Butcher

This resubmit this to some magazines. Wish me luck...

He's smoking a cigarette and drinking from his flask. watching me, muttering to himself. 

            I insert the blade just above the sternum, twist and then rip. He likes to see the heart of a thing before I do the rest of it. Carving trophies off of his latest kill. The heart is warm in my hand. Its heat makes me sad.

            “Boy, once you taste the heart of something, there is nothing left to do.” Every time he squishes those words from between his teeth, chewing, every time. I think I hear a heartbeat in my ears

 

Good Night

She kissed me once on the lips, then puttered around the kitchen. She kissed me again and leaned for upstairs but leaned back and kissed me on the nose.

I walk our dog, Marmoset before bed.

This was a life in a nutshell. She provided love and nurturing. She made our place a home. I did what need doing.

After circling the block and letting Marmoset pee on every other lawn, I brought him in, took off my baseball cap and hung it on the back of the kitchen door. I didn't like working with things on my head.

With my hat in its place, I feel free. I pulled my shotgun from the hall tree, and slung over my shoulder with the knowledge that every man prostitutes himself just a little. My form was no worse or better than scraping coal from a whole in the ground.

I drove our little VW bug to corner of MLK and 5th and went over the plan once more in my head.

Come in from east side of the Circle K. The light will be in their eyes. Shoot low so as to wound, the screams will make the week lemmings leave the pack. Shoot high to get the camera hanging on the storefront. Grab the bags. Don't look in the bags till I get home. It's the same routine, but I always repeat it to myself.

I was home before eleven and I was up before dawn the next day. We all have a routine.

Snippet from, "The Last Supper"

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While drinking lots of coffee I finished a short story today. Here's a snippet.

 "...I slide the plate onto the paper place mat I doodled on. I sit back and take my eyes off Brenda. The rest of the room comes back into focus. The diner's patrons huddle in the corner next to the counter. The old couple, leathery. The fry cook with Seattle Sonics gold and green, and the night watchmen, now standing so close together, as to be one. The hippies’goddamn-cinnamon-pachouli-stink. And Brenda.

     "You want me to tell you?"

     Brenda nods, slowly. With each nod and whisper Brenda becomes more real to me. The faded blue eyes, faded blonde hair, worked-to-death blue jeans, faded. I could see she was real, no need to test her.

     So I tell her. I tell the truth, as much as I can."

Another Excerpt from, "Redemption."

I turned to face Charlie and screamed, “Get away from me.” But he slid closer and screamed at me, in to me, “You have learned nothing. You are dead to me.”

It was then I heard the sound. A dark thrum.  Like someone playing the The C Major 7th chord, but deeply discordant, not just out of tune, but dirty and lowly.

The sin moved through my bones and I knew if I didn’t find a way to stop it, it would live in the bones of my unborn children.

That dark music, a funeral dirge would play gently over their childhood. The thought of it gave me strength to stop. To face gently into the light.

And that was the moment I needed. All his anger and wraith. He kept screaming and I shrank, but I didn’t die. My heart didn’t skip a beat. The thing I was most of afraid of had come and gone. And I was still alive.

I tuned out somewhere during his tirade and tuned in long enough to  smile and turn my back.

As I turned my back, I felt him start forward and I spun. As Charlie came to a complete stop, I said, “Yes. I am dead to you.”

Off Webster and Left

Coming off Webster Road I made a left turn, then another, and one more for good measure.

One more turn would get me back home, but I thought one more would be too  much.

There was no more pain but somewhere along the way I misplaced my boon companion.

In her place a stranger.

A  painless tragedy.

I went to sleep that night wondering if I would ever see home again.

My writing and the writing of some really fine artists featured here:
http://tinahoggatt.com/wp/story-chairs/

Come see us on the 27th

Thanks,

Raymond

Redemption

This is an excerpt from my novel, Redemption.

My friend Charlie just said he wished I was dead. There was no avenue back. It's not like this moment was an exclamation point following all that happened. "I wish you were dead," doesn't mean much when the person you're saying it to has already walked away.

I can't tell you why I stopped, I can't tell you why my blood boiled, but it did. I did. In my mind's eye, I spun, grabbed a drink off his table and threw it in his face. As he gurgled and bristled, I leapt forward and flipped the cafe-table away from him and throttled him. Misty cried and Kate tried to hold me back.

That didn't happen. I still wish it had to this day. I did turn and look down into Charlie and I spoke the last words, I ever spoke to him.

"You tried to kill me once already, you're wishing I was dead now, won't make it so."

There are the notes from my novel, Redemption.

My main character Roy Bacon has taken to blogging. 

I've been up for 21 hours. It's not unusual now.

When your up for 21 hours a simple Facebook post won't do, you have to write a blog post. (note to self, buy some Facebook stock) A simple Facebook post won't do. I need room. Room to write, uncensored, barely spell checked writing. Just going. Just me and the page and not enough filter. I feel trapped in Italy now and writing will set me free. Maybe that's why I don't sleep. Maybe if I stop sleeping Carla will come back and we can start over. 

Just here, just now.

I'll wait for her and think of something good to say. Something good to write,

Except this, with an intro like that you have to write something really heart stopping, do you know what I mean? My life hanging in the balance, just like everyone elses.

Story Idea - I developed a therapy that re-channels murderous rage in comic burst of simple practical joke.

That's not quite it, with no sleep, what would my brain really like to let spill? Past all the thoughts of love and joy. Somewhere behind wanting people to be free to expressed themselves and live in Presence of their own joy is there something else?

Yes, I want chocolate. Yes, I want vodka. 

I forget to tell that I gave booze for the month of January. So far, so good. But Lord knows there are times when I want a drink.  I want to slip into the pleasant tingle and numbness that it provides. I need to call it, "it" to keep it's distance from. When I call it by name, it sounds too familiar. 

Vodka, sounds like victor, like winner, like a chicken dinner. Vodka like a song in my mouth that tastes cleanly of poison and reminds me to let the truth spill.

Story Idea - I developed a therapy that teach monkey's to find lost car keys