Scorpio

I write to get them out of my head. Now they're in your ears, in your minds, and in your dreams.

[bimbo-respect]

[scorpiothewriter]

If you don't care about your hometown then who will?

Me

[scorpiothewriter]

Dark Eyes part 4 by Scorpio

     The burning sun had only just set. Dusk had come and the mark stopped to make his camp. He built a small fire fairly close to the road. Amak, Arlen, and Abberforth kept watch from behind a dune on the far side. They hung back until it looked as if the man had gone to sleep and his fire had died down to embers. No moon hung in the sky but the stars laid their blanket over the waste all the same. The brothers had excellent night vision and the star light was well enough to work with. In darkness such as this, intuition overtakes vision as the primary tool of navigation. So, they crept low and slow, gaining ground as silent as sand in the cold night breeze.      Amak took point with Abberforth skulking over Amak’s shoulder and Arlen following both at a distance.      The three took their time and crossed the liquid black road taking care not to make the smallest noise. They took great professional pride in their skills. Amak and Abberforth moved toward the mark’s camp while Arlen moved up to the top of a small dune to get a better view.      Amak motions for Abberforth to go for the sleeping man. Abberforth nodded understanding and produced a short, fat-headed hammer, whose head was sewn into a cloth bag to muffle its sound. Deftly, Abberforth maneuvers his massive frame next to the sleeping figure. He is nearly touching the sleeping man’s back as he watches his brother’s silhouette for the signal.      Amak nods.      Abberforth’s hand comes down on the sleeper’s shoulder rolling and pinning the figure down. With great strength the hammer - comically small in the brute’s hand - comes down, strikes true, and absolutely shatters the yellowing skull protruding from the tattered shroud.      All three men knew that sound. More hollow and a deeper resonance than pottery. Cleaner, with more snap than wood. That was bone and not bone muffled by flesh, but old, empty, naked bone.      The nagging feeling Amak had been ignoring now blossomed into full panic. He was on his belly in the open desert. The light from the stars now seemed too dim and too bright all at once. The blood pumping in his ears made it impossible to hear his surroundings.      “Abb!” he hissed, “Tsst!”      Abberforth had slumped down, spooning with the shrouded corpse.      The prick must have put sleeping powder in the skull. And Amak’s mind reeled at the implications.      Amak twisted, awkwardly against his armor, to look for Arlen. To Amak, Arlen was nearly useless in a fight but at this point nearly useless was better than nothing at all.      Amak saw a figure sitting beside the dull embers of the camp fire. The figure was skinny enough to be Arlen and maybe the clothes are like his -- Amak couldn’t be sure. What was he doing? He just sat there, staring into the coals.      “Arlen! What the hell are you – “ Amak tried to push himself up but something dropped onto his lower back. A knee, making it difficult for Amak to breath.      He’s on my left. If I roll away I can pull him down and get my knife into him.      This action and thought took only an instant. Amak’s responded with veteran reflexes. He was surprised by the flash of something past his face. A twisted cloth pulling so tight and so fast around his throat, braking Amak’s jaw, and snapping his neck in one fluid motion.

[scorpiothewriter]

Dark Eyes Part 3 By Scorpio

    Arlen, Amak, and Abberfroth had been tailing the strange man with the strange clothes since he left the city. When Arlen had seen the outsider flash his finery at the market stall he loped back to the tavern to get his brothers. Amak had been resting with a brew after shaking down some debtors. Abberforth, the youngest and biggest brother, was out back scrubbing blood and hair off his boots from the same-said errand.     Amak took convincing that it was worth the hassle and by the time he was willing, the stranger had not only left the town with a massive lead, but had gone the wrong way into the wasteland. The brothers had learned this from a hungry informant who set them in the right direction and was given a heavy cuff to the temple for his act of altruism.     The stories of the Old Road were only ghost stories to Amak. Nothing more than something lazy mothers told their children so they didn’t have to mind them. Yet, three hours of walking on the Old Dust Road and Amak was again having doubts as to the value of their venture.     "Fuckin' waste a time." Amak groused.     "Don't sweat it Ama, this one’s loaded for sure. I bet he’s a trader come from the south.” Arlen was overly excited that he had finally found a good mark. “I hear they got swamps down there. Like a forest full a trees, but with water stead a dirt. Can you picture that Ama? Water everywhere! We should go down south and see it ourselves."     Arlen chattered away as he shuffled along at a decent clip with his bent back -- proof of Ama’s erratic temper.     "He don't look like no merchant." Amak said, squinting when they held the high ground behind the tiny man-dot.     "Well maybe he ain't one then. Maybe he jus' a rich bitch takin' a walkabout, eh? Like them fancy lads in the Palm Quarter, with the smelly oils and clothes all neat? You know the one’s Ama?”     “Are you seriously that stupid, you little shit? A little tart just going for a walk on his lonesome? No guards? No weapon? No fucking nothing?” Amak takes a swat at Arlen with his coiled whip but Arlen makes a feeble twist, avoiding the blow.     Amak had chosen his armor for look and intimidation, not for mobility or range of motion. He didn’t see this as a problem with his choice of dress but for his brother’s insolence at not taking the smack he, Amak, had prescribed. The result was Amak seeing red and chasing Arlen down to deliver a very thorough beating.     The sun sank with visible speed lower over the sandy waves. The dunes ripen from orange, to red, to purple and finally to a deep indigo, stretching their wily shadows over the swirling sands.     Arlen’s yelps rung out over the Old Dust Road.     Abberforth said nothing. He usually doesn’t.

[scorpiothewriter]

Me IRL. Every day.

[scorpiothewriter]

Dark Eyes Part 2 by Scorpio

     Having concluded the last of his business in the city the stranger with the unnerving eyes embarked on the long and treacherous Old Dust Road. The black snake of the road wound for unknown miles to the east through many great ruins. It was natural that new settlements and outpost sprang up along its run. Some of these outposts fared well and swelled into towns and even large functioning cities in their own right.       However, the section of the Old Dust Road the stranger is planning to travel has been impassable for decades. The city sits now as a last stop for the caravans. Anyone with talk of going out and following the road any further was discouraged as best as possible. The desert, you see, had risen up and swallowed cities, fields, and lakes whole. The thing that made it a legend though was that the road itself never actually disappeared. Oh yes, the dust and sand would cover the old snake from time to time but she was never more than an inch under the burning sands.      Everyone calls it the snake or some variation from time to time. It twists and slithers between the dunes if viewed from afar. It’s also referred to as a snake because to the traveler trying to walk her back, the road doesn’t seem to stay still. Compasses seem to work fine and maps read logically enough but people still seem to get lost and disoriented traversing it. People misjudge distance and run out of supplies. The road viewed at sunset is different than the road one wakes up to and so on.      As if that weren’t strange enough the road is jet black tarred stone, as smooth and unbroken as it was hundreds of years ago when it was first laid. This was rare for roads more than a few years old in the Old World, before The End. If the people alive now knew this and its significance, the road would be declared evil and closed. The city at the end of the line would surely close and who knows maybe become part of the shifting sands and the old black snake would grow that much longer.      No matter what the Old Dust Road was or is, did not seem to dissuade the pale stranger and his impractically black suit from leaving the city and going exactly the way one did not go down the road. The wind blew the sand like a sheer orange veil over the snakes black scales. The man looks down the length of the road for some time. Then looks at the sand blowing across her back. Then at the heat shimmers bending the light and tricking the mind.      Kneeling down he pulls from one of the many compartments in his pack, a hat of a style complimentary to his suit. He beats the old hat back into shape and pulls it on his head. Brim low to conceal his delicate eyes. When he looks at the road again the wind had gone and the sand blowing across has stopped, more or less on one side or the other.      “That’s better.” The man said to himself and he began.      The afternoon was wearing on. The sky had gone from blue to yellow and soon it would quickly go through orange and finally red before night fell. The city and its market were hours behind. The man was starting to second guess his actions in the market. Perhaps he didn’t do enough. He should have bought more supplies while he had the chance. Sure he was cocky at times but usually he had good reason to be. This time it may have gotten him into trouble.      He stopped and shrugged off the bulging pack to remove the water skin. Even though the water was warm and tepid and tasted of leather, it felt wonderful on his throat. His thirst almost outlasted his water as he drank more than half the skin. Stopping himself he made a mental note to do something about the taste and the temperature for the next time.      As he debated finishing the skin – damn the consequences, he had plenty more water – he noticed the glint of something through the heat haze of the road. Only this was from behind him. If he was careful he was able to make out two – no three figures following him at a very far distance.      He took another long pull from the skin, emptied it, and swapped it for another full skin from inside the pack. After one more short pull, he wipes his mouth and fastens the water skin to his pack. Swinging the pack back on and resuming his trek, the man with the dark eyes smiles.

[scorpiothewriter]

Dark Eyes Part 1 by Scorpio

     The man with the dark eyes moves through the market place. With ease he navigates the crowd, careful not to get the filth of this city on his ancient styled suit. People glance his way but not for too long and no more than once. He drifts over to a stall selling fruit that should be impossible for this desert climate. The seller is beginning to doze, his produce being more than the common customer can float.      “Excuse me.”      He awakes immediately to the man with the dark eyes and strange clothes. The stall man meets his eyes, but finds his gaze uncomfortable, so instead tries to keep focused on the man’s strange suit and bolo tie.      "I see you have a red melon there." the dark eyed man inquires.      That’s what ain’t right about him. The vendor thinks. His voice is too even and too gentle for these parts. That and those eyes.      "Mm-mm, I traded for it - with a caravaner who managed to get in from out east. They carried many oddities including this gem. A rare thing too. They’re good for the body - sweet as ever."      "How much for half?"      "Apologies, it's not an item we can halve, sir. Neither half would keep for long once cut, you see. And I’m sure it won’t be bought by any of these peasant beggars!"      The last remark was directed at the crowd of shoppers, who paid no attention and kept moving.      “Of course a refined traveler such as yourself would be able to afford the melon as a whole?"      "Of course I have the funds." The strange man reached into the suit jacket and pulls out a worn ladies watch band, a small plastic baggy of powder, and a few other similar jewels that can be easily secured in a pocket. Treasures from the age of the god-men, all of them. The stall man's eyes nearly pop out of his head but quickly deflated when, in one sweep, the treasures were stowed back from where they came.      "You see the problem I have isn't one of payment. The problem is that a whole melon is too much to eat in one sitting."      The stall man pretends to think for a moment, then slapped the counter.      "Why not have half now and tonight, and the rest tomorrow? I'm positive the thing will keep even in this heat."      The stranger appeared to ponder this and reach his own epiphany. He shrugged off his pack and fished into some side panel hand sewn into the old thing. He produced an old and nearly clean thick sheet of plastic which had been folded over several times.      "I had nearly forgotten I had this.” The man smiled, “I could wrap the rest of the melon in this when I was done wouldn't you think?"      The stall man had seen plastic before, the old world was built on it after all, but plastic sheet was usually plastic bags which were always filthy and tore very easily. They were better used as plugs and short rope and the like. This strange man had a thick piece that looked clean and very sturdy indeed.      "Yes sir, I think that would do very well indeed." Until now greed had occupied the little shop owner’s mind, but now he was having second thoughts. That niggling worry came creeping back in. Something was off about this man. Feh! Everything was off about him. He could feel those awful eyes on his skin. He needs to go - and now.      "Now that that's settled, how much for your melon?" The stall man didn't want to haggle. He tried to look like he didn’t want to haggle. He would have actually given it to the man if he didn't think that would actually prolong him staying at the stall with more questions.      "I need something for the ladies. Mm-mmm, anything fine or pretty will do." The stall man didn't put any heart into his request. A bit of ribbon, some hair pins, even an old tattered scarf would do. He would take whatever this man had to offer and be rid of him.      "Is that all?" he reached into the bag and laid out some crusty pieces of costume jewelry and a broken bit of mirror he had previously peeled and traded the magnetic strip off the back of. Even so, the jewelry sparkled in the light and the mirror, though broken, was free of scratches and sharp edges. All in all both were in remarkable condition.      "Well, sir! This would be a fine trade. Most agreeable! Thank you." The stall man was genuinely happy to be getting a fair trade. Actually, considering the fruits limited edibility before spoiling, the trade was arguably to the vendor’s favor.      The stall man began further appraisal of the trinkets and as such wasn’t paying attention to the man as he stowed the melon in his pack with ease and slid the pack back on with hardly any difference to the added size and weight of the melon. The outsider with the dark eyes and the merchant of exotic foods parted ways without so much as a glance at one another.      Their transaction, however, did not go unnoticed by any means.

[scorpiothewriter]

Salt By Scorpio

     The small apartment is over 80 degrees and a sticky kind of humid. The smell of urine so permeates the air that it seems to become part of me. On the television, the kidnapped school mom is trying to teach the bandit leader to read while they wait for the town doctor to come fix a younger, wounded outlaw. I ask the man what he's watching. He stares off for long enough to think he did hear me and when I’m about to ask him again, without looking away from his show he flatly says, "A Western."      There's a film of dandruff and crumbs over the bed, the table, over everything. I pass his book shelf and drag my gaze over travel books such as Must See Locales and Off the Beaten Path as well as self-help books like A New You through a Better Outlook and God’s Purpose for You! There are also some of the various pamphlets on different medical conditions, the myriad kind found at hospitals and clinics, stuffed in with the books.      I turn around and through a marvel of consolidation I'm now standing in the kitchen. By the sink there is a tall can of coarse sea salt from an expensive import store. The irony of the thing is not lost on me. The bitter realism of how even expensive salt must sting in the wound of having a proper fucked memory. That the classics are replaced by Where Has My Life Gone? non-fiction, and then again replaced by the stirring readings of Polyp Checking: A DIY Guide. How his family must care enough to buy most of this – the apartment itself for one – but not enough to actually be there in it with him. Hell, why should they be? They have nothing to prove. They care. They got him fancy salt. None of that common kosher shit either. They got the exotic stuff. My wry smile breaks into a laugh of real despondence. I’m ignored as I choke down the involuntary laughing jag.      I look over at the filthy little man in his dirty sweat pants. I’ve had enough, "You ready to go now, John?" He stares at the TV completely inert. Before I ask again, he shoots back, "I guess. I got no choice." Damn straight you don't, Johnny boy. I pull out the black blade, and without pomp I use it to cut his line – a cobweb the color of starlight – which connects John to this place and time. The ties connecting him to this world shake loose and evaporate like morning dew burned to vapor by the heat of the sun. The room is still except for the steady murmur of the TV Western wafting, mingling with the urine stink through the air.      The doctor couldn't save the young outlaw, so the bandit leader took the docs’ boots and sent him out into the desert to die. Some of these westerns really are terrible, but sometimes that's what makes them worth watching.

[scorpiothewriter]

If every memory is carved upon our heart Am I etching fond ones or gouging it apart?

[scorpiothewriter]

Memory of Summer

Amber light of summer youth, thick like memories Warm, wet air swaddles us, loving and alive Drowsing in the shimmer shade of newly conquered trees Skin so perfect, young, and new, and ready to archive

The cuts and scrapes wrought of joyous play Innocence yet intact, where working with ones hands meant Turning sod at no request, baring life to light of day Honest loam of garden bed on pants and shoes were sent

Out to the hose to wash away the dust so proudly earned The setting sun finds dirty clothes discard on the kitchen floor Night brings no sleep. How, while for adventures I still yearned? While minnows dart in shallow pools, and forest to explore

An unbidden reminiscences, the halcyon days of nine or ten For now that I am older will I ever feel that way again?

[scorpiothewriter]

Gaming till the sun comes up

The blessed joy of break of day Sullied by the chemical creep Of shunning bed so I can play All night. Once more into the deep...

[scorpiothewriter]

“Man, I can walk around if I want. It’s bad enough I got shipped off to this shit hole, now I can’t even take a walk by myself. The Asylum Demon? Fuck that guy. The tubby shit. I’m not scared of him. His horns are stupid and you ever watch him try to fly? Try is the operative word. HAHAHa.... 

...oh he’s behind me isn’t he?”

[scorpiothewriter]

Let waking pains melt away Sleep deep and sound tonight The troubles of yesterday, Will ease by mornings light

[scorpiothewriter]

I like to think that at 99 Faith my character believes anything. The silly bastard.

[scorpiothewriter]

I’m approached on the street by a man with the head of a ram. He tells me his name is Moon. I give him a skeptic eye and say, “Nice try Buddy, but we both know you don’t have a name.”