Angie saw the reflection on the microwave door. It showed Bret slipped a paring knife behind him at his belt underneath his untucked shirt. He was wary of Angie unusual tidiness in the kitchen. “You must be busy preparing today’s dinner, darling,” Bret asked. “I want tonight to be perfect. We could use a little spark in our relationship sometimes. It’s better sooner than later.” “Yes, of course.” Bret agreed.
Angie placed the dishes and invite Bret to the dining table. She knew Bret watched his back from the reflection of the kitchen window’s glass panel. It’s to provoke her like she would do to him. “How’s mom?”, Bret started a friendly conversation. “Don’t worry. She will be healthy in your lifetime,” in a hostile tone. “It’s not what I meant,” Bret explained. “I didn’t say you did. It’s odd you enjoy asking something without good reason all the time.” Angie sound irritated, “I know you don’t like her.” Silence came between them as they both ponder if it’s better to be sooner than later.
Bret finished his meal. He stood up and walked to the sink to wash his plate. Angie wasn’t watching him. Her hand gripped the unlocked firing pin pistol hidden beneath the table. It’s barrel pointed between Bret’s legs where she had intended it to hurt the most for her pleasure. She wanted to pull the trigger when Bret turned around, “We talk about this later again.” Angie replied, “Sure.” Bret left the kitchen. She discovered the missing paring knife was back at its holder beside the sink.
Angie stood up to open the oven door. Turned on the gas. She walked out of the house and never looked back on her life since the day. The house they lived in for years blew up in flame. All you need is a spark at the right time to ignite a hellfire. Angie despised Bret’s smoking habit after dinner.
Love and hate relation in secrets and lies; truth would be cheaper.
Jamie and her friends ran down the hallway filled with students seconds before. I remember she screamed at me to follow her into an entrance of bright light out of the building. I didn’t follow. Ran the opposite direction to be away from her, coward myself into the darkness behind me and it was the last I saw of her.
My hand searches the grainy stone wall for carve marks in this dim basement. Brighten by moonlight rays slipping between the ventilation fan blade. The only light I dare look. My fingers count those matchstick marks and carve one more after the last with a sharp hunting knife. Years passed since I lost my only friend. Should have told her and I blame myself. Today I seek solace in this darkness with the heavy burden on my shoulder.
Hiding from THEM taking her from me.
The basement door opens itself. The bright light fills the dark basement inches from where I stand in its shadow. I squat down and crawl back between a large pile of wooden crates till darkness behind pushes back. My eyes fix itself at a rat chewing pieces of dreadful moldy bread under the beam of lights. It could smell my body sweating with fear. Time for THEM to feed. My eyelid closes itself. I look away with my head thug between the thigh. I hug myself. Breath slow to calm my heartbeat. Hand grip tight to the sharp hunting knife. In this small dark enclosure, I could hear the rat chatter end with a loud squeak of pain. Its last breath was squeezed from the lungs.
Darkness chooses to be my friend in need. Cloak me from THEM. Allow my shameless crying in the night and fall asleep in peace where this basement is my home.
Save from THEM.
Grief can’t be shared. Everyone carries it alone. His own burden in his own way. – Anne Morrow Lindbergh
I came to this world in the 60’s. It’s only now I start talking to the world. Words weren’t my first preference of expression when I was a kid growing up in an average family. Though I am imaginative and artistic nature. I learned money is everything in life, and that’s what makes a man – it’s not. Money is life’s necessity. Value is the price tag people pay for everything.
Life is a never-ending cycle of creative indulgence with words and images. So I am. A scrapbook of worthy thoughts into tangible ideas. It’s easy to understand when things are simple. Not necessary organize, but able to understand and develop. It gets complicated when words become images in the mind. Should it not be when we look with our eyes and see with our mind. Speaking literary from the mind. Visioning what we understand.
I keep posting here to a most of 500 words. They are brief, clear and expressive. My mindless writing makes me more human than human themselves. It’s a process when I write whatever comes to mind in first person voice. Making writing a self-discovery experience. My wondering journey without a destination is another day in a life.
Everyday man thinks. What?Write.Me! is that man’s journal.
01. I See Them
Captain Sora-san is interrupt by his assistance voice, “Madam, witness confirm the description of her entering this forest.”, in her own worry tone to herself, “What was she thinking? She is too young to meet death on her own.”, and give the final order for her men and their dog to come out of the forest before dark. “Yes, madam.”, confirm his assistance. Captain Sora-san close her eyes, puzzle and imagine her last few steps in this world is on a bridge she cross over to the dark forest on a beautiful backdrop of golden sunset. Elders believe voices lurks in this forest’s darkness. Here is where insanity live in a universe beyond any sane man’s imagination. They speak to you of your past to feed your grieve in the present. Death is no stranger and pass no judgement to the ones who was and is here today, or tomorrow for their home. Most soul roam in peace but some fill with rage. They are elusive to the naked eyes, but the promise one can hear them stomp and weep their pain in the night to a full moon above them. She question herself, “Is she here to meet him?”, and quickly return to the park four-wheel military vehicle with his assistance inside waiting for her. Her assistance gave a long, weary sigh and ask, “Madam, would we come back for her?”. Captain Sora-san tone is unquestionable, “No one must know.”. They turn the vehicle around and head back to the camp. Leaving the dark forest behind them as the past. It is pain to leave her walk a destiny alone for us, but she believe the future belong for the bold to change. That child might be their last hope to save humanity as foretold by the great I-Ching oracle.
I feel the pain of a knife pierce through my heart each time the shovel thrust into the soil. Every scene written on these pages is annotate with vivid explaination to bring life back from my death. My dirty forehand wipe drips of sourish sweat from my mouth. I throw the shovel into the moist ground. The shovel blade bury itself halfway with its handle stuck upright, stand there under the full moon tonight like a tombstone for a burial ground. Death is art in the eyes of the beholder. I repeat those last words he screamed at me, “Nothing personal. It’s business.”, and stroll back to the car. In my thought, “You’re hiring a new publisher agent?”, I grin, “It’ll be Stranger in The Night.”, the perfect plot for my one and only fan, “You.” My hire killer gave me his sweet and caring smile. I kiss him back.
“At the reading of the will the attorney did say the property needed a bit of work, but he didn’t say the place was haunted.”, he sound dismay of this horrifying crime scene on his property. “I could have sell this place for a fortune.”, and walk away angrily. In my years coordinating with the town’s crime division, I could even barely look at this lifeless mutilated naked teenager. Drenching of blood on these wooden floor with two strong broken chain lock to the wrist. These bedroom walls are cover with odd symbolic hand drawings. She perfectly sequester herself for dark ritual. A small community living in this town believe she is practicing witchery and glad she die in her own hands. I notice there are pieces of odd rotten animal skins with blood in her finger nails upon closer inspection. Looks like someone didn’t kill her – it’s something.
I jump out of bed and is late for work. It’s not unusual of me to be late; late nights and late mornings. Almost everything in my life comes late. I put on my favorite nose ring. Took a glance at myself in the mirror to see if my makeup is still fresh from last night. “Looks fine from here.”, is my usual pep talk to myself every morning. Grab my black color jeans from the bedside. Jumping around the room on one leg at a time, with another fighting to get into my tight jeans. Pull it up to my waist, button up and with a deep sigh of relieve. “Finally!”, I praise myself. My feet slip into a pair of sneaker, while snatching a black tee shirt to wear. It’s from the pile of dirty laundry scatter all over the floor. I fling my bag and skateboard out the bedroom window, till I hear them hitting the garden’s grass below. Squeeze myself out the bedroom’s window onto the dirty tiled roof, and made a leap across onto a large tree branch. It’s easy from there to reach the ground using the plank stairs I nailed to the tree trunk. They are for a tree house I haven’t complete since childhood days. I can hear my pet dog frantically barking. He is a stubborn and vocal Jack Russell Terrier, having a personality like me. His name is James. My mother is holding him in her arms, with her face frowning at me from the kitchen’s window. Her silence always kill me. I try to comfort them aloud,“Good morning. Love you guys.” Pick up my things and make a dash down the street on my skateboard into the blinding sunlight. “That went well. As usual.”, talking to myself every morning.