579 Blog Feed: badlydrawnstickman 2008-09-05 13:09:49 badlydrawnstickman Your e-mail address 144969 2008-09-02 20:00:00
It is a perfect Saturday morning in late August, sun-drenched and the day's activities are gently encouraged by a refreshingly cool breeze.
I stand outside the giant grocery store watching the passers-by, sipping from a near empty paper cup of coffee in one hand and taking an occasional draw from a cigarette in my other.
I enjoy watching people busily getting on with their lives and often wonder at the encounters that happen: friends meet by chance, shaking hands or embracing and avidly share the latest news; even strangers occasionally finish in brief, pleasant conversations. It makes me consider what any of those people would have to tell me or what I could learn from them. It could also happen that, without knowing it, I could walk ignorantly past someone who, in different circumstances, could be the most important person in my life. As a result, I am constantly vigilant; studying the faces in the human river that flows through my life on a daily basis.
While so occupied in my thoughts, I am suddenly shaken back to the present by the appearance of a young woman who materialises from somewhere in the parking lot and passes in front of me on a light and graceful step.
She is, to me, stunningly beautiful. I feel my heart beat a little more strongly in my chest. My eyes are drawn to follow her movements as she enters the store.
She is tall, certainly above average height, and wearing a longish white t-shirt that falls to her hips, black tights and little, soft, black shoes. Her clothing reveals her to have a slim build; small breasts and narrow hips. Her complexion is fair and her dark brown hair is tied back severely in a tail that emerges from the back of her head and falls loosely to the collar of her t-shirt.
While all of these attributes please my aesthetic vision, it is her eyes that stun me into awe. They are hazel, but of the lightest hue I have ever seen; the colour verges on amber or a little darker. Those eyes are large, sensitive and passionate, set off in a pale face over a delicate nose and mouth that is slightly broad and likely given to be expressive.
I am transfixed by her exquisite loveliness and fall to fantasizing about her: a chance comment leading to a conversation; perhaps, experiencing that fleeting sensation of a 'spark', a sense of something in common; the feeling of having those magnificent eyes looking at me, watching her mouth move, hearing her voice.
I determine to tempt fate. The cigarette falls from my fingers unheeded and I charge purposefully toward the doors which slide open at my approach. Inside, I collect a shopping basket and grip its black plastic handles tightly in my closed fist. I spot her immediately, looking over some fresh fruit and carefully selecting some to put in a membrane-thin, plastic bag. I draw closer on the other side of the display but she is immersed in her activity. I shake my head and veer off toward the meat counter where I select a package for myself and deposit it in the basket. When I look back, she is gone, but then I see her, moving quickly past the racks of fresh bread. By the time I reach the end of the aisle, she is crossing the store as fleet as a deer, heading for the milk section. Perfect! I need milk too! I fumble in my mind trying to conceive of something innocuously pleasant to say but continue to draw a blank. I arrive at the dairy section but she has already made her choice and has slid down an aisle of canned goods. I choose the aisle beside and depart making two more selections of my own. I reach the end of the aisle and look for her but she has disappeared. My chest falls in disappointment. I head for the checkout line and install myself in the queue. My mind is a ball of confusion, wondering what to do and how to proceed. By the time I am nearing the cashier, I realise she is two people behind me in the queue. There is still a possibility! As I run through the rigors of check-out, I continue to glance toward her hoping for a return glance. I load my newly purchased groceries into my backpack and head for the door, imagining the desired encounter; the sun falling across her face and illuminating those startling eyes.
I wait outside, bathed by the warming sun and my stomach does anxious acrobatic feats as I stand, tossing my weight from one foot to the other, and think what to say or how. The pack of cigarettes from my pocket tumbles and spins in my fidgeting hand and then I decide against another smoke and replace it there. I have not much time to lose myself in lengthy pondering; the metal and glass door whispers open magically and she appears with the looped handles of a cloth shopping bag over her forearm. I step forward.
“Hi,” I say. The word neither crosses my vocal chords nor passes my lips. Instead, it echoes, useless and embryonic, in my mind and then dissipates. My resolve collapses and I find myself assiduously studying the pavement. An ant scurries energetically along the edge of a crack in the cement.
When I look up, she is disappearing around the corner and into memory.
I heft my pack further up on my shoulder and, within, the carton of milk gurgles, reminding me of its requirement for refrigeration. I sigh, a mixture of dissapointment and relief, and turn to walk the short distance home, my thoughts filled with the wonderment of her image before me.
'It's OK,' I say to myself later, as I check the format and then save the written document which floats on the bright computer screen before me. 'I could have changed the ending, but not every story ends happily.'

<hr>

this one is sort-of true but not really.
thanks for visiting and i hope you liked it. ]]> 145330 2008-09-01 20:00:00
I knew what I had done as soon as the door closed to the washroom on the near deserted, late-night, subway platform. I was immediately assaulted by the stale smell of urine and filth and my eyes started to smart from the acrid stench but I was beyond caring.
I knew that I had crossed a bridge, or rather, returned across a bridge, because I had been here before; not in this particular washroom but in hundreds like it from lonely, highway truck stops to the black-painted degradation of goth and punk clubs in this and other cities. Even the pain was familiar which gave the whole scene a sense of coming home. I have been on junk for almost as long as I can remember.
I pushed open the surgical green painted door of one of the stalls and entered. I turned in the narrow space and felt the floor slick and sticky under foot. I flipped the feeble locking apparatus and then withdrew the contents of my back pocket; a small glass syringe, a tiny metal cup and lighter, and the object of my lust: a little cellophane package with a miniscule quantity of white powder inside. I sat on the top of the toilet tank with my shoes resting on the cigarette marked and shit stained ring of the toilet seat. I leaned back on the wall where someone had spray-painted an 'A' inside a circle; anarchy. I could imagine the picture of myself there, maybe a grainey polaroid, with that symbol behind my shoulders and I felt powerful and flooded with the sexual anticipation of what was to come. I began the ritual of heating the powder and sucking it into the syringe.
My body was gradually dying and I knew it well. I had caught HIV and HepC two years before; my weight fell from almost 200 pounds to barely 120 and my skin and eyes were permanently jaundiced. After one episode, I was found close to death in a foul flop-house where the cockroaches were already licking my suppurating wounds. That's when I was sent to government rehab for six months and then to jail for six more. I learned from both experiences; rehab taught me the meaning of real desperation and jail taught me how to score from the guards and keep my ass intact.
It was the pain that continued to remind me I was alive; it was almost something that I anticipated because it meant it was time to score again. It started in my guts with heavy cramps and diarrhea. Eating was impossible but then who wants to eat when they're on a jag? The cramps spread to my arms and legs sending them into paroxsysms of red-hot, muscle-deforming pain. Wanting to be free of my own skin was the worst; it tingled and crawled like it was covered in swarming, stinging ants and I scratched at it until my finger-nails were tinged with the blood oozing from the open, self-inflicted abrasions.
I looked at my thin, yellow-tinged arms, and knew that the days of poking myself there were over. They were traced, among the tatoos, with blue, semi-collapsed veins and marked with so many scars that they resembled a seive. My whole body was like that; between my toes and fingers, my ankles and the backs of my knees, even the inside of my thigh. I had tried shooting directly into my chest but the holes didn't close and they started to ulcerate so I stopped. There was only one place left.
'It's show time, fucker,' I muttered, drooling, already high from the thought of shooting. I tapped the side of my neck and could feel my thready pulse in there, just under the skin. The syringe was still warm in my hand. I kept two fingers on my pulse and then slipped the needle under them to where I could feel the pulse strongest. I took a deep breath and gave the syringe a little shove. The sting of the needle piercing the skin was like foreplay to me and I let out a sigh. I pulled back the plunger slightly to allow some blood into the mixture. Then holding my breath again, I pushed the plunger all the way in, mainlining the junk straight to my brain.
The heat took less than a second to shoot up my neck and explode in my head. My heart tripped, beating triple-time. I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes with the syringe still hanging from my neck, not caring, as the orgasmic rush enveloped my body.
Bliss.
Falling into darkness.

<hr>

This one owes a nod to scribbles for the first part of the first sentence.
Thanks for visiting. ]]> 144171 2008-08-29 19:00:00
She sits at the end of the bar, alone, veiled in a sequened party dress, resembling a twenty-first century Venus with arms and, apparently, all other attributes intact. Her head is bowed and fashionably short, blonde hair hangs in limp concealment of her features.
A calf protrudes, thin and alabaster from the glittering hem of the dress. That pure white, dangling limb draws me; a beckoning signal-tower in the sultry, smoke-clouded, half-light of the near deserted bar, while the repetitive bump-and-grind of pop music oozes from vibrating cardboard cones hidden in the surrounding shadow. I imagine the twin of that calf, now hidden under the dark overhanging ledge of the bar counter, picture them rising to where two white thighs meet and what I would like to do there.
I collect misguided courage from several scotch and sodas already consumed, and another freshly arrived; the amber liquor glistens, welcoming; given structure by a perfect geometric framework of ice-cubes. I slip from the stool at the bar and walk in her direction.
"Hi," I say, and merrily jingle the ice in my own glass. "Can I offer you another drink?"
The head rises and I am startled by the two eyes that come to meet mine; so pale and clear that I wonder for their gift of vision.
"You just did," she answers and her voice is low in her throat, feline; neither a purr nor a growl.
I signal the bartender who nods and promptly chooses a bottle from a fridge below the bar. He pours the syrupy, dark liquid, perhaps dubonet, and adds ice, then, in a strange show of advancing and retreating at the same time, he leaves the glass and is gone.
The dance begins in a flurry of banal banter and innuendo. An hour and a half and several drinks later, I know that my speech is slurred but my libido shows no signs of flagging. She says she is staying at the hotel across the street and asks me if I'd like to join her for a night-cap in her room. I feel my sexual tension edge up a notch.
"Just so you know," she adds as she steps lithely to the floor, "I like to bite."
"Oh, yeah?" I answer, and feel the blood pulsing in my neck. "What else do you like?" I ask hoping for something suitably obscene.
"Suck," she says simply. "Bite and suck."
I can feel surging heat and warmth in my groin and we walk together toward the exit. I catch sight of myself in a mirrored pillar; short and balding with an ample middle-aged spread over the belt of my trousers. I quickly scan the reflection looking for her but seem to miss her as the door opens. I look back in time to see that perfect white body shrouded in the sequened dress step out into the night. I cast off the impression left by the strange illusion, practically salivating over the thought of the forbidden pleasures to come.
The next night, the bartender looks up from polishing glasses as the young woman in the sequened party dress accomodates herself at the corner of the bar, and poses a perfect white calf into the dim light.
"How did it go last night?" he asks, sliding up the bar in her direction.
"He tasted of Scotch," she answers, disgruntled but joking. They laugh together; hers is deep in her throat, feline.
"What can I get you, Scarlett?" asks the bartender, "the usual?"
She thinks a moment and then responds; "Do you have a something in a more younthful, AB-positive?"

<hr>

it's funny how things come back.
this was actually posted as a 'fragment' quite some time ago; i included it at the end of a completely unrelated story and there it sat. but then it returned to me at the beginning of the week and i wrote most of it on my 'Palm' PDA while going and coming from work. i love that device - it's a godsend. :p
cheers and thanks for visiting. :) ]]> 142560 2008-08-25 21:02:07 Please read 'The Legend of the Amulet', Parts (I), (II), (III).

The Legend of the Amulet (IV)

The Enchantress knew that the demon star had vanquished her beloved Aquarius, but she had no time for grieving. The moment of battle had arrived: a battle to rescue the Amulet from the hand of evil and return it to the safety of its chamber; a battle to restore the purity of Mount Avian and a battle to restore the World to the path of good and save it from the death and devastation on which the wretched Demon was bent.
For a moment, the Enchantress cast her vision outward and looked down toward the foot of the mountain. She felt her sorrow, sharp and agonising, at the sight of the innocent villagers; their numbers decimated, entire families destroyed, as they clung together in tiny crevasses in the rock for protection.
She thrust her head upward and held out her arms, “Thank you, my guides,” in response to their whispered exhortations to launch herself into battle.
They had yet to allow for her to fight unprotected and this dark time was no exception. In her wisdom and in the wisdom of her guides, she had proclaimed the Demon would bend to her will before he retrieved the amulet. The Demon’s desires mattered none because of her incantation, though he would not be defeated without his own attacks. But with the protection of the Amulet, she knew that her victory would not be accomplished by direct attack; rather by cunning and trickery.
She collected a deep breath of cold mountain air and then pronounced a single syllable, which escaped her lips as a pure musical tone.
She said, 'Fog'.
Instantly, the wind of the storm was becalmed and the humidity erupted and addends from the ground. In moments, a thick white veil was lapping at her feet and rising, flowing like a damp tide, thicker and thicker. It was as though the clouds themselves descended from the sky to settle around the summit of Mount Avian which was soon completely enveloped in a thick white mist making vision obsolete.
The Demon cackled lasciviously, saying, “Is that the best you've got, whore?” as he stood at the entrance to the chamber and chided her.
The Enchantress lowered her gaze to stare menacingly in his direction, “Not even close you fool.”
The Demon wanted to see in the milky whiteness surrounding him and commanded light. In response, the crystal in the Amulet began to glow, blood red and piercing, but the thick fog captured and reflected the light, sending it back at him in a blinding wave. The Demon expected the amulet to protect him from attacks and by all rights it would have, had it not been for the Enchantress’ chant superseding the power he stole from the chamber.
“Damn, she is a bitch,” he snarled. The amulet gave him no protection now, he wasn’t even sure it gave him power. He snatched the amulet and thrust it from his neck, deciding to use his own power and sheer hatred to defeat her. He did not know that his end had already begun.
The Enchantress gently picked up the crystal vase standing at her feet; she called forth it's bottomless watery contents. Swirling waves of water began to surge outward at her silent command creating a rising wave aimed at her nemesis.
Resounding crashes echoed in the valley as the waves rose and united; Aquarius would have been proud. As soon as the great wave had risen to its full height, the Enchantress willed into existence a blast of icey wind that carried the water with the force of a million tides straight toward the Demon. The tremendous wall of water closed over the evil creature like the jaws of an Alsatian mastiff clenching on an offending stranger.
Wave after wave ripped at the Demon’s wings and body, stretching the skin and tearing at the appendages in a blood-soaked fury of crushing bones and tooth rattling torture. The Demon’s skin tore from his body, leaving muscle and tissue open to the crashing waves of water. The Enchantress, showing no mercy, waved her hand sending the tidal wave carrying the Demon to the mountain where he was impaled on a rocky pinnacle, transfixed and transformed to stone for all eternity.
A red glow faintly appeared under an uprooted tree; it began to rise and glide back to the chamber. As the Sacred Amulet neared, the gargoyles, healed and whole, rematerialised in the mist and resumed their places at the entrance. The chamber restored itself, the wooden spikes retracted, the candles returned and the crystal glass dome waited for its precious charge. The Amulet floated on an invisible pillow of self-perpetuating power to the centre of the altar and, covered, was safe once more.
The Enchantress looked, emotionless and pitiless, upon the transformed body of the Demon, a hulking hideous figure made immobile and now slave to the elements. She wasted not a moment with the sight but quickly descended the mountain; her marble white feet scarcely touching the surface of the rock. By the time she reached the bottom of Mount Avian, the sky was clearing and brightening in the East. Sinking over the horizon in the West was Aquarius, newly emerged from eclipse and restoring the fullness of her powers. Her body began to emit light; the brilliant purity of Good in triumph over Evil.
“Come forth, children,” she pronounced, “the Evil is banished.”
Her voice was high and musical and beckoned the frightened people from hiding. Slowly, timidly, they emerged and approached her with love and reverence. A tiny girl, dirtied and sodden, but with filthy golden curls broke away from her awe-struck mother and ran to the Enchantress to then cling to the white robes flowing about her. The Enchantress smiled and bent to stroke the head of the tiny, trembling child.
“Yes, little one, you are safe now, as are you all. You may return to your valley. Today the sun will rise and heal your sorrows and you will live out your lives in peace.”
The people began to cheer and embrace one another. And the little girl forever remembered the gentle caress of the Enchantress upon her head and the gift that was therein imparted: the gift of story-telling.

“...and ever since that time, we have live at peace here in this valley; protected at the foot of our great mount Avian and by the beautiful Enchantress who lives there. If you look up the side of the mountain in the first light of day, and I know that you will, you can see the shape of the Demon, thrust onto a pinnacle of rock and turned to stone. This story has been passed down in our family from that little girl since that very day and here this story ends.”
She smiles as she finishes and looks down at the twin girls clinging together in their bed and covered in warm furs. One of them speaks.
“But Mommy! Can the Demon ever come back to the valley?”
“No, dear.” She smiles and brushes a golden curl from the little girl's forehead. “His soul is encased in stone now. I tell you these stories so that you will know about what has happened in the past. When you are big and have babies of your own, you will tell them, and so on as it has always been. And someday maybe all people will know of the power of Good over Evil.”
She looks at the girls and they gaze back at her, their eyes wide and they nod in child-like seriousness.
“But now my little girls need to sleep.”
“Yes Mommy,” they answer in unison and the frame of the bed creaks as they simultaneously snuggle down and she pulls the soft fur covers around them to protect from the chill of the night. Each little head of golden soft hair receives a kiss and then, with candle in hand, she leaves the room.
In the other room of the small house, her husband looks up from cleaning a soft rabbit skin. His brow is furrowed with concern.
“I heard what you were telling them. Then you have heard the sounds from down the valley, too,”
“Yes,” she says, and takes a short sword from its hook on the wall. She retrieves a whet-stone from the lintel above the hearth where the fire is beginning to burn low. She hands them to her husband. “I do, and others as well.”
“Oh, my dear husband!” she exclaims. There is rising pain in her voice as she thinks, as only a mother can, of the two tiny angels now sleeping in the other room. “Do you think the Demon-Time is returning? Will it destroy us as it did before?”
The man continues to polish the blade of the sword. There is the soft rasp of the stone sliding along the blade, honing it day after day to razor sharpness. He does not know what to say or what the future will bring; his silence is his only response.
Down the valley, far from mount Avian and the tiny village nestled at its foot, another mountain is bathed in the pale light of the waning moon. From the distance comes the vague echo of rumbling crashes as rocks fall from its summit amidst the hollow lament of a beast ensnared and trapped by the power of the Amulet.

<hr>

smilinirisheyes and i have very much enjoyed writing this story together. we sincerely hope you have enjoyed the journey with us. thanks. ]]> 142431 2008-08-25 15:13:00
The moon is rising, looming; bloated and blood red. It's colour drips into the night-time haze over the city tainting, polluting it, like a sanguine tide. The view of our solitary, nocturnal satellite is waning; a razor thin portion having been excised from its luminous and distant periphery.
Lost in my own agonising thoughts and once again engulfed in the quicksand of chronic depression, I stand on my balcony, cigarette trembling between my fingers and my eyes fixed on the scene of celestial bloodshed. Waves from the ether coagulate and reach my battered laptop sitting on a small table behind me. The 'instant messenger' program burbles to life and a window springs spontaneously into existence. I put out the cigarette in the freshly emptied ashtray and slide onto my comfortable rocking chair, it's light wood grain bathed in vermilion reflections. The small window blinks frantically at me as I decode the cryptic contents:

@30n_5cR3@m> h! r U tH3r3 ? EYe N33d uR h37P

'æon_scream' is my girlfriend. She's not but she is; it's very complicated between us and also deceptively simple. We encountered one another as lost souls in the digital miasma of the internet: she, isolated by her own demons and, I, reclusive, slowly lingering, scrabbling for sanity, as my depression gradually destroys me; an unlikely couple, if that is what we are. We meet occasionally for sex; a moment of intimacy and emotional abandon, surreptitious and evanescent, that neither of us have the courage or depth of emotional awareness to seize and hold on to.
She is also a hacker; she crosses many heavily guarded frontiers that should not be transgressed. She is brilliant, likely a super-genius level IQ, and extremely paranoid. She encrypts all of her communications.

w@5t3d_t!M3> hi aeon. what's going on?

The cursor blinks at me like the blank eye of an idiot and then I press 'send'. A moment of tranquillity returns as the window on the brightly coloured screen lies dormant; I collect a large crystal glass from the table and a slowly depleting bottle of Sicilian 'nero d'avola', enjoying a fleeting sense of pleasure as the dark liquid splashes into the glass and surges up the sides to then lie in a ruby-coloured pool at the bottom. I bring it to my lips and let the complex hints and hues pass over my tongue.
The screen saver on the computer comes to life and instantly I am small, insignificant and alone in an animated virtual image of a spiral galaxy in its timeless revolutions. The computer is ancient, the housing cracked and mended unnumbered times, and the chips of its electronic guts gently teased from their ceramic seats to be replaced with more powerful ones by æon's hand. It has travelled with me on so many journeys that this device has probably voyaged more than most people. I gaze at it and wonder, in my dark swaddled mind, what recollections of it's past life it retains. With a flash, the spiral galaxy vanishes and again the screen blinks to life. My experienced eye performs a simultaneous translation of the new message:

æon_scream> i've got some photos of faxed pages. can you filter them and get the text? they're bootlegged – very hazy

wasted_time> sure. i can have a shot at it. send them to me. same encryption key?

æon_scream> yes

wasted_time> when do you need them?

æon_scream> doesn't matter. just do your best. there's something very odd in this – strange circumstances

wasted_time> ok i'll get to work on it as soon as they come. c u

æon_scream> sending now bye gotta get offline before i'm spotted

I am familiar with what happens as an aftermath to the conversation. Æon sends a series of complex binary commands over the Instant Messenger which simultaneously cause the window to implode on itself and garble any trace of the messages in the memory; she erases herself from existence.
My fingers tap out some combinations on the small keyboard and a new screen appears with the usual flashing words 'You have mail'. My eyes seek out the accentuated heading in the list of messages and then I download the mysterious package attached to the ethereal letter.
The file has been heavily disguised and encrypted by æon but I am accustomed to her labyrinthine ways; I change the file extension and then apply the decryption key in a small software that I cause to run. The first level of decryption causes a second key to be presented and I apply that as well. The software hums mysteriously as 0's and 1's are inverted and then four image files appear spontaneously on the desktop and the program terminates.
I have done this sort of work before. People do not realise it normally, but image files are just arrays of numbers with different attributes applied; the attributes are colour, brightness, hue and so on for each pixel. But as a numerical array, it is actually better to work on a photo in a high-end numerical analysis program such as Maple or Mathematica rather than 'tweak' it in Photoshop; the possibilities for extracting data are much greater and more precise.
The first photo comes to life on the screen and I shake my head at its hazy obscurity. The letter are completely unrecognisable but some conspicuous dark areas stand out. The photo was clearly taken by a shaking hand in inadequate light and probably in great haste. My fingers play an irregular rhythm across the keyboard as I call up and activate a custom 'edge finding' algorithm; it will scan the photo and mark where colour density changes from white, the page colour, to black, the colour of text, and then these edges will be joined into delineated areas at a sub-pixel level. The algorithm terminates and a new image is presented overlying the old: faint, thin blue lines enclose areas that vaguely resemble letters. I nod my head while sipping more wine and then continue the analysis. A second algorithm will topographically analyse the image; the areas enclosed in blue will rise like Braille south-western mesas, coloured in black, from a mound of grey and a floor of white giving a three-dimensional image that the eye can then view and recognise. The algorithm churns away as I sit back, gently rocking in a cloud of cigarette smoke and a cool breeze wafts across the balcony causing me to shiver. I take another sip of wine as the image returns to the screen dotted with mounds and valleys.
It takes me only a moment to zoom in, tilting and panning, and realise that the new representation is recognisable to my eye. The letters are unclear, but the 3-dimensional effect causes important parts to stand out and together form words, while the shadows allow the overall impression to be reinforced. I begin to read; what follows is what I found.
I haven’t altered anything from the original; blanks indicate where information has been sanitised from my copy. For the sake of reading clarity, I have neglected to repeat the obscured last names of the officers and refer to them only by their initials.

<hr>

New York City Police Department,
Division of Records.
Manhattan, Division --.

Case File No. -----.
Transcript of Interview: August --, 2008.
Interviewee: Mr. (Prof.) D. ---------, person of interest in the Homicide of Lynda J. ------- (formerly of Birmingham, Alabama).
Interviewer: Dct. Sgt. L. --------- (Badge No. ----).
Witnesses: Dct. Sgt. R. ------- (Badge No. ----); trainee Const. P. ------------ (Badge No. ----); trainee Const. F. ---------- (Badge No. ----).

Transcript of Tape No. 2008-08-16247
Prepared by -- (initials).
Verified by: -- (initials).
Supervisor: -- (initials).

(BeginTranscript)

L: Dude’s wakin’ up. Mr. D, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?

Transcriber’s comment: Much distortion on tape. Discernible sound: object of furniture overturning.

L: Oh shit! Mr. D., please stop fighting. You've been restrained for your own safety. Do you understand me. R? Can you help me lift this chair up?

R: (enters room) You gettin' weak in your old age, L?

L: Fuck you! Just give me a hand. Was this guy given a sedative? Mr. D., can you hear me?

R: He was medicated when he was first brought in. Fucking nut case this one. Don't know why we don't just send him upstream. You OK now?

D: (unintelligible mumbling)

L: Yeah, I'm OK. Mr. D., we really need to talk to you about what's happened to you. Can you help us out with that?

R: (leaves room)

D: (unintelligible) time?

L: I'm sorry? What time is it? Is that what you mean, Mr. D.?

D: Yes.

L: It's 11:58 pm, Mr. D. Is that important?

D: Oh no! You've got to get out. Get away.

L: Why is that, Mr. D? Are we in danger? Are you suggesting there is a bomb?

D: No, no, no, no. No time. Just please get out.

L: I'd really like to talk to you for a few minutes, Mr. D., if that's OK with you.

D: What day is it? Is the moon full or nearly?

L: It's Friday, Mr. D. and, yes, I saw the moon when I came on shift. But Mr. D., I'd really like to talk to you about why you were found raving and naked in the park at dawn. Do you have a medical or psychological condition? Do you know your doctor's name?

D: It's too ancient to describe. You seem like a good man. Please get out now. There must be only seconds left.

L: Only seconds left until what, Mr. D? Mr. D? Oh shit! He's convulsing! R! Call the fucking doctor!

R: (on talk-back) I'm on it.

L: Mr. D. I need you to relax. I'm going to release these restraints and help you to the floor, OK?

Transcriber’s comment: Commotion. Sound of dog barking. Internal Affairs: confirm or deny presence of canine unit.

L: R? Where's the fucking doctor? There's something happening to him like he's seizing up or something. I don't want to lose him down here.

R: (on talk-back) I'm coming in to help. (overheard) You boys stay out here and stay out of my fucking way. When the medic arrives just kick his ass in here. (enters room)

Transcriber’s comment: probably speaking to Constables P. and F.

R: (enters room) What the... what's happening to him?

L: I've got no clue.

R: What's wrong with his face? This ain't no fucking seizure!

L: You the fucking doctor now? Just help me hold him down!

R: Looks like some kinda fucking animal... how does that...

Transcriber’s comment: Much distortion on tape. Animal sounds: growl?

R: Look, just back away from it. L! Draw your...

Transcriber’s comment: Much distortion on tape. Numerous gun (pending acoustic analysis) shots between 12:01:37 and 12:01:52.

R: Oh my fucking...

Transcriber’s comment: Much distortion on tape. Single gun shot. Animal sounds. Scream? Sound of glass breaking. Numerous gun (pending acoustic analysis) shots between 12:02:16 and 12:02:21.

(EndofTranscription)
(EndofTape)

Notes: See Case Nos. --, --, --, --, for the files related to the deaths of the four Officers present at the interview. Video files being reviewed by Internal Affairs (Contact: Staff Sgt. G. ---------- , Badge No. ----).

(EndOfFile)
<hr>

By the time I have finished the transcript, the night has waned and the solar glow on the horizon signals the imminent birth of a new day. The previous single bottle of wine has been joined by an equally empty twin. An overflowing ashtray completes the still life. I falter slightly as I collect the computer under my arm and leave the balcony to return to the heavily curtained dimness of my apartment as the sun breaks over the horizon and paints the world a brilliant tangerine orange.
My mind swims with the combined effects of the wine and the text which I have just reconstructed and I hesitate, unwilling to send the result to æon. Would she want to know this truth. Would she be better to handle it than I am? I decide not to send it for now, that sleep is the better option.
I enter the bathroom and my hand absently finds a large bottle of oxycodone. I withdraw three of the large white tablets and send them down my throat before returning to the living room and collapsing on the couch. My eyes begin to close as the world outside is awakening with the sound of buses and cars in the street below and, beyond the door of my apartment, I hear the unmistakable sound of a woman's heels clicking purposefully on the worn floor, bustling off to a busy day.
When sleep comes, I know it will be haunted by the blood-thirsty snarls of a mythical beast which now lurks at the dark periphery of my fragile reality.

<hr>

this was unfinished from about a year ago. i found it by accident and changed the interview to a different slant, and added the front and back end to give it some context.
hope you liked reading it. ]]> 141728 2008-08-23 19:05:34
I remember another starry night like this: the present falls away and my mind presses its eye to the misted veil of memory in a vain attempt to see more clearly; to recast the body of an aged man in the form that was and in the moment that was. So long ago.
The night in the small, fishing village on the Rhône was clear and the heat of the day had dissipated to be replaced by the yearning carress of a summer breeze in the evening. Darkness was our privacy as we strolled, occasionally to be reawakened in small islands of overhead lamplight and then to disappear again, lost in the singularity that two can somethimes share. Other couples, similarly disposed to vanish from the intruding light, would spring to life in brief illumination and the whole seemed a Louis XIV ballroom set to the tune of a slowly flickering strobe as couples continued on their gracefully swirling private pirouettes.
The pier was ancient, shedding flecks of faded blue paint; wood, nails and bundles of coiled rope and net in readiness for another day of harvesting such succulent treasures from these fertile waters.
And then there was you; the most beautiful woman I ever knew, your daffodil yellow gown trailing behind your light tread, your hair tied up and pinned under a flowered hat and a painted japanese paper parasol dangling playfully from your delicate wrist as your other arm was draped through mine holding us close together.
Above us we beheld the eternal beauty of the movement of the spheres; the stars swimming, shimmering, dancing to music that cannot be heard but only felt in the hearts of lovers. It was, as we danced in the glow of that divine orchestration that I, tentatively and halting, a man in his prime made as nervous as a colt, pronounced the words, a single question that implies 'forever'. When you answered 'Yes', you turned to me, your white-gloved hands resting like the touch of an angel on the lapels of my jacket and I saw the tears of happiness in your eyes, reflecting the million points of light above and my heart burst into the bloom of love; a brilliant multifoliate rose in glorious blossom and engorged in vibrant colour, misted by my own tears at the thought of 'forever' with you. And we kissed, laughing, crying and lost in one another under the benediction of the starry night.
Now that night, here in this village on the Rhône, has become vague and brittle. I have grown old and been left alone in the bitter remainder of life by the vicissitudes of time and circumstance. When you passed, become frail and no less beautiful, I felt the rose of my heart, in only a moment, shrivel, collapse and fade. That night under the summer sky will soon be history, remembered by none; a piece of time will wink out, sputtering, like a distant candle in a window, no longer inviting return to a lost love, no longer there.
My cane beats with each step on the weathered pier, hollow and melancholy, like the slow rhythm of a funeral drum. I return toward the pebbled beach and urge my unwilling and tired body down from the smooth wood to the precariously uneven terrain below. The water washes over my feet and sends a glacial chill through me, threating to seize joints that have become as stiff and useless as rusted hinges. Still I push myself onward until I come to a large boulder, a hulking unformed mass in the shadowed night, more ancient than any memory. It provides me a needed place to rest and repose these things which I will not need. My heavy mahogany cane has been a trusted companion for forty years; the rich warmth of the wood now grows chill to the touch and my fingers, gnarled and bent, run over the worn curve of the handle shaking and unsure as I peruse that object as being a part of me.
The starred night sky above is clear, pale and vapid and I gaze upward from rheumy eyes attempting to see clearly into that infinite emptiness lit by the million candles of a wailing room. I lay it aside. My jacket, the same one, now threadbare, antique and oversized on my diminished frame, slides from my thin, curved shoulders. I fold it gently, picturing your hands resting there and gently kiss those beloved apparitions. I pose the neatly folded jacket upon the time and water smoothed mass beside me. Similarly, my shirt and tie are removed and stored and, finally, my trousers. I put my shoes together at the base of the rock and, there they may remain, as though in musing attendance of a lone night-time bather.
The water is a dark and inviting void and I lower myself into it. My paper thin lungs heave to catch breath. I shiver uncontrollably as my frailty is pierced by the night and the water's chill. Then my body is caught in the slow current and drawn away from the lonesome pebbled shore and the small repository of carefully folded clothing.
I will lie here and drift as pallid flotsam upon the broad expanse of Rhône. When the water consumes me and I cease my existence in numbed peace, my last thought will be of you and a distant starry night.

<hr>

This one owes a nod to Rajah and Scribbles for the original ideas and I hope 'two birds with one stone' is OK. I'm not sure if I should blame circe for inciting me to distraction when i should be working on other things; no, it's my own fault. :p
The soundtrack to this is Vincent by Don McLean from the 1972 album American Pie. ]]> 139215 2008-08-17 16:22:34
Please read 'Art, Part I', here.

The weeks before the opening pass with the regular slowness of the clessidra's silicate beach draining away, washed by the waves of time. The approaching event, finally only a day away, leaves us tingling with the excitement of the much anticipated evening out and the expecation of visiting the spectacular new gallery.
On the appointed date, I arrive home an hour early to find Sophia just from the shower and smelling of soap and flowers, wrapped in a plump towel, attempting to tame her wavey auburn tresses. I slip into the bathroom behind her, watching as a reflected man, his severe charcoal grey suit contrasting with the gay yellow towel, slides his hands up the thighs of the beautifully reflected woman, the towel receding, revealing her freshly scrubbed nudity. My hands come to rest, fingers intertwined, across her pink belly.
"You know, it's immoral to let me see you like this," I observe, and my lips pass lightly across the scented dampness of her shoulder. Her head lolls slightly to the side, eyes closed, and a Mona Lisa smile, sensual and broad, drifts across her mouth, as I nip playfully at the side of her neck, taking in the perfume of her shampoo.
"Well, you are just gonna have to hold your 'morality' in check, tiger. I've gotta get ready and you know how long it takes me."
I sigh dramatically before releasing her to continue her incomprehensible rituals. The towel slips back into place.
"I've confirmed the limousine for 5:30," I say, entering the bedroom to change into a fresh suit. "Is that gonna give you enough time?"
"It will if you keep your hands to yourself," she answers sharply and I remain duely chastised but smiling.
Sophia appears, a breath-taking version of herself, as I nervously scan my watch at 5:25, with her black dress accentuating the lean curves of her body and accessorised with some artful Balinese-inspired matching silver bangles and ear-rings. Over her arm she has draped a black silk shawl with floral embroidery and a tiny silver evening purse dangles from her shoulder, bouncing from her hip as she enters the room. Her heels make her almost as tall as I.
"Wow," I say, eyeing her appreciatively. "Can I put my hands on you now?"
"No," she says preremptively, "but you can give me a kiss if you promise not to smudge my make-up."
I kiss her briefly and then whisper in her ear, "You are the most beautiful woman in the world to me, Sophia."
"There," she says, and pats me summarily in the centre of the chest. "It's about time you behaved properly," she adds but she is smiling; contented for the effect of her hard work. My hand automatically recovers keys and cell phone from the handy little shelf where they live and stows them in their habitual fabric repositories and we are out the door to find the sleek, brilliantly polished, midnight blue limousine idling at the curb. We are whisked away in leather and tinted glass luxury to dinner at Sassafraz.
The restaurant, upscale and very chic, is quiet at this early hour and we are soon seated, carefully picking over and discussing the merits of the culinary offerings. We agree on an appetiser of smoked salmon and select, with the help of the waiter, a pinot grigio delle venezie to accompany the meal. For her main course, Sophia decides on quail stuffed with mandarin and porto bello mushrooms while I am content with linguine alle vongole. With our delicate choices made and the waiter gone to bring the wine, we relax; Sophia extends her hand, with the silver bangles ringing brightly on her wrist, across the table to take mine and we fall into conversation, observing the other patrons, commenting on the perfect evening and revelling in the company of one another. The waiter, is understated, polite and efficient, bringing each dish with unobtrusive calm. The evening progresses with only a single distraction; Natasha Bedingfield, the British singer, arrives with a small entourage as we conclude our meal and is escorted by one of the owners to a private area at the back of the restaurant. By 7:45, the bitterness of good coffee lingers brashly on our palattes and, we conclude by paying quickly and thanking the waiter again, as the limousine returns to fetch us and we are en route to the Art Gallery.
The newly rennonvated and refurbished Art Gallery is like a sparkling gem in the city's twilight colours, lit without by the glare of skyward beaming flood-lights, and from within by inventively positioned halogen lights switching on and off in waves, carefully orchestrated to give the illusion of movement as with a multi-carat diamond spinning majestically on a lit daïs.
We descend from the limousine on Avenue Road amidst a stready stream of similar vehicles and numerous yellow cabs. Two young men in livery immediately check our invitation, which I withdraw from the jealously guarded position of an inner pocket of my suit jacket. We are invited to join the other guests for refreshment in the foyer of the Gallery. Sophia takes my arm and we approach the remarkable new edifice, gazing in open astonishment at the architectural marvel.
The 'Crystal' soars above; all angles, chrome and glass, catching and reflecting lights, cars, people, the life of the city. It emerges from the original, neo-classical façade like the birth of the sun from a staid and ancient horizon; a vibrant mirage of light and space, reflected movement. We dazzle at it's complexity as we slowly approach, the sounds of our steps muffled on the red carpet, and enter the foyer where we are engulfed in the wooley roar of hundreds of hushed voices and expectant chatter. We stroll among the crowd after retrieving two glasses of champagne, occasionally stopping to greet acquaintances or Sophia's artist colleagues. A baroque chamber quintet plays softly at one end of the foyer, the notes rich, full and resonating deeply in the acoustic void, buffered by the soft, sound absorbing presence of so many bodies.
The installation lurks, dark and menacing, in the spacious and dimly lit hall; a crouching behemoth ready to spring to life and do whatever evil it is that behemoths practise. It presence fills the field of vision and reflects from every surface making it impossible to turn away and breathe deeply. It attacks the senses, an intimidating wave of darkness, an effect made more oppressive by a rumbling industrial beat that loops and erupts from concealed speakers within the sculpture.
With Sophia again on my arm, we step into the hall to be immediately engulfed by its aggresive and threatening quality. We stop short. I am dumb-founded. Sophia gasps and her fingers rise in an instinctive gesture of astonishment to cover her mouth. Her hand clasps tighter to my elbow.
"What the ...?" is all that escapes me.
"Oh my God," whispers Sophia through her fingers still resting on her lips.
We draw closer to the sculpture, nervous lest it rise and pluck us from where we stand, and it begins to resolve into an immense series of interlocking 'found objects', woven together with maddening complexity to take on a single form. I recognise a toilet seat, some car bumpers, a plastic bucket, copper tubing, pieces of astro-turf and so much more it is impossible to keep a list; the ensemble has been deftly air-brushed in dark colours and reflective highlights to trick the eye with its illusory effect of light and shadow into seeing a unity where there is none.
"Well, I like what's on TV anyway," I remark, indicating an ancient TV tube which bulges like an evulsed eye dangling from it's socket, flashing images of models parading the catwalks of Paris and Milan.
"It's supposed to repulse you," Sophia comments back, her voice tinged with an unusual edge.
"Yeah, but they look OK to me," I respond, trying to sound light-hearted.
"It represents media image-mongering and brain-washing, don't you see that?" She looks at me, perplexed, but her eyes are again wide, the pupils dilated, as when she falls into her artistic fervor.
She gently casts off my arm and we separate, exploring in opposite directions the perimeter of the installation. My eyes crawl over it as I walk, attempting to enumerate the objects contained within but I soon lose count.
I encounter an older gentleman with short cropped pure white hair and beard. He wears a double-breasted suit, decades old, and in his right hand he leans heavily on a black cane. His left arm hangs useless and rubbery at his side; the probable effect of a crippling stroke. I pause and nod as he does a shuffle on his weakened left leg to pass by in my path. 'Lot of scrap in there,' I hear him mutter, 'could probably fetch 250 bucks.' He shakes his head sadly and passes onward doing an awkward, shuffling two-step.
Another visitor has a different view. I am assaulted by the smell of her excessively applied perfume before I locate the source. She is perhaps 60, clearly affluent, but in a saffron coloured gown that may well have fit her 20 years previously; it bulges conspicuously, threatening to cede against the pressure of enormous breasts and a pendulous belly. Her hair is an unlikely matching orange, puffy and extravagant, above a face deformed and stretched taught from ill-conceived cosmetic surgery. 'Darling,' I hear her comment to a similarly exaggerated younger woman, 'it is simply marvelous; frightening and sensual au même moment.' The gratuitous use of French makes me snicker foolishly and turn away.
'Don't we have at the same time in English?' I wonder to myself.
I pick Sophia from the crowd, gradually approaching me. She seems transfixed, moving mechanically as though lost in thoughts, her mind transported elsewhere, while her body continues autonomously on it's circumnavigation of the installation. The comments of others drift to my ears as I make my way patiently toward her. 'It's really creeping me,' says a pretty young lady, hand in hand with a fellow that seems more a street thug than a gallery attendee. 'Superlative,' murmurs a young man to an older companion; 'Exceptionally vast in its projected essence,' responds the other in a deep baritone.
I rejoin Sophia in silence and her arm automatically links in mine.
"It's genius," she whispers vaguely in my direction, "unlike anything that's even been attempted before on this scale." Her voice is infused with awe. "I can't even imagine a more powerful vision."
I look at her, my expression blank.
"But, it's just stuff stuck together," I offer, unsure.
"What?" she exclaims. Her voice is sharp and, from the corner of my eye, I notice 'saffron lady' snort in our direction.
"I'm just saying, it's not beautiful like your paintings, Sophia. That's all I meant. It's just a 'thingey' that you stick together." I can feel myself treading on thin ice but sense a need to express what I see.
"A 'thingey'... ?" she responds, incredulous, and shakes her head vehemently. "Can you tell me, please, where is your sensitivity?" Her voice crawls with tension.
"I can be as sensitive as anyone," I attempt to underline. Her eyes are on me, hard and unwavering.
"And calling it a 'thingey' is your idea of sensitive?" she flings the words back at me. "This is a singular and ingenious expression of destructive forces at work in our society and sensitive for you is to call it a 'thingey'?"
Sophia has pulled away and stands facing me, her arms crossed on her delicate chest. Her expression ripples with scorn.
"Sophia, be reasonable," I suggest, and recognise my error as soon as the words are enunciated.
"Reasonable?" she retorts, now wound as tight as a spring. "Reasonable ended when you decided to call great art a 'thingey'!"
I am embarassed as heads turn our way to the repeated tune of 'Hush'.
"If that's all you can muster, then I think I just want to go home," she says, her voice conveying deep emotion ready to burst forth in a flood of tears.
"Honey? Please?" I hold out my hand to her, praying she will take it. Reluctantly she does as a first sob escapes her and her chest heaves once, sharply. "We'll go home now...now. I'm sorry I offended you. I'm so sorry."
I love Sophia more that anything else, but I'm not an artist. I don't see things or, perhaps even experience them with the level of perception that she has. It is a difference, at an emotional level, in how we view the world: I am practical, straightforward and honest; she finds meaning in movement and gesture as though the world is a brightly painted canvas in motion, a swirling mix of colour and thought, a perfectly wrought ballerina caught in the midst of a graceful grand jeté.
The limousine ride home passes in icey silence. Sophia huddles on the shadowed seat, distant beside me and lost in peceptions that I can never grasp, her silk shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders and clutched in a hand that is white with tension. The vision which was presented to us, and my own stupidity, have thrown her into an emotional state; dark, distant and disturbed. I will not leave her there alone. Tonight I will hold her close to me if she will have me; lost in a despair of my own for her, and whisper 'I love you.' I will stroke her hair and gently kiss her cheek. Sophia is everything to me.
She is my work of art.

<hr>

Wow. A strange thing happened to my story: it took a whole different direction at the end that was much different from what i had conceived. i guess my mood has changed.
thank you for reading and i hope you liked it although i didn't realy mean for it to turn out like this. ]]> 138393 2008-08-15 15:11:41
The invitation, hidden within its heavy, vellum envelope, arrives in the mail to be retrieved by me on my return from work. I extract it like a beautiful and fragile, exotic bird from it's rectangular, aluminum, post-box nest and gaze at it in wonder. The envelope is subtly textured to the touch and my eyes perceive the nebulous shadow of a water-mark woven into its fibres. The addressee is stamped gold in a rich, florid script upon the front and I read it twice to be sure it has arrived correctly into such an unworthy hand; I feel that I am holding, tentatively and awkwardly, some ancient parchment more suited to the white-gloved hand of an archivist. I carefully slip the priceless document into the breast pocket of my jacket and head toward the elevator, anxious to present the new-found treasure to Sophia.
Twelve floors up and only moments later, the door of our small condominium opens in response to my beckoning knock and Sophia is the second delight my senses have received in so few minutes. Sophia is my girlfriend of four years. We bought our comfortable lodging together two years ago. Friends are always asking us why we don't get married. We invariably look at each other, shrug our shoulders in unison as though performing some strange 60's era dance, and respond, 'Why?' Sophia is a painter and is gradually achieving some merited success. When we moved in, we reserved, for her studio, the larger bedroom with its tranquil view overlooking a park which occupies the opposite side of the street. The smaller bedroom is sufficient for our repose and a small computer desk for me. I love waking up beside Sophia; she is my work of art. My love for her runs very deeply.
She stands back from the door and I enter. Her arms thrown wide and her body are inviting and I step willfully into her embrace. She is wearing a long t-shirt and a dark blue leotard. My arms close around her and feel her small breasts press against my chest and my hands run over her thin back, naked under the soft, cotton fabric of the t-shirt which proclaims loudly 'Cerveza Dos Equis' on the front. I study her face as her head rests briefly upon my chest and my eye is drawn to a single smudge of titanium white, brilliant and pure upon her pink cheek, which belies that she has been working. Her eyes, too, are wide and bright with the feverishness of her creativity.
"Hey," I say, breaking away softly from that moment of wordlessly spoken affection, "Look what we got!" I gently glide the object of my previous wonderment from my pocket and present it to her, lying flat on my extended palm like a laurel to an ancient olympian.
"It's beautiful!" she responds and receives the tribute. "Where's it from?"
"I don't know," I answer truthfully. "Isn't that the Art Gallery logo stamped on the corner? Why don't you open it and find out?" I suggest.
"It's addressed to you," she says and frowns.
"I guess it's something to do with the donation I made last year. Go ahead, I'm curious too. Give me a second to change and I'll join you in the kitchen."
She nods happily and springs away lightly on bare feet like a youthful gazelle. I retire to the bedroom where I carefully hang my suit in the closet amidst the identical array of charcoal grey and change into a black t-shirt with the bold 'Nine Inch Nails' logo stamped in supple vinyl across the shoulders, my favourite, and black sweat pants. When I return to the kitchen, Sophia has practised her surgery on the envelope, making an imperceptible incision along the short edge of the envelope, and she allows the contents to slither out into her long and expectantly waiting fingers.
"It's an invitation to the gala re-opening of the Art Gallery!" she proclaims as the parchment unfolds in heavy, cartaceous and gold-impressed glory and her clear blue eyes rapidly recover desired information. Her voice is tinged with the excitement of the prospect.
"Everyone will be there," she pronounces and the document is layed aside carefully, where, after a hastily prepared and consumed evening meal, we sit at our tiny, overly high, dining table on softly upholtered stools and sipping from ruby filled, voluminous glasses of 'Castello Brolio chianti classico riserva', discussing the possibilities of the evening. The invitation is repeatedly passed between our hands to be scrutinised and commented further upon.
"We'll have to go for a nice dinner before," I suggest, imagining a light, candle-lit, early evening meal at Chez Michelle or Sassafraz; then a calm cab ride, or even a limousine for the event, down to the Art Gallery. Wonderful. I want the whole thing to be perfect for Sophia because we go out so seldom.
"This is incredible," she answers, lost in her own perceptions. "Évangeline LeClerq is doing an installation for the re-opening!"
"Who's that?" I answer, groping to reconnect with the pronounced syllables.
"She Parisienne; the most respected urban sculpture/installation artist in the world right now, probably bigger than Christo. She's working at a whole different level from anyone else." Sophia's words and praise erupt from her mouth with passion and the conviction of someone flooded with respect for another's work.
"So, dinner and a limousine before?" I respond, hoping to entice her. "And can I see you in that black dress you bought last year?"
Sophia's eyes flash at me and then an impish grin spreads across her face as she slips to the floor and rounds the table where my hands slide appreciatively over her narrow hips as she comes near.
"You're on," she says and then adds in after-thought, "and you can see me however you want."
Then her soft, full lips, tinted with the flavour of wine, are on mine and her hand drifts and nestles at the nape of my neck, drawing me toward her.

<hr>

Please read 'Art, Part II,' here.
Cheers and thank you all so much for reading. :) ]]> 138091 2008-08-14 20:30:59
Please read 'The Legend of the Amulet (I)' here.

The Legend of the Amulet (II).

The Demon roared again and the earth trembled beneath him. Massive boulders detached themselves from the mountain and went rumbling into the valley. With the Demon Star fulfilling its prophecy and giving him flight, he flapped his new wings and rose above the ground, flying toward his rightful possession. The Enchantress would certainly be confused and oblivious to his silent soar. The time had come, he was never more sure.
In silence and darkness, the people of the villages began to gather their poor belongings and soon a caravan formed through the woods heading for the protection of Mount Avian and the legendary Enchantress. She would know what to do; she had to.
The Enchantress heard the cries of the children and the bleating of sheep coming closer to the mountain and knew that the villagers might already have suffered some kind of assault from the Demon. She drew herself up and looked to the heavens asking permission and guidance. She began to chant:

Come to me my guides and speak
Softly in my head; I seek
The wisdom course across the skies:
Open my heart, open my eyes.
Come to me who draws you near
Bring the Power and settle here.
The beast will now bend to my will,
No longer maim and no longer kill.

An explosion of thunder pierced the night's silence and a bolt of lightening lit up the cosmos. It streaked spasmodically through the clouds to strike the rocky ground in a shower of sparks and flame barely missing the Demon on his flight through the darkness, but close enough to singe his leathery flesh. Torrid rains burst from the gathering clouds slowing the gait of the villagers in their quest for safety, and also slowing the Demon's flight. It had to be something she did; the Demon Star was on his side and he should have no further problems reaching the source of power that he sought.
The Demon landed on his feet at the edge of a cliff halfway up Mount Avian. He shook his head, unfurling his wings, blotting out the remaining light from the stars and screamed, 'Whore! You will give it to me, or I will take it!'
The Enchantress stood at the top of the mountain, solid, impassive and immobile. She seemed a pinnacle of stone sprung from the mountain beneath her feet. The only movement was the flutter of her silken white gowns tossed in the wind about her. At her feet reposed the massive crystal vase vibrating softly; its pure tone subtly filling the air around her. Her glacial blue eyes were closed as she attempted to gather her strengths from the stars, but something seemed to be wrong. The voices of her guides had grown muffled and distant; a mere incomprehensible babble. The disappearance of her constellation from the sky had dampened her will and her powers seemed feeble and fleeting.
The Demon made a tremendous leap upward and landed with a resounding crash near the summit and the rock beneath his feet cracked and shattered. He saw the Enchantress standing still and, for a moment, the fear of her incantations rushed to consume his mind. 'No!!' he screamed, 'Not this time, bitch!!'. He raised his massive arm above his head, making a fist. 'This time, you will see my power, sow!'
In a single movement, his raised fist plunged toward the rock at his feet. He grimaced at the effort and the muscles tensed into knots across his back as his fist, first, impacted the living rock of the mountain and, then, sank into it up to his elbow. The Demon concentrated and focused his energy on that fist; picturing the rock which he previously held in his hand. He began to feel warmth emanating from his hand. A drop of viscous sweat fell from his forehead and landed near his arm. It quickly dried. A moment later, a string of slime, like that which lies on a stagnant pool, descended from the corner of his mouth. It struck the rock beneath his face and began to sizzle and pop like drops of grease into a fire.
The heat began to radiate into the mountain and soon the protective snow, so carefully laid out by the Enchantress to guard her charge, was steaming and melting. It liquefied and ran into rivulets which collected and soon great cascades of water were running from the mountain into the valley. They were like a river run rampant over its banks; wild and foaming, carrying off all things that stood in the way.
Deep in the valley at the foot of the mountain, the first cascade struck with thunderous force. The water, heavy with detritus from the mountain, swirled and collected, and then burst forth; a rising wave of destruction. The people from the valley, now drawn close to the mountain, first felt the vibrations and then saw the water streaming down its sides. Horses reared in panic, throwing their riders, then bolting. The small herds of sheep, driven on by children, grew nervous and wild and then scattered. The water descended into the valley uprooting massive pines and alders. The horses that ran downhill were quickly caught up and disembowelled on the jagged roots tossed in the murky water.
Panic ensued. There were brief, tragic scenes of men attempting to save their wives and children from the onslaught; screaming at them in desperation to climb the appendages of the mountain, but then they were swept away in the swirling chaos.
The Demon gazed on at the beautiful destruction.
Others were more fortunate. Already ascended toward the mountain, they heard the rush of water; felt the powerful vibrations beneath their feet and the screams of men and beasts. They looked back in time only to see the valley turn into a rushing torrent where none could be saved.
The Demon bellowed in delight as the last of the snow disappeared from the crest of the mountain. Below him, in a sheer face of rock formerly covered with ice and snow, there appeared a gleaming archway: the entrance to the chamber of the Amulet.

<hr>

Please read 'The Legend of the Amulet, Part III', here. ]]> 136593 2008-08-11 18:56:50
The bottle, when full, is heavy.
The weight gives me something to hold on to so I don't slip away to wherever it is that I go sometimes.
I like a full bottle of Jack Daniels because it is solid and familiar. That is also something I can hold on to. I like the style of the label, the writing on it, I mean, although there is something about it that I have always wondered; if the Jack Daniels that I know is called 'Old No. 7', what happened to numbers one through six? Where they that awful and then on the seventh try it came out ok? Maybe I should write to Mr. Daniels and ask. The JD distillery is in Tennessee. I don't know if they speak English down there.
Solid and familiar is something that is very important to me these days considering everything that has happened. My doctor says that familiar things keep me comfortable in my mind and help me stay calm. I have things around my apartment that are familiar to me and I like to see them there. There is a picture of my wife and daughter on a little end table beside where I sit when I watch television. I put it in a shiny silver frame that I found in the Goodwill store. When I hold the picture in both hands and look at it, the frame reflects my face so it sort of seems like my face is in the picture with them, if you know what I mean. I have other thing around that I like too but I'm not going to write everything because that would be boring.
My doctor also says that writing is good for me. I like doing it. But since I'm doing it now then I guess that's kind of obvious. I have tiny electric typewriter that my wife, I guess I should be truthful and call her my ex-wife, gave me for Christmas one year. It is a beautiful little thing. I don't think it even weighs a pound because it's so small and flat. The only problem with it is that it has a very small reservoir of ink and it runs out so I have to go and buy a new one. I usually forget so the thing just sits there even though I guess it's still technically a typewriter even if you can't write anything with it.
I'm supposed to write about things so they don't stay in my head. I'm also not supposed to drink because that might have been the start to the whole pile of problems I've been through. I guess just a few drinks and a cigarette on the balconey couldn't hurt. Be back soon.
...
Well there's a little less of that wieght in the bottle now to hold on to but thats ok. I mean, if youve got it then its there to drink right? If they didnt want people to drink it then they wouldnt make it. That seems logical to me.
Anyway I was talking about righting so things dont stay in my head. The doctor says I have a lot of anger but he doesnt know where its come from yet. but he said that once hes managed to figure it out then maybe I can start to deal with it and be a better person. Well i know who's being a better person! The fucking doctor is. I mean those sessions go for 200 dollars each so thats a lot of dough hes raking in just just sticking his stupid fingers in my head.
OK. I told you what I'm supposed to hold on to and thats familiar things that make me comfortalbe. Im not supposed to hold on to things that get me pissed so thats where the writing comes in. When I feel angry Im supposed to write it all out so its on papaer and I can look at it and see what Im feeling. Thats what he said anyway. I dont know that I really need to see what I'm feeling because I already know what im feeling.
I hate her and I miss my kid. thats it. Imean what kind of wife kicks a guy out just like that? Oops. I think Im making some mistakes here but i guess nobodies perfect. Maybe thats the point - nobodies perfect. She told the judge that i beat her and they showed that picture of her with the black eye form Christmas two years ago. I didnt really give her the black eey Ok i mean I gave her a smack and then she turned around and bounced her face off the wall but thats not my fault.
I mean anyguy is going to tell you that once in a while you gotta give your woman a smack if shes getting hysterical or somethig.
But that doesnt mena that you hate her or nothing becuase then you make up and she sucks your cock and everythings good again. i maen my dad smacked my mom around for years and he always explained to her why he was giving her a beating but they did great until she comitted suicide in the basement and broke his fucking heart. he died of cirrosis or however you spell it five years later and it was her fucking fault
anyway it wasnt right wat that bitch said to the judge to about me hitting Anne thats my kid cause i never did they just made that up. Anne is the most beautiful daugter a guy could as for. I could never get over how quiet she was like a mouse. always creeping around like she didnt want to be heard or seen. kids are funy that way.
I think Im tursty maybe i'' go and have some moer. Could use a smoke to.
...
fucking stuff just doen't last anyway i thru ther fuckin bottle off the balcony you shoud have seen fuckin guy in his car had to swurv hard when the fucking biottl smashed iin the street probaly a fuckiing idiot anyway. so i fukon caled the bitch said im coming over to see my fuking kid cause she mine to anb she says no9 fucking way im calling the cops if yo do maybe i shuld take the fucking baseball bat abd show her she cnat take my funcking kid fron me take the fucking bat to her car and thebn mayube take the gfudning bat to her to hahaha i dfucnking love that kid and i miss her yeha i really fucjing miss anne shes really a good kid and smat to jsut liek her old man hahaah i havent got anythng else to dring meyeb head toi the bar and catch up wiht some friends but i cant stop thinjking about that bitch an whaat she sahd to me theres no fuching way a gu;y shouold have to put up whit htat fron a fucjing bith i wann see my fuchjing kid ahd nw im fuckin cryign i doont knw whats wromg with my fuckingn head its likej i just cant conthrol nothinfg no more adn everyuhthng isi jsut shit no matter what i fuckign do adn i cant go on lkek thid its jhut a fucking waste no mtteer what i do i donrt fuckign care aynmoer icnat do this aynmore its jsut a waast im a waste i cant do thsi anymeor ]]> 136175 2008-08-10 23:26:28 I am honoured to host circe as a special guest writer on my blog.
The title of her story is:

Moonwalk.

"You don't know what I've done." The tall leather-clad man growled to the hulking doorman blocking his entrance to a "members only" after hours club.

"I know what you're going to do," the bouncer responded, tensing to stiff-arm him. Something in the tall man's eyes made him stop; his arms useless at his sides. Fear closed his throat, his legs went all rubbery, and warmth flooded his jeans, as his bladder gave way.

The man, Hostis, pushed him aside like he weighed nothing. The bouncer's esophagus clenched shut. He fell, whooping, gurgling, writhing, clutching at his throat, in the doorway. "Must be allergic to something," the biker rasped to the would-be good samaritans hesitantly coming to the aid of the violently thrashing goon.

His bootheels clunked, chains clinking, across the smoky room. Men fell aside as he passed - against the shabby pool tables, and the flashing, blaring juke box.

Hostis nodded to the man in the shadows behind the bar, an old aquaintance.
They went way back. "Long time Urbano."
He nodded back. "Long time, you must be thirsty."
"I thirst; Da mihi sis cervisiam"*

He claimed a stool; grabbed it, and sat down. His worn leathers creaking.
They covered a long, lean ropy body; his vest leaving chest and arms bare. The tattoos from wrist to shoulder seemed to move sinuously.
He had short cut white-blond hair, and ice blue eyes; cold, in his pale windburnt face.
The eyes! Like frosty daggers, penetrating. The few rough patrons looked away, shivering, from his glance. These men were not easily intimidated; hard living, and road scarred,
all of them. And yet...

"Hostis Humanis Generis"* read the letters emblazoned in an arc across the back of his leather vest. Not a club recognised here.
No one made the usual challenge to an outsider, nor a welcome for a fellow traveler of the roads.

Gradually, the sound of striking cueballs resumed. Beer was tapped into pitchers, served up by a well conditioned waitress,used to dodging drunken grabs.
Conversation resumed, talk of serial murder. "The highway killer" working the same roads they rode on. All were certain no one would mess with them. Their boasting and bravado belied the uneasiness they felt. Strange night.

The Vampire, he was a Vampire coldly surveyed the offerings here.
He preferred young, vital, bodies, not much of a choice among these.
Since his brutal rides with Gengis Khan, he moved constantly, took his prey fom nomadic peoples.
His journeys had no end; he was ancient, and undead.

Lounging on a nearby barstool was a woman hovering over her drink.
Her head low, stringy dark hair spilled onto the bartop, shutting her off from all else.
Slender, olive skinned, and darkeyed. Her short black lace dress trailed off in tatters, spike heels, scuffed and cracked.
Bad times apparently, whatever her problems, it was nothing to anyone here.

Lupe, her name was Lupe, glanced at Hostis from under her lashes, her brown eyes liquid, glowing. She smiled, and her wide grin, and inviting red lips sparked a memory of the dim past.
Hostis said, "Do I know you from somewhere? I think I have seen you before."

"You? You don't know what I've done. I've been around".
"I bet you have" he growled. He was looking for something...fresher.
Lupe raised her gaze onto the big man. She liked what she saw.
She sidled up to him. "How about buying a lady a drink?"

Hostis turned his clear eyes on her, "I don't see no ladies here," he intoned.

"Well, f--k you then," her voice low, gutteral. His eyes gleamed sharper.
Urbano inched to the end of the bar, and made himself busy polishing beer mugs.
"Well, one less stupid Ho in this world", he thought, knowingly.
"Bitch, you don't know what you're dealing with."

Hostis unfolded himself from the barstool, she jumped back. He grabbed her by her hair.
"I'm gonna teach you some manners". He dragged her, struggling, out the back door.
No one looked up from thier beers and pool games.
She kicked, and clawed out to the alley, knocking down a few barstools, and grabbing the doorsill, breaking nails. He drove a huge fist into her cheek, drawing blood. He drew a finger across and licked it, drooling. His fangs dripped saliva; he prepared to feed.

Moonlight draped the struggling figures in the dark. Whimpering, she was forced to her knees in the dirty gravel. Her dress was hanging by a strap, she had lost a shoe.
Hostis grinned cruelly. He undid his belt buckle with one hand. She had it coming.
" Bitch!" Her eyes sparked. He forced her face into his crotch.

A long, eerie, undulating unearthly scream hung in the air, for an eternity, it seemed.
Then, snapping,crunching, wet, slobbering noises. Gut clenching noises. Agonizing death, coming too slow. And the sounds of a voracious predator, feeding.

Everyone in the bar froze, no one dared look out the back door. A few edged to the entrance, and stepping over the defunct bouncer,sprinted for thier Harleys.
"Don't want no part of this shit!" Cycle engines roared to life, and away.
"GOD please, please, let me get away from this."

After a time, a dark figure loped off leaving the drained shell of a demasculated fanged creature;
eyes staring blankly at the moon. It's gaping throat laid open, the chest split wide,
like a dropped melon. Splintered ribs hung over a cavernous hole, the heart ripped out, and missing. Bits of oozing purple flesh littered the filthy blood soaked pavement around the ghastly corpse. Its fingers still clutching a bloody black lace rag.

Already the stench of decomposition permeated the air, making the remaining bar patrons vomit uncontrollably. They dared not venture out. What they would have seen was a very dead Vampire. Better not to see. Better not to know. As it was, none would ever escape the memory of the horrible sounds.

Hostis was right she was a Bitch, a she wolf. On a moonlit night she prowls.
Her howls echoed insanely down the concrete canyons of the decaying neighborhood.
The last of the bar cleared out. People shivered in their beds. Children had nightmares.

"You don't know what I've done"
The Vampire was finished. Morti non mordant. "The dead don't bite".

**********
The Vampires and wolves are conversant in Latin
* " Da mihi sis cervisiam"-"give me a beer"
* Hostis humanis generi- "Enemy of humanity"
**********

-------------------
This story comes from a discussion circe and I had one night. Our idea was to try to push the envelope a bit and challenge each other with a really good, gritty, edgey story. I think she did a great job. The idea of cross-posting was just to make it collaborative and friendly. If you would like to read my story, please click here. Hope you enjoy them. ]]> 131960 2008-08-01 21:10:24
WARNING: This is very explicit and a bit bent - it is likely not for everyone's tastes.

Brunch.

Enrique stood in the huge bedroom of his penthouse condo, and watched his reflection as he slowly buttoned the 800 dollar custom tailored shirt over his perftectly toned and tanned torso and then tucked it into his trousers. Behind him, the floor to ceiling windows revealed the multi-coloured twinkling lights of the night painted city. On the over-sized bed in the room, two young women lay naked and huddled together, drugged and unconscious. The bloody smear across the buttock of one showed the degradation that had been practised upon her.
At only 28, Enrique could have anything he wanted and he knew it well. In only 7 years, he had moved from being a crack-smoking loser, on a one way trip to the grave, to the most powerful drug lord in the city thanks to a campaign of terror and intimidation, and a brutal string of murders that had permitted him to gradually climb up the food chain. It had all been worth it.
He fastened the diamond cuff-links and then pulled on the jacket of his Armani suit feeling the erotic pleasure of the fine fabrics over his skin. He buttoned the jacket and took a final look at himself. In his reflection, a tall, well formed man with jet black hair leered back viciously. He went to the sideboard and took a meth tablet and chased it with a glass of 100 year old scotch, enjoying the slight burn and then the musky flavour of the alcohol. 'Tastes almost like pussy,' he thought to himself and grinned at his own clever joke. 'Now lets go slide into something warm and wet.'
He exited the apartment and entered the lavish private elevator to descend to ground. Outside, his limousine, with it's highly armed body-guard driver, awaited, idling at the curb. He ducked inside and spoke his instructions to the intercom and the eight door vehicle nudged across the impatient lanes of traffic and began heading uptown. On the corner of 11th, he spotted a leggy blonde prostitute and ordered the car over. He lowered the window and ordered her to show him the goods while standing on the street and he playfully dangled a 1000 dollar bill for her just out of reach. The passing cars honked and passers-by whistled at the free show. He liked what saw and invited her in. For the next few blocks, she knelt before him, wearing only her stiletto heals and her head bobbed slowly over his groin while he leaned back in the finely finished leather seat sipping a burgundy. When he was finished, the car stopped momentarily in traffic. She was kicked out into the street and her clothes dumped after her. He tossed the 1000 dollar bill from the window where it fluttered away and disappeared on the breeze. He popped another meth tablet and swallowed it with more wine, failing to even notice the 42 year old vintage.
Thirty minutes later the car slid up to the VIP entrance at Club 'Thump!', the most exclusive in the city; it catered to the desires of a 'beyond-A-list' clientele. Here everything could be had and usually was. The girls were chosen for their beauty and...willingness; he knew that a college girl that would stand for anything could usually earn her tuition for a year in one night but that she also wouldn't walk without discomfort for a few days afterward.
He entered and was immediately welcomed by the staff and some patrons had the courage to approach him, smiling, commenting on his fantastic looks. He accepted their compliments with gracious disdain before entering the main hall with it's blue fluorescent lights and throbbing synthetic 'industrial' music. As he walked among the crowd, the girls would approach him and slide their hands across his crotch or simply show themselves and their talents in some inventive and original ways.
Suddenly, he wasn't interested.
He began to feel himself drawn; his body throbbing with the combined effects of the music and the meth, his erection pulsing and uncomfortable in his trousers. He wandered, pulled and lacking his own volition toward the bar. People continued to speak to him but he ignored them, preferring to follow the seeming invisible, guiding hand that held him tight in its grasp. He approached the bar and lingered, lost, and then followed the whispered voice, promising unlimited depravity, that lured him towards it's end and hovered in near darkness.
A man sat huddled there in the shadow; around him, no one approached as though repelled by his presence or as if the space simply did not exist. His long black coat hung over the bar stool and draped to the floor. Beneath the coat, on the skeletal frame of the man, were strung leather pants and boots but nothing else. His chest glistened white, narrow, skeletal and naked below a face of the most exquisite sculpted porcelain beauty; emotionless lumiscent red eyes glistened in that face.
Enrique approached the man, feeling the draw of the eyes and whispered voices in his head; 'anything!' they said, 'draw blood!'. A string of saliva descended his chin and and he began to grin idiotically, losing himself in a paroxysm of perverse lust. His hand went to his own crotch and he began to stroke himself while the creature in the darknes looked on. Then one word entered his mind 'Washroom' and he was off, stumbling, drunken, and lunatic. He pushed through the crowd, laughing insanely, until arriving at the washroom and burst in, pulling his gun and waving it, telling the other patrons to leave. He slipped into a stall and locked the door, immediately unzipping his trousers and allowing freedom to the rigid thing within.
The Vampire lingered at the bar a moment, and then became a shadow, drifting over the bar unseen and past a group of patrons in the hallway before the washroom. He entered, sifting under the door like noxious fumes, and then floated around the washroom before settling and materialising in the stall with Enrique.
Enrique was lost, his hand pumping furiously, driven to a maddened sexual frenzy by the voices. The Vampire licked his lips and then slid his icey alabaster fingers to the centre of Enrique's chest. At the same time, he grabbed Enrique's left arm, which hung tense at his side and, in a movement practisced over hundreds of years, twisted the arm and wrenched it free of it's socket.
Enrique groaned in pain and pleasure. His erection found release in orgasm, spraying repeated bursts of viscous liquid over the wall of the narrow stall.
The Vampire continued to work the arm; the muscles stretched and tore away from the bone and the fabric of his jacket began to shred. Enrique screamed once, briefly, as his arm came free in a pulsing gush and stream of blood leaving torn strands of squirming muscle, yellow sinew and blue-tinged bone exposed. The blood frothed against the wall of the space, spattering, running, clotting.
The Vampire's mouth, a huge black empty maw, closed immediately over the stump, chewing, sucking, swallowing. The arm fell to the floor, twitching, with a loud wet slap. Enrique's eyes glazed over as he quickly died. The Vampire's hand, slipped in through the taught skin of Enrique's chest to find the feebly beating heart and began to squeeze it gently, pushing the blood on, enjoying the first meal of the night.
When finished, the Vampire slowly rose as Enrique's body crumpled to the foul, reeking tile floor, becoming like a draft of fetid air, and drifted through the window. ]]> 130850 2008-07-30 18:53:25
Please see my sidebar to read 'Jackie (I-IV).

We are immediately caught in a gust of wind that surges up the street. Jackie moves quickly to hold her clothing in place as the wind swirls and eddies around us. Some big drops of rain are falling and dotting the sidewalk with their wetness.
"Uh, Jackie, I think we want to get moving before this breaks!"
She nods her agreement, glancing nervously toward the sky which hangs low and swirls ominously.
"Maybe we should have kept our eyes on this," she suggests.
"To be honest, I was enjoying myself," I confess. I find that I have to raise my voice over the constant rumble of thunder.
"Me too," she answers softly and glances at me.
I take her arm we begin to jog up the street. My mind is on the walk across the park back to the subway station; it can be dangerous in a big storm like this. We are half way up the block when we are blinded by a flash of lightning that streaks across the city, painting it white. A simultaneous clap of thunder heralds the arrival of the storm and Jackie shrieks in shock at the impact. The ground trembles slightly and some distant car alarms begin to sound.
"Geeez," is all that escapes my mouth before the deluge falls.
The rain comes down in a torrent; single large drops soon transform into a constant sheet of water which descends on us, driven by a fierce wind.
We cling to each others arms and run up the street knowing that in only minutes we will arrive safely at Jackie's apartment. The rain is so thick that we shield our eyes, dodging under awnings as we move, searching for such tentative protection. The sidewalk soon begins to run with water and I can hear it rushing over the storm drains in the street amidst the sound of the pounding rain. We arrive at a cross street and wade throught the rapidly accumulating run-off that begins to crest at curb level. Jackie's high boots splash loudly through the water while my own low leather shoes are quickly sodden. Her leather jacket, which she attempts to hold closed tightly around her, offers her some protection but my business suit is wet through and I feel the water pouring off my neck and down my back. I shiver and squirm at the coolness on my skin.
We arrive at the intersection opposite her apartment and are forced to stop for the red light and the misted glare of approaching vehicles. We make a common mistake by standing too close to the curb, with no protection from the downpour, but by then it makes little difference.
A bright yellow, glistening wet taxi approaches, streaming too fast through the river in the street and sends a wall of water over us. It is gone in a moment, leaving both of us soaked through. There is a gap in the traffic and, still huddled together, we dart across and burst into the quiet foyer of her building.
"Geez," I say again as we stand, looking at one another, while little pools of water collect at our feet.
"Oh my God," responds Jackie, and attempts to peel some heavy wet curls from her face, "I haven't been caught like that in a long time." She regards me and shakes her head sadly. "Your suit's probably ruined."
I study myself and the water still streaming from me and shrug my shoulders. Outside, their is another flash followed by a crash of thunder.
"Impressive," I note.
"C'mon up," she says in her matter-of-fact tone. "Let's get dried off."
I follow her up the stairs, my shoes making wet noises with each step, and soon we enter her apartment. I spot my briefcase in it's hiding place beside beside the chair as soon as we enter and breathe a sigh of relief. I take a step toward it before Jackie stops me.
"Where are you going?" she asks me, dripping wet, and standing with her hands on her hips. I can see that she is shivering and I feel my own chill as well.
"Jackie," I try to be conciliatory, "I should really just go and let you dry off and get to bed."
"You aren't going anywhere in a storm like that," she pronounces and does not move. "You can sleep with me tonight and maybe we can get your suit to dry. I don't know about your shoes. It's way too dangerous and you'll be soaking wet for another hour and a half while you try to get home."
"Jackie, I..."
"Paul, I said 'sleep'. Do I have to repeat to you what I said before?"
"No," I answer sheepishly.
Why would I argue back? My mind works slowly over the situation. I am being told to sleep with a desirable woman. Would there be anything more tantalising than the thought of waking up beside her? As much as I resist the thought of staying, the more an impulse is screaming at me to do just that, to take that chance and, at least, sleep comfortably with her for one night; what happens after that is anyone's guess.
"You're right, Jackie. Thank you," I say finally and she nods her approval.
Jackie gives me directions and soon I am in her bedroom with a towel to dry myself while she retires to the bathroom to change. I strip down to my boxers and when she emerges, wearing a long black t-shirt, she takes my clothes from me and hangs them in the bathroom along with her own. When she returns, I am sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bed.
"What do you think?" she asks me, "It's the least sexy thing I could find."
"I think it doesn't work," I answer honestly. She cocks her head a little and smiles.
We slide under the covers, both of us feeling tired from the day and, in the darkness, listen to the rain pouring down outside. I can feel her closeness and I can't help but feel aroused by it as the chill slowly leaves my body. We talk quietly for a few minutes and I feel myself gradually relaxing and slipping off to sleep. As I drift off, I feel Jackie move a little closer and her hand slips into mine.
I awake in complete darkness and my hand slides out across the bed; it is empty and cold. A sigh escapes me and I throw my arm across my face dispondently.
It was a dream; a beautiful, vivid dream which was supposed to end with me waking up beside a woman who had masterfully seduced me. I don't know when it was that I realised that I was being seduced by her but I liked it. I wanted her to seduce me; there was so much about her that I admired...and desired. There was something opposite and complimentary about us: her boisterous to my quiet; her spontaneous to my thoughtful; her directness to my reserve. Her ying to my yang? The thought of her eyes on me, watching me, boosted my flagging ego, so eroded by the bitter end to my last relationship. I wonder whatever became of Jackie.
I lie awake, my mind still fuzzy with sleep, feeling very sad and alone. In the darkness, I imagine the contours of my empty apartment around me and the emptiness within me grows.
Then I start at the sound of bare feet entering the room and I snap awake. The sound passes the foot of the bed and I hear the delicate friction of wood-slatted blinds. A thin ribbon of grey light brings depth from the darkness.
Jackie stands by the window in her long black shirt. My mind does a double-take and I rub my eyes. She is looking at me again in that contemplative way that belies her inner machinations, then she crosses back to the bed and climbs up on it, her legs tucked to the side.
"Good morning," she says.
"Good morning," I answer feeling very happy. My hand extends toward hers and she receives it, gripping it in her own.
"You slept right through the alarm," she says to me.
"I had no idea." I answer, my hand still in hers.
"I put on some coffee," she announces and then seems to make a decision.
She pulls back the cover and slides under, pulling it up around her neck. I roll onto my side toward her and wonder what she is doing as she moves about for a moment. Then she is still and turns toward me. In the space under the cover I can feel the heat from her body on the naked skin of my chest. Then she draws close to me and her skin is pressed against mine. My hand slides up her thigh and over the crest of her hip to pause lightly on the softness of her waist. Her hand passes up my side and over my shoulder, coming to rest of the side of my neck. We kiss briefly, our eyes open, feeling the closeness of one another.
"I thought we could wake each other up," she says to me, and then moves her hip slightly causing my breath to catch, "but I feel you're already up." Our hands are moving now, softly exploring.
"Jackie?" I say as my lips draw away from her neck.
"mmmm?" she answers.
"Thank you for seducing me."
"I hope you'll stick around for more," she answers, her voice barely a husky whisper, and then her mouth is on mine and we begin to drift on a river of sighs and caresses.
I think I will.

The End.

-----------------------

Jackie (VI - Afterword).

Following on the heels of my friend circe, I thought I would add a few comments about my motivations in this.
Jackie is actually based on a real person, a bartender, who I knew slightly. She is mixed with a girlfriend that I had in the 90's. Her character is entirely her own.
Much of the foundation of this derives from the 'prequel' which I called 'Deception'. That was a completely different story but introduced Jackie as the sympathetic bartender and also the beginnings of a raport between the two characters. I think that on the last night they spoke, Jackie had made some decisions about him; she wasn't able to do anything about it because she never saw him in the bar again.
Considering her character, I think that is why, when she saw him in the subway, there were no doubts in her mind about what she wanted to do. What did she see in Paul? I can't really know that; only she knows. But the fact is that she saw qualities in him that she considered good.
For his part, things were a little complicated. I don't think there is any doubt that he liked her, perhaps mostly in a sexual way, but he was also drawn to the straight-forwardness of her, maybe her openness. But at the same time, being the older of the two, he knew his own age but imagined hers to be much less than it was, putting her 'out of range' in terms of relationships. This led to his ambivalence toward her but did not impeed her because she thought him to be a similar age to her own. I know - it's complicated. But it can be in real life too.
The thing about the physical violence on Jackie was odd; I didn't know whether to put it in or not. When she approaches 'Paul' she is thinking whether it is a good thing to reveal this fact to him or not. She decides that it is. That is just Jackie; she has decided to show herself to him and let him react the way he wants to. She isn't shy, she want's to know up front what is going on. It's not a comment in any way about violence on women; I used it just to show her strength (hopefully) that must have existed long before she found herself in an abusive relationship.
So the whole story is about these two people approaching one another; one with determination and one who is, perhaps like myself, very shy and withdrawn. I enjoyed the character of Jackie becuase she is a great woman. She is totally her own person and, I think, a pretty good person too. So it was nice to put her up against the more introverse 'Paul' and watch her break down his barriers by force of will. He knew what he was getting into as well.
Maybe love will triumph. Maybe it won't. I don't really know.
Hope you liked the story.
cheers! ]]> 130846 2008-07-30 18:49:07
Please see my sidebar to read 'Jackie' (I-III).

We walk the short distance south toward Antonio's in silence. Jackie bounces along seeming not to have a care in the world; her step sends her hips swaying in that assured sexuality and self-contained positivity that seems to come off her in waves. She had referred to her little daughter as a 'force of nature'; I think I know where she got it from. The buckles on her leather jacket jingle and the sun shines in little sparks off the metal studs that line the arms and back. The back of the jacket bears a large 'Motorhead' logo.
I walk alonside her with my hands in my pockets, still running over in my mind what I have just seen and learned of this woman. I feel sad for her but I know that is not the right thing to feel: she is not sad but, at the same time, the whole situation makes my skin crawl with discomfort. I look up at her and she is smiling happily, the hoop earrings bobbing about at the sides of her head and her large breasts heaving with each step; her whole body exudes movement and activity.
"Storm coming..." she observes and points down University Avenue in the direction of the lake.
I follow her pointed direction and nod my agreement. On the horizon, dark, clouds are gathered, high and threatening; illuminated brightly by the setting sun.
"Looks like another big one," I say, impressed by the wall of approaching darkness.
We arrive under the striped red and white awnings of Antonio's and are quickly enveloped in the happy atmosphere of the place. Antonio's is a city tradition and it is all driven by the raucous presence of Antonio himself with his large moustache and perennial striped apron. Tonight he doesn't seem to be around but we are greeted by a similarly garbed head waiter at the door who asks us, loudly to be heard above the general din, how our day has been and continually chats pointlessly as we weave through the crowded establishment to a fortuitously positioned round table with two stools by the front window. He continues chatting as he seats us and I notice his eyes travel appreciatively over Jackie's figure.
We announce our intention to have some coffee and he returns even before we are settled with the coffee and bar menus. We thank him and he walks off, yelling the number of our table in Italian to a young waiter who is already serving nearby. Soon the young fellow walks towards us and begins to shout 'Ehi cumpa!' upon seeing me although we have never met before. We laugh together and eventually turn to ordering coffee: a cappuccino for me and a latte for Jackie. The waiter thanks us and walks off shouting again, 'E' va be', cumpa', non e' niente per niente...' I have no idea what he is saying.
The reason for the popularity of the restaurant is it's infectious light-hearted atmosphere. Jackie and I quickly absorb it and we begin to raise our voices in conversation as the mood strikes us. Our coffee's arrive and we fall into an easy rhythm of talk, interspersed with periods of silent enjoyment of the strong beverage as we watch the sometimes comical antics of the waiters as they juggle trays or make 'scenes' at people's tables. It is not a place to come for an intimate dinner.
A young man approaches our table and catches Jackie's eye.
"Ben!" she shouts and holds out her hand to him. He takes her hand and then, leaning close, they kiss in the air near each other in the typically urban fashion.
He is a pleasant looking guy, about medium height and build, in his mid 30's maybe. He has a red sweatshirt on over khaki-coloured chinos and boat shoes. His hair is short and sports that little flip at the front that, personally, I don't understand. His eyes are bright and intelligent, mobile and a constant panoply of expressions seem to float across his mouth.
Jackie and Ben exchange a volley of greetings and then turn toward me.
"Who's your friend, Jackie?" he says and smiles at me while his eyes study my face, evaluating.
"Ben, this is my friend Paul," she gestures toward me with her hand, "He used to be a customer but we met by chance in the subway today at rush hour and now we're having coffee."
Ben and I shake hands. His grip is firm and professional.
"Nice to meet you, Ben," I say.
"Likewise Paul," he answers sincerely. Jackie continues with her introductions.
"Ben and I met years ago when we were both studying communications at college," she directs her comments to me while Ben stands by and nods.
"And somehow, all these years later, we still manage to bump into each other," adds Ben happily in continuation.
"It's true!" she exclaims.
There is something incongruous in the conversation, and I can't put my finger on it. I think it has to do with the time-line.
"Ben runs a blog site now and he's really enjoying it," Jackie reports to me. "I tried it but I'm just too busy. It was fun for a bit," she shrugs her shoulders, resigned.
"A blog site?" I ask Ben, "you mean those online diary things?"
"Yeah, that's right, but people use it in all different ways. I especially enjoy the community that develops."
"That's really interesting," I comment, "maybe I should try it too!" Jackie and Ben both smile.
"You should!" they answer in unison. Truthfully though, I couldn't imagine putting the intimacies of my life on line for the whole world to see. Not that I could imagine anyone being interested in reading about my life.
I invite Ben to sit with us but he appologises and declines.
"I'm entertaining some business colleagues this evening and I had better get back to them before I forget what it is we're supposed to be doing." We laugh as he flips open his wallet and hands me a business card. "Just in case you decide to check us out..."
"Thanks," I say and appreciate the gesture, "I will have a look."
"Good!" he says and we shake hands again. Then he turns his attention back to Jackie who is sitting quietly and observing us.
"And you.." he spreads his arms and they embrace quickly, "I'll see you next time we bump into each other."
"You can bet on it," Jackie answers with enthusiasm.
With a wave, Ben wanders off across the crowded restaurant, his shoes making squeaky noises on the bright white tiled floor. He rejoins a large table on the far side. Outside there is a loud crack of thunder and the window behind me is buffeted with a blast of wind. I look out and see some stray pages of newspaper being driven up the street by the gusts; the storm has nearly arrived.
"Nice fellow," I comment and Jackie nods energetically.
"He's great. I can't believe how long I've known him."
There it is again; the unspecified incongruity. I decide to explore it.
"How long is it since you knew him in college?" I inquire innocently.
"Well, let's see," she pauses a moment and then continues, "I'm 35 now, so that was..."
"You're what?" I interrupt and stare at her. I am immediately embarassed because I think my voice was louder than it should have been.
"It's gotta be 12 years, at least," she finishes and stares back at me. "What's wrong?"
"You...are 35?" I shake my head in disbelief. I can imagine the comical slack-jawed look on my face.
"Yeah. I know. I look younger," she says to me. "How old are you, Paul?"
"I thought you were 25, or maybe 27 tops," I confess, still shocked as I appreciate the youthfulness in her face. "I'm 42," I answer.
"Well, there you go then," she says, "I had you for maybe 35 or a little more."
"Yeah, I guess it works both ways," I concede and my mind is still working over the changed parameters.
"I had Anne late," she adds, "but I'm so glad that I did." She smiles openly again and I can see the sparkle in her eye of the fiercely protective love she has for her child. "So do you like me more or less now that I'm 35?" she asks me and takes me completely off-guard. Her smile turns coy and playful and her dark eyes meet with mine.
"Ah...I like you fine, Jackie. I like a strong woman who knows her mind." I suspect that my answer is not what she was looking for but she seems to accept it.
"That I do..." she answers cryptically. Her hand goes out and gently touches the arm of my jacket as though she is reassuring me. Then she starts and her eyes open a little wider.
"Say, are you hungry, Paul? I gotta say that I'm famished here. I keep smelling all these good things! We could have a couple drinks and something to eat then head out before it gets too late for you."
I am hungry, too. I think of heading back to my apartment but, at the moment, it just doesn't appeal to me compared to Jackie's company. I pull my cell from my pocket at notice the time: 7:45 pm. We have been together almost two hours now and I have completely enjoyed being with her. Since it's not too late, I decide that another while could only be better.
"That's a great idea. I am hungry. Let's ask for some menus."
The evening passes in conversation and joking commentary on the other patrons. We eat a light meal, sharing our appetizers, and have another round of drinks. Jackie's sharp wit keeps me on my toes continually and I find myself opening up to her honesty and directness. She sits close to me and makes me feel her presence.
At about a quarter to ten, I look around me and feel the sudden flush of panic on my face.
"What's wrong?" asks Jackie and concern washes across her expression. Her hand grips my forearm again as she studies me.
"...my briefcase," I say, "I've lost my briefcase!"
She looks down and scans the floor with me.
"Where did you put it?" she asks.
"I'm sure I put it...I don't remember." I begin to feel ridiculous and absent.
"Did you have it when we got here?" she asks me. Her hand has moved and now covers mine which tightly grips the edge of the table as I fish about in my memory.
"Um...the subway...the park...your apartment..." An image comes to me of the two of us walking down University Avenue; Jackie beside me, and I with my hands in my pockets. I remember sliding the briefcase out of the way beside the chair with the bunny in it.
"Oh my God," I pronounce with mixed relief, "I left it at your place! I'm so sorry, Jackie."
"Oh! Well if that's all! We can go back and get it. We're done here anyway."
"Yeah, but..."
"Paul! Don't worry about it."
Her hand is still on mine and then they curl together for a moment. I motion to our waiter who swiftly totals the bill on his little pad. I insist on paying to thank her for her company, and she says it's ok as long as she can pay the tip. We agree and quickly settle up. Then, dodging carefully through the still crowded restaurant, we thank the waiter again and step out into the street.

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Please see my sidebar to read the conclusion, 'Jackie (V)'. ]]> 130234 2008-07-29 14:03:05
Please read 'Jackie' (I), (II).

We gain the favour of the 'walk' light on University Avenue and sprint the six lanes across, keeping our eyes on the aggressive cross-town traffic waiting to turn north in our path, and safely arrive on the sun-baked opposite corner. The sun is gradually drawing lower in the sky and the shadows of the trees from the park are beginning to lengthen across the broad avenue. I retrieve my cell phone from my pocket and glance at it. No messages. It is just on 6:45 in the evening. I follow Jackie up the worn sandstone steps and we pass through the heavy, brass, double doors and enter a high, cool, arched foyer with two elevators in the centre and ascending stairs to one side.
"We can take the stairs," she says, "it takes forever to wait for the elevator and I'm only on the second floor."
The doubt that has been lurking in my mind finds voice.
"Ah, I don't want to intrude, Jackie. Why don't I just wait for you here?"
In my mind I picture a single girl's apartment, perhaps shared with a girlfriend, and the common items of a young woman's life scattered about. Essentially, I know Jackie so casually that I'm not sure I'm comfortable infringing on her privacy.
She stops in mid-step at the bottom of the stairs and then turns to look at me. She retraces her steps and comes to stop in front of me, fixing me in the eye. She stands as tall as my shoulder which makes her above average for a woman and with her big build, I'm sure she could be an imposing figure if driven to anger.
"Hi, I'm Jackie," she says and holds out her hand.
I look down at her hand stupidly and then back to her face. She reaches out and takes my free hand in hers and then shakes it.
"Hi," she repeats, "I'm Jackie and I'm not going to do anything terrible to you. But if I did, you'd probably like it, so c'mon upstairs while I change and then we'll get a coffee."
I can't help but break into a grin when placed at the receiving end of her candor and I nod, feeling foolish again. She smiles at me again and winks and then we ascend the stairs to the second floor.
We pad along the silent carpeted upstairs hallway and then stop before a door as Jackie pulls open her bag. She paws about inside it and then, with the soft jingling of keys on a ring, extracts the desired quarry. She selects one and inserts it in the mechanism, turning it forcefully to the sound of a loud click as a bolt is retracted. Then she selects another key and slips it into a second lock, turns it and then opens the door. We enter.
"Well, this is home sweet home," she says, and steps past me to hang her bag on the knob of an entryway closet where it sways gently for a moment with the weight of the contents within.
The apartment is spacious but spartan; the furnishings few and essential. She gestures toward a comfortably cushioned chair and invites me to sit while she changes in 'two shakes', then she disappears down a short hallway and into a room. I move as directed and stow my briefcase to the side of the chair and then exhale as I slump into the chair.
My intended relaxation is interrupted by a loud squeak and I jump up again, confused, as though someone just played a practical joke on me.
"Paul, are you playing with my daughter's toys?" her voice resonates down the hallway.
"You have a daughter?" I explore between the cushions and discover a white plush bunny. I sqeeze it gently and it squeaks softly back in reply.
Yeah. Anne; she's three and a force of nature. She's staying with my mom for a few days." Her words are punctuated by the sound of a closet door sliding and the dry slap of a drawer being vigorously closed.
"It's a bunny," I call back to her.
"That's one of her favourites. I wondered where it had got to. Thanks for finding it."
"No problem. I guess the father isn't in the picture?" I look around and notice a distinct lack of male presence. I place the toy on a side table and sit down cautiously.
"No. He left when she was one, best thing he ever did for me besides giving me my daughter," her words come back to me amidst the apparent rustle of clothing being adjusted. I am struck by the bluntness of her words, un-tinged by any hint of bitterness, just matter-of-fact, as though sterilised of connected emotion.
"Oh..." I answer her back, not knowing what else to add.
"I'll show you why in a second," she finishes and there is silence in the apartment except the sounds of small objects being quickly handled in the other room.
True to her word, Jackie bounces into view only minutes later transformed into an urban night creature. Her longish thickly curled hair is tied back and two large hoop earings dangle from her ear-lobes. She has applied some makeup to her face which has slightly lightened her skin tone but the dark makeup around her eyes show them off starky; large and deep brown.
"Well, how do I look?" she asks me and does a quick pirouette.
"This is a version of Jackie I was completely unaware of," I answer truthfully.
She wears a short black skirt that arrives to mid-thigh over black leotards and calf high boots laced all the way up through silver eyelets. Above, she wears a voluminous white blouse which gathers to her surprisingly narrow waist and accentuates her large bust and broad hips. I can't help but be drawn to the bountious femininity of her figure and, for a moment, I imagine her thighs locked around me, our hips pushed together and moving slowly, the taste of her skin on my lips. I shake my head and mentally chastise myself.
The impression given by her way of dressing is one of sexuality but not of the seamy kind. Rather, it seems to me, that Jackie is a confident and pratically minded woman, comfortable in her body and proud of being the woman that she is. I applaud her strength and sense of self.
"You look great, Jackie," and I smile at her to show my appreciation.
"Thanks!" she says and beams her smile back at me.
"Just one final touch and we're good to go!" she announces. Her arm descends into the bag hanging by the door and moves about the various concealed objects then emerges with a lipstick tube. She turns to a mirror hanging on the wall beside the door and, leaning close, carefully applies the dark colour to her full lips. My eyes are once again drawn to her figure and I gaze at her from the vantage point of the comfortable chair. Her eyes connect with mine from the mirror's reflection