go. Time melted away with the bitter tears, renting agony as they passed through him and fell indifferently to the paving below his huddled body. Oblivious to anything, all he could do was cry. For himself, not her, and he did not feel selfish... not at first. He could not hear the soft footfalls approaching, or sense the seductive gait of the traveler. It was not until she seated herself before him, her hand in his, that he saw her at all.

He looked into her eyes, feeling less dread, less loss...

"I am sorry Edwin, I have to go back. You know it..."

The pathway, the trees, the house, but more despairingly, Sharon's face, began to lose validity. The pain throughout him began to lift with the decaying scene, as colors devouring others turned themselves and his heart inside out, until that reality was no more.

He stood, where he had been a week prior, his hands resting serenely on the podium. To the outsider, nothing had changed. Though forever altered... his eyes still found hers, even after it all. She sat where she had the day they met, and a sinking realization came even as she spoke the last words he would ever hear from her tender lips...

"I am leaving you here, where I found you. Nothing has really changed... start over. There is one way you can still have it all Edwin, but to have it, I require your soul. Call on me when you are ready. I am only a dream away."

Sharon's countenance, sweet, and saddened, eroded like dust, floating away in a swirl of dark smoke...

She was gone.

Forever.

Edwin looked around, realizing he did have a chance at a new life, that his could continue as it had if he wished. None of it seemed worthwhile, nor did he think it could fulfill him, there was no solace in a life without her... Even knowing that he had not done those terrible things was no consolation, it had been a dream, and despite its darkness, or the pain it brought him, hurting for love, he still missed the hope it brought, and her.

"What will I do?" It was a question only his soul could answer- it did not. A chasm was all he found inside himself...

Love, it conquers all, even hope.

Fin.

You can follow Donny Swords author on  Facebook or read more at

Mishanoamy.blogspot.com & Primalpub.blogspot.com

Novels & shorts. Available now on Amazon/Barnes and Noble

The Bitter Ends

Somewhere in the Bible Belt Gateway has gone insane. Who knew what would come? Thrust into the end of times, Gateway's citizens attempt to outrun the zombie outbreak...

Discover 12 unique stories, and see how Gateway's main cast fares against the deadheads. See how they live. Watch lives expire and people become heroes or villains. The Bitter Ends is more than just a book about zombies. It is about the characters, like Anna. It is seeing what ordinary people might do in a zombie apocalypse and unordinary ones too.   
Will any of them survive? Or Will They All Meet Their Bitter Ends?

Ways of the Stygia- Cult of Morgod (Book 1)

Destruction. To see something destroyed, gone. None can deny its appeal. To the abyss, nothing is forever. To the World-Eater creation is flawed... Flesh is weak. Souls are fodder- fuel. Power is endless. The Stygia grants unlimited strength to the daring... Slavery and death are a means to an end... For Morgod , everything must burn. Ruination must reign immaculate.

Heroes come in many forms. For who is truly evil? There are shades of light and dark. Left with two choices, survival or total annihilation, the cosmos displays signs of harmony...

They face a common foe.

Available now on Amazon/Barnes and Noble

Ways of the Stygia- Fallen Song (Book 2)

**T** homas Van Pelt lived a normal life. On one dreary raining evening that all changed. His work as a CSI investigator had led him to yet another crime scene, and there, prompted by his primal senses he discovered the ancient artifact that would that day forward alter his own life and the fate of the universe itself. The ancient weapon Fallen Song summons Thomas, and reawakens his forgotten past. He embarks on his new calling- bringing justice to the guilty, the ones who would otherwise remain free to perpetrate their vile acts on the unsuspecting.

Thomas is reunited with past allies and embarks on an epic adventure involving demons, necromancers, deities, vampires, sorcerers and the terrorists of Purgatory itself, the night stalker. Get pulled away to new lands, terrible enough to cost you sleep and see what ends Thomas will go to in his quest to bring a new era of light to an ailing universe.

_Ways of the Stygia- Fallen Song is intended for mature audiences._

Ways of the Stygia- Banner (Character Novella 1)

In Purgatory, there is one law. It is damnation.  
The abyss plots as the gods use its powers to suit themselves. Born of the void, to the hostile landscapes of Purgatory, not as a child, and not as a man, Banner must overcome his roots. The realm of Purgatory does not forgive so easily, suffering is ceaseless. It is a realm where death grants rebirth so suffering can begin anew. Those of his race are bred killers, evil, and cold to their marrows.

Banner, a night stalker set apart from his peers in extremity faces an uncertain future as he attempts to leave Purgatory and the nightmares behind.  
He cannot do it alone...

Anthologies:

Free across all e-reader platforms.

The Indie Collaboration Presents:

Snips, Snails, & Puppy Dog Tales

(A children's collection)

(The Wacky Adventures of Bob & Dill, Case of the Missing Ghost & Barracuda Blast by D. Swords)

Summer Shorts

(Boots by Donny Swords)

Spectacular Tales

(Sparks by Donny Swords)

Tales from Darker Places

3 stories by Donny Swords

Coming Soon:

The Bitter Ends- Other Side of Town

Primal

Publications
