Well. It's been a while.

This is "blog"spot, so I've decided to keep this as a mild blog. Because the updating with writings is apparently not working out. But I hope to do a little of that too. And if I'm writing on here, I'll probably get around to editing and writing elsewhere. So who knows. Could be helpful.

Right now I am a little hungry in my stomach. But my mouth is telling my brain that it doesn't want food. I lack appetite. Did you know that you're not supposed to start sentences with "but" or "and." If I'm not mistaken, "because" is also one of those words.

But I can take creative license. Because I'm the writer. And sometimes short sentences can be used for emphasization. Which is a made up word. Again. Creative license.

Wouldn't it be cool if we could apply creative license to our everyday lives. But with everyone changing everything all the time, what would become of things? Would the grass constantly change color because someone somewhere is thinking it should be different? And if so, how rapidly? How many people would become fascinated with the notion of changing the color of the grass, and sit there doing it all the time? And if it was done to such extremes, could individual blades and patches be changed independently? If so, jobs would be different. Because the most creative would be paid to sit there and make cool landscapes. Parties would be sick.

Cigarette time. And then movie time. And then bed time. And then wake time.

I'm thinking about posting a link to this on my facebook.

I'm going to sleep on it.

Gamblin' Man

Hard to believe I wrote this almost two years ago. I wrote it in five consecutive days, at Waffle house. I would go every day about 3:00 am and drink coffee, smoke cigarettes, and write. I had always planned to write more, but never got inspired or motivated. Leave some love if it's something you'd like to see finished. Might help me. 

from 9/9/09

 

I. The Dealer

The beach seems an odd place to be walking at one in the morning, but as we slow to make the turn off of the beach on to my street, Nick's headlights illuminate the silhouette of a man doing just that, heading west. In the new light I can see that the man is quite young, wearing a suit and a matching fedora, carrying in his left hand a guitar in a large case, a crooked smile on his face. I cannot explain why I am so sketched out by him, but I am. I simply can't shake the feeling that he must be making his way to the crossroads, or he's on the way back from them. I find him strangely terrifying.

Two hours go by at my house, and Nick eventually leaves. Hunger strikes, and I get in my car to go to Waffle House. It's now around three o'clock in the morning. A song comes on as my car cranks up, and the words are loud to my unadjusted ears.

“I'm alive, don't bury me,” is all that makes it out before I turn it off. My mind drifts to the man on the beach...

You're hungry, remember? Can we go get some food now?

The voice in my head is getting on my nerves, but it does help me stay on track. I grumble something along the lines of “I can think and drive jerk” to myself as I put the car in gear.

You do realize that talking back to me isn't helping me go away, right?

“Yea but at least I can feel like I can shut you up.”

But I'm always going to have a comeback. You do, I do.

I decide that responding to that is probably not wise, so I drive down the street to the beach in silence. After a minute or two I turn on to the same road the man was walking down, and head west.

He's probably gone really far anyway, that was hours ago... The voice was oddly quiet.

“Yeah you're scared too.”

I make my way to the Waffle House on the beach, it's the closest one. The inside is empty, as expected, and the waitress is a nice southern lady, as expected. I get my cup of coffee, order my bacon biscuit, and I ask for an ashtray.

“I'm going to be here a while, I hope that's okay.”

Of course it's okay, I'm just being polite. I order food, and the restaurant is silent as I eat. As I smoke my after-meal cigarette, the phone rings. It rings three times painfully loud over the silent hum of the air conditioning before the lady answers it with her seemingly very rehearsed greeting. Then silence.

“Two blocks if you're going East.” Silence again.

“Hello?”

She hangs up the phone.

“Stupid fucking prank calls.”

At this I look up. I guess my face just reads “Hey, I'm puzzled,” because she responds to it with an explanation.

“I just heard a bunch of laughing. Sorry about the language darlin',”

“Oh it's no problem, I was just startled.”

Fifteen minutes go by, and I sip on my coffee and smoke my cigarette. The combination of marijuana, nicotine, and caffeine streaming through my veins is giving the fogged up glass an eerie ability to enclose this space. I am all of a sudden very glad that I am wearing a hoodie, noticing the cold for the first time.

My brain pangs slightly, my eyes start to cross a little, and my leg starts to slightly twitch. I am very tired, very high, and all of a sudden, very anxious. I know I must look cracked out, I'm blinking my eyes repeatedly, staring at the door, attempting to get my vision to stop being blurry. It finally does as the door swings slowly open, and I see something come in. As my eyes fully adjust, I realize It's a young man in a black suit, wearing a matching fedora, carrying in his left hand a golden pen, and wearing on his face a crooked smile.

A familiar voice whispers nervously in my head.

You have my permission to be frightened now...

II. The Table

The man walks silently to my table. With my hoodie and baseball cap on as they are, I can only see his feet. They walk across the restaurant and come to a stop in front of my booth.

“I know who you are,” I whisper, to which I'm surprised to hear a chuckle.

“I know you know who I am,” he says, and sits down across from me. His voice is soft, and if any man's voice could be described as “pretty,” it could be this man's.

“I don't want you to be here. I told you to go away. I made you leave me.”

“You made me leave your soul behind, and you owe me that soul, Dismus. I have come back for what is mine.”

“I took it back; Silvertongue is dead. I killed him.”

He scoffs, “You cannot kill Silvertongue. He's just made his way back home. He's pretty pissed at you for what you did, you know. I brought him along actually, he really insisted. He wants to say hello.”

My headache intensifies, and I hear a familiar voice's whispers amplified in my head. It is of course my voice that whispers, but the sound is distorted, as if my tongue was forked.

I've missed you.

I can't help my reaction; I wince, which brings a smile to the stranger's face. I slam my hands over my ears, as if I could block the voices in my head by covering my ears, and I hunch over. He just sits there and smiles.

You can't just get rid of me like that, Dismus. You know who I am now, and I know you've heard me trying to get back in. Why won't you let me back in, Dismus? Don't you remember how brilliant I made you? You know you've missed me too.


“Lies...” I mutter through clenched teeth. “You're both... just... liars... Get out of my head, dammit!”

I open my eyes and look around, seeing if anyone else could see the agony I was in. I realize now that the people around us are going on about their night as if we don't exist.

“You're all alone again, Dismus. They can't hear you right now, they can't see you. Nobody else sees me either, Dismus. We're all alone in this booth, together.”

I pick up the ketchup and throw it at the waitress. As soon as I release the bottle it disappears from the air and reappears where I picked it up from. I pull down my hood and turn my cap around. Now that he can see my face, I can see his. He smiles.

“Fair enough,” I reply, trying not to act stunned at what I've just seen. “So you've got me here. What now? What do you want?”

“You know what I want, Dismus.” His voice is getting harsher.

“Refresh my memory?”

Don't be coy, boy. Silvertongue again.

You can kiss my ass, I reply. You're not supposed to be there.

“You like to fancy yourself a fairly clever person, don't you?”

“Well I try. But I've learned my lesson, I'm not underestimating you again.”

“I could say the same to you.”

His last comment surprises me. Trying my damnedest not to sound too intrigued, I bite.

“What do you mean?”

At this, Satan sits back, lights up a cigarette, and seems to gather his thoughts before speaking.

“Dismus,” he starts, “I have saved your life on numerous occasions; numerous times I have heeded your call when God wouldn't. I have proven my loyalty to you, and you have demanded much from me.” Here he pauses to look at me. “You would want to be heard out; I demand you hear me out.”

I look at the ketchup bottle, then at the waitress. A sigh escapes.

“Okay, Satan, you have five minutes. I'll give you five minutes.”

His smile is unsettling.

III. The Cards

“It goes like this, Dismus. I have presented you with all the opportunities you asked me for. You demanded beauty, you said you wanted it all, and I gave it all to you. I have presented you with perfect specimen of both sexes, all you had to do was take them. I underestimated you for the first time with these. I didn't realize the depth to which your innocence ran. You simply don't have the heart to do it, do you? Not even when it's right in front of you. This I promise to correct.”

You're not seriously listening to this are you?

I am silent for a moment, both in my mind and out of it. I don't know what to say. Silvertongue is out of my head. I don't know how I know, but I can tell it is just me and me up there.

What am I supposed to do? Try to get up? Didn't you see what happened to the ketchup bottle?

“Don't you have anything to say?”

I realize that I've been silent for longer than a moment. I look at Satan, and down at his pen.

“How?”

He smiled, “I'm glad you asked.”

Great.

“I will take those inhibitions from you. You know you want what I have to offer. You don't know how to get all that beauty I'm presenting you with, so let me give it to you. Let me take your inhibitions, let me release you. Let me in more." His voice gets hungrier. " Let me give you the words to write, and the drive to write them. Give me your hands that I may use them.”

His eyes are starving.

“Why?” I ask. “Why me? Why are you trying to get me?”

“What can I say? You're impressive. I want to destroy you. But even more, I want you to destroy you.”

I'm silent again.

“That's... a terrible way to put that.”

He chuckles, and pulls out his cigarettes. I smoked my last one before he sat down. I eyeball them as quickly as possible; I don't want him to know I want one.

“Cigarette?”

Damn.

Do I want a cigarette? Yes. Do I take the devil's cigarette? Well, that's a different story. Isn't it?

“I'm not signing any contract by taking this am I?”

“Can't a friend bum a friend a cigarette?” He asks me with a smile.

“Oh. We're friends now?”

“Take the cigarette, Dismus. I want to continue.”

“Fair enough.”

I take a cigarette from his pack and light it. It tastes like nothing I've ever smoked before. I can taste tobacco, but more than that I taste what I imagine brimstone tastes like. The smoke is smooth going down, but when it hits my lungs I can feel it seep painfully into my blood. The strangest sensation takes over my body, it feels like all my veins have been filled with smoke. Buzzed doesn't describe it, but neither does any other word I can think of at the time. The room begins to spin and rock back and forth. I'm slightly reminded of so many times I spent fighting my stomach on the shower floor.

“You will be forced to make a decision soon, Dismus.” His voice goes harsh again. “You can only forsake God so many times before he forsakes you. You like to wear your scapular and holy medallions, but these trinkets will not save your from me. You will suffer like you did not know possible.”

His eyes had not left mine the entire time he was speaking.

“I will break you.”

And then he goes silent.

I can't really breathe. The room is vibrating. Satan is glaring at me from across the table, and now, the silence is only intensifying his glare. I attempt to speak, but all that escapes is a squeak. I clear my throat and try again.

“So, you came to warn me then?" I clear my throat. "You think you frighten me?"

The world spins hard, as if to make a point.

"...and you're right: you do. But that's a terrible strategy to win me back to your side."

"I mean, after all," I continue, leaning up on my elbows to try to steady the room. "You lose a lot out of this deal if you lose me. Don't tell me I didn't do you any favors.”

At this his glare breaks, and his smile returns. Smoke seeps through his teeth.

“You were one of my favorite humans. It's rare that I meet someone who takes so much power and only hungers for more. I could almost have a use for you besides eternal torture.”

“So then how about not playing like you hold all the cards on this one?”

These are strong words coming from me. Any cards I hold are falling out of my sleeves as the room continues to spin.

“After all, we could both use each other. You need someone in my world, I need someone in yours.”

He is quiet again. We finish our cigarettes without another word. When the silence is broken, he speaks first.

“You are incredible, you know that?”

“I thought all of you otherworldly beings could see the future and shit, shouldn't you not be surprised?”

“We know the choices you could possibly face, your free will dictates what actually happens though. And I must say, your free will is all over the place.”

“Yea, better hurry, I'm changing my mind as we speak.”

You know that toying with the devil is a bad idea, right?

Yes, I'm aware.

But he was right. And his tongue wasn't forked.

...Thank you, voice.

“I'll tell you what, Satan,” I say as I take out my wallet. “You're going to have to hit me up later, I'm tired. Maybe I should sleep on it.” I pick up my bill and turn to exit the booth.

There's laughter in his voice when he speaks next.

“Maybe you should.”

I go to speak, but my mouth won't open. My eyelids collapse, but display the most incredible laser-light show, which dissolves into fireworks that explode and fade away. At the same time, I feel as if all my muscles are suddenly switched off; but as if by strings my body floats into a comfortable sleeping position. All sound becomes a piercing mix of car horns and loud brass fanfares being played on old vinyl records that are all aflame, melting off their players, as my eardrums slowly lose function. Then, silence; except for my voice.

Now you've gone and done it.

IV. Changing Tables.

“Hon?”

The waitress's hand is light on my shoulder, but it jolts me from my sleep as if it had ten thousand volts running through it. My head shoots up and she jumps back startled.

“I-I I'm sorry, hon, I didn't mean to startle you.”

“What? No... Huh?”

I look around, and it takes me a moment to realize that I'm still sitting in Waffle House, but the sun is now rising over the water of the beach across the street. I must have slept for hours.

“The man in the suit-”

“What man? Honey, you've been asleep for some time, but I'm leavin' for the mornin' and I need the bill so I can cash out. I don't mean to rush-”

“No it's fine. I'm sorry. I didn't realize how tired I was. I just need to go home, I'm sorry.”

“Oh it's fine, hon.”

“Here,” I say, dropping five dollars on the table. “Keep the change.”

My meal was only two and some change. I gather my things and leave the booth; all the patrons turn to watch me leave. The voice in my head finally wakes up as I hit the door.

That's creepy.

I agree. Get me home safe?

Are you ready to start listening to me?

I'm sitting in my car about to turn the key, but I pause to consider this last thought. Am I ready to start listening?

I guess.

The drive home is silent, and halfway there I decide to stop off at the adoration chapel at my church, just to be on the safe side. After an hour I decide I'm safe enough to get home.

Once I get to my couch, I crack.

Okay. Okay. What the hell just happened? Did I dream all that? What the hell just happened to me? And who are you? You aren't another demon are you?

“Get the hell out if you are. I'm serious. Don't make me get a crucifix.”

By the time I realize that I'm talking to myself out loud, I'm standing in front of my mirror holding a crucifix at my face. I snap back to reality and sit back down on the couch.

Feel better?

You know, you don't have to be a jerk. Angels and saints weren't jerks.

But I have your sense of humor. You can't get angry at me for that.

Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, right?

Okay. Fine. This is going to be pleasant.

I sit there thinking for a good twenty minutes before I speak again.

What's your name?

Max.

Never heard of you. You're an angel?

I'm here to help.

Here to help me get to God?

Here to help you get to God.

I hope he isn't lying to me.

I'm going to trust you.

That'll work for now.

I need sleep. I'm going to go to sleep now.

You know he'll be coming for you there.

In my dreams? Yea. I figured. Can you help with that?

I'll be fighting by your side.

We'll be fighting?

He laughs.

Oh yea. We'll be fighting. Get your game face on.

Hey I played chess as a kid. I know strategy.

I remember, I was there.
As I lay waiting for sleep to take over, I pray.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
My leg starts to twitch, a tell-tale sign that I'm losing consciousness.

And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
Tonight, these last two lines hit closer to home than ever before. The air conditioning's soft hum is the last thing I hear as my mind flutters off.

And here we go.

V. A Bluff, A Raise, And A Fold

My eyes blink open and I can feel myself snap from drowsy to alert. I'm afraid to move my body at all, but my eyes have already given me away.

“Get up, Dismus. It's time we got moving.”

I look up and see a figure kneeling over me, his hand outstretched. I take it, and he pulls me to my feet.

I brush the dirt off of my clothes, a simple white t-shirt and blue jeans, and look around for the first time. It is very dark, but I can see that I have been sleeping on the ground in a back alley somewhere. I don't recognize anything around me, but it seems ancient. On the ground next to me is a bag, and I recognize it as mine, so I pick it up and put it on. I turn to look at the figure that helped me up for the first time.

His eyes glow into mine, and he is smiling slightly. I can tell he's mildly amused by my confusion, but I don't really care. I'm still getting my bearings. He is wearing loose jeans and a pair of unremarkable sneakers; his shirt is a faded grey. He carries a bag too, but on his back, and he wears a baseball cap cocked to the left, casting shadows over most of his face. If we weren't looking eye to eye, his glowing eyes would have been hidden by the bill.

“Max?”

“No, I'm your other guardian angel. Yes, it's Max. Can we get moving?”

“Where are we going? And why are you in such a rush?”

“There's an old church down the road. The fact that it was a church doesn't really matter, but the fact that it's old and abandoned does,” he says with a little bit of disgust in his voice. He turns to me.

“For the time being, you'll just have to believe me that we can't stay here, and I can explain when we get to the church.”

“Fair enough. Lead the way.”

He pulls his cap down and looks around the corner of the alley. I re-tie my sneakers, I figure if it comes down to it I'll be able to run faster. Max turns to me and signals to follow, then disappears around the corner. I follow. We're running.

I look around and notice the city again as we run down its streets in a seemingly endless maze of twists and turns. The darkness seems to be created here, a total reversal of our night. Instead of the darkness being the absence of sunlight, the light in this city seems to be the absence of darkness. My shadow glows on the buildings beside me. I look forward to see Max's shadow, but he doesn't have one. I would wonder where everyone else in the city is, but the destroyed facades of the buildings tell me that anyone who lived here definitely doesn't live here anymore. 

The city of nothing but broken down buildings: I feel strangely at home.

After almost twenty minutes of running through the twists and turns of this haunted city, Max takes a sudden turn into a building, and in all my pondering I almost miss it. He grabs my shirt and pulls me in, where I collapse to the ground panting and out of breath. My bag slipped off near the door, and he slides it closer in then puts his bag down next to it.

“You're gonna have to get used to running around here,” he says. I'm still getting used to hearing my voice being spoken at me. All I can do is nod back anyway, I'm in no physical condition to speak.

“And you seem to be winded, so I'll start answering as many questions as I can before you start speaking.” He turns his cap around and sits down. The room is almost completely lit up by his eyes.

“My eyes: they're a sign that I'm one of the Alive. In this plane you've been brought to, we are hunted. But," he goes on, "we are also hunters." 

"When you begin life on this plane, your shadow glows. You are Alive. But this is how you get hunted, which is why I brought you in here. You're being hunted, Dismus. You didn't know it, but you were being hunted.”

I look at my shadow behind me. Still glowing.

Shit.

“But you've recognized it,” he continues, “so you're on the fast track to these.”

I turn to look at him again. He's pointing to his eyes.

“Because you see, the Dead out there can always see your shadow; you can't hide your shadow. But your eyes, learn to control your light and it will become visible through your eyes. This is the secret to going from the hunted Alive,” he smiles, “to the Living hunters.”

“So how do I control this? How do I get rid of a glowing shadow?”

“It requires daily meditation, and you'll laugh at the next part: you're gonna have to smoke a little weed.”

I do laugh.

“Come again?”

“You are a fire burning in the world right now, Dismus. Your brightness is what attracts the creatures of the night to you. Smoke a bowl, get yourself leveled out. You need to learn to use that fire in the right way. Besides, it's your thing anyway isn't it?”

I check the bag I found on the floor next to myself. In it I find my mason jar filled with enough weed to last well beyond tonight, along with my bubbler, and a water bottle to fill it with. So, I smoke a bowl. 

With every hit, I can feel my brain start to bubble. I inhale deep, in with the good; and exhale, out with the bad. My lungs are clear, and I feel the THC rush through my veins to my brain, storming my neurons in green and white. My shadow fades, but everywhere I look is illuminated as if with LED flashlights.

Max speaks while I smoke.

“This is how things work, Dismus. I'm here to help you fight your demons, which you will be faced with tonight throughout the city. God has chosen you to fight for him, and given you power to do so. Take the weed, for example. Where most it would make drowsy, it allows you to focus your efforts. Focus them now, and understand what I have to say. I won't get a chance to talk to you like this again. Weed is the beginning for you, but you will learn true devotion to Mary soon enough.”

I look at Max, and he squints when he looks back.

“Put a hat on, Dis. Geez your eyes are bright. I hadn't realized how bright of a shadow you had.”

Rummaging through my bag again produces a billed beanie which I slip on, casting a shadow over my eyes by tilting it slightly. I look back at him; he doesn't squint this time.

“Much better. You'll notice when I twisted my cap around, my eyes shone. They brightened the room. They are useful for this, and for showing the Dead you are Alive. But don't go around glowing your eyes into everyone's faces. If they're truly Dead, they'll run from you. You're a hunter right now, that weed you smoke makes you so. That's why the meditation is important. You're a warrior, Dismus, but a holy warrior. This means you must be careful, you are the most susceptible to fall. This place may seem strange to you, but you have to understand that it is a reality. You are now in the subconscious world. Here, only those in touch with the subconscious control their actions.”

He takes off a rosary I hadn't noticed him wearing earlier.

“We pray this,” he says, “then, we go hunting.”

I stop him here.

“Maybe I'm just stoned, but what are we hunting?” I ask, rising to my feet. He rises also.

“I mean, I don't remember any of this being explained. I don't know what's going on here.”

“You fell. I found you, Dismus, in your weakened state, and pleaded for your life. God granted it, for you have the spirit of a great warrior. But if you don't fight for us now...”

He pulls a large pistol with a cross carved into the wood-grain handle from the waistband of his pants and points it in my face.

“...then I'm afraid I have no choice.”

I stare at the barrel. The devil was nicer than this. I am sure he's of God now. There is no room for fluff with God.

“More explanation,” I said, lowering the gun with my hand, “less threatening.”

“Sorry,” he smiles. “Just can't be too careful. But you're right.”

He puts the gun away.

“The worlds are divided, Dismus. The Living and the Dead walk side by side in your world, but in ours, this is how it is. The Living have their cities, the Dead have theirs. There are those like you—and me—who live in the outskirts, fighting the wars on the front-lines.”

I look at him again, and notice for the first time the scars on his face and arms. His jeans are more tattered than I had realized, and I realize now that so are mine. Both of our faces are smudged with dirt.
I look down at my hands; they are dirty too.

“The rosary is our greatest weapon on the surface, but here we use a little bit more imposing methods of demon suppression." His hand moves to the butt of his gun.

"If you die here, you die for good, but to die here you have to be left behind. I won't leave you, you don't leave me. I need you as much as you need me, Dismus. We're going to face many demons together and they are very powerful. Should I fall, pick me up. I will pick you up when you fall. The demons work on a different system. They have already fallen, and the ones we kill are more like recycled.”

I look into his eyes. He is looking into mine. I take the time to consider all that has happened in the past 12 hours. The devil still feels he has claim over my soul. But here, God is here offering me a chance to take it back by force. I look at the rosary in Max's hand, and kneel.

I accept, God.

He kneels next to me, and we pray. An overwhelming peace ensues, and twenty minutes later we rise. I look at him and can see his eyes are glowing brighter than before.

He picks up his bag, puts it on his back, and tightens the straps. I pick up my sling bag and throw it over my shoulder, tightening the strap to a comfortable height. He cocks his hat to the left again, and looks over at me. I pull my beanie down a little. My heart is racing. I have no idea what to expect. I'm entering the world for the first time.

“You will fight. Here,” he says, “and in your world. You will begin to see people for their true selves. Be prepared for the worst.”

I look at my feet.

How long will you keep going, little ones? How far will you travel before you are worn to the bone?

Hopefully far enough.

“Hey,” Max says, grabbing my arm. “Come back to me. Let's do this. Your shadow led them here. Can't you hear them?”

I could. For the first time, I noticed the whispers around the building. They were getting closer by the second. Some were becoming screams.

“The church, though abandoned, is the last place they'll look. But they will look here. You ready?”

I'm not. But I don't see any other choice. I speak for the first time in a while.

“In the famous words of Snoop Dogg, Max: 'Ain't nothin' to it but to do it.' ”

He smiles, his eyes glowing brighter than normal. The room brightens even more as my own excitement grows. He hands me a pistol and a couple of clips.

“Let's kill some demons.”

We slip into the recesses of the Church, and I promise God that if I make it through the night I will fight for him. I can only hope he is listening as the enemies' battle cries echo in and stab at our ears. I load and cock the gun, leaning against the wall opposite from Max. His eyes are closed, he must be praying too. The whispers have all become screams. I watch as each scream makes his closed eyes pinch together. His mouth moves silently.

The screams stop, replaced now by footsteps. Light footsteps. One set of footsteps.

“Disssssmusssss...” I hear a voice that sounds like my own, but the forked tongue effect is more obvious now that the voice isn't in my head.

“Silvertongue!” I yell, tearing down the hallway, Max close behind. “You twisted my mind you sonofabitch! You led the weakest of the sheep astray, and now you will feel my shepherd's hand!”

I burst through a doorway and come out behind Silvertongue. His shape is nothing I could have expected, and luckily I am the only one who is stopped by his appearance. I had expected something a little less... winged and beautiful. Max makes quick work of his kneecaps with the bat he has pulled from his pack, knocking them both out in one sweep from behind. Silvertongue screams out, and a knife from his sleeve finds Max's arm, leaving a large gash. Max drops the bat, and I push him to the side. I rip off my beanie and stare Silvertongue in the eyes, stepping on the hand that holds the knife. The light makes him cower more than his broken knees already do.

“Look at me in the eyes, Silvertongue. I know that you cannot die here, that you will merely reappear in your city, but when you do, I want you to remember the warning I pass on to you now.”

At this point I put the gun to his forehead.

“You and your gang torment the souls of my world, like children with magnifying glasses burning ants. Well I'm here to show you how bad an ant bite can sting.”

I turn the gun and shoot a hole through Silvertongue's shoulder. His face twists, but he doesn't cry out. Instead, he smiles. I shoot him again, twice in his stomach, once in his arm.

“Dismus," he laughs, blood gurgling in his throat, "we will never stop. I came alone, to give you a warning. We did like you, Dismus. We really did. It will grieve us all to have to dispose of you like any common riffraff,” 

At this he looks pointedly at Max.

“But you leave us no choice. Prepare then, Dismus, for the fight for your life. You may have won this hand, but the game is far from over, and you're holding a lot of chips. We'll see how long you survive.”

I shoot him in the head, sickened by his words and unwilling to hear any more. Blood covers the ground, and I look at Max. His arm is bleeding, but the wound doesn't look too deep. He sits down, pulling out his rosary. A look of total nonchalant covers his face.

“Next time, we should have a mild plan.”

“Yea, sorry about your arm there. I got excited.”

“I know. But learn to use that excitement the right way.”

“Hey, it's my first day. I'm learning.”

“You'll have to learn quick, tonight is only the beginning.”

We pray another rosary in thanksgiving. We survived my first encounter, that was something to be grateful for. When I open my eyes, after twenty or so minutes, Max's arm is already looking pretty healed.

“God provides, bro.”

I laugh.

“God provides.”

I yawn, and Max turns to me.

“You've taken in a lot. Go to sleep here, wake up in your world. You are strong, Dismus.”

He lights up a cigarette, and I lie down, ready to wake up.

“We'll see each other again,” he says, “We're going to change the world.”



I never wrote more, but if I get inspired again sometime in the near future I may write another night in the city.

A Tease

This one is a short story that I had planned on elongating, but I never did. I called it a tease because I had hoped that more would be following, but it ended up existing as its own entity.

-from 8/4/09

Part I

"Challenged", within which I make bad choices.

Colors brighten; the cartoons begin to leave their glowing boxes. I will never close my eyes again. The cigarette pack is melting into my pants, the carpet is splashing up against my sneakers. This distracts me from the onslaught of creatures pouring out of my television set. When I can, I stand.

"Cigarette outside?"

I hope they follow, but I will not wait. Suddenly I am outside with the fresh air and moonbeam rainbows, but I can't breathe anymore. My lungs gave up about ten minutes ago. My intestines want out, and my skin wants in.

Is this it?

I'm watching the war. The shadows and the highlights are killing each other in my grass at the edge of my porch. The hooded man standing in the shadows tells me of the giant set of teeth in the sky. It attacks the stars. I can't understand the man's facial contortions, but his thick smoke signals imply he's smiling. I believe he commands these forces.

I need to go inside.

The bathroom wants to talk. I shed my jacket with the first door, my shirt with the second. Inside the carnival, I try to tell the man in the twisting mirror to slow it down. His eyes are closed; he says he can do nothing. He tells me if he opens them things will end. He turns into a cloud and then explodes with all the sounds of the rainbow. The walls and toilet are spinning in their raindances. They demand sacrifice.

This is it.

The lights twinkle and dance around my head. I climb inside a giant ceramic bowl and it is here that I fight death to the life. When I wake up I'll find my clothes.

Twenty years pass before I can stand again. I'm off to find the living room.

Now the carpet fiber choir wants to tell me how to live my life. The plastic tubes in dirt taunt me and laugh at my hands while the coffee table smoke stacks produce products for the devil. I hate the television. The carpet ocean becomes Persian, and I hear myself laugh.

The floor is alive with the sound of music!

It's becoming dark. I will be gone soon. From the other side of the couch, the cigarette of the man with a face of putty stretches out to get me. Its cherry burns the air in front of my nose and I can hear it whine as it shrinks away in smoke. A tremor rocks the boat. My body floats up and I suddenly lose my place on the map.

Again? I hear.

A small smile curls my lip.

Hit me with your best shot.



Part II

"Awakened", within which a night has passed, and we learn about being careful what you wish for.

One second is darkness. The next is light.

"Ow... Ow..." My muttered pain trails off into silence as I straighten out the cricks in my neck. My face is crushed against something.

Where...

My eyes burn as they peel open. I look all around but I can see nothing but light.

"Ow..."

I squint, and as my eyes adjust to the light, I begin to recognize my apartment's floor sprawled out around my face.

That's closer than I remember leaving it last night.

I drag my arms together and push the ground away from me. On my knees now, I scan the living room to assess the damage. The light pouring through the blinds is killing my eyes. The place is a mess. But the only new mess is the ashtray that was spilled last night.

Last night. The 2C-I. I'm supposed to be dead.

Am I dead? No wait, I'm not dead. I'm alive? I survived?

"Oh that's fantastic!" My last thought goes vocal, and I become suddenly very aware of my sore throat.

Well, that's not.

I need water. I have to get off my knees. This becomes more of a problem than I had previously anticipated. My legs are made of jelly.

Water becomes Cocoa Puffs, and fifteen minutes go by on the couch. I sit with my eyes wide open, my mind is racing as my mouth is chewing.

I'm losing my mind. I'm losing my mind. I'm losing my mind.

The source of my worry lies on the table in front of me. It is a small composition notebook filled with near incoherent ramblings about a curse, a gift, and a mission. The rant wouldn't worry me so much had it not been in my handwriting.

Shit, I think to myself as I read over it. I've lost my mind.



Part III

"Written", within which a voice is heard for the first time, and a destiny is laid out.

You have eaten the fruit of the forbidden tree and set me free. For this we will die. We have been gifted, however, with the knowledge of good and evil, but this gift is also a curse in many regards. Our life will be difficult, and our death will most likely be welcomed by the time it comes. But before it does, we will have the opportunity to change the world.

Face our demons. Stop running from the opportunities at greatness with which I present us. The consequences of your inaction will eventually outweigh the rewards of your actions.

Change the world. I will accept nothing less. You will accept nothing less.

A Short Narrative

 I wrote this on a greyhound bus trip. It's a short narrative from when I stopped at a McDonald's in Houston, TX. I enjoyed it, but never turned it into anything longer, so here it is. A short narrative.

-from 4/09

The ice cold rain bites my face like steel nails. The wind whips me like a slave. Above the tall buildings hang thick black clouds, and above them sits a pale white moon and some scattered stars. It is five minutes 'til two.

Left. Right. Left. Right. I am wet and cold. Left. Right. Left. Right. One foot in front of the other, I just have to put one foot in front of the other. If only they weren't made of lead.

I relight my cigarette for the third time. Puffs of white smoke escape my tired mouth. They are torn to shreds by the driving wind. Holding the cigarette in my hand backwards to shield it from the rain, I walk up to the dimly lit window of McDonald's. The lobby would be closed at this hour, but their 24 hour "walk-up" window wouldn't be. So I knock at the glass and wait.

Suddenly, a voice says from behind me, "Excuse me, sir, can you spare a dollar? I haven't eaten all day, and I probably won't eat tomorrow. Can't you spare me some change?"

He was just the first of many bums to approach me in this big city.

I took a drag of my cigarette and let the smoke fill my lungs. I could feel the nicotine bonding to the Oxycontin flooding my blood stream, and my pupils dilate. I'm buzzing now.

"Sure, man, I can help you out." I give him all my change. It was eighty-four cents. "Good luck, man."

"God bless you, sir," he says, and turns away from me.

I turn back around and knock at the glass. I could only be patient for so long.

"Come on," I whispered, "I'll be all out of money before I even order."

I look behind me to see the bum disappear into the rain. God it's really coming down out there.

A shiver shakes my body to the core.

"Come on..."

A pale sad face appears behind the glass. The one overhead light accents his deep set eyes that hang lazily over dark purple bags. Sleep was not this man's friend. Amongst the wrinkles I find his slit of the mouth. It opens.

"Can I help you?"

I order.

"4.29," he disappears back into the pitch black lobby.

I shake my hair and water goes everywhere. I take another drag of my cigarette and turn around. Closing my eyes, I let the smoke snake through my pipes and lungs, slowly letting it slither out of my nose and half opened mouth. I'm buzzing pretty hard.

When I open my eyes she is standing in front of me, eying the cigarette greedily. When she notices my eyes are open again she approaches me, coming out of the driving rain to stand under the awning, her back against the glass window.

"Mighty late for a young man to be out in a city like this," she said, "unless of course, that young man was lookin' for trouble."

When I look at her she's turned to face me.

"You lookin' for trouble?"

Completely taken aback by this mysterious black lady with the shopping cart, I do the only thing I can think of. I pull out my pack of Newports, flip the top, and offer one to her.

"Smoke?"

She takes the cigarette from me, and I light it for her. I wait for her to ask for money. Or food. Something. Anything. The silence is killing me. But she doesn't make a sound, she just smokes the cigarette and gives me another stare.

"Stay out of trouble," is all she says, and she leaves. She leaves without asking for money or food; hell, even the cigarette I gave her she didn't ask for. I guess she just wanted the company.

The sad man in the window appears with my food. I pay him and take the bag. Remaining under the awning and out of the rain, I toss my cigarette and open the bag of food. I eat some fries. I eat some cheeseburger. I eat some more fries.

It is so cold I can see my breath.

17

Here's another classic writing. Obviously I've grown a year.

-from 5/24/07

I buy candy every time i go into a gas station. Every time. I sometimes stop by gas stations just to get candy. I like to sleep. Cereal can make up every meal of the day. I still pout when i don't get window seat. From time to time, I really enjoy sitting on the playroom floor and building with legos. I still hit inanimate objects back when i stub a toe or bump my head. I also apologize to inanimate objects if I feel I've wronged them. I have a multicolored rolly backpack full of stuffed animals underneath my desk, way in the back where nobody can see. I'm still convinced the hour hand will not move if you watch it. I'm still a kid. I'm just 17.

I've used a college ID and flirtation to buy cigarettes. I've smoked more than my share of pot. Hell, I've climbed on top of billboards to smoke where everyone could see. I still have the video to prove it. I've taken many a prescription pill when I wasn't supposed to. I've skated where there are No Skating signs, and loitered where there are No Loitering signs. I've lived up to the sex-obsessed image of the teens of today. I've had 3 jobs. I've had 3 cars. I've driven 115 miles an hour. I could be prosecuted as an adult for a lot of the things that I have done. I'm a "young adult". I'm 17.



Now it's 1 in the morning and I can't sleep.
I found my laptop that I broke last year and it just reminded me of how I've done such stupid things when I'm angry. And that got me to thinking about how I'll be out on my own next year. But I don't know if I'm adult enough for that.
I can't decide.

Candy or Cigarettes?
To be honest, I like both.
I suppose I'll decide whether to grow up or not next year.
After all, 17 is still in both categories.

inspired

This is a note I wrote when I was sixteen. It's not perfect, but it's an example of how a younger me wrote.

-from 8/8/06

i was in an inspired mood,
due to two special peoples,
so, i wrote down the following on the back of a receipt (more or less), so as not to forget it.
so here goes...

on the way to church today i saw an old man standing in his yard with the sprinkler on and looking very confused.
i believe this to be a metaphor for life.
the old man is like us, humanity as a whole.
he is old, as humanity is,
he is wrinkly, and humanity is not flawless.
then there's the yard and it's relationship to the man,
it's like the universe--much larger than the man,
and when mowing a lawn, it seems as if it has no definite ends.
the yard is also like the past,
giving us firm foundation to stand upon.
the sprinkler spraying water is like today's society.
it's fluid, but more than that,
it's completely random within a certain limit.
for, you can predict where the water will land in relation to the area it will water,
but you cannot tell each individual drop of water which blade of grass to bathe.
this randomness within confines pretty much defines society today.
because yes,
originality is not a real definite idea,
but more of a personal concept,
very much like the way the range of the sprinkler means that every blade of grass will get wet,
but when the drop of water hits the grass and rolls down,
it sinks into the dirt below,
to be sucked up by the roots.
the grass is now only slightly damp, until the next drop of water hits it.
your idea, my idea, everyone's idea, has hit someone else at some point.
but because they are most likely not around anymore,
the idea has become dull and switches to backburners of society,
not completely forgotten,
for it's still there in a small part at our roots,
but the idea only comes back into the world full force again by slapping a new person in the face.
and then there's also the splash that a drop of water makes if it hits the blade of grass at an angle.
it dampens the one blade,
and then hits another full force,
only to repeat the cycle of sliding down to the dirts and the roots.
this is like when one person has a part of an idea,
but not the whole concept.
when the next person comes along and learns of their slight knowledge,
the concept then comes to them,
and though they can claim a certain amount of originality and brilliance,
a small part of the idea was already planted in another man's head.
and then the last part of my not original yet original metaphor--
the man's confused look.
well,
i don't understand this life,
and i don't pretend to.
i'm just completely dumbstruck by the whole thing.
pardon me if my jaw goes a little slack.