My Life is a Horror Story

I have a degree in English and spend a lot of time writing. I wrote my first book at age 16 and it was published at age 18. I presently am trying to get my second book published. It is a long tedious process. Here are some stories to enjoy that I have written in my spare time. Most of them are dark, make you think, and are based on true events! FEEL FREE TO COMMENT and if you Hate it- go ahead and tell me. I live in Louisiana and this is where most of my stories takes place- the deep South!

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It was the 1960’s, and France was flourishing. Their economic growth was, on the rise, as the French had a great boost in their economy. Throughout the past several decades France had become increasingly powerful. In fact, during this period, they would succumb to the largest population of their nearby European allies, as their cities grew and they became wealthy. The French are commonly thought to be snobbish, by the accounts from those who wander the streets with maps and questions. The truth is- they like to enjoy life and having Americas peddling around their streets, as they ask residents for guidance to tourist landmarks- it would wear on the occupants- much like it would any flourishing city that wanted to exist peacefully. The French believe in moderation, and they also believe that life should be taken with strides. They are not accustomed to working endlessly- like Americans- No, they found relaxation was essential to a healthy and happy life. They worked hard and played hard.

   At this juncture in time, a French citizen named Clara was frequently writing her pen-pal in the United States. Letters came almost daily as she began to fall in love with this American. In this period writing was the prime method of communications, and the romantic letters they exchanged made Clara’s heartbeat with an infatuation she had never known. The fact was- she had never felt more passionately about a man. She sent him a letter each day, and although, at first she had reservations- when she read his romantically penned letters - it soothed her, and she could not help but let a dimly lit smile rest upon her face. He was an amazing man- they had a connection.

   Of course, her friends tried to dissuade her from what they thought was a romantic illusion and frequently tried to set her up with gentlemen that had substance and passion- men that she would appreciate. However, she did not take favorably to the idea for a reason you will soon understand.

   The last letter she received from the American- Peter:

   My Love Clara,

       I love reading your letters- your words are beautiful, and in the past six months of exchanging our heartbeats, I find every brush stroke of your pen intoxicating. Reading your letters is the highlight of my day. I want to meet you- With every letter that you send my heart longs for you even more, and throughout the months I feel as if I know more than just you- I can feel the deepness of your soul. I will be arriving in France in one week, and I cannot wait to see you. You give me a reason to breathe. The letters you send me creates a longing in my heart- I wish for more- I want to hold you in my arms, and let you rest your head on my lap while we talk. I feel as if I have known you my entire life, and I have never said this before- But I am in love- true love. My heart beats a rhythm that I have never felt before. We have gone six months sending letters back and forth, and I must meet you. I want to profess my love to you- I dare venture to say something that I have felt for months now- I feel that our souls are akin to one another. You have a beautiful mind and the letters you send are intoxicatingly beautiful.

   Clara read this letter several times, and each time she re-read it, she felt both secure and equally infatuated with Peter. She had grave reservations upon meeting him because the physical factor would be an issue. She wanted him to love her for the relationship they had forged over the months. She wrote him back and detailed where she was going to meet him. If Peter were truly in love with her- he would see beyond the physical aspects and love her for who she was. She hoped that he would set the issue of the physical side, and instead, he would find her just as breathtaking- regardless of her appearance.

   She wrote Travis back and told him to look for the women wearing the red rose. In fact, she gave him detailed instructions on where they were to meet- she would be on a bench overlooking the ocean. Yes, she was nervous. People are infatuated with looks, and honestly- she had no idea if his interests extended beyond the connection they had- and into the physical.

   It was summertime, and it was moderately hot, but she was to meet him in a coastal community where the bashful wind helped keep the heat tolerable as the ocean hurled a steady breeze that carried across the open walkway.

   Clara approached a woman on the street. “Miss, I was wondering if you would wear this rose and sit on the bench. I am expecting a gentlemen to show and when he comes to you- lead him over to me. I will be in the near distance. I will be happy to pay you for your troubles, and the women eagerly took the money, placed the rose on her shirt and sat while she awaited Clara’s love. Clara chose a woman that was hefty, had a drooping chin, and unfavorable eyes- as she squinted through them- almost as if she was peering into the distance or into a bright light. Her lips were thin, her hair stringy, and even her smile was showed an unflattering pair of teeth. Claire had a plan.

   Clara waited on the bench for 45 minutes, while she looked onward with a somewhat heartbroken gaze, and as the time progressed, she was becoming depressed as she realized that he probably saw the women on the bench and left. Had he been interested in more than her soul?  Was he willing to throw away the connection the two of them had forged over the months over physical attraction? And as she began to get up and vanish back into the town- devastated- and heartbroken, a man approached the lady with the red rose pinned on her shirt as she sat on the bench.

   “Hello, I am Peter, and I have looked forward to this moment for a long time.” He told the women. His eyes were big and round, and they alone showed warmth and love, but what held the most warmth were not his ravishing eyes but the infatuated smile that stretched across his face-  a smile that was giddy with joy.

   The women wearing the rose said, “Actually, follow me- I want to bring you to the women you are looking for.” Peter was confused and followed her to the bench that Claire sat. She smiled widely and got up she hugged Peter, her arms wrapping tightly around him as she pressed his body against his.

   The truth was- Claire was a gorgeous woman. She had beautiful hair that fell to her shoulders and a slightly narrow face with dazzling eyes and the cutest nose. Her eyelashes added to the beauty of her bluish-green eyes and her smile melted Travis’s heart.    

   Claire concocted this plan to ensure that Peter would love her for than her looks. She had many relationships with suitors that found favor with her physical attraction. She wanted to make sure that the man in those letters was a genuine man- And would love her even if she was not attractive. It was now genuinely apparent to her that their relationship constructed on intimacy and love. Yes, the two lovers were truly head over heels for each other. Claire finally let go of Peter and peered into his handsome face. His letters were from his heart- He loved her- he truly loved her.

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   The office was empty and had been for many hours as I tried to think of a story that was profound enough to last centuries. I wanted to be an author, and I wanted to tell a story to end all stories. Truth- any success as a writer was welcomed. However, my pen remained stationary.

     Nobody was at the church, and it was past 12:00 am, but I was locked in my study on the second floor of the administrative building at the church. Although there was no need to lock my office door, it seemed to add a necessary comfort.

   As you must already know from the last writing, my true love is not God, as my career deemed it, but instead, writing. I was a preacher, and over the years the job offered sorrow and tears as it fortified suspicions that God was not the answer to my problems. To be honest, I wasn't sure what the solution to my problem was. My work provided nothing but mountains of swirling pain caged in a broken heart. I was an indentured servant. In fact, I did not choose this line of work, but instead, my family insisted that I follow this path. I hated them for it. It was a career in which I picked the pockets of the poor and told the wealthy that God would bless them if they contributed to the Lords greater good.

  I believed very little of what I preached. For example, I stood at the pulpit while screaming that fire and flames would consume homosexuals and that being gay was a descent down a wicked path that would land that person in hell. I believed this no more than I believed the world was flat. In fact, I am a homosexual who had once found solace in the arms of a loving, sweet man. However, whether I thought it was wrong or right didn't matter- you do what sales. If the audience wanted to hear you bash homosexuals left and right- well- then you did exactly that. My eyes wandered as I sighed deeply and the thought of a particular man surfaced in my head. I left him for God. I left him for the church... I guess we all made mistakes and I would never forget the image of his sky blue eyes, sandy blond hair, and contagious smile. He was heaven. To be honest, my heart hadn't beat the same since we separated for my greater good- God. What a sad revelation.

   I stood up and unlocked my office door. I walked down a long hall and exited the building where the cool breeze made my thin hair dance. Although I was only in my late 40’s, I felt like I had lived for centuries. I lit up the joint and inhaled. It was some potent stuff that I got from a teenager in my church. I coughed perpetually as I exhaled and looked at the main building of the church in the distance as I took another hit. Millions of dollars were spent on this church to enlighten people about the truth of life. A Cross with Jesus brutally nailed to it towered into the sky. The cross alone cost half a million. The sad thing was… the truth that I falsely perpetuated— it was a mirage. The entire process was a conspiracy. We turned peoples heads away from their pocketbooks while we fished out their hard-earned cash. I was not sure which was worse, being the robber or being the mindless fool that we robbed. These thoughts fold, one atop another as I smoked the entire joint and retired to my office, lock the door, and peck away the following:

    Bobby entered my office at 2:00 pm just as I had finished the final draft of my Wednesday sermon. The church hired him under the terms of “Assistant Minister, ” but that was a flamboyant deception.

   “Charles, your last sermon was good, but I have some notes,” Bobby said as he enters my office.

   “Ya know, I really should keep my door shut. It seems by leaving it open- people think I want them to enter. Even further, people create this the idea that I care. If I could, I would bolt that door, and keep it locked all the time,” I say as I twirl my eyes towards to the ceiling and then back his way.

    “The revenues for last Sunday could be better,” Bobby says in a nervous stutter as he attempted to ignore my colorful remarks. I place my hands behind my head as I lean back in my chair. I couldn’t stand Bobby. He was a short, stout man, that was always caring a pen or pencil with multiple notebooks as if he were in 8th grade- heading to his locker, and he was frequently toying with his glasses. However, since his hiring, our revenues had doubled. The administration was happy with him and as I told you earlier- you do what sales.

   “You need to shorten your shows by at least 2:00 - 3:00 minutes. Remember the audience wants you to get to a point and I need you to be a little more sensational. The last sermon you did was a vast improvement, but we need even more provocative sermons. I have some suggestions for future sermons. For example, talk about hell and that without repentance people’s souls will burn in agony. Our statistics show that your most profitable Sermons revolve around this subject. I don’t know the literature— you’re the preacher but create an uprise, create fear, create-”

   “Bobby, I get the point. Our revenues are up 20% in just the last two months. I think I am doing my job.” I say as I interrupted Bobby. He was about to say something else when I cut him short once more and said, “Leave your report on my desk, and I will read it.” His reports stacked, one atop the other on my desk. Bobby's booklets of statistics on how to further acquire assets from the congregation piled so high on my desk that they began to lean.

   “I don't think you are reading my statistical findings," Bobby says as he fiddles with his glasses.

    "Ya think?" I said with a daunting smile, but he was starting to annoy me. "What gave you that impression? The fact that I am always trying to get rid of you, the unopened reports that pile upon my desk- unopened, or that I really don't care? I could continue with more examples?"

    "But there are some things I need to discuss. I have time to meet after the show.“ Bobby said incessantly

   “Okay,” I say with a sigh. I had no intentions of really meeting with him at first.

    "Last time you said you would come and you didn't. I waited for two hours," Bobby says as he adjusts his glasses.

    "Fine. I will be there this time. Now get out of my room. The Wednesday night show starts in ten minutes, and I must go to it. I will meet with you briefly,” I say with annoyance vibrating in my voice like the plucked of a harp cord. Closing his report, he placed it on a stack of previous ones he had given me. He plays with his glasses silently as he looks at me before awkwardly leaving my office. The lens in his glasses made him appear bug-eyed. After he went, I chuckled out loud as I pictured him fooling meticulously with his spectacles for two hours before realizing I wasn't showing.

   I picked up my notes and walked out of the front office, gave a pleasant nod to my secretary and headed down a long hallway that led outdoors. I walked down several steps of stairs and to the back entrance that I usually took as I entered the church. I could hear them shout, “The Light of my life is you lord-” I had listened to that song a million times, and each time I listened to the course to the song, it annoyed me a little more. I fumbled for my pack of cigarettes, and I lit the light of my life. I stood in the shadows while I took one deep drag after the other until the music stopped. I put the cigarette out with the heel of my shoe and entered as the last song completed. People were beginning to take their seats, and I walked to the pulpit. I took the microphone with ease. They didn't come to hear the word of God. They came to see my performance.

   “God is great- is he not!? Can I get an Amen?” I shouted. The crowd roared Amen, and I said, “I couldn’t hear you! God is great, isn’t he!? Can I get an Amen?” The crowd was even louder as they shouted back.

   The one good thing about me is that I am good at improvising. “I was visited by Reverend Bobby before this service. He said to me- he said, ‘Reverend Charles- God has been good to us!’” My voice fluctuated in and out as I implemented a tactic that Bobby had stressed I use to retain attention spans. Bobby wasn't completely useless. “He said to me- God has allowed this church to thrive! We have outdone our wildest expectations, and we are flourishing! The money that you- that is right- the money you have given- each and every one of you have provided as not only part of this church but a part of God’s family has allowed for more mission trips, outreach programs, and has given money to shelters. Reverend Bobby informed me that this church's outreach has been greater than ever and we are helping lost souls and spreading God's glorious word." I stop and bend my head as if I am contemplating my own words. I wasn't. Showmanship. I raise my head slowly and then erupt, "Your tithing is a result to our thriving! But- we want to reach every one of those suffering souls out there- so- you know what?” I pause and look at the audience. I was nodding my head and biting my lip, “We have to do even better. We have to reach every soul that needs to hear the word of God. We have to! We have to do God's will,” I pause briefly, “And you know what?” My voice dramatically drifted from somber to enthusiasm. “Do you know what?" I said even louder with even more enthusiasm.

   “What!” An audience member screams and I look in their direction as a smile erupts onto my face, and I say, “With your help, we can do even better! By continuing to contribute money, even if it is a nickel, we will be able to reach more people. I know we can do it! God has answered our prayers. Can I get an Amen?” The congregation roared Amen, and I walk to the pulpit. "Let us begin with a prayer," I say to the lost heard. As I said before- you do what sales.

   After the show was over, I stood by the doors leading out to the parking lot as I shook the hands of the members of the ticket holders. They were ticket holders to the kingdom of God, or at least that is what they hoped. As the crowd thinned out, I headed back to the administrative building to have the meeting with Bobby. I say thank you to the band as I pass them, and I enter the far back door to avoid people. I hate people. I walked into the administrative building and find Bobby in the meeting room writing notes.

   “I loved what you did with the beginning of that sermon.”

   “Well just call me a slave to humanity,” I say dryly with sarcasm, but I do not crack a smile. I pull out a cigarette from the pack of camels and bring a flame to the cancer stick as I inhale.

   “Do you mind?” Bobby asked as the smoke fluttered into the room. “Second-hand smoke kills,” he says as he uses his hand to combat the smoke away from his face.

   “That’s why you got Jesus,” I say, and once more, my dry, sarcastic wit is accompanied by a stone cold face. I lean back in my chair and prop the heals of my shoes on the table. I take one more puff from the cigarette and put it to its misery as Bobby begins to talk.

   “This meeting shouldn’t take long.”

   “Pfft… Bobby, your definition of short is the same as the last five minutes of a football game. Neither are short," I say as I eyed the donuts in the back of the room. I stride across the room and pick up a pastry as I eye it suspiciously.  Bobby was giving me a look of contempt as I turned around. I ignore it and say, “How many times do I got to tell them to keep fruit in this room. I would take a good 'ol apple over these donuts any days. You know these donuts go straight to my thighs. But the donuts are delicious. I can't help myself," and this time I smile.

   “Charles, you're lucky the attendants love you. If only they knew what a prick you are.” I was taken back by Bobby's bold comment, and I smile.

   “Oh Bobby, don’t talk to a man of God like that... So what do you have to talk about?” I said as I tried to progress the meeting. Honestly, I could have cared less. I remained standing and took a second donut from the box. I discovered it had some mysterious jelly in it as my teeth dug in.

   “Okay, so profits are up 20%. We all know that. However, I think we can do a lot better. Statistics show that people who feel guilty are likely to give more money. I want you to engrain this aspect in people. Statistics show attendants give more money when they feel they must amend their souls.”

   “Oh that is so good,” I said.

   “Yes, I have some very clever tactics," Bobby says with what he felt was an earned amount of smugness.

   “I am talking about the donut." I proceeded to lick each finger loudly while Bobby stares up at me and toys with his glasses awkwardly. I finish licking my fingers and wipe my hands on Bobby's coat. “That was an excellent meeting Bobby. We got to do this more often,” and I got a glass of water from the tap before leaving the room. The secret to my success is my attendants- my congregation. As long as they love me- nobody else has to. You do what sales.

    As I reread my uneventful day, I wondered if I genuinely had talent as a writer? My day wasn't that exciting, and it offered no ideas for stories. I placed my pen down and sighed. I had always said my life, and its misfortunes would make a great television series, but reading my writing left me in a daze of uncertainty. Would I ever come up with a plan that will lead me out of these shackles and into a career that focused on literature? As I sat in my seat, thumping my pencil on the desk, my eyes glimpse the Bible, and I had an epiphany. Although I thought this job had nothing to offer, I realized the best selling book ever to hit the shelves was smack dab in front of me. True- I had yet to establish a writing career, published ground-breaking literature, made millions of dollars, but I have studied the greatest story ever to exist. In a way, I was already telling stories.  I picked up the bible and thumbed through it. I feel a feeling that I had not felt in a long time. I felt satisfaction, and I would use my studies of the bible to inspire me with writings of my own.

    For the next six months, I would write into the hours of the night, as I constructed a story with the help of the knowledge I have gained from the Bible.  It would turn out to be a piece of literature that put made me on the map as a known writer. I continued to preach- if for no other reason- because it was the greatest story ever told.

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The Madness of theToymaker

“I am not a murder!” Shouted Charles. “I love my children! I love them all! Release me!” He screamed in cries that progressed into whimpers and he babbled. “I read her bedtime stories,” he muttered as the guards hauled him away. His last moments of coherency dribbled out of his mouth, “My son wanted to be like me. That is all he wanted. Is that too much to ask? God save my soul!”

I watched them haul my good friend Charles away where, he would be tortured and ultimately, face the guillotine. The present reader of this story might think me cold to allow Charles to be carried away in his reduced mental state. However, there is something that the reader must know- a commoner like me can make no comments in regards to what is right and what is wrong. Had I spoken they would have hauled me away alongside him. Yes, perhaps I should have intervened before Charles reached this point of madness, but I didn’t. Plain and simple. Let me tell you the story of Charles.

I met Charles in the year 1664. People were just beginning to collapse from the black death, and I was lucky to find employment at this time. I had finished my daily duties and stumbled into a bar as the sun began to fade. The rain was starting to come down hard, and I shuttered to think of being caught in the downpour. I throw two shillings on the table and tell the bartender to keep the alcohol flowing. The little man collected the money with eager hands and began pouring. Business was starting to collapse as the Black Death grabbed London by the throat and strangled her. Kind Charles the II and his Court had fled the city and were taking refuge in Oxford. In fact, most doctors, lawyers, and the wealthy had left London. I was working by correspondence with a lawyer who would make trips to London on some occasions, but he never stayed long. By nightfall, he was always in a carriage heading home to what I imagined was a roaring fireplace, servants, and surrounded by a loving family.

I was raised in a wealthy family and knew how to read and write- My father would often say, “Your education was your downfall.” He said this even on his deathbed. What he meant by this was my infatuation with literature and writing was a grave mistake. Instead of following his path into medicine, I would write for newspapers, but my real income came from the work at the law firm. Knowing how to read and write was a rarity at this time in London. My services were needed.

I had a paper in front of me as I constructed a news article and guzzled beer when a man sat down beside me. He was drenched in the rain but entered the bar and sat as if he had been strolling through bright rays of sunshine instead of a harsh downpour of rain. A smile stretched across his face, and I looked at him with scrutiny. However, I was not about to bother myself with this stranger. I watched him toss some money on the counter. He also placed a wooden contraption before him. At first, I watched as he began to tear into the wood with a sharp knife as woodshedding fell upon the table but the bartender was not about to bother himself with the mess long as he was a paying customer.

After several beers, I finally turn towards the man and say to him, “What the hell are you doing, if you don’t mind me asking?” The man places down his beer and smiles at me. It was not a pretty smile, but it was a friendly one.

“Why it's for a marionette,” he says. My face remained laced with confusion, and the man continued, “It’s a box for it.” I remain silent, and he continues, “It is a puppet. Have you not seen a wooden puppet? I am a toymaker. My names Charles,” his hand outreaches to shake mine and I embrace it with a firm grasp.

“I am Max,” I say as I curiously gazed at the box. “So you tell me, people pay for these contraptions?” I ask, and I was not trying to be rude.

“Indeed,” he says as he lights a cigarette. “This is a specialty item, and mostly the wealthy buy these- but this one is for my girl. Tomorrow, if there isn’t rain, I will put on a show. It is fun, you should come see,” he says, and his smile was so intoxicating that I said okay. The two of us talked for several hours as I became sloppy drunk. He, on the other hand, drank cautiously, and finally excused himself. He explained that he had a wife and children to tend to, and I was impressed by the sense of devotion towards his family. As he left he patted my back and said, “I hope to see you tomorrow, it will be something to see!” He left into the coal-black night, as rain drizzled.

When I awoke the next morning, I was no longer sure I wanted to see a puppet show. It sounded silly and childish. I have found that the intoxicating effects of liquor will make you behave in ghostly ways. But I had given the man my word, and if there was one thing my father taught me- A man is only as good as his word.

I headed out early that morning and stopped in the square as I looked for Charles. He said he would be here. Usually, I would pass by without a glimpse, heading to work. As I looked around, I saw dozens of children clapping their hands and laughing. I approached, and my eyes feasted on an erected booth on the ground. Charles was on a small step ladder that arched his body above a miniature stage constructed from wood. The puppets had strings attached to them that allowed their colorful bodies to dance as he tugged at the wires from above. I watched for ten minutes in awe before passing away into the stream of people tending to their daily tasks. I was intrigued by the toymaker.

I would retire to that same bar, and at that same time, with hopes that I would see the toymaker again. And I would. We began to meet routinely at that time and became good friends. I met his adorable wife and two children. He showed me his shop and the many toys he sold. They were all done with what was sure to be extensive amounts of talent and time. It was amazing.

The black death was raining down on London as the year turned 1665. I remember one day particularly well. It was October 17, 1665, and this was the day Charles lost his mind. It was a cold, dreary day. The key turned in the door, as I locked the law office, and headed down to Charles’s residence. I stepped over bodies lying in the gutter with what I hoped was due to consumption, but I knew was death. I came to the small residence which Charles was happy to call home and knocked on his door. As he opened the door, I removed my hat and asked, “How is she today?” Charles's face was stone cold- his eyes red with tears and his mouth hung open.

“She’s dead,” he said and motioned me to come in. His two children lay in bed together. Black scabs covered their bodies, and their eyes were rolling around in what looked like misery. Not only had his wife perished but his two children had recently contracted the Black Plague. His "Pride and joy," as he called his children, were fighting for their lives. “I got vinegar as the doctor told me. I even traded some toys for valuable minerals that were said to help. They did not work. Now my precious children have contracted the devil's mark,” he said as his head hung low. I looked at his dead wife. Her face was pale, and scabs covered her body.

“Is there something I can do?” I asked Charles who had slumped on a chair.

“Nothing you can do. I suppose my wife is with God and the future of my children are in his hands.” October 17 was the last day I would see Charles for a while. He would go mad.

I visited Charles's home every day for the next two months, but he stopped answering the door. I could hear him in the room weeping, and I was not sure what to do. Finally, on the second month of the third week, I knocked on his door as I usually had, and this time he answered.

The door swung open, and he screamed, “It is a miracle! They are all alive! Come in!” I looked at him with cautious eyes. As I walked into the room, I saw his dead wife and two dead children painted with makeup like his wooden toys. The children had black ink swirled around the outside of their eyes, and their eyelids were painted blue. Their lips were rosy red and eyebrows a bold brown. Rose pink color was brushed across their cheeks to hide their pale faces. I found it terrifying.

“They are alive!” He screamed. Tomorrow come to the square! You must! Now I have a lot to do! I must prepare. God is good!” He screamed. As swiftly and manically as he rushed me into his house, he was escorting me out. I was not able to get a word out of my mouth. Yes, I should have contacted the priest and doctor, but I didn’t. Plain and simple.

The next day I headed to the square where a large puppet stage stood tall. The curtain remained closed as Charles went about making the last minute touches. I stood back and looked at him as he manically proceeded to work. His eyes were wide with craze and his mouth ajar with sharp, yellow teeth poking out. Finally, the curtain opened, and his seven-year-old son appeared. His son had died from the Black Death but was painted to hide his black scabs. He looked almost lifelike. Charles had attached wires to the dead Childs extremities. The children at the stage clapped their hands and cheered. They were unaware that this was a child their age who was not only dead but had begun to rot. The odor was unmistakable. Death. They watched Charles make him dance across the stage. Then His five-year-old daughter danced onto the stage. The wires tugged at her arms and legs as she twisted and turned upon the stage. My eyes widened. I was not sure what to do, and the screams of women rang through the air as I stood in place- frozen. People were pointing and screaming. Some of the children were confused by the uproar in the square, but most of them continued to watch the puppet show as they laughed and clapped their hands. Charles had madness in his eyes and a smile of insanity as he continued to animate his dead children on the constructed wooden stage- as if it were an ordinary puppet show. I remained frozen in place with shock. When I was finally able to move, guards were hauling this grief-stricken man away and into custody. As they tackled him to the ground and gripped him tightly, he screamed, “But they are alive!” My gaze interchanged between him and his two dead children that rest upon the wooden stage.

One week later I watched as Charles was brought out in front of curious eyes. He had been convicted of murder and sentenced to death by the guillotine. As they brought him to the chopping block, he was sobbing loudly. His clothes looked like rags and the guards- more- or -less carried him to his death. He was screaming until the swish of the blade came collapsing to the ground, and his head rolled off and into darkness.

I am not sure if I believe in heaven. However, I would like to think that Charles is sitting in another world, surrounded by his family as he constructs toys, whittling away the hours. He was a good man that had an unfortunate ending. He was a true toymaker to the very end.

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Charles stared at the television screen in the group home, but he had no idea what he was looking at, he just stared. He was high, and in fact, he was always high. No man would want to reflect on the life and terror he had experienced- drugs eased the emotional turmoil. It was people like Charles that I never could convict for using drugs. In fact, on some level, I supported his drug use. Why? I think for some people- drugs are the only happiness that they will ever obtain. Charles had a story that drained his soul until there was nothing in it but darkness. Darkness was all he knew. If drugs could be a light in his dying world- I supported it. There was a time when happiness and joy filled him like candy in a pinata. But also like candy in a pinata- it would be beaten out of him.

     Charles grew up in a very privileged life. His dad was a doctor, and his mother worked for a law firm. At a young age, his parents enrolled him in top schools. Both his mom and dad insisted that he be well educated. His father would often tell Charles with a sly smile, “Knowledge gives us truths- and truths give us wisdom.”

The two of us were in my car driving- just driving for fun. At that time the price of gas was below a dollar. We were seventeen and drifted through downtown Baton Rouge as we wandered along aimlessly. Youth is a beautiful time in life.

“Would you light this damn cigarette for me,” I bickered as I struggled to drive and light my smoke with a rebellious lighter. Charles took the lighter from me, and after several strokes, a flame erupted, and I took a deep breath as the cigarette engulfed the little ray of fire. I rolled down both of the windows and wind ruffled my long brown hair. We were in my red Saturn- it was a sporty car.

“Charles said in a daze; You got to smoke this stuff. This stuff is great! This is some good shit!" I did not smoke marijuana- at least not at this point in my life. “Max, you have no idea what you're missing out on.” Charles was smoking weed, and a dazzling smile rested firmly on his face.

“It's not for me,” I said as I twisted my head toward him and my blue eyes locked with his faded brown ovals.

“Common just try,” he said as he held the joint towards me. I looked at it and then at him. His greasy brown hair had become alive in the torrent wind, and his entire body was shaking to the beat of Mambo no 5 as it played over the radio. I took a long drag from the cigarette but did not even reply. Instead, my eyes gazed at the ruins of the buildings we drove by- one after the other- boarded up or run down. Downtown Baton Rouge was a glum place. One could describe it as the dumpster of Louisiana, and although I was sure other places in Louisiana wreaked of desperation- Many parts of downtown Baton Rouge was still a depressing sight.

“Look at that soup kitchen. I couldn’t begin to imagine what disasters lead people to such unfortunate situations- God- eating at a soup kitchen- that is the epitome of hell." I say bitterly. Charles had retracted the offer of weed and was smoking it once more as he too gazed at the group of homeless people. We were at a red light in front of the soup kitchen, and Charles started to yell.

“What’cha you guys eating today?” He hollered moronically. There was a line in front of the soup kitchen that stretched into the distance, and although people looked at him as he shouted, they did not respond. “Is it lobster today?” The individuals in the line were mostly black and seemed too subdued by their misfortune to pay any mind to the ridiculous rantings from my best friend.

I did not say anything but shook my head back and forth, and as the light turned green, I floored it. Charles let out a heinous laugh.

“Charles, my dear friend, you should be careful about what you say.” “Why is that, Max? Is Karma going to get me?” He said wildly with a grin stamped across his face.

“Ya never know,” I said as I tossed the cigarette out the window. “Hah! Karma. Really, Max? We both have grand futures ahead of us- Karma has nothing to do with it. No such thing as Karma- I will own the world, and when I am rich, I am going to buy that soup kitchen and turn it into a laundry mat.”

“What?” I said in a bewildered tone. Charles shrugged.

“I think that was the weed talking.” His face lit up with a robust smile. I gave a humorous grunt.

We drove around for another hour and then I brought him home. That was the last time I saw Charles. Of course, I saw him many times after that, but he was no longer Charles. He would become a different person as the day progressed into night. Something happened- something that would rob him of his soul.

    That evening he was watching football with his father. He was stretched out across the couch, his head resting on a comfy red pillow at one end, and his hairy feet at the other. Although I know nothing about sports, Charles could whittle away hours discussing the game. Sometimes he would talk to me about the games as excitement and enthusiasm rattled from him with such intensity- I wondered if I was missing out on something? I decided I wasn’t.

    “Dad, he fumbled,” Charles says as his eyes widen and his eyebrows rose. “Yes, interception! Awesome!” His dad was hollering too, and then his father started twisting and turning in what Charles thought was excitement. Charles looked at his father and laughed at his crazy spasms.

     His father fell to the floor, and Charles continued laughing. That was how the two of them were. They were always messing around, telling jokes, and having fun. Charles loved his father.

    His dad stopped twitching and lay on the ground, and Charles laughs began to taper away.

    “Dad,” he said cautiously, and then he called out his father’s name again but this time with much more alarm. His father did not move. Charles stood up and moved the table away from the couch, to better see his dad. Charle shook him twice.

     “Shit!” he cried out in a hushed whisper. Standing up, he ran to the phone, dialing 911, and he ran back to his father as he started heart compressions on him and breathed into his mouth. The ambulance was on its way as Charles continued to do CPR on him.

    “Dad,” Charles cried, his eyes filled with tears. "Dad," he screamed as he slapped his father's cheek- as if this would awaken him. The ambulance arrived, and they had to pull Charles from his father. He was sobbing loudly by this time and ranting madly. As they gained control of the situation, the outcome was not good. His father, at the age of 43 was proclaimed dead from a stroke.

    I went to the funeral. I pulled up to the cemetery, parked my car, and taking one last drag of my cigarette; I tossed it out the window. I killed off the rest of the bottle of vodka and sat in my seat as I contemplated life. I looked at graves that seemed to stretch on endlessly. It made me think of my mortality, and one day I would be nothing more than a tombstone. My entire life would eventually be summed up to dates chiseled into the stone. I shook this thought from my head and stepped out of my car. There was a large gathering, and I approached Charles who seemed to distance himself from the crowd. “You okay buddy?” I asked him softly and looked into his shivering eyes that appeared to be dancing wildly. His eyes stopped moving, and he looked at me. “Ya,” he whispered. And of course, I understood that he was upset- that he was horrified- that he was sad- his father had just died. His behavior was understandable. I hugged him briefly, and as I let go, I said, “You will always have me, buddy.” But as I looked into his eyes- they were hollow- something had left him.

    After the funeral was over, I looked for Charles, but I could not find him. At last, I saw him in the brush behind a towering oak tree whose roots spread out like little veins. A cigarette was planted firmly between his two fingers.

    I approached him. “Charles- everything will work out. This is tough for you- I know- and I also know that no matter what I say, it won't take away the pain.” I pause momentarily- not sure what to say to a son who just lost his father and all I could say was, "I am sorry." He nodded his head and asked to be alone. I got in my car and left, and although I did not know it at the time- it would not be okay- it would never be ok.

    Years progressed and on the occasions that I saw my best friend Charles- he was always mopping around. I would never again see the uplifting smile that was usually companied by a good sense of humor. His tone was bitter, and his eyes were sad. He had no desire to hang out. 6 months after the funeral I visited him, and he was in a deplorable condition.

    “Maybe you should see a psychiatrist?” I asked as I watched him take a deep breath from a pipe. He held it in, and he released the smoke as he coughed. But he did not reply to my question. I tried my best to help him. I assured him I would always be by his side. The contents of our conversations were bleak, and although I would beg him to get in the car with me and do something- he would just shake his head no. I wanted to get him out of his house and show him that losing his father was tragic- life was still worth living. But he had worshiped his father, and I knew this to be the case. When we were together before his father's death, he would talk about him with infatuation, and I knew the memories of his father consumed him.

    The last time I visited him- he was in bed- and when I entered his room, he did not bother to hide the fact that he was crying. I resided by his bed, and his eyes looked up at me as he whispered, "I miss him so much." I had no idea what to say to this, and I was silent as his sobs continued to fill the room. I tried to help him- encourage him- make him laugh- but my efforts were in vain.

    I was 27 years old, and I had a master in English. Charles was in the past. No matter how much I tried, I could not help him. He began using illegal drugs to numb the pain- other than pot. He never got over his father’s death, and I don't think he ever will. One year passed after the other, and Charles remained infringed with agony. His mom would grow weary of his drug usage. She would eventually kick him out of the house, and he would have nowhere to go. I remember him calling my phone.

   “Max, I need a place to stay,” Charles said with a profound sense of fright. By this time I had just moved to Boston for a job. I hadn’t been there for but two days.

   “I am sorry Charles, but I am in Boston now,” I said softly.

   “Can I come live with you?” He asked in fear. The fear in Charle's voice was so thick; I could smell it in his words. However, I had no solution. My partner and I were living together, I had a new job, and it was not possible for me to aid him. Our childhood days had passed.

    “I am sorry Charles. I can’t. I just can’t.” There was a long silence, and then I did something that took a lot of courage- I hung up the phone.

    Charles would walk the streets for several weeks. As he stood in the line of the soup kitchen with a vacant stare on his face- the realization dawned upon him that he had become the very people that were once targets of his teasing. The line in front of the soup kitchen had individuals who had nothing but misfortune, and now Charles was part of that line. He was a white boy who came from a prosperous family and educated in the best schools but was reduced to walking streets and begging for drugs. Eventually, he would find refuge in a group home where he medicated himself to ease the pain. It was a pain that would never go away. And although many people would claim that with counseling and the proper medication regiment, he would get well- it wouldn’t help. He would call me from time to time, but he was never the same Charles that sat in my car as we ventured aimlessly down roads. That Charles had faded and my only thought now- I hope the drugs provide him some relief because that was all he had.

I am sorry Charles.

[max-sparrow]

The Drought of Souls

I was passing through a small town. The sun was setting and I was going 75 mph. I wanted to get to the hotel before late night, get a few hours of sleep, and with luck, tomorrow I would arrive on time at my families reunion party. Was I really eager to get to my family reunion? Absolutely not. I detested my family and they detested me. I supposed it is only fair. However, I did have a good reason to go. My aunt Mary had just passed away and I was told she left a substantial amount of money in the will for me. Mary had married an oil tycoon that died at an early age. She was already swimming in luxurious clothes and gaudy jewelry when she met her second husband and he too was well off- although his specifics, I am not sure of. She remarried around the time I separated from my family and traveled away from Louisiana and its nightmarish hell bent weather. Nevertheless, her second husband died and now, well- now she was dead- and I was going to collect my part of the family fortune.

My eyes were getting heavy, and I see a sign for a small cafe. I was just going to stop in for a little bit of coffee. I was driving in the middle of nowhere, and I knew it was the last opportunity I had to get some caffeine. The stretch of road I was coming to was one lonely soul, and I needed to keep my weary eyes alert.

I stepped out of my car and grimace. The days I had spent growing up in Louisiana were returning at an excessive pace. I pulled out a cigarette and leaned against my car for a moment as I took a drag. I had been driving all day, and my whole body ached.

I took another drag of the cigarette and place it out as I entered the cafe. There was one person seated in the dimly lite room that wreaked of coffee and cigarettes.

There was a cash register but nobody around. “Hello?” I cry out as I look around me. The gentlemen seated in the corner continued to read his paper and was either too engulfed in an article or too uninterested to even glance at me. Suddenly a bulletin board caught my eyes. There was tac’s bearing newspaper articles that had been ripped from their pages. There must have been three dozen articles of missing people and animals.

“Well, that is Louisiana for you. Southern Charm,” I said with a certain sarcasm.

“May I help you?” I was startled by a bonny man who came from the back  He looked at me with curiosity, and I swayed my attention from the bulletin board to his aged face. You could tell he was a smoker by his leathered skin and rotten teeth. Looking into his eyes made me consider letting go of my cigarette habits, but the keyword was- consider. I would certainly die as a  rebellious smoker.

“Coffee, sir,” I say to the man. He is silent as he fetches a cup and walks over to the coffee pot. I sit down on the stool and tap my fingers anxiously.

“Where are you going?” The man asked, and once more, I  noticed his deep sense of curiosity about me.

“Down highway 34 and to the Holiday Inn.”

“I reckon you shouldn’t,” says the man as he pours the coffee. He places the top on it.

“Why do you say that?” I asked inquisitively.

“You saw the bulletin board,” He said as he handed me my coffee, but he did not look up into my curious blue eyes.

“People disappear when that sun goes down past the sugar cane fields. At first, it was just animals from nearby farms, but then people started to disappear. There used to be a community of farmers not far down the road, but almost all of them have vanished or moved away. Gone- Like they were never there,” he says in a wretched crackling voice. I frown as he pulls out a cigarette. I did not particularly want to watch him smoke- it was hard enough watching him as he was.

“Well, I use to live in Louisiana. I am heading towards the hotel about- three- four hours away. I am sure I can handle myself.”

“I would not do it,” repeats the man but this time he shook his head and took a drag from his cigarette. “They call Highway 34 the drought of Souls. Did not pick the name- just the name it kinda got.”

“That is quite imaginative,” I say.

“You’re an arrogant fellow- not the first of your type I have seen come through this cafe. You’re city educated- book learnings and all. I warned them just like I warned you. Some of them get through okay, but some of them are never heard from again.”

I was beginning to get uncomfortable and began to understand why his cafe was in habituated by one man who showed absolutely no interest in socializing. I paid for the coffee, thanked the man for his advice, and got back in my car.

This is what I could not stand about Louisiana. Aside from the smell of chemical plants, the swamps that harbored nothing but rodents, and the weather that was normally humid and hot- I hated how close minded everybody was. As I thought about this I arrived at the conclusion that the man was as close-minded as he was crazy. “The people of Louisiana love Republicans, crazy stories, and good food. Yet, returning to the car I realized that just about summed up most of the population here. It was as if time had moved on, while the rest of America was moving on swiftly. I sipped my coffee and turned on the radio. There were no radio towers nearby and so I plugged my iPhone in and turned up the speakers.

“God I did not want to see my family,” I think to myself, and this sorrow has me reaching for my cigarettes.  In fact, I inquired if a lawyer could interact on my behalf and have the money delivered to me through him, but everybody insisted that I come. I was a writer for a small newspaper in North Carolina. Yes, I thought about flying, but I never took to the skies like my family did. My family loved traveling over seas and going on new adventures when I found ample amounts of excitement right here in America. Something about flying left me moderately unsettled. No, 9/11 did not help, and the whole process was so elaborate that I was quite comfortable driving my Toyota Camry down the road. It would be worthwhile. The sum of money I was going to receive would be in the millions- or at least- that was the rumor.

I was sailing down the highway and I had pushed the car to its limit at 85 mph when a loud pop could be heard and my car began to spin. Although it happened in a matter of seconds, it felt like time stood still as the car finally came to a stop. I let out a nervous gasp, until that moment- as the car came to a halt. I had popped a tire. “Great,” I say out loud. “Just fucking great!” I get out of the car as I fumbled for a cigarette. I walked around to the back end of the car and shake my head in frustration as I glare down at an entirely flat tire. I stood there for only seconds when a blunt object hit the back of my head.

I awoke slowly as my eyes lifted to a man who was gazing back at me. He spits his dip into a can. I have always hated when people dip. I thought it to be a sickly habit, and I realize there is some irony from this because I smoke. The man looked into my eyes as I regained continuousness. I was light headed and it took me several minutes before I noticed I was tied down to a wheel chair.

“What the fuck happened to me- my car- the tire,” I remembered it all, and I looked back into the green eyes of the country hick bum. He smiled at me.

“Ya always takes folks a few minutes to remember,” he says with a grin that displayed several rotten teeth.

“What is going on?” I asked, and you could hear the fear in my every word as it drained out of me like a slow oil leak.

“I have never had one at your age. You have excellent skin, and those eyes of yours are so blue,” he said smiling. “You will make a spectacular specimen. Lucky your smoking hasn’t messed up that beautiful face of yours.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked with arched eyebrows and with the growing realization that I was in deep trouble.

The man rubbed his hands through my hair, and then spit into a can. “Open that mouth.”

“Nice teeth- nice hair- wearing good clothes- you ain’t the normal types in this part,” says he. He had a droopy chin that complimented his equally droopy eyes, and a straw hat sat upon what was a balding head. He was not a big man, and although I did not know where I was, I knew I could not be far from the highway. There was no way this man could have carried me very far. Then again, I had no idea how long I had been passed out.

“Help!” I start screaming. “Help me! Somebody! Help!” I yelled at the top of my lungs while the man stood up and just shook his head, and gave an eerie grin.

“Boy nobody can hear you- nobody will hear your screams- not even God himself.”

“I have money,” I say as I begin to cry. “I am- I am – going -to – I am going to my aunt’s house for a lot of money. I will pay you whatever you want. Just let me go!” I was still screaming but you could hear the horror in my voice and tears trickled down my face like never before.

“Well, boy- let me show you what I got in store for you?” He said more than he asked- and I looked at his tooth rot as he smiled.

He got behind the wheel chair and pushed me into another room.

“I swear, I will pay you- whatever you want- I come from money.” It was true, I did come from money, and I would have paid anything to be released. I never did like horror movies, I did not like to be scared, but right now- I was living inside of one- a horror movie- a nightmare of grand proportion.

“Look around the room,” he said, and my mouth just hung as I looked around a huge room filled with- …. I looked at I was shocked. “You’re  a-“

“That is right boy, I am a taxidermist, and this is where I display my finest pieces. You will go in here. Already picked out a spot for you.” He pointed over in the corner of the room.

I finished my statement a moment later, “No- I was gone say- you’re a monster.” My lucid comment was brief, and he did not like it.

The man slapped me across the face and grunted. “you’re lucky you’re so pretty- don’t want to mess up your figure but if you were not such a perfect specimen, I’d beat the shit out of ya- kid. This is my work. This is my life. These animals and people are immortal. You should be happy.

I looked around the room at what I saw. There were stuffed cats, dogs, animals of all types, but most of the room was filled with stuffed humans. It was a chilling sight, to say the least. It almost looked like the set on a stage. Two stuffed women sat on a couch, and both had a cup of tea in their hands. There was a piano where a stuffed man rested his fingers on the keys. It looked so real- but it was not. It was all fake. He had murdered all of these people. They were dead, despite his attempt to humanize them with lipstick and paint on their faces.

“Please, sir- I will give you money and all you got to do, is let me go. I won’t tell anybody about this.”

“I just cannot do that.” He said.

“You know people are looking for me,” I say as I try to pull myself together.

“Save your breath boy,” he says as he eyes me with curiosity and takes some dip out of a can and places it beneath his lip. “I have heard it all- you’re not my first- won’t be my last. Just think about it boy, I am making you immortal. That is the finest of all compliments a man can ever receive. You’re lucky I ain’t chargin’ you!”

“I do not want to be immortal,” I say in a hushed sob.

“Now before I can properly work on you I am gonna’ place you into a freezer. I want to preserve your features. So let’s take you to the freezer.” He pushed the wheelchair and the only sound was the squeak of the chair at first. I was silent and listened as he erupted in conversation again,  “got some work to do, and your blood will solidify and you will be,” he pauses and says with a smile, “immortal.” As he neared me to the freezer he began to reminisce, “Nothing more fitting than immortality. Although I must admit, I do enjoy the whole process. Now some people would say removing the organs and guts is nasty, but I just love it, boy. I truly do. It’s a God given gift.” We came to a stop and unlatched the freezer with a key.

I cried as he wheeled me into a giant meat locker. There were other people frozen and body parts that he had obviously severed from other humans. For what reason- I would never know- and nor did I want to know.

“Sweat dreams boy,” He says, and he turned the freezer light off, leaving me tied hopelessly in the wheelchair. I heard a lock fasten and the lights went black. It was a blackness that no human could ever feel unless they were in my skin. It was hell’s darkness. The odor was toxic, and I was beginning to get cold.

“Nobody could help me now,” I repeated, “Not even God himself.” Those were my last words.

[max-sparrow]

I guess what bothers me the most is knowing that I will die with nobody batting an eye. Perhaps that sounds selfish- but the idea of dying alone has made me a regular customer at this bar. The only person who might notice my absence is the bartender that I tip generously. There will be others that will tip graciously and in time- I will be entirely forgotten. Is this God’s way of punishing me for something I now believe might have been my own choice? Or perhaps that is the liquor talking. I toy with my drink- my eyes glazed and wandering- as memories turn through my head like a photo album- my thoughts continue… Heterosexuals have the privilege of relying on their children, while I- I have nobody to depend on- nobody. I know there will come a day when I reside in a hospital bed- completely and utterly alone. Being alone in those moments is what scares me the most, and I have been alone most of my life. Even in this bar- surrounded by alcohol hungry customers as conversation flows as carelessly into the air like cigarette smoke- even now- I feel alone. My mind always replays the footage of the only person that understood me- the only person I loved- the only person who never left me on the roadside. I never felt alone with him…

I found the love of my life in the mid-80's. He was a well-built man with untamed brown hair, but his grin was what gravitated me towards him. I was 25, and I too was gorgeous. My blue eyes flickered dangerously like lightning, and I cast a friendly smile back his way when he noticed me looking at him from afar. I had just been dropped off at a bar in Baton Rouge called Splash. It was a sleazy two-story bar with a dance floor, and they had a back room where prostitution carried on. The music was always so intoxicatingly loud; you had to shout to carry on a conversation. However, I was there for one reason…

I sat next to this stranger with a kind face and tight jeans that outlined his perfect figure. He was clean-shaven and had a pair of frisky eyes. He even wore a worn baseball cap that attempted to hide his unruly hair, and this only increased my fever to know him better.

“Names Max,” I said, and he tossed a curious gaze my way and smiled.

“I am James,” he responded, and then, as if he had done it a thousand times, he smoothly tells the bartender to fetch me a drink. “Make that two drinks,” he adds. “Dirty Martinis.”

“I am new to the area,” James says as he places a cigarette out in a dark green ceramic ashtray.

“Perhaps I could show you around?” I say slyly- my words thick with lust. I wanted to tear off his clothes and throw myself at him as we began to engage in passion. That was what Splash was all about- Lust. In fact, in mid 80's much of the gay community was founded on this principle.

The two of us continued to talk as the evening edged forward. Several drinks later and countlessly smoked cigarettes- we proceeded to go outside of the bar. My ears were ringing from the loud music, and we were both drunk. James had invited me back to his apartment. The two of us got into his car, and off we drove- into the night. What would initially be a one-night-stand would turn into something much greater.

Years later I was sitting by his bedside with sad, drooping eyes. He had contracted HIV before I had even known him, but in the past year of our relationship- it would progress to full-blown AIDS. The medications stopped working as the strain mutated and James began to grow frail. He was coming to his final moments. The doctors administered massive dosages of morphine. I looked into his once gleaming blue eyes, and his face which was typically inhibited by a smile- a smile that added sensational comfort to my heartbeat- and as I thought about this- I realized that I was about to be alone. Perhaps that was a selfish thought- he was losing his life- but the reality would turn out to be- we would both be losing our lives.

“Max, I love you, you know,” He said as his eyes blinked lazily. I suspected the morphine had generated this sloth-like behavior. The two of us had met at Splash, and here I was seven years later- His hand clutched in mine as death approached. A lot of people would say that seven years is not a significant amount of time- But in that time I had become infatuated with James. The two of us shared a bond like none other I have had in my life. He was a reason to get up in the morning, and a reason to go off to work. I counted every moment that I spent at my job- awaiting the journey home and opening our apartment door as I smelt the dinner he was cooking.

Of course, like any couple we fought- and we fought as good as we loved. It would always end the same way- my head propped up against his shoulder and his arm wrapped around my torso while we watched television. I remember the last fight we had. It was about dirty dishes. After we made up, I snuggled close to him; I felt peace, and I said with passion, “I love you, James.”

“I love you too Max.”

That was the last fight we had before the news of his declining health surfaced. I tended to his every need, and we did not fight. He was beginning to accept that his days on this earth were numbered well beyond the norm, while I was beginning to accept that I was about to lose the man I loved the most.

He was admitted to the hospital a week before his death. I remember that day well. The ambulance had to bring him, and I watched with down casted eyes and a frown that curved across my face. It was mid-afternoon but dark clouds hung in the sky and rain drizzled.

In that hospital room- I would watch him fade into nothingness. I remember one of the very few lucid comments he made- “Max, did you get in touch with my parents?” James asked. I wiped the tears that were beginning to gather in my eyes, “Yes, James- they will be here any moment.” It was a flagrant lie, but I didn’t have it in me to tell him the truth. His parents had separated from him when he announced that he was gay. I had contacted his father, and I remember what he said when I told him his son was about to die from AIDS. “He damn well deserves it for turning his back on God.” I was all he had, and he was all I had.

James closed his eyes, and I cried silently as several tears leaked across my cheeks. I brought my chair close beside his bed and lay my head against his shoulder, and when I awoke- James had passed away. The times we had snuggled- his arms wrapped around me, my head tilted on his shoulder- it was all in the past- never going to happen again. I would give anything to snuggle with him one more time- although the happy days I spent with James would disappear- his memory would never leave me. I have never been certain that the memory is worth having because I would mourn his death to this exact point- as I sit on this barstool.

As I think about the past and the horrid truths of my life, a guy steps beside me in the bar and orders a beer. I notice he was wearing a faded baseball hat, and I twist my eyes away in sorrow. There are constant reminders of James, and although most people would say those memories are meant to be cherished and looked upon with joy, they reminded me of everything I have lost. I guess I am a cynical queen, but regardless- I built a life with James, only to have him pried from my clutched hands. I had to watch him die. Yes, individuals will approach me in bars with overbearing interest, but I pay no attention to them- I had opened my heart once.

I return home in a drunken stupor and stumble towards the bedroom. I fall face down on a pillow on my bed. Although it has been over ten years, every night as I am falling asleep, I still toss my eyes towards the kitchen, and I wonder when James will come to bed- wrapping his arms around my chest, as I feel his steady heartbeat. It will take several moments for me to realize that he is not coming to bed, and as this dawns on me, a silent tear makes its journey across my face. I came into this world screaming with agony, and I’ll be damned if I don’t go out of this world screaming that very same way.

[max-sparrow]

“I see your red door, I want it painted black

No colors any more, I want them to turn black

I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes

I have to turn my head until my darkness goes”

I raised my head as I looked into the gleaming green eyes of the guitarist in front of me. Drool was running down my sagging face, and I attempted to wipe it away. Our eyes connected and she gave a gentle smile that warmed my rotting heart. This was my first lucid memory since… since…    

My name is Max, and I once had a grand life. When I say grand- you could not begin to fathom the fortune that fell into my lap. It was as if I was sailing across the transatlantic- a drink in one hand and the palm of a gorgeous lady in the other, as I danced within the lavished ballroom on the titanic- Completely unaware that this would be my end.

I would grow up in the top prep schools that fermented my peers and me with possibilities- possibilities unlike anything else seen in the Louisiana educational system. In my early years, I would make straight A’s, and my future looked, outstanding.

But- much like seasons progress or daylight comes and fades- Clocks would rotate like they so gracefully do… I was in eighth grade when I developed chronic anxiety. This anxiety would be my end. As years progressed, I would find myself falling into a spiraling maze of helplessness. I was popping prescribed Xanax, and this would lead to frequent hospitalizations. The anxiety was severe, but I was not certain- much like I am still not certain- if the pills were meant to ease the anxiety or to end my mental anguish. Perhaps a little bit of both?

At age 24 I found myself in a halfway house staring into a television but I wasn’t watching the screen. I had no idea what was on that tv. I didn’t care. No- I was staring at it as I wondered how I had ended up in the bottom of the barrel- The hopeless- The nobodies- The forgotten. I received a social security check that the group owner would collect and hand me a couple measly dollars after my rent was paid. The living situation was suffocating me, and as days progressed- my empty gaze continued to penetrate that television screen as confusion and wonder continually surfaced. I would begin to feel hopeless on a level that I had never experienced, and I left the group home property. I’d wander the streets as I faded into the city- I was looking for something that offered comfort and happiness. One day I would find it- its name was- Heroin.

I wound up in Saint Elizabeth's after a nearly fatal heroine dosage took me off the map. My near death experience happened three days before my admission into Saint Elizabeth’s. And although I have no memory of the previous three days; until my head bobbed up- drool running out my mouth- to Mandy’s singing of, “Painted Black,” I do recall what drove me to this state:

I sat in a dimly lit hotel room. I was placing a cigarette out on a coke can. There was a belt around my upper arm, and I did consider what I was doing. I concluded that there were no options as I tightened the belt gradually- my eye strained, and finally, a blood vessel made its appearance. I stuck the needle in and released the heroin with ease as my troubles faded, and the only reality I wanted to know began to surface. It was an emotionally painless reality. It was a warm and kind place. It was a place that knew my troubles and wanted nothing more than to cradle me as I slowly released my grasp on life and faded into a familiar darkness. My eyes closed and I drifted- And yet I would resurface to the gentle strumming of Mandy as she played a song that would intoxicate me with interest- “Painted Black.”

Days progressed- one after the other- and to occupy our time we would have groups run by a social worker. In one very memorable group, I was speaking about the agony I felt trapped in when a fellow patient- Brian- erupted me in a cataclysmic outburst. Brian had schizophrenia, but what lead to his demise was his drug abuse. It left him to be a rotten Halloween pumpkin, rotting away as October turned into December.

“Pain is inevitable while suffering is a choice!” He screamed. My eyes narrowed as I looked at him and I was at a loss for words. He continued, “Life is going to be painful- pain is inevitable, but you chose to suffer. You can allow the painful trials and tribulations of life to build you up and forgo suffering- as you learn from your hardships. Learn from the pain! Suffering is a choice.”

I continued to stare at him as I closed my eyes and thought about what he said. After a few seconds had passed I said in a gentle tone, “Where did you hear that from?” Yet, this moment of lucidity had past and he screamed, “God will make sinners suffer for the rotten deeds- for the rotten deeds- the rotten deeds. God!”

My eyes opened and shut slowly, as my gaze went back to the social worker, I saw my perplexed expression gently outlined on her face. She was equally stunned.

I sighed heavily. “I can't-do this…” I said in utter exhaustion and brought my head down into my cupped hands and rested them on my lap. Although I collapsed in exhaustion- his comment would always be in the back of my mind. “Pain is inevitable but suffering is a choice.” His words would remain on my mind until this very day.

“Max, where do you want to go when we let you out of here and—,” Dr. Cannon asked calmly but before she could even finish, I had a verbal outburst as I screamed, “I want to die. I will kill myself if you let me out of here! I will- I will do it!” I screamed this hysterically, and as I finished yelling, she looked at me with sorrow in her eyes- her eyes did not widen nor shrink, but I could see the sadness in her pair of oval browns. I suspected she had seen a lot of misery in her time as a psychiatrist, and as my outburst tamed itself into a whimper, I would gaze curiously into her bleeding eyes. These outbursts would last a matter of seconds before I stormed out of the room with such outrage, it left her mystified and confused.

Yes, at first, I was sincere about my threats of suicide, but that state of morbid sincerity only lasted a couple of days. After that period had passed- I continued to threaten suicide in a twisted attempt to save my life. Although I was no longer in a deplorable state of depression- I knew- God I knew- If I did not express this desire- She would send me back to a halfway house in Baton Rouge. I knew sending me to a group home would be essentially the same as engraving “Ring a Ring o' Roses” on my forehead as I tumbled into my grave. I was not ready to finish the story that was my life.                

My theatrically staged suicidal behavior would continue, and this prevented her from releasing me back into the horrid environment of a group home. Finally, the option to send me to a longterm treatment center in Opelousas surfaced. My eyes gleamed at the suggestion, but my voice was timid- the resonation of fear hung on every letter of every word when I verbally explored this possibility… Moving to Opelousas meant relocating- it meant change. People claim change is good, but I had witnessed firsthand how disastrous change could be. I was skeptical. Ultimately- I think I was as afraid to live as I was to die.

   I decided to take this opportunity- they transported me to the treatment center in Opelousas, and placed me in an inpatient facility. The worker's job at this place was to rehabilitate people into society. Their efforts would mostly go unnoticed in the shadows of the state government. Yet, they thought they had success with me- and perhaps they did- to a certain extent. I was released, and well...  “Ring a Ring o' Roses.”

I place the pen down, fold the letter and place it in the envelope. This was it. I take a deep breath of air and step up onto a box as salty water drains down from my wide eyes. I now realize that all roads end in death. This is a truth for every human. My mind fixated on a quote that I had silently processed over and over since I heard it. I repeated the words in loud sobs- “Pain is inevitable while suffering is a choice.” The truth is- I do not know how to grow from pain- I am not sure how to choose to forgo suffering- Or how to learn from the pain— And as my feet dangle in the shadows cast by the evening light of the windows- I would finally know peace. Perhaps it is not peace that other people understand- Perhaps it is not peace that other people wanted me to chose- But it is the only peace I know.

[max-sparrow]

Losing My True Love

I guess what bothers me the most is knowing that I will die with nobody batting an eye. Perhaps that sounds selfish- but the idea of dying alone has made me a regular customer at this bar. The only person who might notice my absence is the bartender that I tip generously. There will be others that will tip graciously and in time- I will be entirely forgotten. Is this God’s way of punishing me for something I now believe might have been my own choice? Or perhaps that is the liquor talking. I toy with my drink- my eyes glazed and wandering- as memories turn through my head like a photo album- my thoughts continue… Heterosexuals have the privilege of relying on their children, while I- I have nobody to depend on- nobody. I know there will come a day when I reside in a hospital bed- completely and utterly alone. Being alone in those moments is what scares me the most, and I have been alone most of my life. Even in this bar- surrounded by alcohol hungry customers as conversation flows as carelessly into the air like cigarette smoke- even now- I feel alone. My mind always replays the footage of the only person that understood me- the only person I loved- the only person who never left me on the roadside. I never felt alone with him…

I found the love of my life in the mid-80's. He was a well-built man with untamed brown hair, but his grin was what gravitated me towards him. I was 25, and I too was gorgeous. My blue eyes flickered dangerously like lightning, and I cast a friendly smile back his way when he noticed me looking at him from afar. I had just been dropped off at a bar in Baton Rouge called Splash. It was a sleazy two-story bar with a dance floor, and they had a back room where prostitution carried on. The music was always so intoxicatingly loud; you had to shout to carry on a conversation. However, I was there for one reason…

I sat next to this stranger with a kind face and tight jeans that outlined his perfect figure. He was clean-shaven and had a pair of frisky eyes. He even wore a worn baseball cap that attempted to hide his unruly hair, and this only increased my fever to know him better.

“Names Max,” I said, and he tossed a curious gaze my way and smiled.

“I am James,” he responded, and then, as if he had done it a thousand times, he smoothly tells the bar tender to fetch me a drink. “Make that two drinks,” he adds. “Dirty Martinis.”

“I am new to the area,” James says as he places a cigarette out in a dark green ceramic ashtray.

“Perhaps I could show you around?” I say slyly- my words thick with lust. I wanted to tear off his clothes and throw myself at him as we began to engage in passion. That was what Splash was all about- Lust. In fact, in mid 80's much of the gay community was founded on this principle.  

The two of us continued to talk as the evening edged forward. Several drinks later and countlessly smoked cigarettes- we proceeded to go outside of the bar. My ears were ringing from the loud music, and we were both drunk. James had invited me back to his apartment. The two of us got into his car, and off we drove- into the night. What would initially be a one-night-stand would turn into something much greater.

Years later I was sitting by his bedside with sad, drooping eyes. He had contracted HIV before I had even known him, but in the past year of our relationship- it would progress to full-blown AIDS. The medications stopped working as the strain mutated and James began to grow frail. He was coming to his final moments. The doctors administered massive dosages of morphine. I looked into his once gleaming blue eyes, and his face which was typically inhibited by a smile- a smile that added sensational comfort to my heart beat- and as I thought about this- I realized that I was about to be alone. Perhaps that was a selfish thought- he was losing his life- but the reality would turn out to be- we would both be losing our lives.

“Max, I love you, you know,” He said as his eyes blinked lazily. I suspected the morphine had generated this sloth-like behavior. The two of us had met at Splash, and here I was seven years later- His hand clutched in mine as death approached. A lot of people would say that seven years is not a significant amount of time- But in that time I had become infatuated with James. The two of us shared a bond like none other I have had in my life. He was a reason to get up in the morning, and a reason to go off to work. I counted every moment that I spent at my job- awaiting the journey home and opening our apartment door as I smelt the dinner he was cooking.

Of course, like any couple we fought- and we fought as good as we loved. It would always end the same way- my head propped up against his shoulder and his arm wrapped around my torso while we watched television. I remember the last fight we had. It was about dirty dishes. After we made up, I snuggled close to him; I felt peace, and I said with passion, “I love you, James.”

“I love you too Max.”

That was the last fight we had before the news of his declining health surfaced. I tended to his every need, and we did not fight. He was beginning to accept that his days on this earth were numbered well beyond the norm, while I was beginning to accept that I was about to lose the man I loved the most.

He was admitted to the hospital a week before his death. I remember that day well. The ambulance had to bring him, and I watched with down casted eyes and a frown that curved across my face. It was mid-afternoon but dark clouds hung in the sky and rain drizzled.

In that hospital room- I would watch him fade into nothingness. I remember one of the very few lucid comments he made- “Max, did you get in touch with my parents?” James asked. I wiped the tears that were beginning to gather in my eyes, “Yes, James- they will be here any moment.” It was a flagrant lie, but I didn’t have it in me to tell him the truth. His parents had separated from him when he announced that he was gay. I had contacted his father, and I remember what he said when I told him his son was about to die from AIDS. “He damn well deserves it for turning his back on God.” I was all he had, and he was all I had.

James closed his eyes, and I cried silently as several tears leaked across my cheeks. I brought my chair close beside his bed and lay my head against his shoulder, and when I awoke- James had passed away. The times we had snuggled- his arms wrapped around me, my head tilted on his shoulder- it was all in the past- never going to happen again. I would give anything to snuggle with him one more time- although the happy days I spent with James would disappear- his memory would never leave me. I have never been certain that the memory is worth having because I would mourn his death to this exact point- as I sit on this barstool.

As I think about the past and the horrid truths of my life, a guy steps beside me in the bar and orders a beer. I notice he was wearing a faded baseball hat, and I twist my eyes away in sorrow. There are constant reminders of James, and although most people would say those memories are meant to be cherished and looked upon with joy, they reminded me of everything I have lost. I guess I am a cynical queen, but regardless- I built a life with James, only to have him pried from my clutched hands. I had to watch him die. Yes, individuals will approach me in bars with overbearing interest, but I pay no attention to them- I had opened my heart once.

I return home in a drunken stupor and stumble towards the bedroom. I fall face down on a pillow on my bed. Although it has been over ten years, every night as I am falling asleep, I still toss my eyes towards the kitchen, and I wonder when James will come to bed- wrapping his arms around my chest, as I feel his steady heartbeat. It will take several moments for me to realize that he is not coming to bed, and as this dawns on me, a silent tear makes its journey across my face. I came into this world screaming with agony, and I’ll be damned if I don’t go out of this world screaming that very same way.

[max-sparrow]

Sweat was dripping down his chin as he cut through the power line pole. The chainsaw ate the post- wood was spitting into the air- The power line pole groaned as it fell into the streets- the wires snapping. “No more light for anybody! Nobody can see in the darkness! Now you understand?!” Charles screamed as he stumbled blindly to the next pole. The chain saws serrated blades rotated in a fury of madness as he tore the next power line pole down- much like the last- it began to lean until it finally toppled over- sparks jumping as the wires split. The neighbors were outside watching- the police would be there soon. Not a single person was going to try and talk any rational into a man wielding a chainsaw dangerously into the air- stumbling- as he screamed maniacally, “How will you see without light?” As people heard his insane ranting, it became apparent that he had lost his mind. Children were guided inside by their parents and told to lock the doors. Eventually, most of the adults would retreat to the safety of their houses while they looked from their living room windows as Charles continued in a fleet of madness. You could hear sirens in the distance.

 However, you might find interest in knowing exactly how this event came to transpire. Charles was- by all accounts- a happy man- a man that was always friendly, and he was a teacher at a nearby middle school. Although Charles may seem like a monster in this moment of insanity, you will see that most people considered him a victim. Let me explain:

[max-sparrow]

I am Nothing More Than a Paper Airplane

    He was my best friend during high school. In fact, some of my most vivid and endearing memories of him occurred on my back porch where we commonly gathered. I would retire to this sanctuary after my parents went to bed, and on this particular night, the rain drizzled outside. I light a cigarette while I peered into the blackness of the night. I had begun to realize that the night’s blackness and my soul had merged together.

    It was summer, and although, it was hot, I had gotten used to the heat in Baton Rouge. Louisiana was all I knew- and I sat, the cigarette embers burning intensely with every breath I took. Grasshoppers chirped loudly, and you could hear the rain as it dripped upon the tree leaves.

    I loved the rain- the dark clouds that hovered above me- the cigarette smoke that just hung in the air. There was no breeze. I enjoyed sitting outside and hearing the rainfall- little beads of water that washed over everything.

   “Max!” a voice called out into the air. I looked towards the garage and Cody walked towards me, and, I was always glad to see him- But at that moment I was focused on the paper bag that was barely visible in the night- but I had a sixth sense for noticing these types of bags. He held it in his right hand as I attempted to imagine what was within.

   “What is in that bag?” I asked with curiosity- although, I was quite sure  I knew what was in it.

   “Well- hello to you too!” Cody said with a barely visible smile as it spread across his face. He continued, “You know smoking is going to kill you.”  

   “Jesus- that would be a shame,” I said nonchalantly.

   Cody took the cigarette from my hand and took a drag, as he sat down on the bench next to me.

   “What is in that damn bag!” I repeated.

   “A gift for you,” he said eyeing me with an amusing expression on his face. Cody was my best friend at this pivotal moment in my life, and I do not think I could have loved a person more. He stood by me, and I stood by him. We made an excellent team.

   “Show me what is in that God-Damn bag,” I repeated.

   The cigarette cast an illuminating glow on Cody’s face as the embers desperately fought to be seen in the blackness. I looked at the bag and back up to his face, as I watched his brown eyes peer at me with interest. He took one last drag of the cigarette and handed it back to me.

   “You know the Surgeon General does not recommend smoking. Says so on the pack,” Cody said Coyly.

   “I’ll tell you what,” I said with growing annoyance. I was not annoyed at the question, but rather- I wanted to know what was in the bag he clutched in his hands. I continued, “If you can tell me who the hell the God Damn surgeon general is- I will stop smoking.” Cody gave a hearty laugh. Although Cody teased me about smoking, he was known to go through a pack or two ever so often.

   “That is a good question,” Cody said as he reflected on my comment. Finally, he said, “Well- they will still kill you- regardless of who the Surgeon General is.”

   “Great- I cannot wait! I am living a miserable life. My life is like a paper air plane.  No matter how many times you fold it- it is still a damn piece of paper. Point- regardless of what I do- I will always be a miserable person.”    

   “I did not come here to listen to listen to you gripe, and saturate yourself in pity,” Cody said with a grunt, and although his face was hidden in the bosom of the night- I knew he was smiling. “Well, I brought something to help you out.” He pulled out of the bag a bottle of Boons Farm. “It is your favorite flavor too- Strawberry.” He handed it to me, and I was glad it was pitch black- I did not want him to see my eyes swelling with tears. You couldn’t ask for a better friend. He made life a little easier to live.

   “You know Cody- you are my best friend- and I hope you always will be.”

   “Max, no worries- we will always be best friends,” and Cody patted me on the back for reassurance.

   “Would you like to drink it with me?” I asked.

   “No, actually, I am on the way to a date. I wanted you to tell me how I look?” he asked. He was now standing up and collecting the drizzling rain in his cupped hands as it trickled off the roof.

   “Come closer,” I said, and he came forward. He was wearing the clothing that I had picked out for him at the mall, and he looked fabulous. “You look spectacular, my friend,” I said in a very endearing tone. "Not too gay- not too straight- Just right!" I stated with the first chuckle I had that night.  

   Cody rolled his eyes at this and said, "Well, I am going- I will call you later tonight." Once again, I was surrounded by nothing but darkness, the chirping of grasshoppers, and drizzling rain. I thought back to bible class when the teacher said that the rain was tears of Angels crying. I believed her- I had no reason not to- even though she was dramatic. Yet, it was as good of an explanation as any when I was seven years old.

    Yes, I was severely depressed. I unscrewed the bottle of the boons farm and guzzled it down in less than five minutes. Although, I appreciated its taste- I wanted to feel drunk.  I felt normal when I drank, and although— dear readers— you might find this disturbing, I was just a kid of sixteen, and I knew nothing about the road I was heading down.

   Cody and I would continue to be best friends for a good while. Although I was gay, he had no problem with that, and I regularly gave him fashion tips— all of which he took. He was a very handsome guy and did extremely well with the girls.

   Yet, much like Cody, I wanted a love life. It would come soon enough. My first boyfriend, Zach entered my life, and the days began to move swiftly. Time can move very swiftly, and I have realized this can be both a blessing and a curse.

    Zach was an unusual person, and he held complete control over me. He was very dominating, and one of the gorgeous guys I would ever be with. I recall us being in a park as I marveled at the beauty of nature. It was in the evening on an Autumn day. I remember it being a relatively beautiful night. The gentle breeze and cool air made it very enjoyable. I was eighteen by this time.

   I was smoking a cigarette as I watched the wind thrash the tall oak tree limbs back and forth. Like I commonly did, I was drinking, but Zack never touched the stuff. He smoked cigarettes, but that was it.

   “I do not like you hanging out with Cody,” Zack said harshly. I just stare into the sun as it was beginning its majestic descent from the sky. I just stared at it- mesmerized- when his words finally registered in my intoxicated mind. I turned to him.

   “He is my best friend.”

   “I do not like him,” Zack said and continued, “You have to trust me- There will be many ‘Cody’s’’ that will enter your life, but we are forever!” There was a long pause, and Zack asked, “Do you trust me?” I thought for a moment and looked into his hazel eyes. They were beautiful and captivating. I finally spoke,

   “Yes- Yes- I trust you,” I said. I trusted, and I loved him. At least- I thought I did. By this time Zack and I had been dating for three months. At the age of 18, this was substantial.

   “So you will tell him to Fuck off?”

   “Yes,” I said, but this troubled me deeply.

   I remember the last conversation I had with Cody on the phone. It was filled with awkward pauses as I stuttered and told him we could not be friends. He was exasperated by my decision. I was equally exasperated.

   “Goodbye Cody,” I said and hung up the phone. I retired to my room, where I sat in silence and reflected on my decision. I had known Cody since second grade.

   It would turn out that Zack and I would break up a month later. This was when I gained the perspective that relationships were a dime-a-dozen and friendship were forever. I had gotten it backward. And, although, this story makes a genuine point- I cannot begin to tell you what a mistake I had made- and the revelation of this truth I will not detail. Instead, I will leave your minds spending in turmoil— much like mine has for the last 12 years. Even at age 18, you can destroy bridges- But the worst part- This was a bridge that only I walked on... I guess to end this story I will say- The truth is never simple. And the Truth is much like Love.

[wnq-writers]

I always kept my word when I promised someone. But I could never keep up the promises I made to myself.

dhruvilfcb  (via wordsnquotes)

[max-sparrow]

The Lab Coat Of Silence

Andrew Grey poured the rest of the red wine into his glass as he lit a cigar. “Would you like some more wine?” He asked his guest- a long time friend and co-worker Charles.

“Andrew- come now- what are you thinking?” Charles asked as he shook his head. “I told you back when we were in med school that this lifestyle would lead to misfortune.”

    “Shake your head all you want. A man deserves to unwind after a long day of work.” He said mildly and then almost as quickly as the flip of a light-switch he snarled loudly, “For fucks sakes Charles- Do not judge me. You do not know what I have been through. A fucking divorce! A child that has passed away. Don’t fucking shake your head at me- ya Bigot. Ya goddamn Bigot!”

     Charles just looked at his friend with sad, soft eyes. The two of them had gone to medical school together, and in fact, they even worked together in the same department at St. Bethany’s hospital. They both worked in Hepatology. Both Andrew and Charles had done ground-breaking research in Liver transplants. Hepatology was a field that was blossoming with new possibilities- and the two of them were the Rolls Royce of the rapid development within this field.

    “Ya know- I talked to my son yesterday,” Andrew said as his tone began to drop back into a more worrisome and subdued melody. “Ya know what the little Brat said to me?”

     “What is that?” Charles asked as he looked into his troubled friend’s brown eyes that were glazed with desperation.

     “He said ‘Isn’t that fitting- my father does liver transplants and yet, he will die from liver failure.’ That is what the little brat said to me…. oh but God do I love him. Yet, he wants nothing to do with me. He won’t come see me. Says his whole life I was desperately involved in my career- And now I expect him to come running. The Brat! I bought him everything he ever wanted!”

     Charles frowned as he looked up into the sky at a perfectly round yellow moon. There were no clouds. They were sitting on the deck of Andrew’s penthouse apartment. “Okay,” Charles said at last. “Okay, what?” Andrew asked as he killed the wine and puffed on his cigar. “I’ll do it- get me the liver- don’t tell me how you get it- just get it and I will do the surgery,” Charles said, and he was clearly agitated as his eyes fell from the heavens and back to his drunken friend. “Really- Charles- you will help me?” Andrew asked as he placed his wine glass down as he stood up, but in his desperate frenzy he bumped the table and sent the empty wine bottle shattering to the ground. Yet, Andrew seemed not to care. “Oh, buddy- I will owe you. You do this one thing for me, and I will do anything you want.”

    Charles stood up- clearly agitated- and said, “I will see myself out.” He started to say something to Andrew but stopped himself. For a moment he stared down at the broken wine bottle- almost in a trance, and then before turning away to leave he whispered timidly through the empty night, “You will be okay buddy. I really believe that.” And Charles disappeared into the evening.

    Andrew sat in his seat as he burned his cigar to ashes and finally placed it in its grave in a glass ashtray. For the first time- he took notice of the night. It was enjoyable cool, and a slight breeze could be felt on his rosy cheeks as he slouched in his chair, and contemplated the means he would have to use to get the liver he desperately needed. He had thought about this for countless hours, but now that his friend had finally agreed to be part of this dynasty of mischief- he had to get the calculations just right. Andrew had spent his late 40’s giving life to other’s and as he sat in his seat contemplating his plan he realized something that did not bother him- he would be taking life from another.

   He flipped through patient files as he studied exams and statistics. His white lab coat clearly portrayed his stature and importance at the hospital. His eyes suddenly raised as his name was echoed from a distance, “Dear- Dear Andrew- how are you?” Dr. Clyde Foster asked as he grinned widely. Clyde had one of those smirks that raise one cheek on his face, while the other side was left symmetrical.

    “Clyde my dear friend- I thought we were meeting for lunch,” Andrew said looking up as he readjusted his glasses.

    “Yes, well- time is valuable- as you must certainly be aware. Let’s talk now,” Clyde said chuckling to himself lightly. Andrew thought Clyde was a snob- in fact- everybody did, but the one thing about Andrew- he got along with everybody- no matter how obnoxious. Even with egotistical twits like Clyde. “Shall we go into my office, Clyde?” Andrew asked with an amused expression on his face. “Yes, that sounds appropriate,” Clyde said with a playful expression detailed across his face.

     The two of them walked into Andrew’s office, and the door was shut. It was a rather small room, but Andrew did not care. He spent very little time in it. The office had tacky decoration, and his nurse attempted to make the room warm. There were several candles on his desk- and in the five years he had this particular office- he had not lit them once. A basket of plastic food set in the corner on a table and a leather chair sat behind a rosewood desk.

     “Well, you know what I want,” Andrew said with a slight twinkle in his eye. Clyde was the lead Pathologist within the hospital and held the authority of the morgue. “And yes- it can all be handled very quickly… your victim will be placed in the morgue without the slightest hint of suspicion…” Clyde said as he gazed around the room with narrow eyes. “But?” Andrew asked. “But what is in it for me? Do not get me wrong- I would love to see you live- rather than seeing you in my morgue.” “What do you want?” Andrew said as he began to get diplomatic. “Nothing unreasonable- 50,000,” Clyde said as he brushed his finger across Andrew’s desk and brought the finger to his eye. “They really need to clean better in here,” he said softly while Andrew looked at him thoughtfully. “Done,” Andrew said as he held out his hand. The two men shook hands. Clyde was a wispy little man, but his handshake was solid. “Let me know about the time and what arrangements need to be made,” Clyde said and opening the door he left- his white coat fluttering in the air as he sped down the hallway.

Carl Boudreaux parked his car in the hospital parking lot. It was ten till seven p.m., and he was on the phone with his girlfriend, “Babe, I am sure I am perfectly fine. They just like to be extra careful. I got to go now. Ten minutes to my appointment and I would imagine I am the last patient. I must go. Love ya, Babe,” He hung up the phone and released a long sigh.

      He placed the earbuds of his phone into his ear and turned on music. As he stepped out of his car, he had no idea that his phone call would be the last one he would ever make. Or that the song he was listening to was the last song he would hear. He entered the hospital and headed towards the elevator. It was empty. He was ridden with anxiety and bit his lip as the elevator came to the ground floor, “3… 2 … 1,” and the doors opened. He was supposed to get his test results in yesterday but the doctor called personally to reschedule at this time, and although, there was probably a logical explanation to all of this, he was nervous. The truth was- there was a very reasonable explanation- his liver was perfect, and Andrew intended on taking it for himself.

     As he got off the elevator and walked to the office, he noticed the hospital was a ghost town. He took a seat in an empty waiting room and picked up a magazine. Ten minutes later and his name was being called, “Carl?”

    He got up and walked to the doctor- Andrew- who smiled widely and shook his hand. “Follow me,” Andrew said, and Carl walked with him back in the hospital and into an operating room.

     “I apologize that it is late. We had several emergencies, but I did not want to have to push you back any further. So- here I am on a Monday night. I got up at 6:00 a.m. and well- you know-. So- what do you do for a living Carl?” Andrew asked as he placed one glove on after the other. “I am a physical education director.” He said. “I apologize that we’re in an operating room- but the office is being cleaned, and I wanted to check something that will only take a few minutes. I need to give you a shot Etomidate Andrew said as he took a nearby needle that was already prepared. Do not worry. Completely harmless- it is a drug we use for advanced testing. This is just a protocol. I want to verify the test results. Do not worry- this is routine.”

     Carl should have asked more questions, but people seldom asked questions to those that wield white lab coats. And as Andrew injected the Etomidate, Carl slowly faded away and into a deep sleep. These were the last moments of Carl’s life and everything that he knew- his girlfriend- his family- his life- it would fade away as if it never happened. His name was not on the books in Andrew’s office, and his family would be told he never made it to the hospital. His car would be discovered several months later, but he would vanish like a candle to the wind… No record… gone…

      Andrew would get home late that night. He would pour himself a large glass of Pink Moscato. It was a sweet red wine, and he drank it slowly as he lit a cigar. The fact that he just committed murder did not phase him. Perhaps being a doctor- and seeing death often had mauled him from feeling emotions. Or perhaps he was just cold blooded- using every means accessible to him to save his own life. Yet, something seemingly fitting would happen to Andrew. As he sat drinking his wine, and smoking his cigar- feeling superior and gratified- He would begin to have a heart-attack. He writhed in pain as he dropped his glass and fell to the floor.

And they would find Andrew in his apartment on the floor. Dead. Perhaps if he had listened to his good friend Charles and cut out the alcohol and tobacco like he always swore he would- maybe that would have saved his life. Yet, the irony is fitting- a man who searched desperately and went to great lengths to obtain a liver- would actually need a heart.

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25 Cents For Your Soul

He meandered down the street looking at all of the shops in downtown New Orleans. He had recently taken a job in real-estate within the city, and he took the job mainly because he loved New Orleans. It was his mauler; the culture fascinated him, the architecture was glorious. An old city but yet it was vibrant and alive with life. He stopped in front of a shop that said: “fortune telling inside.”

He entered and immediately smelled the intense burning of candles, and he was greeted by a friendly woman.

“You are here to get your fortune read?” She said dramatically.

Kyle smiled at this and played along, “Yes, I am.”

“Come, come, you have an aura about you, we must look into it,” She said motioning him towards the back of the store.

“Show me your hand,” She said. As Kyle showed his hands, he wondered why all psychics are women. Are they all women? He averted his attention back to the women as she gave out a grave gasp.

“You are not safe,” she says hysterically. “Flee, leave this city! Go to your house and lock the door. Death is coming for you.”

Kyle pulled his hand away, but the women kept a firm grip. “You must listen to me,” She pleaded.

What had turned into harmless fun was now bothering Kyle. He yanked his hand from the women’s grip and headed out the door.

“Pick up the quarter on the side walk,” She screamed as he left.

Kyle did not think much of the event other than what a nut this lady had been. When you live in New Orleans, you must take the crazy with the good. At least that it is what Kyle had begun to assume. Yet, as he walked down the sidewalk of the road and was about to cross he froze as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There was a quarter on the ground.

Kyle looked at it for a moment and then laughed at the coincidence. For mere fun and games he bent down and picked up the quarter, and as he did so, a car sped through a red light smashing into a vehicle right where he would have stood.  

Kyle dropped the quarter on the ground. Had he not stopped to admire this Devilish coincidence he would be dead. From down the street, the manic fortune teller yelled, “Pick up the quarters.”

Kyle dashed across the street safely, but he was sweating profusely now. He began walking towards his apartment. And his nerves were now shot. Ever so often on the pavement, he would see a quarter. He thought about the startled fortune tellers whips of wisdom and the chilling words, “Death is coming for you.”

Kyle ran inside his apartment and was about to take the elevator when he saw another quarter.

“Calm down Kyle,” He told himself. It is a mere coincidence. People entered the elevator while Kyle stood in place looking at the quarter. The doors shut while he just stared at down at the coin lying innocently on the ground. However, he would be brought out of this trance as an alarm sounded. The elevator had got stuck in between floor four and five. He did not wait to see what happened- it was all too eerie for him.

His heart was pounding, and he was becoming nauseated. Taking the stairs, he rushed four flights and entered his apartment.

First, he dead bolted the door and then put a chain on it.

“What is happening to me?” he screamed.

Even in his apartment, quarters were lying on the floor. Was this a sign? What did this mean? Where did they come from?

Kyle- a real-estate broken from a small town in Kansas ran into some misfortune or perhaps good fortune with a lady who saved his life? Yet, how rewarding could life really be since  Kyle would spend his days in bed shaking in terror? He was never able to work again, but rather became a recluse that never left his apartment door. New Orleans has ancient rituals and is an enigma in itself. Well, at least for Kyle.  No longer a real-estate agent- no longer a person- his humanity stripped from him as he would cower in bed for nearly ten years when he finally ended it all.

Was Kyle mad? Had he gone insane? Or is fortune telling an art and sometimes- well maybe sometimes- it is dead on.

And because Kyle took his life, one might argue, death really did come for Kyle. Or was he driven mad by mere happenstance? Whatever the case, the fortune teller was right, Death had come for Kyle.

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My Misery is Diluted by Coke and Rum

 A mist of rain began to fall as I parked my blood red Chevy truck in the driveway. I cast my half opened sunken eyes upward towards my two story house and wondered when I became so jaded about my life. In all honesty- it is not that big of a mystery. When our last child moved out of the house- the laughter vanished like birthday candles being blown out in a dimly lit room. The only noise was between my wife, and we fought and yelled endless as she blamed me for her misery. The truth is- my kids have their own lives- they live in other states. In fact, they only call on holidays and birthdays- if that. Every time I talk to them, they promise they will visit home soon. Of course, I get my hopes up only to have them shatter. I think they did not realize they were shattering more than hopes- they were shattering my heart- and if my children did understand this, I guess I was nothing more than an old picture in a photo album- I was in the past and they were living for the future. Still- I gave them the best years of my life.

         I stumble out of the car as I take another drag of my cigarette. I exhaled and tossed the cigarette in the grass as I realized the lawn was in a desperate need of cutting. The truth is I I recently took up smoking. I guess the cigarettes made up for my balding head and gray mustache. Yes, I was aging, and a part of me hoped that the cigarettes would end the ghastly existence I called life. I am not very happy with my life- which dear reader, I do not think is any more subtle than a hurricane that ravishes the coast- but- this was not always the case. There was a time in my life that I would speed home to make it in time for dinner as my wife, Ann, served us a delicious meal with my beloved children as they told me the details of their day. The mixture of food and talk was the best part of my time… The best part of my life. Did I mention that Ann doesn’t cook anymore? Ya, well- I suppose I am not reason enough for her to cook me a homemade meal. She loved her children, but I think she no longer loves me. Time can wear a person down. I say this from my own experience.          My blue, crimson eyes guide me across the lawn. As I stumble- I fall into dog shit. Ann is always telling me to pick it up, and for once I wish I had. She got the dog after the children moved out. It was her method of coping as the last child left the nest, but the dog didn’t take to her. No, the dog worshiped me, and I think she held spite towards this.          I spit out some foul words as I regained my balance and brushed the dog shit off my long sleeve shirt. I sigh and rub my temples. I have taken to the bottle- it is the only solace I have in this wretched world people call life. I no longer understand my world. It did not make sense. I would go to work, earn a paycheck, return home, fall asleep and the entire day would start over. It was monotonous and pointless. And this realization made me a frequenter at a bar where I drank myself into oblivion. Although, I know I get sloppy drunk, and I would slur my words like a drunken sailor- But I am excellent customer- great tipper, and even after spilling my drinks two-to-three times, the bartender had no qualms about refurbishing my glass. Yet, here I was back at my house- my routine was something I had grown to hate.

CONTINUE READING: https://mylifeisahorrorstoryblog.wordpress.com/

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No- I am not the Wizard of OZ

I feel as if I am looking at a mirage and all I see is sand- I am in a desert- helpless- As I watch the wind hurl the sand in a violent storm- something that is not real- that will never be real- that only I see- I watch it dance in front of me. My life and its truths have become a burden that is not easy to carry…

     My name is Robert, and I pen this story as my clock turns 1:30 a.m. I am sitting in my study at home. Presently I am captivated by distressing images and discussions of a patient that move through my head- one realization- after- the other- Almost as if I was flipping through a photo album- or perhaps even sand through an hour glass. I believe that writing this story on paper and with ink- well- it is the only way I can alleviate the burden that rests on my shoulder. This writing will be buried away in a drawer where I keep many of my sorrows.       When I die, I know they will find my countless cases of distress hidden away in my bottom drawer— seemingly in shame. Yet, my experiences in life are anything but shameful- I am human and as such- I feel sorrow like any other man.       In the world of psychiatry, I seem to understand the troubles of patients, unlike my colleagues. They tend to patients all day and retire to their home where they lead a healthy life. While I- I am plagued by inadequacy. Although I am a Psychiatrist and I am looked upon for guidance- the truth is I do not always have the answer- No- It is not easy, but I mask my timid emotions well. Behind my glasses rests a pair of light blue eyes that look at my patients with curiosity, but I am careful with my gaze- I want to appear unbiased- I want to appear caring- But most of all- I want to appear sane. Yet, I admit- I judge my patients- In fact, on occasions I find some hard to like- and I know I am anything but sane. Yet, I give the appearance that I have the upper-hand and that I am- so to speak- The Wizard of Oz. The problem is- as I stated previously- I am human.  The story that  I have to tell at 1:30 a.m. rips into my flesh like a tiger pouncing on a calf as it searches for its mother in the foliage. Yet, before I tell you this story- I want to share my experience in Medical School, and how I came to enter this hellish existence. It will help you understand my predicament.

READ THE REST AT: https://mylifeisahorrorstoryblog.wordpress.com/2017/08/22/no-i-am-not-the-wizard-of-oz/

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Capturing a Glimpse of Your Soul in a Photo

   A load groan dispersed from my mouth as I see my mother’s phone number illuminate the screen on my iPhone. It was two days from Thanksgiving and I had promised her that I would show. I had not seen her or my family members in over a year- And when I had spoken to her a couple weeks prior- the alcohol that surged through my body and her tactful method of guilting me into attending- well- it worked. I told I would attend Thanksgiving dinner. It was her favorite holiday, and although I loathed the idea of attending- as I sat in the darkness I had begun to feel it was something I needed to do.

   I picked up the phone and muttered, “Hello.”

   “Max you said you were coming to this Thanksgiving. You will be there- right? Everybody is going to be there.”

   “Yes, mother,” I said as I rubbed my temples.

   “Okay, it is at 2:30 P.M.- okay- so make it here on time. I want to see you.”

   “Yes, mother,” I repeated as I closed my eyes. My mom did an excellent job of causing migraines.

   “Okay, just checking- Max,” She said and before she was given a chance to guilt me into any type of grief I said,

   “I am getting a phone call on the other line. Gotta go.”

   “Okay, she said,” but there was no tension in her voice. In fact, she seemed overwhelmed with, sorrow. I hung up. The apartment door opened and Clive’s voice leaped in the air, and it was not a welcomed melody. Honestly- I wanted to be alone.

   “Max- I picked up some take-out from that Greek restaurant you like.” I remained silent as I stared at my phone.

   “Max?” Clive called out.

   “Ya,” I said in an almost exasperated whisper. I raise my tone up slightly and say, “I am not in the mood to eat.” Clive came into the living room, and although I could not see his face, his shadow was outlined into a perfect silhouette.

   “Why do you insist on sitting in that damn chair with the lights off?  Do you like sitting in the darkness?” He asked me as he began turning on the lights. I did not answer, but rather, I  gazed at my phone as it sat on my lap.

   Clive finally switched the last light on and I looked up at him. Our eyes locked as he looked at me with compassion. I have to admit- Clive was one of the best guys I had ever dated. He was handsome with curly red hair, a grin, an adorable face filled with freckles, and a personality that lifted me when I was down. Sometimes I wondered what he saw in me? It was almost like he felt he had an obligation to make me happy. My eyes finally broke our gaze as I looked down and towards my phone.

   “My mom called,” I said. He was setting up dinner on the dining room table.

   “Ya, and what did this heartless mink want this time?” Clive asked as he disregarded my request, and set up a plate of food for me.

   “You know I say a lot of bad things about her- but she is not all bad,” I said as my eyes stared off into the distance. “She has some really good qualities.”

   “Well, what did she want?” Clive asked.

   “I have to go to her house for Thanksgiving,” I muttered underneath my breath.

   Clive stopped what he was doing and looked at me.

   “Do not look at me like that- I haven’t seen my mom and family in forever.”

   “You are going home for Thanksgiving? We had plans- we were going to have a party. God forbid we do something that I want!” Clive was beginning to get enraged. When he was furious- his cheeks would light up like clouds in a pinkish red sunset. Although it looked cute- it would anger him even further if I mentioned it. “For fuck's sake Max- You told me that you were done with her!” Clive said and I could hear the passion in his voice. “This really shows that you have no respect for me. No way am I am going! You want to make her happy- go!”

   I did not respond but rather continued to look off and into the distance… I wasn’t sure what I wanted, or what anybody wanted... life confused me. My thoughts of desperation played in my head, and meanwhile, Clive was placing the SilverWare on the table. He was angry- as he rattled the forks and knives, and slammed them onto the wooden table.

   “You’re really going?” Clive asked again. I looked at him as I pulled a pack of cigarets from my pocket and lit one one of the slider rolled tubes as it was pressed between my two lips. “And your smoking again?” He asked as he gritted his teeth. “Have you been smoking cigarettes behind my back? You told me you quit.” Clive was now furious. I remained silent. He left the dining room and went into the kitchen. I could hear him grab his keys, and I listened to the apartment door slam as he left.

   I did not have the energy to respond. As I took a long drag of my cigarette, I stood and turned all the lights off. As I sat back down in the rocker I looked into the dark and I felt an overwhelming familiarity.

finish reading the rest of this short story here: https://mylifeisahorrorstoryblog.wordpress.com/2017/08/28/capturing-the-glimpse-of-your-soul-in-a-photo/

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The Kiss of Death

There was a line in front of the soup kitchen that about 12 Nuns worked as they made the final preparations for the food. They helped a population in a society that was often overlooked.  Every day- the nuns from Saint Bethany- would fix a large meal for those that needed something to eat. That day, these misfortunate would find that there is a greater misfortune than hunger.

The soup kitchen doors opened, and people who wanted to eat a hearty meal before returning to the lonely streets- they rushed in and lined up.

You would not understand the desperation of these poor souls to be fed if you saw them- pushing and pulling, as people literally fought for their place in the line for the free food.

“Be nice everybody- we got food for all of you,” Hollered Sister Ann. “Trust me- you will be stuffed!” People relaxed as they listened to her calm and reassuring voice.

One of the nuns took the very first plate- and slopped mash potatoes on it, and passed it along the food line that consisted entirely of nuns. The next Nun would place meatloaf on the plate, and the plate would be passed again and well- you get the point. Finally, the person who wanted nothing more than this a hot meal reached their arms out for the plate, and  Sister Ann would hand lay it in their hands. “God be with you,” She would say with such a comforting smile- life almost seemed okay for many of these people at that moment.

This would go on for 30 minutes until everybody had a plate and then all you could hear- the rattling of knives and forks- the smack of lips and grunts as these sad souls ate the food.

Although the meal, would not look appetizing to any normal person- these people had no complaint. For many of them, they were grateful to be in a heated room.

There were not any words muttered as the meal was devoured. The Nuns looked on with a deep curiosity and Sister Ann did something she had never done before- she walked among the people as she recited scripture.

Sister Ann was an old woman, and despite the modern times, she wore a veil over her head. If you asked anybody: She was a faithful servant of God and severed humanity with grace. Yet, as she got older, her ability to reason was beginning to fade. She was beginning to lose her mind. The very mind that God gave her.

Suddenly a man started coughing violently. He stood up and grabbed his throat as he motioned for help. It was more than apparent that he could not breathe. At first, nobody noticed, but as he hit the ground and struggled to breathe- the sound of- forks- knives- went silent. The smacking of lips- it all stopped but Sister Ann acted swiftly.

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