Books, Short Stories, and Poetry
Dwynn Murphy stepped into a candle-lit room and was instantly flooded with a mixture of emotions so acute in their dissimilarities that she nearly collapsed. The full brunt of her mission's purpose was finally weighing on her heart. From the corner of her eye she noticed the man, hands... Continue Reading →
I could get him down here with me. For that's what all pitiful people do, from the drunk, to the addict, to the miserably lonely. They tug and pull and drag those around them down into the pit where they reside. They beg and plead and lie and pretend until their prey is caught, until there is another in their dark room to share in the torture that is the bitter, empty, hollow captivity that they have erected about themselves. Escape is not attainable, but commiseration is.
Sean continued to navigate the truck through winding suburban streets, thickly settled but thickly wooded. Each home sat close to the street, bordered by juniper shrubs and uneven sidewalks. Behind them, sprawling yards remained brown-yellow from a long winter, while towering black pines appeared brilliantly green next to the bear slender arms of oaks, maples, and walnuts.
"Yes, the great Elizabeth!" Dwynn said mockingly as she stood up. She then began striding about her sister with the composure and pomp of an empress, embracing an invisible scepter and waving to an imaginary crowd. "The more I see of the world," she decreed in a lofty tone, "the more I am dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters." She stepped backwards to the chair, faltering in her steps until she dramatically flopped into the seat where she had begun her melodramatic performance. "It is unaccountable!" she said breathing heavily with a forearm across her brow. "In every view...unaccountable!"
Similarly did a group of teens seek shelter beneath the awning of a convenience store in the next town. They blew grey cigarette smoke out into the air while cursing the rain and their parents and life itself in godforsaken obscurity. Surely, no two towns were exactly alike, but mile after mile, Corey found one local custom remarkably consistent: staring. Gawking, squinting, leering, with tilted heads and mouths agape, the natives postured at the sight of the foreign wagon rolling through their neighborhood. It was as though a silent alarm had been raised, and like wild things did they clamber to windows and draw back their hoods and cease their conversations to address the intruder in their territory.
The audience collectively gaped in terror at the explosion of blood and bone. All but one of the onlookers scurried away like rodents, and pressed their backs to the farthest wall as Johns sauntered by, cleaning his crimson-stained hands with a handkerchief. At the end of the line of empty stools, one old man still sat quietly at the bar, smirking as he gazed blankly into his mug of beer.
Somewhere deep within the border of South Carolina there grows a terrible jungle. It is comprised primarily of a handful of wild, spirited, blades of grass and knee-high clumps of innocuous clover. But within this suburban amazon grows a nefarious weed. Surely of alien origins, the hideous vine stretches and writhes its way across a patch of earth no bigger than a dining room.
She opened her eyes and solemnly folded her hands upon her lap. "These are the signs of the End of Times, ladies - that false prophets should strike the name of God from our vocabulary, and cause our people to follow the teachings and whims of mere men and false idols. Do not be fooled. Guard your minds from such teachings, lest their temptations lead to your demise. Yes, dear ones, safeguard your minds, safeguard your children. And when the Lord calls upon you to act as his instrument of purification, do not hesitate, but rather answer the call with a willing spirit and a righteous heart."
The setting sun lit the clouds a fiery pink and orange. The trees and taller London structures that comprised the city skyline were silhouetted black against the burning sky. The air was crisp and carried a fragrant scent, uncharacteristic for the smoky metropolis. This evening was truly one for the London annals - an evening worthy of remembrance.
My father didn't say a word as he switched from tool to tool to get just the right bend on a piece of metal. On his knees before the patio door, he snipped and clipped and crimped until the long strip of aluminum at last matched the profile of the wall. My father was meticulous in his craft. I stood beside him, equally silent, and handed him each new implement like a nurse aiding an ingenious surgeon.