"January 12th, 1742, New Orleans, Americas,
It has been 150 years of life thus far and 124 of them spent as the cunning and beautiful vampire I grace the world as. My lands are still in tact and the deeds passed down to heirs that look hauntingly identical to myself. I wonder why.
In any case, meandering this cold, dark, tepidly vapid road, I have traveled far and wide in search of Aribella DeGall, the Portuguese Vampire who inducted me into the Ventru; The Ventru, I have been fortunate to run across many times since but not a peep from her beautiful acting. Unfortunately, none of her bloodline have found me. How fascinating it was to find out that no other Vampires can read one's details from the blood.
Curses. I was wondering who I was thinking of having for breakfast.
The Ventru are like all aristocrats, conceited, petulant and boring because of their constant vie for power. They prattle on about rules that suit them but forget that in the chaos of our kind, rules only give way to the anarchy of strength. For instance: you are a king. I am a pawn. I kill you. I am the king, and long live the king.
Many others have crossed my path to tell me of great meetings, Those hosted by "noble" Ventru. One, a "Bron," even told me a story that he claimed was the origin of "our species."
'Lo as Jesus Christ was crucified on the cross,' he said, 'Judas Iscariot was put in front of the masses for his crime of betrayal of the son of God. He was beaten terribly and cut to the point of death's embrace. For sure, he was to die.
He came to Jesus after his death and wept, 'lord! I deserve death for my crime against you. How can I ever live up to your love again? I would give eternity to find you again and avoid the gaunt hand of Lucifer.'
and a voice spoke from within him, filled him, thundered around him but only he heard, 'I shall give you life, Judas, it was my will that you betray me and through eternity, you will see my love and your heaven will be with my brothers and sisters, children of god, and you will have your eternity to see my love and its genesis first hand.
it was with this that the son of man told Judas to drink of his blood and forever drink of gods children in his quest to live forever.'
Honestly, I had to laugh. I laughed so hard he showed his fangs and almost screamed 'BLASPHEMER!' I apologized for dexterity and because he said he had something to show me.
'I am...'
'James Toulor of France. Your reputation precedes you, kindred, otherwise, I may have challenged you to Monomacy and taken your heart. You will not be as lucky if you insult out lord again. Toulor, you are well on your way to becoming an advisor,' he said.
'an advisor? I shudder to think of those I advise,' I said, thinking 'kill yourself,' would probably be my best and most merciful advice to those who cross my path.
'Your jobs can be diverse, young fledgling but you will be...'
'Fledgeling? I am one hundred and fifty years old, you know?' I said.
'you are young compared to the millennials, child,' he said.
I let his insult go with a laugh because of my reluctance to kill him and his promise of tickling my curiosity. In addition, I have read that the Bron are incredibly resilient to attempts at their life. One such report said that a Bron had been tortured for hours before he finally took the mind of his captor and ended it out of boredom. That Bron would definitely have fascinated me more than this zealot has so far.
The walk through the French quarter seemed endless and the Bron who brought me there talked all about some Invictus and how it would change my life.
I zoned out in favor of a rather vivacious woman. The way she swayed gave me rise to thoughts of all sorts of evil debauchery. The lines between feeding on her blood and violating her the way only a vampire can were crossed and I was filled with a drive to have her. Fortunately, as we turned into a ornately decorated mansion just outside of town and ironically far from the French quarter (I hadn't noticed due to my distraction) She turned in with us.
I looked behind me and noticed the long walkway to the french doors. The looming trees took my eyes off the woman for but a minute and when I looked back she was gone.
The Bron laughed and said, 'Now it's my turn to laugh. Seeing you lust after a Macellarian is just rich.'
'why's that?' I said.
'They're gluttons! Disgusting creatures that eat the humans they feed on. Barbarous, if you ask me,' he said.
'Delightfully curious and twisted. I think I'm in love,' I said.
He gave me a look of disapproval and a slight hint of disgust and began a diatribe of our "esteemed host."
'Today, we meet in the home of a prominent man named Augusto Vidal. He's a member of the Holy Lancea Sanctum and an even younger fledgeling than you, however, he gains ranks quick and you'd do good to listen and learn from his wisdom.
My curiosity was piqued but I had little to do with politics outside my own lands back home. I had a commanding nature due to my prowess, good looks and money as well as owning slaves and top lieutenants who I had conveniently captured in a trance like state. Akin to zombies but they were mortal and quite alive. Many who heard of the ordeal assumed it had something to do with me being a vampire but hypnotic suggestion even when I was a mortal was something I had mastered and abused long before I had a powerful enough mind to make it 'mind numbingly easy'; no pun intended.
With us were tribes innumerable. The Bron with me explained the differences:
'...And to the corner, you'll see the dauntingly beautiful Kallisti. They go nowhere without a host of powerful protectors on account of their value to elders and their ability to use the discipline, Perfidy; a mean discipline if I say so myself. These beautiful, evil creatures will ostracize you from your closest friends with this discipline. I would not associate with such creatures if I were you,' said the Bron.
Naturally, I made a point of making a note to get closer to the beautiful Kallisti at the top of the stairs.
The "meeting" took place after hours of fraternizing with countless bloodlines including the Malocusian bloodline who invited me all over the world to see their homes and lavish luxuries that I "couldn't imagine" even with my regal and noble past. Augusto Vidal even spoke to me briefly to tell me to meet with him within the next few weeks about power vacuum that needed to be filled.
I would do so and even gain the title of Advocate to present day under several regimes but it was a passing pleasure; especially because Vidal wouldn't even gain his title of "Prince" until 1770.
The meeting got under way in a surprisingly democratic fashion as they discussed concerns and accomplishments and the Malocusians made sure all the Ts were dashed and the i's dotted. It was all too vapid for me to even write down suffice to say I didn't age during the waste of life it would have been had I been alive. I made my connections and took my leave.
As I left, I noticed the Kallisti getting into an ornate carriage and I got in, commanding the driver to drive with my dominate discipline. She looked at me and seemed to attempt using Perfidy and Dominate on me to stop my attempt. I laughed at her for her attempt. She was quite strong and it made me sweat but I had considerable training in ignoring psychological suggestion.
'You're quite powerful. You must be rather old,' I said.
'Old enough to be your grandmother,' she coyly told me.
I laughed and kissed her and to my surprise, she kissed back. Upon biting her, however, I found that neither one of us could bond to each other.
'What's your name, elder, mine is...'
'James Toulor. Duke of Rennet France. Your friend, Bron bloodline, George Christo told me about you. He said you would try to talk to me, I had no idea that you would try to win me. I am Cyrilla Kay De Kallisti,' She said.
'Captivating.'"
The years were kind to us both and between us, we would move to the Yazoo lands to study the nature of mankind and forget about mortality. Upon the flood, she would be whisked away from me by assailants unknown. Hence I joined with a scientist who worked for me at my one of my research facilities and a local business woman to find her.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Kindred: James Toulor, Part 2
"December 25th 1622, Paris France,
This year is perhaps one of the coldest on record. It seems stupid of me to think such things for what do my kind have to worry about cold. It is my 30th year of life and my 4th year of living undead. I am reminded that I need not think of such things as age anymore but I find that the small amount of humanity and therefore sanity that I have is held within my rememberance that I am an elder.
A sort of snobbishness comes with age; a reason to gloat that I have survived the years that others have not. Above that, I have survived the years and remained as beautiful as I was the day I died.
The people shiver all around me and grow wrinkles as they squint to keep the snow from their eyes. I try the same thing out of some curiosity but I am unchanged as always. They disgust me in their happiness. Mortals gallivanting around like death will never come to them but I know of at least one it will visit tonight!
She looks lost. Unchanged by the bitter frost. Unwavering in her beauty but solemnly hopeless for a better life than her rags and tattered stockings. Amongst all the aristocracy, she is my only prey. She looks as if her blood would taste as sweet as death its self. She winces at the snow kicked up by a passing sleigh.
She gets up. What a beauty; what hot blooded despair! My angel of darkness and bitter callous lacivity!
I follow her into a darkened alley as she turns and throws me against a wall, biting into my neck and draining me with the merciless speed of a trained killer. She stops.
"James Toulor, of the Carolingian line and the Icarian sire. What brings the Duke of Rennet to Paris?" She says.
"Ha! Well nice to meet you too..." I say.
"Answer my question, fledgling!" She demands.
"No need to get snippy, Ms...."
"Arabella DeGall. Princess of Revena, Portugal and family Corajoso." She said.
"You're an aristocrat?" I say.
"As are you, as was your sire who was Icarian, which she shared with you, which makes you Icarian. It makes you and her Ventru. Welcome to the Ventru fledgling. I'm sorry your sire told you no more."
I smiled and asked if she might accompany me for a drink.
She told me my blood would make any other seem dull by comparison but we had eternity to meet again.
We stare at each other for a moment and I muse at her talent for acting for it is hard to act as a human when you are so far from being one.
In my hurry to discuss life with her I look to the street for a suggestion for but a moment but when I turned back, she was gone.
"So Ventru, I be, huh? News to me. I'm hungry. I want to kill somebody..." I thought, disappearing into the night...
This year is perhaps one of the coldest on record. It seems stupid of me to think such things for what do my kind have to worry about cold. It is my 30th year of life and my 4th year of living undead. I am reminded that I need not think of such things as age anymore but I find that the small amount of humanity and therefore sanity that I have is held within my rememberance that I am an elder.
A sort of snobbishness comes with age; a reason to gloat that I have survived the years that others have not. Above that, I have survived the years and remained as beautiful as I was the day I died.
The people shiver all around me and grow wrinkles as they squint to keep the snow from their eyes. I try the same thing out of some curiosity but I am unchanged as always. They disgust me in their happiness. Mortals gallivanting around like death will never come to them but I know of at least one it will visit tonight!
She looks lost. Unchanged by the bitter frost. Unwavering in her beauty but solemnly hopeless for a better life than her rags and tattered stockings. Amongst all the aristocracy, she is my only prey. She looks as if her blood would taste as sweet as death its self. She winces at the snow kicked up by a passing sleigh.
She gets up. What a beauty; what hot blooded despair! My angel of darkness and bitter callous lacivity!
I follow her into a darkened alley as she turns and throws me against a wall, biting into my neck and draining me with the merciless speed of a trained killer. She stops.
"James Toulor, of the Carolingian line and the Icarian sire. What brings the Duke of Rennet to Paris?" She says.
"Ha! Well nice to meet you too..." I say.
"Answer my question, fledgling!" She demands.
"No need to get snippy, Ms...."
"Arabella DeGall. Princess of Revena, Portugal and family Corajoso." She said.
"You're an aristocrat?" I say.
"As are you, as was your sire who was Icarian, which she shared with you, which makes you Icarian. It makes you and her Ventru. Welcome to the Ventru fledgling. I'm sorry your sire told you no more."
I smiled and asked if she might accompany me for a drink.
She told me my blood would make any other seem dull by comparison but we had eternity to meet again.
We stare at each other for a moment and I muse at her talent for acting for it is hard to act as a human when you are so far from being one.
In my hurry to discuss life with her I look to the street for a suggestion for but a moment but when I turned back, she was gone.
"So Ventru, I be, huh? News to me. I'm hungry. I want to kill somebody..." I thought, disappearing into the night...
Kindred: James Toulor Part 1
The year of our lord, 1592; Rennet France, a small child is born prematurely to a mother, who, in her rush to have her child in the room she was born in, ruptures and suffers a drawn out and painful death narrowly escaping the death of her infant child as well. James was the first child of Maria and Jean Toulor and Jean both hated and loved his child at the same time.
On birthdays, James got nothing but it was not so for Christmas or any other holiday. His family was Roman Catholic by tradition and though his father attended significant church events, he scorned God in secret for taking his wife till his death in 1617 by his own son's side. Jean never let his son, James, forget that he was the cause of his mother's death but Jean also never could bring himself to not see his wife in his son's face. During his youth, James often learned to survive in the wild for days on end when his father was home because of his father's severe alcoholism and disdain.
His home became the wolf den and his family, the wolves. When he was 12, he became entrapped by 6 wolves who ripped and tore his clothes and skin but as one went for the killing bite, an alpha female tore the heads from all the attacking wolves. Later, in his memoirs, James would come to describe her as massive; "a great beast who dwarfed the petulance and vitriol of humanity's disdain itself. Six foot seven at the shoulder and roughly a ton due to its muscle and mass. In all my years of vicious murder, mayhem and psychological torture, I could never inflict the pain of her jaws... well... at least not in a single session." The wolf mother spoke to him upon saving him, "foolish child! My kin are dead due to your wandering." He could not explain it but he had heard and understood her words. When he spoke back, she was amazed, "I don't wander, I hunt and kill for this is all I know."
She found him foolish for much of his time with her and even loathed his love of the slaughter. Despite her great size, she was kind and full of humility for lower life forms, which she considered James to be from. She did not hate humans but rather took pity on them and considered them lower for their base instincts which guided them.
It was because of her philosophy that James took an interest in psychology and began to dissect the human Psyche in bizarre, unusual and sometimes even cruel experimentation. "Humanity is nature's bane," he would say, "their sheer existence seems nothing short of a mistake. Therefore it is the duty of those of us outside their Psyche to interpret their society and find its purpose... or if there even is one..."
On his 25th birthday, James and his father went hunting together. Jean Toulor was a practical man and felt that his son's love for hunting and survivalist instinct in nature would make James a great soldier. Little did he know the things that went on under his own roof and that when James went "hunting" he wasn't always hunting in nature. Jean also had no idea the massive she-wolf that lived in the private forest of the Toulor family.
There was a third surprise that neither of the two could have expected that day and that was: Marau, the she-wolf, was the, "bitch of the forest," Jean Toulor had dreamed of killing ever since half of his first flock of deer had disappeared years before. She had also hated him equally for his crusade to rid her kind from the forest. When the two had seen each other, the reaction was explosive.
Jean ran a javelin through her heart a she lunged at him with the intent to kill. With his reaction time limited and his choices unclear and contested in front of him, James killed the only creature he had ever loved. With a great swing of his Claymore, he cut her head clear from her body which in turn, used the last bit of life it had to fly forward and kill Jean Toulor in one bite.
The castle was very quiet after that day and James blamed himself for both of their deaths but more than that, James's disdain of humanity only grew because he blamed them for the conflict arising in the first place. He begged and pleaded night after night for either God to make him any creature but human or take him from the earth altogether.
He took stupid risks: fights at bars with murderers, hand-to-hand combat with bucks, impaling thieves and scoundrels to intimidate their bosses but he grew strong and survived through it all as they threw money at him for his success. His "victories" of eliminating crime and prowess made him lavished upon like a prince, though he was only a Duke. Until one night shortly after his 26th birthday in February.
She came in like a mist, cloudy to his vision and covered him in bite marks all over his body. His guards could not understand the sudden illness that struck their master. He no longer left the room, he handled all decisions in his room with the curtains drawn. "You're not the master I once served" said his chief guard one night in 1620. James tore his throat from his body for his insubordination. After this night, many of his royal guard left his service. His people paid him for his protection and the safety of his lands and at night he hunted the evil doers so his taxes would continue to come in. It was in 1621, as he thrashed about in his room after being burned by sunlight that day that his sire appeared.
"You are my creation, James..." She said. He ran at her with sword drawn but he only passed right through her as she changed to mist with each strike he laid to her form. "It is of no use. I am much older than you and much stronger but in time, you will become as I am."
"I will never become as you are, demon," said James.
"Wrong again, my silly child," said Elora.
Elora was the vampire mother many of her kind did not have. She bred him in hatred and wrath and taught him to seize a Machiavellian rule in all he did. He ran companies and businesses that stretched the world around and all the time, he found no pleasure or joy greater than the viciousness that he would inflict upon mankind for the "wrong" they had wrought. She loved him for his drive and motivation but she hated him for his lust for brutal justice without reason. He knew, deep down, that half of his victims did not deserve their punishments but he could not help that he had died a man scorned and so too, did he live an undead life, scorned.
It was for this reason that in his third year of life, she vanished without a trace. A sire who breeds in hatred, exists for breeding the perfect kindred, however, without the quick show of flawlessness, a kindred knows quicker than a human, the road ahead. Especially one that was as old as the one that made James...
On birthdays, James got nothing but it was not so for Christmas or any other holiday. His family was Roman Catholic by tradition and though his father attended significant church events, he scorned God in secret for taking his wife till his death in 1617 by his own son's side. Jean never let his son, James, forget that he was the cause of his mother's death but Jean also never could bring himself to not see his wife in his son's face. During his youth, James often learned to survive in the wild for days on end when his father was home because of his father's severe alcoholism and disdain.
His home became the wolf den and his family, the wolves. When he was 12, he became entrapped by 6 wolves who ripped and tore his clothes and skin but as one went for the killing bite, an alpha female tore the heads from all the attacking wolves. Later, in his memoirs, James would come to describe her as massive; "a great beast who dwarfed the petulance and vitriol of humanity's disdain itself. Six foot seven at the shoulder and roughly a ton due to its muscle and mass. In all my years of vicious murder, mayhem and psychological torture, I could never inflict the pain of her jaws... well... at least not in a single session." The wolf mother spoke to him upon saving him, "foolish child! My kin are dead due to your wandering." He could not explain it but he had heard and understood her words. When he spoke back, she was amazed, "I don't wander, I hunt and kill for this is all I know."
She found him foolish for much of his time with her and even loathed his love of the slaughter. Despite her great size, she was kind and full of humility for lower life forms, which she considered James to be from. She did not hate humans but rather took pity on them and considered them lower for their base instincts which guided them.
It was because of her philosophy that James took an interest in psychology and began to dissect the human Psyche in bizarre, unusual and sometimes even cruel experimentation. "Humanity is nature's bane," he would say, "their sheer existence seems nothing short of a mistake. Therefore it is the duty of those of us outside their Psyche to interpret their society and find its purpose... or if there even is one..."
On his 25th birthday, James and his father went hunting together. Jean Toulor was a practical man and felt that his son's love for hunting and survivalist instinct in nature would make James a great soldier. Little did he know the things that went on under his own roof and that when James went "hunting" he wasn't always hunting in nature. Jean also had no idea the massive she-wolf that lived in the private forest of the Toulor family.
There was a third surprise that neither of the two could have expected that day and that was: Marau, the she-wolf, was the, "bitch of the forest," Jean Toulor had dreamed of killing ever since half of his first flock of deer had disappeared years before. She had also hated him equally for his crusade to rid her kind from the forest. When the two had seen each other, the reaction was explosive.
Jean ran a javelin through her heart a she lunged at him with the intent to kill. With his reaction time limited and his choices unclear and contested in front of him, James killed the only creature he had ever loved. With a great swing of his Claymore, he cut her head clear from her body which in turn, used the last bit of life it had to fly forward and kill Jean Toulor in one bite.
The castle was very quiet after that day and James blamed himself for both of their deaths but more than that, James's disdain of humanity only grew because he blamed them for the conflict arising in the first place. He begged and pleaded night after night for either God to make him any creature but human or take him from the earth altogether.
He took stupid risks: fights at bars with murderers, hand-to-hand combat with bucks, impaling thieves and scoundrels to intimidate their bosses but he grew strong and survived through it all as they threw money at him for his success. His "victories" of eliminating crime and prowess made him lavished upon like a prince, though he was only a Duke. Until one night shortly after his 26th birthday in February.
She came in like a mist, cloudy to his vision and covered him in bite marks all over his body. His guards could not understand the sudden illness that struck their master. He no longer left the room, he handled all decisions in his room with the curtains drawn. "You're not the master I once served" said his chief guard one night in 1620. James tore his throat from his body for his insubordination. After this night, many of his royal guard left his service. His people paid him for his protection and the safety of his lands and at night he hunted the evil doers so his taxes would continue to come in. It was in 1621, as he thrashed about in his room after being burned by sunlight that day that his sire appeared.
"You are my creation, James..." She said. He ran at her with sword drawn but he only passed right through her as she changed to mist with each strike he laid to her form. "It is of no use. I am much older than you and much stronger but in time, you will become as I am."
"I will never become as you are, demon," said James.
"Wrong again, my silly child," said Elora.
Elora was the vampire mother many of her kind did not have. She bred him in hatred and wrath and taught him to seize a Machiavellian rule in all he did. He ran companies and businesses that stretched the world around and all the time, he found no pleasure or joy greater than the viciousness that he would inflict upon mankind for the "wrong" they had wrought. She loved him for his drive and motivation but she hated him for his lust for brutal justice without reason. He knew, deep down, that half of his victims did not deserve their punishments but he could not help that he had died a man scorned and so too, did he live an undead life, scorned.
It was for this reason that in his third year of life, she vanished without a trace. A sire who breeds in hatred, exists for breeding the perfect kindred, however, without the quick show of flawlessness, a kindred knows quicker than a human, the road ahead. Especially one that was as old as the one that made James...
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Lyrical Romance
She sat on the
veranda and looked out on the ocean dreamily in quiet respite from the
conversations that had transpired between her and Tony in the last few
weeks. Her hair was long and brown and the wind lapped at it like a
hungry dog making it sway back and forth while she reclined as still as a
statue. Her green eyes matched the gyrating waves and sparkled just as
brightly in the noon day sun. Her name was Lola. She was a showgirl.
Just then the door burst open with a force that startled her but she remained as stalwart as Lot's wife.
"I'm sorry..." said Tony.
"Don't you want me, baby?" She said. "Don't you want me?"
"Oh! oh.. oh... We're no strangers to love, Lola... You know the rules and so do I. A full commitment's what I'm thinking of and you won't get this from any other guy," said Tony.
There was a long pause as she swooned over his statements but remained cautious because of his fleeting nature. She began to open up gently saying, "I just want to tell you how I'm feeling. I want to make you understand..."
"There's no need," said Tony, "for I promise, I'm never gonna give you up, I'm never gonna let you down..."
"But you have so many times before!" Lola protested.
He ignored her and continued with renewed intensity, "I'm never gonna run around and desert you."
There was a long pause and she began to cry. He cupped her chin and dried her tears. As he sighed and looked off to the distance, he said, almost under his breath, "I'm never gonna make you cry , never gonna say goodbye..."
She looked at him and turned his gaze towards hers, "Then in return, I promise I'm never gonna tell a lie and hurt you."
"That's all I wanted to know," said Tony, "For every man in Havana wants you Lola, and it's so hard to make you understand..."
Lola smiled and said, "I've been so mad at you for so long, I...." She looked out at the ocean and then directly into his eyes, "touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me! I wanna be dirty!"
"Well, I guess it would be nice," said Tony, "if I could touch your body, I know not everybody has got a body like you..."
"But I've got to think twice before I give my heart away..." Said Lola.
"Oh, I know all the games you play because I play them too!" Said Tony. "But I need some time off from that emotion. It's finally time to pick my heart up off the floor..." He took a deep breath and looked back towards her, "and when that love comes down without devotion well it takes a strong man baby but I'm showing you the door!"
"HAVE FAITH TONY!" Said Lola. "Now..." she said putting her hands in his, "Let's talk about sex, baby..."
They went inside and closed the curtains. The rest was Havana History...
Just then the door burst open with a force that startled her but she remained as stalwart as Lot's wife.
"I'm sorry..." said Tony.
"Don't you want me, baby?" She said. "Don't you want me?"
"Oh! oh.. oh... We're no strangers to love, Lola... You know the rules and so do I. A full commitment's what I'm thinking of and you won't get this from any other guy," said Tony.
There was a long pause as she swooned over his statements but remained cautious because of his fleeting nature. She began to open up gently saying, "I just want to tell you how I'm feeling. I want to make you understand..."
"There's no need," said Tony, "for I promise, I'm never gonna give you up, I'm never gonna let you down..."
"But you have so many times before!" Lola protested.
He ignored her and continued with renewed intensity, "I'm never gonna run around and desert you."
There was a long pause and she began to cry. He cupped her chin and dried her tears. As he sighed and looked off to the distance, he said, almost under his breath, "I'm never gonna make you cry , never gonna say goodbye..."
She looked at him and turned his gaze towards hers, "Then in return, I promise I'm never gonna tell a lie and hurt you."
"That's all I wanted to know," said Tony, "For every man in Havana wants you Lola, and it's so hard to make you understand..."
Lola smiled and said, "I've been so mad at you for so long, I...." She looked out at the ocean and then directly into his eyes, "touch-a touch-a touch-a touch me! I wanna be dirty!"
"Well, I guess it would be nice," said Tony, "if I could touch your body, I know not everybody has got a body like you..."
"But I've got to think twice before I give my heart away..." Said Lola.
"Oh, I know all the games you play because I play them too!" Said Tony. "But I need some time off from that emotion. It's finally time to pick my heart up off the floor..." He took a deep breath and looked back towards her, "and when that love comes down without devotion well it takes a strong man baby but I'm showing you the door!"
"HAVE FAITH TONY!" Said Lola. "Now..." she said putting her hands in his, "Let's talk about sex, baby..."
They went inside and closed the curtains. The rest was Havana History...
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
5 minute writing exercise
Ever since the full moon, I seem to be losing larger and larger
amounts of time. Last night I awoke in a cold sweat and a puddle of
blood on my living room floor. The echoes of screams silently and
sweetly singing like a monster's lullaby. I pray for them to end. The
quiet becomes louder than the din at home but here, as I stand in place,
working a monotonous job that pleases neither my ambitions or my basic
needs, it's loud. it's thunderous with violent cacophony symbolizing
pre-alcoholism and drug abuse and neurotic human-isms forming in front
of my eyes. For moments, in the fog horn sports shrieks of Soccer and
baseball, the ambient shouting of some television quote or simply some
pissing contest, chest beating, college male whining or even the female
version that I call the mind numbing, baby voiced cutie squeal... The
true silence takes over. The silence of noise... It is at these
moments, however, that I lose those great spans of time, and the
creature within me takes over. He must do his best to blend in to this
muted environment because when I come to, people stare at me and remark
on my abnormally blank stares...
Friday, March 23, 2012
Stuck
I walk home in quiet humility and review my entire life. It's amazing how good my memory recall is and in my weakened and tired frame of mind, after a hard day of work, I start to get beat up by all the memories and perfect recall of feelings past. Somehow, my brain tells me that it's therapeutic; that somehow by feeling the pain of my mistakes will help me get through them but all of it seems to just remind me of pain.
With all the rushing feelings and emotions that I'm trying to process, I can only see your silhouette, like a cowboy cutout in a dark tunnel with a dying flashlight at the end of it; the proverbial going to heaven is my journey that I've been on till I have you in my arms and I in yours for life.
I think of the song "Home" because of its meaning and think about how because my home is with you I am in a foreign world and will be until I'm with you. I have to leave this place and soon for it is unhealthy for me to stay here. Then it happens.
The song triggers perfect memory recall and I am all of a sudden transported, against my will, to Brooklyn, NYC. It's there I can recall perfectly the feeling of the sheets and the smells and the feeling of my ex who I did love but do not anymore. I know I don't because I dream about you but the memories will never fade and going back into them sucks. I remember Arizona and I remember my plans of being with Sarah forever and it chokes me as I fall to the ground and go through it all again in moments.
It feels like a thousand images flashing in succession as I remember my entire journey with her and at the end of it all, I remember how terribly she treated me and manipulated me and how all I gave back to her was love and a desire to hear from her. After some time, it stops but the wound remains as I limp up the street with both wounded pride, fear, and a sadness that I wish I could have had you from the beginning and have never known anything but you.
As I get through the door of my house, the memory fades but the pain resonates like a Buddhist gong.
I am hailed into my step-father's room where he tells me I have to still pay rent to live at their house and I almost leave right there and then but I stay to let him finish what he has to say so...
I don't know why...
So he might feel better, I suppose. I have no desire to please him but just to stick around long enough to not tick him off. I kind of hate him at this moment. He knows the hardship that I endure ahead and yet he enforces stupid rules that only make things harder on me. He says that he loves me and that he wishes me the best of luck but he "cannot and will not support my getting married in any way."
When I'm done letting him rant and rave about how I should wait longer to get married and his excruciating dialogue about how I've made mistakes time and time again, I no longer even feel guilty about making mistakes in the past. All I feel is anger that he thinks this is going to be another one. The worst thing is: There is nothing I can do about it.
I go into my room and try to find something to do but as I fill out applications, they become so cloudy and distorted, I can no longer see and all I want is to be comfortably numb. I can't even do that.
With all the rushing feelings and emotions that I'm trying to process, I can only see your silhouette, like a cowboy cutout in a dark tunnel with a dying flashlight at the end of it; the proverbial going to heaven is my journey that I've been on till I have you in my arms and I in yours for life.
I think of the song "Home" because of its meaning and think about how because my home is with you I am in a foreign world and will be until I'm with you. I have to leave this place and soon for it is unhealthy for me to stay here. Then it happens.
The song triggers perfect memory recall and I am all of a sudden transported, against my will, to Brooklyn, NYC. It's there I can recall perfectly the feeling of the sheets and the smells and the feeling of my ex who I did love but do not anymore. I know I don't because I dream about you but the memories will never fade and going back into them sucks. I remember Arizona and I remember my plans of being with Sarah forever and it chokes me as I fall to the ground and go through it all again in moments.
It feels like a thousand images flashing in succession as I remember my entire journey with her and at the end of it all, I remember how terribly she treated me and manipulated me and how all I gave back to her was love and a desire to hear from her. After some time, it stops but the wound remains as I limp up the street with both wounded pride, fear, and a sadness that I wish I could have had you from the beginning and have never known anything but you.
As I get through the door of my house, the memory fades but the pain resonates like a Buddhist gong.
I am hailed into my step-father's room where he tells me I have to still pay rent to live at their house and I almost leave right there and then but I stay to let him finish what he has to say so...
I don't know why...
So he might feel better, I suppose. I have no desire to please him but just to stick around long enough to not tick him off. I kind of hate him at this moment. He knows the hardship that I endure ahead and yet he enforces stupid rules that only make things harder on me. He says that he loves me and that he wishes me the best of luck but he "cannot and will not support my getting married in any way."
When I'm done letting him rant and rave about how I should wait longer to get married and his excruciating dialogue about how I've made mistakes time and time again, I no longer even feel guilty about making mistakes in the past. All I feel is anger that he thinks this is going to be another one. The worst thing is: There is nothing I can do about it.
I go into my room and try to find something to do but as I fill out applications, they become so cloudy and distorted, I can no longer see and all I want is to be comfortably numb. I can't even do that.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Pier 34
There are certain things a man never talks about; that he takes to his grave. He comes home and kisses his beautiful wife and children and sleeps soundly with no remorse for the events of his day. For some men this means firing another man or woman who may not be able to feed their families for the lack of a paycheck he's taken away from them. For others it's the man who takes the job and never has to fire anyone but he takes the place of a worker who asked for "too much," from their parent companies and he works for less so that they work for nothing.
Then there's the third man. He may be the most merciful because no man will have to feel the guilt from what he does to them. They will never have to feel the guilt or even care about their families waiting at home with no means of support. They won't have to feel anything because their emotions and bodies will simply disappear. For those at home, they might hate the person for the cover up stories that the companies who hire this third man, tell to their families: "He never showed up for work." "He said something about a mistress." "He was on assignment for us in a very dangerous area, there was nothing we could do."
All in all it always ends in death. Death for the families who have no means of support; Death for the families who still have the life of their loved one but wish for death because they starve due to his uselessness.
The sound of a silencer makes a similar noise to a nail gun when fired; the pressure boom without the bang of gunpowder.
It was a Wednesday night in the city and John Maelor had been sent to the docks to pick up a shipment of fruit in his beat up U-Haul looking truck. He had been complaining to the American Fruit Company that his shipments were light and because of it, he wasn't getting paid as much as they could have been paying him. The truth was, he was too old for the job in their eyes. The company required 80 crates of fruit to be picked up to make bonus and he was always given 75. His paycheck was adequate for a man of sixty but the company saw no need to pay him benefits that belonged to the younger employees who had mouths to feed still.
The story wouldn't have gone sour had he kept his mouth shut but legal action was taken and American fruit had been subpoenaed to give him the same load of 80 that the majority of workers who were under the ages of 50 got. That's where I came in.
"John!"
"Hello, who is this?"
"Hello, Sorry to wake you, is this a bad time?"
"No, who is this?"
"Yes, well this is Dale from American Fruit..."
"Yes! Hello."
"Sorry to be calling you so late..."
John Chuckled and began to speak, "It's perfectly fine. My wife left for San Diego about 4 AM this morning or you'd really be in trouble." He nervously laughed again.
I laughed as well and began, "Well John, the reason I'm calling you is we just got a shipment in from The Keys of 48 crates of fresh bananas and 62 crates of Oranges. Do you think you might be able to make a quick pick up and delivery to HQ tonight?"
I heard a tussle on the other end of the phone and then he spoke, "YES! Yes... Sorry, this is just fantastic, that's 110 crates of produce, I've been waiting for this call all my life!"
I chuckled light heartily and said, "That's great! We were really at a loss. What kind of ship comes in at 3 AM? You know?"
"Well I suppose they don't have time schedules in The Keys, ya?"
I chuckled, "I guess not."
"Tell you what, I'll be down there in 20 minutes. I have to account for traffic and the trek but it shouldn't take me any longer than that."
"That's great John, I will await you at pier 34. Don't be late."
He hung up the phone.
Sitting next to the crates of bananas and oranges, I checked the clip and screwed on the silencer. I then went to stand next to the warehouse at pier 34.
The truck arrived promptly at 3 AM and I heard him step down from the rig and begin to load the first crate. He busily hobbled back and forth for hours loading the infallible pile of crates and smiling like a school boy.
The lamp flickered yellow and shown his way to his destination. From the shadows, I felt the outline of the circuit box and slightly moved the lever to flicker the light a bit before shutting it off.
"Damn it," said John aloud, "Those damn rats must have torn the wires to the lights again. Just my luck."
He put the 100th crate in the back of the truck as I walked over and stood in front of it and to the right. He walked around the left side to step up into the rig's cockpit and turned on the lights.
This was routine for me.
This was easy for me.
This was the way I'd done it many times before.
The lights came on; there was a small "THHHHUMP!" and then a breaking of glass as if somebody had thrown a stone at a warehouse window. A passerby would have thought nothing of it because the docks at night are so frequently broken into by hobos and the like that a broken window is as common place as wind knocking down a cardboard box.
I walked to the left of the truck to the dead body.
"Clean shot. Through the eyes," I said.
I sighed and began the process. First I checked the perimeter. Two more "THHHHUMP's" for drifters who might become witnesses and the perimeter was clean. The bodies were loaded into the truck along with the last 10 crates and I got into the rig and began driving.
I took out my cell phone and made a call.
"Hello? Yeah. It's done. Clean up on Pier 34."
Then there's the third man. He may be the most merciful because no man will have to feel the guilt from what he does to them. They will never have to feel the guilt or even care about their families waiting at home with no means of support. They won't have to feel anything because their emotions and bodies will simply disappear. For those at home, they might hate the person for the cover up stories that the companies who hire this third man, tell to their families: "He never showed up for work." "He said something about a mistress." "He was on assignment for us in a very dangerous area, there was nothing we could do."
All in all it always ends in death. Death for the families who have no means of support; Death for the families who still have the life of their loved one but wish for death because they starve due to his uselessness.
The sound of a silencer makes a similar noise to a nail gun when fired; the pressure boom without the bang of gunpowder.
It was a Wednesday night in the city and John Maelor had been sent to the docks to pick up a shipment of fruit in his beat up U-Haul looking truck. He had been complaining to the American Fruit Company that his shipments were light and because of it, he wasn't getting paid as much as they could have been paying him. The truth was, he was too old for the job in their eyes. The company required 80 crates of fruit to be picked up to make bonus and he was always given 75. His paycheck was adequate for a man of sixty but the company saw no need to pay him benefits that belonged to the younger employees who had mouths to feed still.
The story wouldn't have gone sour had he kept his mouth shut but legal action was taken and American fruit had been subpoenaed to give him the same load of 80 that the majority of workers who were under the ages of 50 got. That's where I came in.
"John!"
"Hello, who is this?"
"Hello, Sorry to wake you, is this a bad time?"
"No, who is this?"
"Yes, well this is Dale from American Fruit..."
"Yes! Hello."
"Sorry to be calling you so late..."
John Chuckled and began to speak, "It's perfectly fine. My wife left for San Diego about 4 AM this morning or you'd really be in trouble." He nervously laughed again.
I laughed as well and began, "Well John, the reason I'm calling you is we just got a shipment in from The Keys of 48 crates of fresh bananas and 62 crates of Oranges. Do you think you might be able to make a quick pick up and delivery to HQ tonight?"
I heard a tussle on the other end of the phone and then he spoke, "YES! Yes... Sorry, this is just fantastic, that's 110 crates of produce, I've been waiting for this call all my life!"
I chuckled light heartily and said, "That's great! We were really at a loss. What kind of ship comes in at 3 AM? You know?"
"Well I suppose they don't have time schedules in The Keys, ya?"
I chuckled, "I guess not."
"Tell you what, I'll be down there in 20 minutes. I have to account for traffic and the trek but it shouldn't take me any longer than that."
"That's great John, I will await you at pier 34. Don't be late."
He hung up the phone.
Sitting next to the crates of bananas and oranges, I checked the clip and screwed on the silencer. I then went to stand next to the warehouse at pier 34.
The truck arrived promptly at 3 AM and I heard him step down from the rig and begin to load the first crate. He busily hobbled back and forth for hours loading the infallible pile of crates and smiling like a school boy.
The lamp flickered yellow and shown his way to his destination. From the shadows, I felt the outline of the circuit box and slightly moved the lever to flicker the light a bit before shutting it off.
"Damn it," said John aloud, "Those damn rats must have torn the wires to the lights again. Just my luck."
He put the 100th crate in the back of the truck as I walked over and stood in front of it and to the right. He walked around the left side to step up into the rig's cockpit and turned on the lights.
This was routine for me.
This was easy for me.
This was the way I'd done it many times before.
The lights came on; there was a small "THHHHUMP!" and then a breaking of glass as if somebody had thrown a stone at a warehouse window. A passerby would have thought nothing of it because the docks at night are so frequently broken into by hobos and the like that a broken window is as common place as wind knocking down a cardboard box.
I walked to the left of the truck to the dead body.
"Clean shot. Through the eyes," I said.
I sighed and began the process. First I checked the perimeter. Two more "THHHHUMP's" for drifters who might become witnesses and the perimeter was clean. The bodies were loaded into the truck along with the last 10 crates and I got into the rig and began driving.
I took out my cell phone and made a call.
"Hello? Yeah. It's done. Clean up on Pier 34."
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