- Moonshine
The wind softly shrieks to be let in for the night,
But the cold steals all feeling from your shriveling limbs,
The wood briefly speaks for mercy from God,
Inside of the forgotten house on the lake.
The moon cogently brings life to the water,
But the waves still try to rip themselves from the depths,
The trees gratingly sing callous cawings and cries,
All which is gated by great, looming mountains.
The man painfully steals another swig from his bottle,
As he lays under the window in the dusty, dark attic,
His pain achingly feels as if it’s being ignored,
And doesn’t even bother to return anymore.
The house incessantly groans as the sky comes in closer,
And the moon’s heartless stare barrels down like mortar fire.
The wind endlessly moans like an unattended child,
Who had to face the truth many years too soon.
The moon solemnly peaks through the grimy old window,
To see a man sprawled out like a doll on the floor,
The liquor damningly leaks from the mouth of the bottle,
As death lies motionless in a flood of moonshine.
- Sins Of Morning
Sometimes I cannot help but dream
Of horrid things that to me seem,
Ghost no sane man should ever see,
Like ill specters which never rest,
And as my heart pounds in my chest,
I hold my breath, unendingly.
I can feel their heinous presence,
As I predict painful events,
Filled with punishment and scorning,
I know my soul will never rise,
My pasture’s brown, with cloudy skies,
Retribution for sins of morning.
Sometimes I pray I wake up dead,
Or find my innocence instead,
There’s a war of shame and pride,
But guilt is easier to fight,
When the sun scares off the night,
Until then I can only hide.
- A Writer's Night
There is a place that I call home,
Where I drink and write myself this poem,
But I fear I will begin to roam,
And become these words which line my tome.
I fear I do not have the heart,
To dissect, lie-let, and tear apart,
Every soul that passes by,
Please tell me, Lord, where do I start?
I sit at home, curl up, and type,
These putrid thoughts once they are ripe,
They make me sad, though when I shun,
Their absence pains me even more.
Is it like booze, and when abandoned,
Festers in your head for years,
And though the pain takes long to numb,
The freedom is its own reward?
Can words cause such a same reaction?
Forcing your hurt into two factions,
One which weeps the words they've written,
One which mourns those I've forgotten.
And as I see before my eyes,
A spectacle of insane flies,
And though we judge them so unkindly,
We never judge the one that cries.
So as I sit, my muscles tight,
Thinking, as I wait for the light,
Of those I spin, and words I fight,
And how I judge their petty plight,
Of my want to jump and just take flight,
My hate of joy, never too slight,
I threw out love for words that bite,
I forced my way to a new height,
So high, I feel I lost my sight,
All that I see is black and white,
This drink being my sole delight,
Please tell me, Lord, is this all right?
Where is the love in a writer's long night?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Glass Eyes
Ned Tanner slammed his fists violently against his desk. The wood felt freezing against his hands, and his breath was short and staggered. Billows of mist drifted from his lips, and the hairs on his skin stood out sharply, creating goose bumps on along his arms. The cold was uncomfortable for some, unbearable for most, but still streaks of sweat trickled down his forehead, sliding past his chin and splashing silently on the carpeted floor. Ned paid no attention to such worldly concerns as the temperature, the gnawing hunger building in his gut, or even the fact that the moon was his only source of light. His attention remained solely on the typewriter in front of him, and the single line of text sitting mockingly at the top of the page.
Ned was stuck. He never got stuck. This wasn’t simple writer’s block, but an almost painful feeling of stagnation. The words flowed smoothly enough, at first, but suddenly they stopped. He could hear the words, sense them, feel their eagerness to lay themselves neatly and organized in the way he sought fit. Yet still, they hid just behind his fingertips, waiting idly by, tantalizing him with their lyrical beauty but refusing to be finalized. No, this was far worse than mere writer’s block, this was a linguistic cock tease, giving forth but a small taste and leaving the rest to be taken forcefully. And if they wanted to be taken out by force, then by God, Ned was damn sure willing to do it. They did not know who they were messing with, or to what extent he would go to complete his work once started.
He stood up, facing the open window which allowed the cold in completely unhindered. The woods were matted in a fresh layer of virgin snow, untouched by any animal or human tracks. The trees were all but barren, besides a thick layer of white powder, which caused the branches to bow and sag. The moon shone brightly in the starless sky. Even in the intense light, however, the snow held a gloomy gray hue, dispersing a melancholy mood throughout the forest beyond the estate. All in all, the scene was a drab one. Ned slammed the window down quickly and strongly, becoming enveloped in echoes as it crashed into its frame. As if choking out a dying breath, the air pushed away by the slamming window fluttered Ned’s baggy blue T-Shirt. The denim in his jeans, however, remained as still as the forest beyond him.
With a quick motion, Ned turned himself around. On the walls were numerous prizes he had collected hunting in the wilderness. Two bucks stood on lookout, positioned at both sides of the door, which led into the hallway. A northern spotted owl sat stiffly on its plastic perch, its body facing the center of the room, but its head looked off towards the wall on its left. A wedge-tailed eagle sat on the opposite wall of the owl, looking up proudly at some nonexistent figure in the sky. In the corner, to the right of the door, sat a still-stalking fox, standing silently on a small, thin display table. The fox’s prey was lucky that Ned had been equipped with his rifle at that particular moment. The prey should also have been happy that Ned didn’t see him, too.
None of these, however, gave Ned as much pleasure in slaying than the large moose, whose head was mounted on the wall directly opposite the door. His glass eyes stared directly at the entrance, and its impressive size cast a large shadow whenever the sun shined through the window. Ned took the beast’s life when he was on a trip in Maine. The moose stood miles above his head, and Ned was slightly concerned he would not go down in the first shot. But, of course, it collapsed just like the others, only making a far louder crash as it landed. The most difficult part was getting him into his truck and returning home to get it mounted.
Angrily, Ned moved himself towards the single door. There were only three pieces of furniture in the entire room, his solitary work desk, the cold, wooden chair he did his work in, and the table the Fox was perched. This allowed his exit to be completely unimpeded by any annoying décor.
Ned could feel the incredible coldness of the brass doorknob as he grasped it, sending a shiver down his spine. Unknowingly, Ned nervously glanced at both deer head which held guard at the door. He tried to shake off the strange feeling of uneasiness which the deer had brought on. It was unusual, since Ned has always felt nothing but accomplishment looking at his murdered trophies. Maybe it was the way the moonlight so eerily reflected off of their opaque, black eyes, or maybe the effect of the freezing cold on Ned’s already tightly wound nerves, or it could be the tension brought about by Ned’s sudden and seemingly irreversible writer’s block. Whatever it was, Ned couldn’t help but look back and forth at them, and their stark, sullen glass eyes, the reflection they held so forebodingly; the way the seemed to look at nothing and everything at the same time.
With a turn of his wrist and a powerful pull backwards, Ned swung the wooden door open, revealing a long hallway. The floor was hard-wood, and with each metronomic step, an echoing thud rang throughout the hall. To his right was a doorway, which led into his and his wife, Samantha’s, room. She lay naked in a twisted mess of sheets. She slowly lifted her head up, and opened her eyes.
Groggily, she asked, “Are you comin’ to bed, hun?”
Ned stared sharply into her eyes, “No. I’m going to get a drink, then I’m going back to work.”
She smiled seductively at Ned, but her eyes seemed blank and uninterested. Almost black, Ned thought.
“Come on. You’ve been workin’ on that stupid thing for so long, and I’ve been feeling so lonely.” She then looked towards the ground and brought her lower lip into a childish pout.
Ned turned and punched the open door, sending it smashing into the wall. Samantha let out a quiet yelp, like a hurt puppy.
“I’m sorry if you think the thing that pays for this whole goddamn house is stupid to you, Sammy, but some of us give a fuck about where we end up. And maybe if you gave me and my work some goddamn respect, I wouldn’t get so fucking frustrated!”
Her face was pinched back, in a nervous anxiousness, but her eyes were still black, still glossy, still dead. This just made Ned even more enraged. The least she could do is try and look sorry.
“And another thing, you worthless slut, what makes you think I even want to get into that bed with you? Good Lord, woman, you’ve gained at least twenty pounds since we got married, and you think you’ve got the imperative, hell, the fucking right to try and denounce my work? Insult me when all I want to do is bring money into this household so you can continue shoving your face full of food, ‘til your gut looks like a fucking beach ball!”
Samantha began to sob, and tears began to pour from her eyes and create a stain on the rumpled sheets. Her breath came in short, rasping whoops as she continued to weep. Ned stomped into the room, and slammed the door shut. An echo ran throughout the entire house, down the hallway, and into Ned’s workspace. And, waiting in silence, the animals didn’t move. If they could have, though, they would have been glaring.
And scheming.
Ned sat at the table, with a cold glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Three glasses of scotch rested comfortable in his stomach, with a fourth still in hand. Two ice cubes sat calmly in the liquid. They were slowly starting to melt, and condensation was building on the outsides of the glass. The kitchen lights were painfully bright, but Ned was afraid to turn them down.
Ned shakily brought up the cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, and then let it out. Smoke came out in a large billow, and dissipated quickly in the air. He couldn’t bear to look at his hands, though they still ached powerfully, not after what they had done to her. They were cruel, cruel in their impatience, cruel in their lyrical stagnation, cruel in their blamelessness.
He got up, slowly, and walked towards the sink. He raised the still-full glass, and released it. Glass and scotch flew everywhere. Ned began to walk back towards the stair, which led to the hallway with the bedroom and workroom. Each step seemed to creak and moan as he made his way upward. The wood seemed to bend and sag under his weight in a way he had never felt before.
Finally, he made his way to the hallway. He originally planned on going to the bedroom, in hopes of somehow mending the situation he had dug himself in, but in place of a conscious found a voice urging him it was useless. Besides, he was well past drunk, and he often did and said very stupid things when he was truly wasted.
When he reached the bedroom, he found it to be closed, and took it as a bad omen. He meant to try and open it to peek inside, but nearly involuntarily, he continued onward into his work room. He reached down and grabbed the doorknob, and walked into the freezing room.
His heart raced, and he stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze was transfixed on the moose, still mounted on the opposite wall. Only, the moment Ned walked in, he noticed something in his eye, almost a flicker of light, but more than a simple reflection. For a brief moment, Ned felt almost as if he were alive again, just as real as that faithful day in Maine where he had originally slaughtered the beast. And now, he felt just as terribly large, and just as awe-inspiring as that day, too. He had caught Ned off-guard, but he desperately called it off as no more than hallucination brought upon by his drink. Nervously, he proceeded further into the room.
Sitting on his work desk was his typewriter, and Ned sat down in front of it.
And still, it had but a single line of text, and he could not add a mere syllable to it. He yelled in frustration, and pushed the typewriter backwards almost a foot and a half. He stood up and kicked the chair over, and quickly made his way out of the room. Again, though, his attention was brought to the two buck standing guard at the door. Only this time, they honestly seemed to be standing on guard, and an aura of determination and meaning seemed to irradiate from their well groomed fur. As Ned turned and slammed the door, he caught one final fleeting glimpse at the beast. And this time, Ned could have sworn he saw him staring straight at him. No, not just staring, glaring at him.
Shaking much more noticeably now, Ned nearly walked by the bedroom again. But, something caused him to stop dead in his tracks. It sounded almost like a squawk, like a bird call or something similar. It jump started his already racing heart, and Ned felt like he needed to go in there. Maybe just to be with someone, because honestly, he was scared shitless.
He opened the door and stepped in nervously, and halted. The formerly white sheets were now stained a ghastly red, and the remains of his wife were laid messily across the bed. She looked as if she had been ripped apart, splattering blood all across the room. Her face was still twisted in a farce, unmoving cry, and her neck was bent at an unsightly angle. Ned immediately lurched forward, and his stomach began to twist and turn, but eventually regained some stillness.
In a mess on the floor was the phone, with blood smears on the headpiece, laying lazily off the hook directly under Samantha’s hand. It was almost the scariest thing in the entire room, and Ned had no reason why he should connect that phone with anything ill-boding. He ran out of the gruesome scene, knowing the culprit must still be in the house. He couldn’t have left out the front, since the only way out was
past the kitchen, so that left but one place for him to be.
Ned sprinted down the hall and reached the workroom. The brass knob felt freezing against his bare skin, and almost caused him to pause. But, still, he
twisted the knob and pulled open the door.
Immediately, he was greeted with a barrage of sounds. He heard painful squawking of some hell-sent bird, and the low grumbling of something lurking in the corner. He looked to his left and saw the buck, but now he wasn’t just staring at him, but twisting his head to look at him, a fiery leer in his eyes. He spun around quickly and saw the other buck, following his movement with robot exactness. On the walls, the eagle and owl with squawking harshly, and flapping their wings as if their bodies were again filled with blood and bone.
Ned began to back away, a look of utter terror on his face, but tripped over something on the floor, falling backwards and landed violently on his back. He looked down and saw the fox, far from his resting place on the display table, stalking about the ground, staring directly into Ned’s wide eyes. He tried to stand up, but failed on the first attempt. On the second try, however, he managed to keep his balance, but looked upon the beast on the wall.
He was twisting his great neck, almost as thick as a tree trunk, thrashing back and forth, with great billows of steam shooting from his nostrils. Slowly, the head began moving forward. The walls began to groan, and eventually crack. A spider web of fractures shot out from the beast. Ned let out a horrific scream, and outside, he could hear something a loud whine, almost like a siren, and something smashing down the door.
Then, as the wall finally gave way, and one great hoof emerged from the gaping hole, Ned reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a knife, which he had somehow known was always there. Through nothing but pure instinct, he ran forward, and with a great leap, brought the knife down between the eyes of the great beast. Somewhere, closer, seemingly at the end of the hall, he heard another door break down, and great footsteps coming closer.
Using only his weight, he dragged the knife slowly down the face of the beast. Blood poured from the wound, and covered Ned’s hands and shirt, painting it a ghastly red. Finally, the skin of the beast gave way, and Ned fell down to the ground, landing on his feet.
Immediately, the door burst open, and three men, all armed with guns, stepped into the room. They all wore a blue uniform, and had an assortment of items strapped onto their belt.
“Put down the weapon!” cried one of them.
“Oh thank God you’re here,” said Ned, breaking down, “Please, my wife-“
“I said put it down or we’ll shoot!” he yelled again.
Ned looked strangely at him, and began to stutter, with tears streaming down his face, “No, the beast, it’s his blood, his!” He turned around to see the moose, attached solidly to the wall, with a tear going down the front. Bits of white stuffing stuck out, and some rested on the floor below it. To his left and right, the birds sat quietly on watch, and the two deer continued on with their motionless guarding.
“Last chance, drop it or we’ll shoot!” the police officer barked.
Ned fell to his knees and dropped to the clean floor. He was sobbing like a child, with snot running down his nose. One of the men grabbed him, cuffed him, and he and another officer pulled him out of the room to the hallway, and eventually into the back of a cruiser.
The one standing officer stood alone in the freezing room. He walked up towards the window, and looked outside. It was freezing cold in here, and he thought maybe the crazy bastard had left the window open. It didn’t matter now, though.
He slammed it shut.
He walked back up towards the work desk, and looked down at the typewriter. He read the top of the page.
“Good God, this guy was a regular nut-job.”
With a scoff, he turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He got into his cruiser in the front, and drove off. Eventually, a coroner arrived to take the body of Samantha to the morgue. A for-sale sign was put out front by one of Samantha’s sisters. The sheets in the bedroom were removed, but never replaced, and the phone, which was used to call the police, was thrown into the trash. The sun rose, and the sun set, and the snow melted before fresh snow fell back down from the sky. But all the while, the animals sat silently, whether on their perch or contently on the wall. They never twitched, never blinked, and never breathed, but never did they forget what was written upon the single sheet of paper so long ago.
Ned was stuck. He never got stuck. This wasn’t simple writer’s block, but an almost painful feeling of stagnation. The words flowed smoothly enough, at first, but suddenly they stopped. He could hear the words, sense them, feel their eagerness to lay themselves neatly and organized in the way he sought fit. Yet still, they hid just behind his fingertips, waiting idly by, tantalizing him with their lyrical beauty but refusing to be finalized. No, this was far worse than mere writer’s block, this was a linguistic cock tease, giving forth but a small taste and leaving the rest to be taken forcefully. And if they wanted to be taken out by force, then by God, Ned was damn sure willing to do it. They did not know who they were messing with, or to what extent he would go to complete his work once started.
He stood up, facing the open window which allowed the cold in completely unhindered. The woods were matted in a fresh layer of virgin snow, untouched by any animal or human tracks. The trees were all but barren, besides a thick layer of white powder, which caused the branches to bow and sag. The moon shone brightly in the starless sky. Even in the intense light, however, the snow held a gloomy gray hue, dispersing a melancholy mood throughout the forest beyond the estate. All in all, the scene was a drab one. Ned slammed the window down quickly and strongly, becoming enveloped in echoes as it crashed into its frame. As if choking out a dying breath, the air pushed away by the slamming window fluttered Ned’s baggy blue T-Shirt. The denim in his jeans, however, remained as still as the forest beyond him.
With a quick motion, Ned turned himself around. On the walls were numerous prizes he had collected hunting in the wilderness. Two bucks stood on lookout, positioned at both sides of the door, which led into the hallway. A northern spotted owl sat stiffly on its plastic perch, its body facing the center of the room, but its head looked off towards the wall on its left. A wedge-tailed eagle sat on the opposite wall of the owl, looking up proudly at some nonexistent figure in the sky. In the corner, to the right of the door, sat a still-stalking fox, standing silently on a small, thin display table. The fox’s prey was lucky that Ned had been equipped with his rifle at that particular moment. The prey should also have been happy that Ned didn’t see him, too.
None of these, however, gave Ned as much pleasure in slaying than the large moose, whose head was mounted on the wall directly opposite the door. His glass eyes stared directly at the entrance, and its impressive size cast a large shadow whenever the sun shined through the window. Ned took the beast’s life when he was on a trip in Maine. The moose stood miles above his head, and Ned was slightly concerned he would not go down in the first shot. But, of course, it collapsed just like the others, only making a far louder crash as it landed. The most difficult part was getting him into his truck and returning home to get it mounted.
Angrily, Ned moved himself towards the single door. There were only three pieces of furniture in the entire room, his solitary work desk, the cold, wooden chair he did his work in, and the table the Fox was perched. This allowed his exit to be completely unimpeded by any annoying décor.
Ned could feel the incredible coldness of the brass doorknob as he grasped it, sending a shiver down his spine. Unknowingly, Ned nervously glanced at both deer head which held guard at the door. He tried to shake off the strange feeling of uneasiness which the deer had brought on. It was unusual, since Ned has always felt nothing but accomplishment looking at his murdered trophies. Maybe it was the way the moonlight so eerily reflected off of their opaque, black eyes, or maybe the effect of the freezing cold on Ned’s already tightly wound nerves, or it could be the tension brought about by Ned’s sudden and seemingly irreversible writer’s block. Whatever it was, Ned couldn’t help but look back and forth at them, and their stark, sullen glass eyes, the reflection they held so forebodingly; the way the seemed to look at nothing and everything at the same time.
With a turn of his wrist and a powerful pull backwards, Ned swung the wooden door open, revealing a long hallway. The floor was hard-wood, and with each metronomic step, an echoing thud rang throughout the hall. To his right was a doorway, which led into his and his wife, Samantha’s, room. She lay naked in a twisted mess of sheets. She slowly lifted her head up, and opened her eyes.
Groggily, she asked, “Are you comin’ to bed, hun?”
Ned stared sharply into her eyes, “No. I’m going to get a drink, then I’m going back to work.”
She smiled seductively at Ned, but her eyes seemed blank and uninterested. Almost black, Ned thought.
“Come on. You’ve been workin’ on that stupid thing for so long, and I’ve been feeling so lonely.” She then looked towards the ground and brought her lower lip into a childish pout.
Ned turned and punched the open door, sending it smashing into the wall. Samantha let out a quiet yelp, like a hurt puppy.
“I’m sorry if you think the thing that pays for this whole goddamn house is stupid to you, Sammy, but some of us give a fuck about where we end up. And maybe if you gave me and my work some goddamn respect, I wouldn’t get so fucking frustrated!”
Her face was pinched back, in a nervous anxiousness, but her eyes were still black, still glossy, still dead. This just made Ned even more enraged. The least she could do is try and look sorry.
“And another thing, you worthless slut, what makes you think I even want to get into that bed with you? Good Lord, woman, you’ve gained at least twenty pounds since we got married, and you think you’ve got the imperative, hell, the fucking right to try and denounce my work? Insult me when all I want to do is bring money into this household so you can continue shoving your face full of food, ‘til your gut looks like a fucking beach ball!”
Samantha began to sob, and tears began to pour from her eyes and create a stain on the rumpled sheets. Her breath came in short, rasping whoops as she continued to weep. Ned stomped into the room, and slammed the door shut. An echo ran throughout the entire house, down the hallway, and into Ned’s workspace. And, waiting in silence, the animals didn’t move. If they could have, though, they would have been glaring.
And scheming.
Ned sat at the table, with a cold glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Three glasses of scotch rested comfortable in his stomach, with a fourth still in hand. Two ice cubes sat calmly in the liquid. They were slowly starting to melt, and condensation was building on the outsides of the glass. The kitchen lights were painfully bright, but Ned was afraid to turn them down.
Ned shakily brought up the cigarette to his lips, inhaled deeply, and then let it out. Smoke came out in a large billow, and dissipated quickly in the air. He couldn’t bear to look at his hands, though they still ached powerfully, not after what they had done to her. They were cruel, cruel in their impatience, cruel in their lyrical stagnation, cruel in their blamelessness.
He got up, slowly, and walked towards the sink. He raised the still-full glass, and released it. Glass and scotch flew everywhere. Ned began to walk back towards the stair, which led to the hallway with the bedroom and workroom. Each step seemed to creak and moan as he made his way upward. The wood seemed to bend and sag under his weight in a way he had never felt before.
Finally, he made his way to the hallway. He originally planned on going to the bedroom, in hopes of somehow mending the situation he had dug himself in, but in place of a conscious found a voice urging him it was useless. Besides, he was well past drunk, and he often did and said very stupid things when he was truly wasted.
When he reached the bedroom, he found it to be closed, and took it as a bad omen. He meant to try and open it to peek inside, but nearly involuntarily, he continued onward into his work room. He reached down and grabbed the doorknob, and walked into the freezing room.
His heart raced, and he stopped dead in his tracks. His gaze was transfixed on the moose, still mounted on the opposite wall. Only, the moment Ned walked in, he noticed something in his eye, almost a flicker of light, but more than a simple reflection. For a brief moment, Ned felt almost as if he were alive again, just as real as that faithful day in Maine where he had originally slaughtered the beast. And now, he felt just as terribly large, and just as awe-inspiring as that day, too. He had caught Ned off-guard, but he desperately called it off as no more than hallucination brought upon by his drink. Nervously, he proceeded further into the room.
Sitting on his work desk was his typewriter, and Ned sat down in front of it.
And still, it had but a single line of text, and he could not add a mere syllable to it. He yelled in frustration, and pushed the typewriter backwards almost a foot and a half. He stood up and kicked the chair over, and quickly made his way out of the room. Again, though, his attention was brought to the two buck standing guard at the door. Only this time, they honestly seemed to be standing on guard, and an aura of determination and meaning seemed to irradiate from their well groomed fur. As Ned turned and slammed the door, he caught one final fleeting glimpse at the beast. And this time, Ned could have sworn he saw him staring straight at him. No, not just staring, glaring at him.
Shaking much more noticeably now, Ned nearly walked by the bedroom again. But, something caused him to stop dead in his tracks. It sounded almost like a squawk, like a bird call or something similar. It jump started his already racing heart, and Ned felt like he needed to go in there. Maybe just to be with someone, because honestly, he was scared shitless.
He opened the door and stepped in nervously, and halted. The formerly white sheets were now stained a ghastly red, and the remains of his wife were laid messily across the bed. She looked as if she had been ripped apart, splattering blood all across the room. Her face was still twisted in a farce, unmoving cry, and her neck was bent at an unsightly angle. Ned immediately lurched forward, and his stomach began to twist and turn, but eventually regained some stillness.
In a mess on the floor was the phone, with blood smears on the headpiece, laying lazily off the hook directly under Samantha’s hand. It was almost the scariest thing in the entire room, and Ned had no reason why he should connect that phone with anything ill-boding. He ran out of the gruesome scene, knowing the culprit must still be in the house. He couldn’t have left out the front, since the only way out was
past the kitchen, so that left but one place for him to be.
Ned sprinted down the hall and reached the workroom. The brass knob felt freezing against his bare skin, and almost caused him to pause. But, still, he
twisted the knob and pulled open the door.
Immediately, he was greeted with a barrage of sounds. He heard painful squawking of some hell-sent bird, and the low grumbling of something lurking in the corner. He looked to his left and saw the buck, but now he wasn’t just staring at him, but twisting his head to look at him, a fiery leer in his eyes. He spun around quickly and saw the other buck, following his movement with robot exactness. On the walls, the eagle and owl with squawking harshly, and flapping their wings as if their bodies were again filled with blood and bone.
Ned began to back away, a look of utter terror on his face, but tripped over something on the floor, falling backwards and landed violently on his back. He looked down and saw the fox, far from his resting place on the display table, stalking about the ground, staring directly into Ned’s wide eyes. He tried to stand up, but failed on the first attempt. On the second try, however, he managed to keep his balance, but looked upon the beast on the wall.
He was twisting his great neck, almost as thick as a tree trunk, thrashing back and forth, with great billows of steam shooting from his nostrils. Slowly, the head began moving forward. The walls began to groan, and eventually crack. A spider web of fractures shot out from the beast. Ned let out a horrific scream, and outside, he could hear something a loud whine, almost like a siren, and something smashing down the door.
Then, as the wall finally gave way, and one great hoof emerged from the gaping hole, Ned reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a knife, which he had somehow known was always there. Through nothing but pure instinct, he ran forward, and with a great leap, brought the knife down between the eyes of the great beast. Somewhere, closer, seemingly at the end of the hall, he heard another door break down, and great footsteps coming closer.
Using only his weight, he dragged the knife slowly down the face of the beast. Blood poured from the wound, and covered Ned’s hands and shirt, painting it a ghastly red. Finally, the skin of the beast gave way, and Ned fell down to the ground, landing on his feet.
Immediately, the door burst open, and three men, all armed with guns, stepped into the room. They all wore a blue uniform, and had an assortment of items strapped onto their belt.
“Put down the weapon!” cried one of them.
“Oh thank God you’re here,” said Ned, breaking down, “Please, my wife-“
“I said put it down or we’ll shoot!” he yelled again.
Ned looked strangely at him, and began to stutter, with tears streaming down his face, “No, the beast, it’s his blood, his!” He turned around to see the moose, attached solidly to the wall, with a tear going down the front. Bits of white stuffing stuck out, and some rested on the floor below it. To his left and right, the birds sat quietly on watch, and the two deer continued on with their motionless guarding.
“Last chance, drop it or we’ll shoot!” the police officer barked.
Ned fell to his knees and dropped to the clean floor. He was sobbing like a child, with snot running down his nose. One of the men grabbed him, cuffed him, and he and another officer pulled him out of the room to the hallway, and eventually into the back of a cruiser.
The one standing officer stood alone in the freezing room. He walked up towards the window, and looked outside. It was freezing cold in here, and he thought maybe the crazy bastard had left the window open. It didn’t matter now, though.
He slammed it shut.
He walked back up towards the work desk, and looked down at the typewriter. He read the top of the page.
“Good God, this guy was a regular nut-job.”
With a scoff, he turned and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He got into his cruiser in the front, and drove off. Eventually, a coroner arrived to take the body of Samantha to the morgue. A for-sale sign was put out front by one of Samantha’s sisters. The sheets in the bedroom were removed, but never replaced, and the phone, which was used to call the police, was thrown into the trash. The sun rose, and the sun set, and the snow melted before fresh snow fell back down from the sky. But all the while, the animals sat silently, whether on their perch or contently on the wall. They never twitched, never blinked, and never breathed, but never did they forget what was written upon the single sheet of paper so long ago.
The Streetlight At The Corner
As the sun sank below the horizon, the streetlight flickered on. Its light softly touched the dirty pavement as a piece of crumpled paper rolled in the light breeze. A car drove quietly down the road, and came to a stop at the intersection directly under the glow of the streetlight. The driver threw an empty bottle out of the window, and it shattered in a spectacular display of flying glass. The fragments sparkled like fine jewelry as some pieces sprinkled down the storm drain at the curb. Without using its signal, the car took a right turn, and drove off.
About forty feet from the streetlight, a little girl dragged herself down the sidewalk. Her left shoe was untied, and her jacket was buckled wrong. She had a bright pink backpack hanging loosely on her slumped shoulders. Her eyes were blood shot, and her whites had turned yellow, but she did not cry.
She finally reached the streetlight, and leaned against it. Her breath was staggered and raspy, and her chest heaved up and down with every breath. She removed her backpack, and dropped it to the ground. Inside were two thin children’s books, Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things are, a two pack of Sno-Cones, and a worn teddy bear, whose left eye was missing.
The little girl looked hopelessly at the sky. The surrounding buildings towered up miles above her, looming over with a hundred boarded-up eyes. Graffiti, ranging from the artistically beautiful to the deplorably offensive, decorated the condemned and the simply worn down. And in this neighborhood, there existed more of the latter than the former.
A ways off behind her, the little girl heard the low rumble of an approaching engine. Quickly, she turned and ran into a small alleyway between two buildings. There were several overflowing trashcans, and their contents were well rotted. The smell was horrendous. She hid behind one of the metal trashcans, and carefully glanced towards the street. Her eyes widened and her heart raced. Leaning against the streetlight was her bright pink backpack. She knew she couldn’t risk running out to grab it, but she was also worried the person in the car may notice it. Or worse, steal it. After all, everything she had excluding the clothes on her back was in that backpack.
The car approached, and stopped at the intersection. She ducked back behind the trashcan, but curiosity quickly caused her to peak back out. The little girl saw a man, of about forty, with gray stubble on his chin, reach up and pluck a cigarette out of his mouth, burned to the filter. He rolled down the window and flicked the butt outside. His eyes remained on the road ahead. The butt landed only a few inches from her backpack. The car then took off and continued straight though the intersection without slowing down.
The little girl waited for several minutes before getting up. Both her hands were shaking nervously, and her knees kept threatening to buckle. She was incredibly tired, and her body demanded rest.
With great strain, the little girl left the alleyway and returned to the streetlight. She deliberately stepped on the cigarette, grinding it against the pavement to extinguish it. After letting out a noticeable sigh, she reached forward and held her backpack tightly. When a few seconds past, she unzipped the single pouch. She tossed her books and uneaten snack onto the ground, and grabbed her ancient toy. Ancient by teddy bear standards, at least.
The little girl hugged her bear as close to her body as she could. She felt like she was in a maze with no exit, and where she started off was far worse than whatever surprises loomed around the next corner. She hated hiding from everyone. She hated having to run away. She really didn’t think it would be so goddamn hard.
Far off she heard a low rumble, but it was not a car engine. A single drop fell from the sky, and landed on her cheek.
“Oh, please God, no,” she whispered.
Another drop landed on her head and another on the ground beside her. Soon, a steady stream of rain came down on her. Then, a downpour.
Under the soft glow of the street light, teddy bear in hand and soaked from the rainwater, the little girl wept. Her sobs blocked out everything; she couldn’t feel the rain pelting her from above, or see the dirt and grime being washed down the storm drain. She also didn’t hear the approaching siren, or see the flashing lights. When the man stepped out of the car and asked for her name, she said nothing. The moment the man put his hand on her should to gain her attention, however, she began to kick and scream. She fought tooth and nail to get away. When the man tried to explain who he was, and that he came to take her home, her efforts redoubled. The man, being both heavier and far stronger, eventually overpowered her, keeping her under control. Almost unnoticed to him, he wondered how he was going to explain to the Chief that a little girl was nearly able to fight him off.
Finally, she gave up. Her whole body went slack, and she fought no more.
The man held her, like a baby in his arms, and brought her to the car. He put the little girl in the back seat. She offered no resistance. He buckled her in while she merely rested her head on the car door, and stared out the window.
As the man was getting into the front seat, the street light continued to shine. Its reflection danced in a slowly building puddle beneath it. A piece of soggy paper sat, collecting more and more water. The rain glimmered under the street light, like flecks of silver. The police car started up, and began to drive away. As the car disappeared around the corner, the street light flickered off, even though it was still dark.
About forty feet from the streetlight, a little girl dragged herself down the sidewalk. Her left shoe was untied, and her jacket was buckled wrong. She had a bright pink backpack hanging loosely on her slumped shoulders. Her eyes were blood shot, and her whites had turned yellow, but she did not cry.
She finally reached the streetlight, and leaned against it. Her breath was staggered and raspy, and her chest heaved up and down with every breath. She removed her backpack, and dropped it to the ground. Inside were two thin children’s books, Goodnight Moon and Where the Wild Things are, a two pack of Sno-Cones, and a worn teddy bear, whose left eye was missing.
The little girl looked hopelessly at the sky. The surrounding buildings towered up miles above her, looming over with a hundred boarded-up eyes. Graffiti, ranging from the artistically beautiful to the deplorably offensive, decorated the condemned and the simply worn down. And in this neighborhood, there existed more of the latter than the former.
A ways off behind her, the little girl heard the low rumble of an approaching engine. Quickly, she turned and ran into a small alleyway between two buildings. There were several overflowing trashcans, and their contents were well rotted. The smell was horrendous. She hid behind one of the metal trashcans, and carefully glanced towards the street. Her eyes widened and her heart raced. Leaning against the streetlight was her bright pink backpack. She knew she couldn’t risk running out to grab it, but she was also worried the person in the car may notice it. Or worse, steal it. After all, everything she had excluding the clothes on her back was in that backpack.
The car approached, and stopped at the intersection. She ducked back behind the trashcan, but curiosity quickly caused her to peak back out. The little girl saw a man, of about forty, with gray stubble on his chin, reach up and pluck a cigarette out of his mouth, burned to the filter. He rolled down the window and flicked the butt outside. His eyes remained on the road ahead. The butt landed only a few inches from her backpack. The car then took off and continued straight though the intersection without slowing down.
The little girl waited for several minutes before getting up. Both her hands were shaking nervously, and her knees kept threatening to buckle. She was incredibly tired, and her body demanded rest.
With great strain, the little girl left the alleyway and returned to the streetlight. She deliberately stepped on the cigarette, grinding it against the pavement to extinguish it. After letting out a noticeable sigh, she reached forward and held her backpack tightly. When a few seconds past, she unzipped the single pouch. She tossed her books and uneaten snack onto the ground, and grabbed her ancient toy. Ancient by teddy bear standards, at least.
The little girl hugged her bear as close to her body as she could. She felt like she was in a maze with no exit, and where she started off was far worse than whatever surprises loomed around the next corner. She hated hiding from everyone. She hated having to run away. She really didn’t think it would be so goddamn hard.
Far off she heard a low rumble, but it was not a car engine. A single drop fell from the sky, and landed on her cheek.
“Oh, please God, no,” she whispered.
Another drop landed on her head and another on the ground beside her. Soon, a steady stream of rain came down on her. Then, a downpour.
Under the soft glow of the street light, teddy bear in hand and soaked from the rainwater, the little girl wept. Her sobs blocked out everything; she couldn’t feel the rain pelting her from above, or see the dirt and grime being washed down the storm drain. She also didn’t hear the approaching siren, or see the flashing lights. When the man stepped out of the car and asked for her name, she said nothing. The moment the man put his hand on her should to gain her attention, however, she began to kick and scream. She fought tooth and nail to get away. When the man tried to explain who he was, and that he came to take her home, her efforts redoubled. The man, being both heavier and far stronger, eventually overpowered her, keeping her under control. Almost unnoticed to him, he wondered how he was going to explain to the Chief that a little girl was nearly able to fight him off.
Finally, she gave up. Her whole body went slack, and she fought no more.
The man held her, like a baby in his arms, and brought her to the car. He put the little girl in the back seat. She offered no resistance. He buckled her in while she merely rested her head on the car door, and stared out the window.
As the man was getting into the front seat, the street light continued to shine. Its reflection danced in a slowly building puddle beneath it. A piece of soggy paper sat, collecting more and more water. The rain glimmered under the street light, like flecks of silver. The police car started up, and began to drive away. As the car disappeared around the corner, the street light flickered off, even though it was still dark.
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