First Draft Finished

And that's book II as in the second notebook I filled,
not a sequel to something that doesn't exist.

     Well it's official. Today I finished the first handwritten draft of my first Novel. It's going by the working title of It Sat Upon A Hollow, we shall see if that remains a constant. Now I get the joy of typing up seventeen chapters of my own not so beautiful handwriting. Oh joy. Then comes the line editing. This is going to be an interesting process...

Almost One Year

     It seems I'm closing in on one year since I've begun posting here. It's quite interesting, and sometimes scary, to look back at some of the stories I've posted so far. I feel like I could go back and rip them apart for grammar, streamlining and a few other problems. But I'm not going to. It's nice to have a reminder of where this all began, how it all began. Hopefully the next year will be equally as productive, if not more so!

Handshake

Handshake

     The man has been nice to me, to all of us. He is the same man we saw on the television that night. There had been scattered reports at first. Findings of lose earth around the graves of the deceased. In the beginning it was all attributed to pesky teenagers, or transient gypsies passing through. Nobody believed that it could actually happen. The dead have risen, and for no apparent reason. Many believe it is a sign of the end of days. Thus far only government officials and a few of us normal people have seen them; the dead that is. There have been no pictures, no recordings, nothing. They feel it is better that way, best to prevent a panic.

     You can count on one hand the number of corpses that have re-walked the earth. But the thought of millions more surfacing weighs heavy on the minds of all. One can never shake the feeling that the rest will rise up as one great army. The fear is palpable. The television is flooded with apocalyptic predictions night and day. And that is why I am here. Where here is though I could not tell you, even if I knew so myself. They came in large, dark forest green trucks, led us into the backs and covered our eyes with oft used blindfolds. Unwashed, putrid vial things they were, the memory of their stench still causes me to dry heave. It was a choice we made, for our country, for our world.

     They will study us here, in these large echoey bunkers. The lack of windows or any form of natural lighting leads me to believe that we are being kept underground.

     The man has been in five times today, twice more than the usual meal periods mandate. He knows, like we all do, that tomorrow is the day. He lets me call him by his first name, his real name; Mike. But only when the others are out of ear shot. If he is to enter my room with any sort of companion I am to address him as Sargent. I ask him how old he is, he will not answer. He is afraid to get close, so afraid. I can see it in his eyes. I'd guess him somewhere around thirty-five or so. His crisp pressed shirt, the same dark green as the trucks that carried us here, is adorned with an assortment of military medals. Symbols of valor and honor. The purple heart is the only one my civilian eyes can identify. I assume he has received it for whatever causes him his slight limp.

     He doesn't say much when he enters my room. Sometimes just a hello, other times he is more talkative. He always says goodbye however, always. He looks tired today, more so than usual. I tell him to get some sleep, that I will see him tomorrow. He shakes my hand; I can feel his rough calloused hand rub against the soft skin of my own. He has never done this before, it makes my stomach dance with nerves. He said his goodbye, then turned and left. That was the last I saw of him that evening.

     The next morning Mike enters with two items. A small wooden dinner stand, and an innocent looking razor blade. He stretches out the table's legs, places the razor upon its top, shakes my hand once more and then leaves for the final time. My hand shakes as I pick up the small slip of metal. I run its mirrored edge along my fingers tip to test its sharpness. As it dances across my skin I feel the burning begin, as it sinks deeper and deeper. I thought it would be easier than this. I thought that I had prepared myself, but I hadn't.

     They need an intact body to examine. It's easiest to study a body as a whole rather than in it's separated pieces. They say the most vital organ is the brain, there must be no harm to the brain. They hope to discover what makes us walk beyond the grave, what drives the dead. In the first few days they tried a number of methods. Gunshots were eliminated after the very first attempt, far too messy. That left me with only three choices. I chose the razor for several reasons. I do not trust the rope to make a clean break of my neck, and the thought of sitting idly by while waiting for the poison to course through my veins sends an uncomfortable chill down my spine. I knew with the razor that it was up to me, and me alone. If I am to slip and cause unneeded pain I can then blame only myself. I watch as the blood pools on the tip of my finger. I watch as it slowly oozes its way down , wraps itself like a snake around my wedding band. I miss her so much in this moment. Often times I thought it would be the sting from realizing she's gone that would have killed me. She was so understanding, so much stronger than I in the beginning. We made love the night before I left, three or four times, perhaps. I feel asleep with my head resting on her bare breasts, breathing us both in as I slowly drifted off. She never slept that night, she told me so the following morning. I haven't heard from her since. There are no letters allowed, no visits. They hold you for six months, hoping that you will forget that the outside world still lingers beyond these confines. Each night before I sleep I pray, to whomever may be listening, that I will forget. But I never do. Her face fills my mind when the dreams visit. She must be showing by now, close to the due date I'd imagine.

     The razor slides down my hand haphazardly, tracing my wrinkled palm like and old senile palm reader. On the final pass I push the metal into my flesh as deep and as hard as I can. The burning is more intense now. My vision recedes for a moment or two. When it focuses once more I see the world in bright, vibrant colors, unnatural colors. I watch as my blood, sunset orange, screams out of my veins. And before it all goes black again, I see her face.

     They shove us into another room. We are all gathered together now. Cramped so tightly together that, if need be, we couldn't even breath. They told us that once we completed our task we would not be conscious in our new state. Be we are, or at least I am. My mind is fully awake. It now resides within a shell that used to be me. We are prodded and mangled, beaten and battered. Our tortured bodies endure though, they must endure. We are the only hope. If even only one of us shows promising signs that could mean thousands of others spared.

     Hope is harder to come by now. Day by day a little piece of the people we were leaves with it. Tomorrow we move to a new facility.

     We were not treated as heroes, not this time. They packed us into the green trucks again. When our limbs refused to cooperate they would jab at us with long slender cattle prods. We have become some sort of macabre livestock to them. I am beginning to fear that this was a mistake. That I gave it all up for nothing, that my son will never know of his father, or worse, that he will think his father a fool. The men here are not as tolerant as Mike. No hellos, no goodbyes, just food. They feed us slops of swine intestines and festering rodents. When we are moved from room to room, cage to cage, we hear them speak. “They will do,” they say, or “perhaps this will work after all.”

     Four months since my swipe of the razor and I am still here. Most of the others have rotted away. Jaws and ears descending to the floor with an unsettling thud. We are now down to approximately one third of our original group size. They've begun some sort of programming. They hook us up to giant buzzing machines, wires protruding from them to our scalps. They started simple, involuntary muscle movements at first. They shortly followed with more and more complex procedures. I can tie my own shoes again, for example, or clean the latest military weaponry and reassemble it to their liking.

      Six months in. We are soldiers now. It never ceases to amaze me what has happened in so little time. Roughly one and a half years ago the general public was flooded with reports of empty graves. Now those reports are but a memory, a flash in the pan. Their televisions are now filled with the promises of war, of reusable soldiers. News breaks of a new branch of military, until recently classified. The idea is a simple one. A line of soldiers march into battle; if one is to fall on the field the rest are to pass it by. When battle is ceased, if at all possible, they are to burn their fallen comrades to ashes, to prevent the enemy from collecting them for study. Those who come back as walking wounded are stored separately from the healthy, kept only for their spare parts. It is estimated that nearly one million volunteered under the false pretenses of postmortem walkers. We hear the Generals laugh over their lavish meals. They find it humorous how the people trusted them so, believed that the dead could actually rise. They laugh while we watch silently, trapped in our own minds, waiting for deployment. We are scheduled for Sudan next week.

Writing Prep

     When I sit down to write there are usually a number of questions running through my mind before any ink is laid down. Number one is always what pen. Second, what color ink. Those are a given, you need those (at least I do) to write. But there is another question, less pertinent to writing, perhaps. Music. Before I ever decided to write a word outside of a high school paper I was obsessed with music. From the age of twelve or so I was playing guitar quite badly, and joining "bands" every other month, usually with the same people which is odd to think about now. Music is what brought my friends and I together, it has helped my travel to great places, usually with my sister(12 hour round trip for Wilco at Tanglewood, sure.) So, in my mind at least, it only makes sense to combine these two aspects of my life. I thought over the last year and noticed my music choices when writing. Here are my top 5 favorite albums/bands to have in the background when I have a pen in my hand.

1. Ink Spots- The Best of the Ink Spots
     Something about that old school romantic feel. It doesn't hurt that they are featured in the Fallout video game series either.

2.  Amanda Palmer- Who Killed Amanda Palmer
     A nice mix of crazy fast and frantic, and calm and chill. Nice for writer's block.

3. Wilco- A Ghost is Born
      Probably one of the last truly great pure rock bands there will ever be, if current trends continue. New age music with a rock, folk feeling.

4.  Bruno Coulais- The Coraline Film Soundtrack
Great for not getting too distracted by lyrics. Has an awesome creepy, warming quality to it. Gets the creative blood flowing.

5.Radiohead... just Radiohead.

  There ya have it!

A New Step in the Process

     One of the things I love most about writing is how it takes me away from so much of the hustle and bustle of modern day living. That is until I have to sit in front of my computer and try to translate what I have written by hand to something I can share online. Of all the steps of taking a story from my head to this page, typing is the worst of them all.
    So, I have decided to elevate the problem by inserting a middle man, or machine more appropriately. There is nothing worse than trying to edit while typing, which is what a computer almost forces me to do. All of those fancy delete buttons and highlighting. This is where Truman comes in, Truman is my new Smith Corona Silent typewriter dating back to the 1950's. It's the best way for me to type up a second draft without editing myself to death. In the long run this should, in theory, make typing on the computer less troublesome. Anyway, rant done.

Another Day, Another Post...

   The weather is really taking a turn around the city these last few days. Getting up at six makes sure I feel all the cold these next couple of seasons have to offer. But, being snowed in isn't so bad when you have pen and paper(and nexflix). Next month is National Novel Writing Month which is great motivation to keep this craziness going. Hopefully by then I will be editing the first draft.

   Hector Laureano

Short Update of Things

     Thursday night I finished up chapter ten. It's always a great feeling to end a chapter and an equally intimidating feeling to start the next. Each time I think I've planned out the story it seems to get longer. I noticed I've been writing seriously for just about a year now. This last year has also been the first time in a long while that I've lived in the same place for the duration. It's nice to have at least some sense of home. Did a bit more writing this after noon, both for the book and comic book series. Trying hard to think of a title for the book as well, looking forward to referring to it by a title once I do.

   Hector Laureano

A Writer's Tale

      Its been a while since I have shared anything. Its been quite a busy summer. I'm nine chapters into what I though was going be a ten chapter book, I have at least five more chapters planned as of now. I must have written this story about a five or six weeks ago. I finally typed it up(I hate typing) yesterday. It's an odd little story, and I'm not really sure where it came from.

A Writer's Tale

     It is the most peculiar thing. There was nothing special about that day, it was a Friday to be exact. My usual routine, a nine to five shift at the office, a few quick beers down the block, and then it was off to this cramped, humid apartment. I grabbed my pen and began, putting ink to paper, to tell my fantasies and fictions. You see, my dream has and will always be to be a published and well respected writer. The works of Bradbury,Gaiman and Hemingway burn deep within my soul. But living in the modern world has made this task all the more difficult, and has also limited time for practice. I have instead reserved myself to selling those who are well off, little cottages and condos that my yearly wages could not even place a downpayment on. So there I sat, writing, pausing occasionally to wipe the sweat from my brow or to take a gulp of spiked iced tea.

     I wrote of a man, and wife so poor they not even enough money to feed both of themselves and their children. Night after night the father would stare at the satiated children in disgust and contempt; but he always maintained his fatherly duties and feed the children and his wife nonetheless.

Well, a man can can only take so much hunger before he turns. One night, awakened by the rumbling of his empty belly,he found himself hovering above the shared bed of two of his boys. Knife in one hand, fork in the other he slits his youngest child’s throat from ear to ear, bleeds him out like a hog. A feast fit for a madman. I know. It is a morbid tale, but this is the way my minds works, I cannot help it. I myself could never hurt another living creature but have always found myself fascinated by those who could.

     So that was Friday, after work, and a few drinks, so roughly around nine thirty I'd say. The next day, being a Saturday, I'd slept enough to make up for the weeks grueling schedule. I awoke to the Saturday edition of The Robbin Times sitting at the bottom most part of my stoop. I descended the stairs, careful not to trip on my robe, and tucked the paper neatly beneath my arm and returned inside. It wasn't until after I had poured myself a cup of coffee that I bothered to look at the small town's daily news. The headline was as simple as ever, nothing special, “Dry, Hot Summer Causing Problems for Local Farmers”. The funnies were quite dreadful that week as well. No, nothing special in this edition at all.

     Except for one tiny corner panel piece stashed neatly away on the last page. The story was painfully short but all of the details were there. The previous evening in Ohio, between the hours of nine and ten, a call had been placed by a distressed wife for domestic abuse, at least that's what the dispatcher understood. She had locked herself in the closet, briefly forgetting about her children. When the police finally arrived they found the husband hunched over his six year old son's bed. He had simply eaten his face off. The stained oval tops of the child's teeth and one empty eye socket stared back at the horrified officers.

     Well, obviously they are not the only ones terrified; it just couldn't be! My story, of course the most gruesome I had written to date, had come to life! No. A coincidence, that was the only explanation. I must admit though that for a few uneasy following weeks I did not set pen to paper, unless of course it was to sell a condo or two. A week or three had passed since I conjured the nerve to write my fiction once more. I had however confided in several close friends what had happened only weeks prior. The general consensus was that of an amazing coincidence. Most were still in awe at the idea though, what an unlikely process of events. Possibly nothing like this has ever happened, or ever will again! They all agreed on one thing profoundly, that my idea of cause and effect was foolish to say the least.

     When next I picked up the pen it was to express the story of one Thomas Hawthorne. Mr. Hawthorne was not well off but he could afford the basics; rent, food, sometimes even a beer or two. He was as many described, a nasty soul; always wanting more, trying to cheat and lie his way through life.

     It was on the D-train that he met Mr. Cook. At first he had suspected the train's window to be playing a trick upon his eyes. For Mr. Cook did not look like Thomas. No, he looked exactly like Thomas. Right down to the signature freckles upon his left cheek. They, having noticed the uncanny resemblance, began to chat. Mr.Cook was a lawyer in the popular downtown firm. The firm, as he described to an eagerly listening Thomas, was soon to be his, and his alone. Or at least the assets. His Father in law had tragically recently passed away and, having acquired the firm in his own name, Mr.Cook had decided to sell it to the highest bidder. It sold quickly, for an amount undisclosed to the general public. Mr.Cook did however confide in Thomas and tell him the good news. He had made enough money on the deal that he need never work a day in his life ever again.

     Mr.Cook being a jolly fellow invited his new friend over for a shot or two of the best whiskey that money could buy. Victory shots. Thomas accepted.

     He had never seen such a beautiful house. It's large wooden riveted doors reminded him of an old victorian castle. In all honestly he would have expected to find Vlad the Impaler here, not Mr.Cook. Once inside Thomas was given what was promised, the most wonderful whiskey that had ever passed his lips. The burning sensation left in his throat and belly by the alcohol was extremely satisfying.

Hazy eyed and stumbling he returned home, via a barren D-train. It wasn't until much later, three am or so, that he returned to Mr.Cook's house. He placed the knife accurately above the heart, allowed it to hover hauntingly and then, slowly but persistently began pushing downward.

     The clean up went as smoothly as he could have hoped. Thomas spent the next week assuming the life of Mr.Cook, patiently awaiting the finalization of the sale, and the check.

     It wasn't until the actual Mr.Cook's lawyer came over to hand deliver the check that Thomas' cover was blown. It was the freckles that had sold him out; firmly planted on the right side of his face. Poor Thomas never could quite grasp his left from his right, a fatal mistake that day seeing Mr. Cooks reflection on that D-train window.

     Thomas was found not guilty by reason of insanity. He spent the rest of his days in an off white padded cell. He never did ever again admit to being Thomas Hawthorne. He simply only answered to Mr.Cook.

     The next day I found myself weak as I opened the paper, my hands shaking. It was in Oregon this time. A man had murdered his found doppelganger and assumed his place for several hours. It wasn't until his mother came to visit that he too was discovered to be less than genuine. He, however, had not done it for monetary gain. The only reason he ever gave was that he grew tired to being himself.

At this point it was a year, possibly more before I dared write another tale. But this time when I resumed doing so I wrote not of death and despair but of hope and joy. Long lost relatives finally found and reunited, the poorest of poor striking it rich on a found lottery ticket. I wrote of wonders and fantasies, trials and triumph. What I once feared I now loved and accepted. I learned, with much trial and error, over the next year or so, how to affect a specific target with my words. I obviously would never cause any harm, I find it not to be in my nature. But I, like every other man, woman, or child have wants and desires. Over the past few months alone I wrote my once divorced parents back into a full thriving, loving relationship; extended my terminal grandfathers life, and once even got myself a nice free cold beer.

     All I write now I do so in the name of good. Do not get me wrong, I love to give to others, to see that look of gratitude upon their smiling faces. But I believe it is now time to take care of myself. I wish not for fame or fortune. No, my wish is much more tame. I wish to possess the love of another. How shall I win another's heart? I have pondered that much myself. I could simply write a sentence or two. A name, date, a beautiful description and be done with it all in a single night.

But no self respecting writer would ever allow him or herself to do such a dreadful thing. I shall win the hand of my love with a grand gesture, bold enough to win a princess herself. So, let us begin.

 It was a Friday afternoon, same as any other Friday. Samuel went about his usual Friday ritual. At about four o'clock he cut work early and headed for the nearest pub for a beer or two. Afterwords he had plans to return home to begin writing his next great adventure. Deciding to use the extra time carefully he found himself respectfully asking for a third beer. The hot blistering weather and humidity made it an easy choice. The third went down much easier than its predecessors. A quick glance at his watch indicated that it was time to head for home.

     He made his way to the nearest bus stop, then it all began. He first noticed her hair, blonde, natural of course. It was not picturesque, it flew in tangles and ringlets here and there. For you see she, having tripped and fell, was preparing to welcome the pavement with her perfect flushed face. Pavement that was clearly marked as a bus only zone. And on top of everything else the texting bus driver, who would later claim to have been sneezing, was paying precisely no attention. 

     So, being the nice young man that his mother had raised he found himself stepping down from the curb and reaching for the young ladies arm. Having a firm grasp on her limb he pushed at her with all his might, and returned her to safety upon the curb. As he himself turned to return to the curb he noticed time begin to slow and heard a low rumbling being to rise within his ears. It took him a moment, but he recognized that sound from somewhere. Ah yes! That sound, it belonged to a large automobile, a bus. The bus! He turned to see it growing larger in his gaze. Pushing down on one foot he began the jump to safety...

     Oh dear, I suppose I should have made sure I had enough paper when I began this little love story. Never the less, I shall acquire some tomorrow night after work and enjoy my weekend writing.  

Changing of Seasons

       I seemed to have slowed down this summer. Since April I have filled one notebook with about half of a book I'm writing. I originally planned to be done with it by now and have it be roughly twenty-five thousand words. It's looking like it's going to be a bit longer than that. I have written one short story that has been sitting on my computer for a few weeks, just tidying it up a bit before posting. I'm working on another as I type. Good vs. evil sort of stuff. Writing a handful of characters for such a long period of time can become a bit difficult, I find it's best and refreshing to take a break from them once in awhile.
     With winter coming up I'm hoping to get a bit more done. It's always easier when you're snowed in. Once all is said and done with the book I'm hoping to self publish a few copies, we shall see once we get there. Until next time(hopefully sooner than later).

  Hector

A chapter to prove that I'm not slacking

I feel a little like I have been neglecting this page. I have been really, but for a good reason. This is the first unedited chapter of a novella I'm working on. I'm hoping to have it all finished in October, and to get a kick-starter going to self publish. So long story short, I'm not being lazy.

     The centuries had come and gone, many had lived and died. Some more than others. Lawyers,bankers strippers, all walks of life all stemming from the same family tree. The Brownshires. Throughout the years two things had always remained a constant for the Brownshires. One, they were always the most well liked and respected family in their respective neighborhoods(especially the strippers). And two, when it came time for them to pass, be it heart attack, stroke, whatever it was that was going to do them in, they always returned home. Whether they came from Germany,Nepal, Britain, or anywhere in between, each and every Brownshire for as long back as one can remember returned to that ramshackle hut deep in the Minnesota wilderness. Some in fact never even left it to begin with.

     The hut was nothing special, it had remained for the most part the same throughout it's existence. It sat on land surrounded by trees and long babbling brooks. To the naked eye it seemed to sit at a slight angle, sinking into the mud. Walking into the establishment only confirmed any suspicions. Weather and time had been cruel to the now dull creaky wooden frame. The fact that it still stood would have broken any odd makers bank time and time again. The shutters jutted out at awkward, uncomfortable angles and had refused to actually shut for the duration of the past three occupants. Any passer by would simply assume that its once beautiful mass structure was now used by any bum or would be gypsies brave enough to enter it. But in all reality the hut was far from unoccupied.

     The land on which it now stood had not always been in the Brownshire family however. It had been won, long since passed, in a simple game of cards. What game specifically now lost to time and the wind. And ever since that fateful flip of the card every Brownshire ever born and died did so with great honor within the confines of the land.

     Far back deep in the surrounding woods lay the family plot. Now overtaken with thick brown crackling vines, all tangling up the memories of the now rotted Brownshires that lay beneath. The plot had grown over the years. Charles, who was the first to occupy the plot, now played host to over forty dead and dusty realatives.

     Over the centuries and years and days many had tried to reclaim the land as their own. Some tried to take it by force, amassing small armies to rise up as one against the one or two occupants of the tiny hut. Others tried using wit and smarts, forging a fake will here or a botched deed there. All failed and did so fantastically. Great great great great(how many greats unknown) grandfather put it down to brute force and cleverness. But as every Brownshire knows, a little magic never hurt.

     The family did their best to keep their magics under wraps, using it only when absolutely necessary(such as saving a drowning child, or getting the bar to stay open past two). Throughout the years it had grown to be less of a choice to keep their abilities hidden and became rather more of a necessity. Be it a swing from a rope, the needles poke or the firing squad blokes, it was all very good motivation to keep the magic to a minimum.

     Back when magic was common it wasn't uncommon to see some pretty strange happenings going on in the streets. It became a way for some to make a living. But just like every other positive that mankind has gotten his hands on it eventually spolied. Slowly decade by decade family by family it was dwindled out. Magic slowly began to get blamed for most of the problems that were arising(most of the time that was just the case). It was being abused by those who knew how to use it too well, and used irresponsibly by those who did not.

     Maggie Brownshire was the last of the kin to be executed due to her rather clumsy nature. She had run away from home well before she had fully learned how to control herself. She was hanged at the age of thirteen after a sneezing fit had caused her to accidentally set fire to a neighboring girls hair. There was no mercy for the accused, even for those as young as Maggie. The law was the law and above that was the law of the Lord, break either of those and it was most likely not going to end well for you.

     The old myth of burning a witch at the stake is just that – a myth. Sure, she would scream and writhe in pain before being reduced to a pile of ashes. But given enough time, and just the right amount of sunshine and rain, and those ashes will begin to sprout a whole new kind of evil. This time with proper horns and the like. It didn't take long for the people of olde to figure out this little fluke, and once it was noticed they took all the precautions necessary to prevent it. Glass jars were quite possibly the best agent when it came to making sure a dead witch stayed dead.

     The Hollorans were like a shadow, the gum stuck to the sole of your favorite pair of shoes. Where ever and when ever the Brownshires were the Hollorans were never far behind. Unlike the Brownshire family however the Hollorans were often very unpopular with the native folks. Their nasty attitude and equally nasty grooming habits played a large role in this. They may have had a bad relationship with the general public, but once hidden behind doors with their own kind they were quite pleasant.

But they did have one thing in common with the Brownshires. Just like their counterparts their family also contained powers uncommon to modern times. And also just like the Brownshires their ancestry also once held land on a quaint little plot in the Minnesota wilderness. They had been brought up on the stories of old, stories about fish that once filled the surrounding rivers and streams, and eventually the bellies of the Hollornas of past. The land was all that they required, all they ever wished for. It was to be passed down from generation to generation, Holloran to Holloran until time was no more.

     No ink ever need touch paper for this. No deeds were ever drawn up or wills signed for these actions to take place. They were simply done. In the Holloran family blood respected blood and and did what was told of them. They believed in the old traditions in a new world. Fifteen generations had passed, and with each a new occupant(or occupants) took residency of the land. It was taken care of and loved by all who inhabitable the place. It was, by the end of the century, the only real thing that the family had to pass on to each other.

     Bartholomew Holloran was the last of the family to dwell within the house and land. He had lived their for nearly fifty years before he lost it in a game of cards.

     To say that the Hollorans and Brownshires didn't like eachother is an understatement is, in fact in itself, an understatement. The Hollorans held their grudge for obvious reasons. They suspected, and still do, that cheating may have played a hand in their families surprise eviction. And why wouldn't they? When your great great great(again, how many greats is anybodies guess) uncle loses a simple card game to an aging, leathery, old man after he has successfully cheated out the rest of the state at the same game, wouldn't you have some suspicions?

     The two families loathing for each other had only grown worse over the centuries. Time, as it proves all too well, does not heal anything. Every Brownshire since has spent the majority of their life trying to escape the suspicious eyes of the Hollornas. Picking the next safe town. A comfortable, Holloran free state, or in some of the more delightful dreams a Holloran free country. But no matter where they decided to go, cross continents and seas, they were followed. Like a silent stalking breeze.

     So here, at this small little town, brewed one of histories most amazing hatreds. No books of history could ever contain its stories and complexities. It was know only to the two side involved. Even if someone bystander were to hear a whisper of it it would remain just that, a whisper, unheard by simple mortal ears. The hate grew through the centuries until it had reached a boiling point. And then, just when the world could contain it no more it happened. Nothingness consumed the feud in a new discomforting way. It was as if the two side had simply shook hands and walked away from the other. There was never an explanation offered up, it all just simply stopped one day. Cut and dry.

     The rain fell at a hypnotizing, peaceful and even rate. Nathan never regretted the money spent replacing the old rotting roof with fresh tin sheeting, no matter how dilapidated the rest of the hut looked.

     When it came to the Brownshire bloodline Nate was a first. He was raised, as every member of the family before him. Taught from an early age where his ancestors had come from and what abilities had been passed down the pipeline from generations past. But as Nate would prove as he grew older, he had no time for what he assumed to be family fairy tales.

     Nathan Emanuel Brownshire was born on July eighteenth nineteen eighty three in Prior Lake Minnesota. He took after the rest of the males in his family when it came to build. He was a tall stocky young man. Not fat by any stretch of the imagination but certainly not slim. He was the result of his mothers first and only one night stand. She had died only hours after giving birth to her son. She managed to hold on just long enough to give him his name and place him in the proper care. He spent the majority of his childhood being raised by a miserable beast known as Aunt Janny. Aunt Janny had done her best to bring up little Nathan as well mannered and well magiced as herself. But try as she might she could never get the little tike to take any of her lessons seriously.

     He was never much able to make friends as a child. After all he and his Aunt were the but of many a jokes. As has always been the case children can often times the cruelest creatures around. In his late teens he began acting out in ways his Aunt could not handle. He dove deep into the world of drugs and alcohol for quite a few years. It took quite a few more for him to did his way back. And even through all of that, there by his side she sat. Aunt Janny never gave up on him, never blamed him. Times were changing, she was well aware of that.

     On the somber day of her funeral Nathan, as the only surviving member of the family, gave a boring eulogy to an empty church. He was drunk. Not the kind of drunk you use to hide behind your feelings with. No, this was party drunk. As far as Nathan was concerned, it was all over. At least he had what he had wanted all along, the only reason he had stuck around as long as he did. The hut. And the land.

As far as Nate was concerned he had two options when it came to his upbringing. He could follow the instructions and tutelage of his Aunt, and grow and flourish in the way of magic. Going with this route meant one thing for sure. Therapists, and lots of them. Or he could do what he did. Try and distance himself as best he could from the last remaining relative. Try and get on with a normal life. An easy choice if you don't know the facts of magic.

     He often times found himself thinking about the days gone by. About the time he spent as a child with his Aunt. He still felt a slight twinge of guilt when ever she occupied his mind. Now, looking back he realized that he never actually didn't like the old bat. He wished it could have been different, that the bedlam saw herself as something other that exactly that.

    Nate sat writing at his desk, listening to the rain, struggling against his now heavy eyelids. He had, like his ancestors before him, decided not to tamper with the arraignments of items within the hut. The most recent addition to the cottage was a large tarnished phonograph. The old record player was his favorite part of the hut. Each night before he sat to write he would place his favorite records on and pour himself a nice hot cup of tea.

    The old oak desk he sat at was large even by todays standards. It's dark knotted tones were flawless in every was, except for one. He ran his fingers carelessly across the deep gouges. He had read them so many times now, the only thing they made him feel nowadays was numb. The names and dates of ancestors past ran down the length of the desk from the top corner. All perfectly etched in beautiful perfect copperplate, the kind of craftsmanship no longer seen in todays society. All the names as far back as the mid eighteenth century. At first Nate felt a deep guilt for not caring what those names read or what they represented. To him they were just a list of those long dead and gone. His guilt had long since passed, now he was just glad that they had done the same and left him the hut. The earliest date etching was dated May 4^th, 1732.

E.A Brownshire May 4th 1732

T.H Brownshire August 24^th 1784

B.R Brownshire November 18^th 1802

and so on and so fourth.

     The rain fell harder now. The loud, little pellets growing in numbers. On most nights he would find himself lying in bed, staring angrily at the faintly red glowing numbers of his alarm clock, waiting impatiently for sleep. On nights like these it was all he could do to write the next installment in his journal. He was never quite sure why he had chosen to keep the book in the first place. Most entries where anywhere from ten to twenty five words long. He sat for as long as he could, staring at the blank lined page in front of him. His tea growing colder he wrote the only thing that would come to mind.

“I'm going to see her tomorrow.”

     And with that he stood, flicked out the lights and headed for the bedroom. Tomorrow he would head in to town at the first sight of light.

The Impossible Visit

I'm sitting on a bus trying not to fall asleep listing to the rain. I  trying to be productive and write something I have been working on for a while now. This bus is very hot. All of these strange small towns for some reason or another are making me feel homesic(even though I'm heading there) I took a small break to jot something down to relax my mind. Here it is. Any typos in this post can be blamed on the fact that trying to post on a phone. I can hardly do this on a computer most of the time. Maybe I will try to fix it once I have a computer handy, but probably not.


                        The Impossible Visit

                         One mile, two miles,
                            three miles past.
           The wheels they roll, the towns pass by.

      Places I have never seen make me feel homesick.
           Places I know well are now all too strange.

                    I'm closer to home now,
                          my real home.
   Where I was born. Where I will be covered in dirt.
                             I am  close.

                I will be there soon, or so I'm told.
                          I will be there soon.
                               Will you?

The Final Page

The Final Page

One last page to sum up a life,

to drink up my ink.

One last page to leave to the world,

to express what I think.

Life flashes by in a series of blinks.

Yesterday my face was bright,

my skin was tight.

Today here I sit,

waiting out my last night.

I've said my goodbyes,

though there were few.

For I know I'll be gone by the sun and the dew.

I leave no regrets,

no worries or debts.

It's now time for me leave,

don't fear it's for the best.

Now please excuse me,

I don't mean to be rude,

but it is time for my final rest.

The Dance

A few days ago I went and visited the Body Worlds Vital exhibit at Faneuil Hall. Aside from all of the amazing pieces on display it gave me quite a few ideas for writings; heres one of them.

The Dance

The sun has dropped,

and the moonlight shone.

Out they come to by the light,

to dance a dance they call their own.

The goblins and ghouls,

the misses and fools.

All come out to dance up their ruse.

On their graves they prance the most merry dance.

They lure and they call.

I follow and fall.

And now here I lay,

both night and day.

But now when they moon shines,

I dance a dance I call mine.

A Reflective Tale

     A Reflective Tale

     This is my story, or rather our story, about love and life and all of the hell that accompanies it. I'm sitting here at my antique oak desk. I rather enjoy the musty scent that flows from within it; it dates back almost as far as myself.

     It has been nearly a century since I last saw her face; each second taking me farther from her. For a while after I began to fear that I would forget what she looked like, how her hair parted so perfectly revealing those constantly blushing cheeks. But yet, still to this day, her face is all I can see when I shut my eyes.

     This is the story of the ending of her life; the story of her stubbornness. The story of how I watched her wither away until she was simply a bag containing the dust that was once her bones.

     Amelia gracefully descended the stairs leading into the kitchen of the old victorian house; her skirt swayed behind her like the ghost she would soon become. We had found the house back in the summer of 1952; she was so young back then. At ninety four she was the oldest surviving member of the Matthers family. Her eyes scanned the room looking about here and there until they finally met with my own, “good morning,” she called to me.

     Her voice was different now, it had grown raspy over the decades, a testament to the time passed. She walked with a slight limp, a oddly pleasurable reminder of our honeymoon spent hiking in the mountains of Europe, “good morning,” my voice was still smooth and rich, my first spoken words of the day never failed to fill me with guilt, “and how are we this morning?”

     She took her time crossing the room, placed her hand upon my knee and gave it a slight squeeze. Her hands still miraculously contained all the strength they had in her youth, “still kicking,” she said giving my ankles a slight tap with her bare feet. Ever the optimist.

     “Oh, and by the way,” she reached into her breast pocket and extracted a small felt box, “happy anniversary.”

     I took the box in one hand and her hand in my other. The stark contrast of our respective flesh made me wince, I saw her do the same, though she will deny it if I were to ask. Carry on I tell myself.

“Thank you dear.” The box contained a a pair of sparkling silver cuff links. The center of the first read 19, the second read 48. Seventy years for her, almost an entire lifetime; for me barely a beat of my heart. 

     I had met her after the war, or after the Earth war rather. My people had sent me to the Earth to help end the war before it ended them. I helped create the atom bomb. I was the main technician behind the entire Manhattan project. You will not find my name in any history books however, and my existence will officially be denied by any governments involved. Yet here I sit. I met Amelia when she was helping the injured infantry men. I fell in love with her. I never should have done that but my firm belief is that love will give you no choice in the matter.

     I was told by my people to leave it be, to return home. I hadn't; although during the next few decades I selfishly found myself wishing that I had.

     You see, my people don't age the same as Earthlings. It is no oddity at all for us to live nine or ten times longer than is expected on Earth. I have been married seventy years to the day now; all the while knowing that I would get the short end of the stick when it came to 'till death to us part.

Amelia knew this was part of the deal heading into things. Our hearts said yes when our brains should have said no. Day after day, year after year I watched her grow old, wither as she grew closer to the end.

     She is dying now. No medicine can save her life. The cancer has a grip that it will not surrender. If the tumors don't take her this fall then the winter winds will take their toll on her. It will be slower perhaps, more painful, but in the end the results will not change.

     I reach into my pocket to retrieve her gift, she gives my hand a gentle rap and tells me that we agreed on not giving gifts this year; that was before the diagnosis. She could never restrain herself from buying me at least a small something. She tells me that whatever I got her this year can wait until next. She still hasn't excepted the news. She never will. Ever the optimist.

Trip

 When I was writing last week I accidentally skipped two pages in my notebook. Their emptiness was bothering me so I decided to see if I could create a story on only two pages. This is what happened. 

Trip

     1:27 AM. It's the same time each night. It's funny how your body will find a rhythm for itself given enough time. The bathroom was only a short distance down the hall. Each night he made his way through the heaping pile of clothes that he neglected by daylight. In his sleep induced stupor, not unlike that of drunkenness, he managed to trip each and every night, whether it was on the way to the toilet or returning to the comfort of his covers.

     Last night marked the fourth in a row. If three had not made it a trend then four did so undeniably. In the surrounding darkness of the previous night it was upon returning that he tripped. As he lay there attempting to reenter his dreams he made himself a promise, tomorrow would be the day that he would once more see the carpet of his bedroom floor.

     He was moments from sleep when he felt the stinging of his ankle, the corner of the bed frame combined with his clumsiness had drawn blood. He choose sleep over a bandage and soon found himself in unimaginable worlds.

     3:27 AM. A mere two hours later he awoke and again headed for the toilet. On his way back to his covers the trip caught him surprisingly off guard. It was different this time, the cold clammy fingers closed themselves about his festering ankle. The beast below had smelled blood and was ready to strike for the final time. It had waited long enough.      

Breath

     

Breath

     She held her breath and counted to ten. Nothing. Just the silence of the night. Occasionally a song or two would be sung by the crickets beside her windowsill. She used the steady ticking of the large grandfather clock to keep track of the time. Holding her breath in those ten second intervals, spending the moments in between trying to quietly refill her lungs with the air they so desperately begged for.

     One, two, three.

     She could feel the burning begin sooner each time. A deep fire rising deep within her chest.

     Four, five, six.

     The rest of the body joined the tortured lungs. The tingling toes refusing to move in the slightest. Her chest growing tighter still.

     Seven, eight, nine.

     The uncertainty began to cloud her mind. How much longer could she keep this up? The last time she dared peek it was a mere two forty five in the morning. The sun would not show itself for at least another four hours.

     Ten.

     The air wanted nothing more than to rush in and fill every crevice of her lungs; but she couldn't allow it. She suffered through the pain, taking small steady breaths trying, unsuccessfully, to breath without sound. She had noticed the other breathing occupying the room with her about an hour ago. Denial filled her mind. All doors, all windows, were, just as they always were, locked. She waited, listening. She had satisfied her mind when it happened, it was small, almost unnoticeable but it did happen; or at least her ears told her so. For a split second, perhaps less. The intruders breath fell out of sync with her own. Proof that she was, indeed, not alone.

     Then a more familiar safe sound caressed her ears. The distant church bells tolled thrice. Three a.m had arrived and she with it. How much longer must she wait for that burning ball to illuminate the sky, to deliver the sanity she now refused herself? Then suddenly the noise returned. A footstep? No, it mustn’t be. Then another, this time echoed by the walls surrounding her. Her certainty of the intruder was growing more palpable by the moment. One step, two step. Each fleeting second acting as a cruel torturing lifetime. She waited counting the steps. Three, four; then nothing followed.

     She strained her ears listening for the breathing. She held her breath once more. The reprieve the steps had given her lungs was much needed. She exhaled slowly and at that precise moment heard the distant sound of a human exhale not of her own. Another missed beat by the intruder. Her mind now persuaded beyond a doubt she began to draw up the necessary plans to save her life. So many options came to mind. Would she take the prowler by surprise? Just lie still enough until he was within grabbing range? Perhaps that would give her enough time to escape. Would she continue to lie there and praying for the sun to come? Her brain churned, and to her fear, she began counting the steps once more. Louder they grew, clanking heavier and heavier, and, as if on cue the nothingness returned.

     One last time she would inhale. This time she would hold the air within her lungs for as long as possible. If she were to make a move she needed proof beyond the certainty that she thought she possessed.

The inhale; the counting. One,two. No signs of anything, or anyone for that matter.

     Three, four.

     The burning within her lungs returned; faintly at best.

     Five, six.

     Her ears picked up yet another step. The silence she provided with her entrapped lungs helped her hone in their direction. They were coming from her left; of that she was now certain. The sound was slightly muffled providing further proof that he, she or it must be behind the dressing partition.

     Eight, nine, ten.

     She dare not make a sound, dare not allow her oxygen starved body to twitch in the slightest manor. She needed the element of surprise on her side. Just lie here, she told herself. He must think you asleep to approach so boldly. She shut her eyes tightly to sell the illusion. She now solely depended on her ears for her survival.

     Eleven, twelve.

     Her lungs begged for air but she could not allow herself to give in. She must remain absolutely silent, take in her surroundings without distractions if she wished to survive. The steps grew closer, her chest tighter.

     Thirteen.

     She found it almost humorous that in such an awful situation her mind still traveled to the thought of the unlucky nature of the number. Superstition, the most entertaining of the human weaknesses.

     Fourteen, fifteen.

     He, or she or it was close, almost touchable. She felt the breeze of the exhale flow over her. Again the nothingness consumed the room once more.

     Sixteen.

     The burning in the lungs, is this what hell feels like?

     Seventeen.

     The loss of feeling in a majority of her extremities.

     Eighteen.

     The loss of feeling slowly turning into persistent, stubborn itches and tingles.

     Nineteen.

     The last of her of her defenses, her hearing, was beginning to fade.

     Twenty.

     She could contain the poison in her lungs no more. One fast and low gasp for air and her eyes flew open. Panic. She had waited too long. Only a ghost of a blur awaited her. It was as if she were gazing at the world through an elongated tunnel. And there, at the end of the tunnel they appeared. A pair of dead pale eyes staring back at her. Her brain and lungs could bear no more of the stress. As the eyes at the end of the tunnel regressed her body began to convulse. Her brain had begged for oxygen like a candle slowly dying, but she had refused to listen.

     They found her the next day. The official cause of death was asphyxiation. Per law they eliminated any possibility of foul play. There were no forced locks, no windows left ajar, no signs of another being ever having been there. A natural death, in the most unnatural of ways. 

A Letter to My Love

A Letter to My Love

My Dearest Love,

     Do you remember the first time I told you that I love you? I do. We were not even a week into our relationship when the words tumbled from my mouth. They are still true, all of these years later. Every last one of them. We used to kid about walking into the sea together at the end of our time; a notion we picked up from my grandparents. It was never a joke for me. It still isn't. I waited all of these years for that moment.

     They say you died peacefully. They are fools. For I know it to be true that your being is still occupied by you; by your soul. I can see it in your eyes at night,big and blue. Although not as vibrant as they once were, they are still beautiful. I can't count the number of cards I have received since the townspeople heard the news. If only they knew. They send their condolences to us.

     I can still remember the day they took you away from me, said you were dead. I had kept you as best I could but the neighbor's noses eventually grew keen. They told me in most cases what I had done would be considered a crime but in my case it was different. They told me you were a victim only to time and that my actions, no matter how macabre, were understandable.

     They made me jump through the traditional hoops; wake, funeral etcetera. I waited for a few days after they placed you into the ground before I came back for you. Just enough time to allow the townspeople to visit and pay their respects, but not so much time as to allow the earth around you to compact. The rain helped me to clean you off as best I could before changing you into something more cheerful. I've always hated spending time apart from you,and this was no exception. I hope that you will forgive me for my poor timelines.

     But I have you back now, and the best part is I do not have to share you with anyone else anymore. No one is looking to bother you anymore. I made sure to tend to that hole in the ground as best I could. No naked eye could ever tell that a single blade of grass had been tampered with. I always have your best intentions in mind,dear.

     It seems as though time has gotten away from me this evening. I think I shall join you momentarily. I understand why you don't talk, or move for that matter, anymore. You have been through a lot this month. So please, for me, just relax until it is time for us to venture into the sea together at last.

     Goodnight love

Bump in the Night: Part 2

      

The second story in the Bump in the Night series.

     Headaches

      Thom's head was aching, again. He wasn't quite sure if it was the cold or perhaps his fellow co-workers. All he knew for sure was that the pounding above his temple was getting worse by the day. He hadn't had headaches like these since he was a child and was told that he needed glasses. He didn't want glasses though, he still wanted a reason for failing his pre-calculus class(he claimed it was because he couldn't properly read the chalkboard).

     But as an adult he could not have any excuses. Headache or no headache, work was always lurking overhead. How he hated his job. Thom had spent the majority of his early twenties attending a very prestigious university in Cambridge. He never liked to tell people where exactly he had studied, he was a very modest man. He attended the university in hopes that it would someday help his works of fiction become published. It didn't.

     He spent the first year after graduating top of his class sitting in a cubicle at the New York Times. He was a fact checker and, as the title might suggest it was a rather boring job. Every single article was passed through his or one of seven other fact checker's hands. Hundreds of articles every week, most mind numbingly boring.

     To lighten the mood he and his fellow checkers devised games. There was a different game for each day of the week. Today was Friday, which meant that today's game had drinks on the line. On Fridays they would work a regular day trying to find all and any mistakes. At the end of the day they would collect all of the notes that they had gathered and vote. The person lucky enough to find the dumbest or funniest mistake would be awarded with free drinks for the evening. It wasn't much, but it helped keep them sane. The evening following this week's game was a night to remember, although chances were that none of them would remember a thing.

     Thom awoke the following morning with yet another headache. He felt a little better being able to explain this one. He spent his Saturday keeping to himself, reading, writing and attempting to cook himself a sustainable meal. His only social interaction for the day consisted of a rather boring trip to an empty mailbox.

     The sun had come and gone and Thom found himself lighting a fire in his office's hearth. His eyes were still much to sore for the hash light produced by his lamps. He wrote late into the night, and when he could no longer keep his eyelids from clamping down he fell with a hard thump onto his desk. He slept.

     Sunday was spent in much the same way. Reading a bit more, writing where ever he left off the previous evening. It was a perfectly pleasant Sunday, except for one thing. The headache. Still sitting stubbornly above his eyes. It grew less evident by the hour however and by the time sleep called it was all but gone. Tonight he made it a point to enter the bedroom long before he felt the drooping of his eyelids. The bedroom was always the warmest part of the house. Even on the coldest winter nights. The old heat vent was built right into the wall. It sat at the perfect height to wash his bed over with a warming breeze the whole night through. He had a habit of sleeping with his head as close to the vents as he could. Allowing the heat and gentle hum to sing him to sleep.

     That night he dreamt. He was wondering the dark halls again. There was never an end, no way out. Hour after hour, hall after hall. Then he awoke. It was quite a simple awakening for such a terrible dream. He lied still, entranced by the even rising and falling of his chest. He had lost his bedsheets somewhere amongst the endless halls, but it did not matter, the vents were doing their job. The heat slowly caressed him back to sleep. Then the itch. A most persistent itch deep from the inner workings of his right ear. He did his best to stifle the itch with his little finger. He dug deep looking for the satisfaction to follow. It never did. Instead he was greeted by the tiniest of pricks at the end of his finger.

     He retrieved his pinky as quickly as he could and, panic stricken searched for the light switch. Once the illumination began he wished that he could un-see it. There, attached at the end of his little finger wiggled a sight not fit for eyes. The fleshy worm was small, perhaps half an inch or so. But it's bite was disproportionately powerful.

     He tried to give a scream but was only muffled by the sound of the heat kicking on after a momentary absence. He rose his eyes to the vents above his bed. This time he could not scream. How many were there? Surely it was impossible to count. There, coming from the slits were hundreds, no... thousands of worms. All identical to the one still sinking it's teeth into his now bleeding finger. The sensation in his ear began to grow as he felt the other worms burrowing deeper. The headache was back.

Bump in the Night: Part 1

     Once in a while while we are drifting off to sleep it will happen. A loud bang of sorts, or what we swear was a scream or some other form of agony. The things that go bump in the night. That is what people call them. But it is not the things that go bump in the night that we should fear. We should fear what does not want to make itself known. We should fear what wants to remain unseen until it has decided otherwise. Bump in the Night will be a series of several short stories based around this idea.

Hands

      He loved his wife, he would never say otherwise. But she did have her ways about her that could be quite irritating. She had a habit of leaving the dishes on a daily basis; and he believed that if she were to ever take out the trash that the dead would wake from surprise. But he loved her none the less.

He remembered when they were young how badly he wanted to share a bed with her. Not in a perverse way, he simply wanted to lie beside her every night. Now each night this wish came true, his new wish for a lager bed on the other hand did not.

     It was the previous winter that the latest habit formed. Each night she would craw into bed beside him after he had slipped into sleep for an hour or so. She would proceed to place her hands onto his fleshy sides. Cold could not describe the feeling. It was almost as if he could feel it in his ribs. Other worldly. He could not prove it but he was certain that she was plunging her hands into an ice bath each night before entering the bedroom.

     Like every other quirk she denied it. She denied this one with a little extra effort than the rest for reasons unknown. Night after night the cold would awaken him. In anger he would say nothing, show no sign of love; he would just simply roll over and continue where he had left off. Night after night the cold, and, morning after morning the denials. She would get more and more irritated with each accusation.

     Matters presented themselves to her that needed tending to, she would be away for the next few days. He would miss her dearly but looked forward to the thought of a night of peaceful rest. He accompanied her to the airport and saw her off with a hug and kiss.

     That night he entered the bed with a warm body and an empty heart. He felt the familiar burn of the icy hands again this night. Knowing that it could not be so he simply attributed it to his mind and the absence of his wife. The cold continued however, penetrating deeper and deeper into his body; his denial lessening with each dropping degree. That was the first night he heard the voice.

     He wish he hadn’t.

Edgar Allan Poe's Hometown/ A Feline's Dream

     My home town of Auburn, New York is often called History's hometown. It's a heavy title to carry but it does it very well. It is home to one of the most interesting prisons in the nation(it held the first electric chair and some speculate it has tunnels running beneath it to other parts of the city). It is also where William H. Seward(24th secretary of state) and his family called home. His home in Auburn also played a large part in the Lincoln assassination scheme. Seward was often visited by many notable people back in the day, including the one and only Charles Dickens. And if that is not enough it is also where Harriet Tubman lived out the latter part of her life.
     So when I moved to Boston I was already bred to be a history buff and could not wait to explore. Boston has had countless interesting things to offer thus far and has not disappointed yet. Until today that is. Many are unaware of the fact that Boston, not Baltimore is the birthplace of one of the best writers there has ever been( or ever will be). Edgar Allan Poe. As a "writer" myself he has been one of my largest if not the largest inspiration. He was the first author whose work I really fell in love with, even predating Kurt Vonnegut for me. So with Poe's birthday this coming Sunday I decided to track down his original dwellings and this is what I found.

The lack of history

     This is the view from street behind 62 Charles St. South(formerly Carver St.), just off of the Boylston T Stop. This would technically be the view of the back of Poe's house if it were still there. But it's not. Edgar Allan Poe's birthplace was torn down to the ground in 1959. When I rounded to corner to get the view from the front I saw this.

What should be an historic site

     I'm still not really sure what that thing is that has been placed there in place of the original house. I should also say that there are absolutely no markings anywhere near the area claiming that this was where one of the worlds greatest authors/poets was born. Nothing. I spent a few sad minutes taking pictures of the area and decided to move onto Poe's Square. I had read about this on google, which also tells you that Poe's birthplace is two blocks north of its actual location. I was very excited to find an article saying that there was a new statue installed in the square called "Poe returning to Boston". I wandered about until I found it. Here it is.

"Poe Square"

     Once again, nothing. Well almost nothing. There was a weird metal thing that had a portrait of Poe painted on it and something that looked liked a few lines as well. It was nice, but to any passerby it honestly just looks like graffiti(very good graffiti). When I found what google told be was his birthplace I found this little plaque attached to the side of a Mexican restaurant stating a few facts(interestingly enough not his actual birthplace.)

The weird metal thingy

The misleading plaque

     The first thing I noticed was the lack of the awesome statue that was supposed to be there. I was lucky enough to happen upon a shop that had some information in its window pertaining to the statute. This Sunday they will have a meeting to look further into installing the statue. They are even going to serve a Raven cake in Poe's honor. Hopefully this will happen soon and Boston will again represent one of its own. For more information please check out the facebook link below for the Poe Statue Project.

The Poe Statue Project

 I understand that Poe did not speak highly of Boston and left it for Baltimore(mainly due to the ridicule the press at the time gave him) but that was literally over a hundred years ago. It's time for Boston to do right.

So this weeks story is for the man that most of Boston has forgotten. Thank you for everything.

A Feline's Dream

     “Come on sweetie, time for dinner!” Frederick called up the stairs. Shortly after he called he heard the pitter patter of the four paws clambering down. Her name was Heidi. Her fur was a lovely perfect fluff of white, the collar around her neck was a beautiful shade of pink and was adorned with clear sparkling diamonds. They were not fake diamonds either, Fred had paid a hefty price for it as a Christmas gift for his favorite girl. Five grand to be exact. They were nice, very nice.

     She had been a stray. He found her one thunder filled night cowering in fear on the back porch. She looked beaten and battered, so he took her in and cared for her. He nursed her back to health.

Fred's love for Heidi was all consuming, he had never loved anyone or anything in quite the same was that he loved her. He was constantly surrounded by cats when he was young and he supposed it had left quite a soft spot in his heart for the felines.

     “Ah, there you are,” He smiled a wide toothy smile when he saw her, he looked like a fool. He could not think of anything better in life than the joy that Heidi brought him. She occupied his heart to the fullest measure, leaving room for little else. He would often find himself up late at night crying at those godawful save the animals commercials. The slow saddening shots always led to him picking up the phone to donate, it was the least he could do. Who could ever harm those beautiful beasts, who?

And then just when he was at his happiest it would happen, just as it did every night. The sleeping, or more specific the sharing of the sleeping area. How he loathed it. He would mutter it louder and louder each night.

     “Stupid bitch! What kind of woman doesn't even leave her husband a meal to come home to? Fucker. I'll show her tomorrow what happens to bitches who can't cook their man a meal.” He shut out the light.

     He woke before Elizabeth. She always tried to stay in bed as long as she could. It was nearly ten before she decided she could no longer fake her sleep. She dressed slowly, biding her time. Today was Sunday, he would be home. She arrived home late last night, she was out visiting her mother and had fallen asleep upon arriving home.when she finally awoke he was already asleep beside her; she knew that today would be a bad day. She found the shirt with the longest sleeves, it was easier to sweat in the sweltering heat than it was to explain away the bruises. She descended the stairs one by one.

     “Good morning dear,” she said timidly.

     “I'm hungry. I had no dinner.” He said the latter with anger in his voice.

     “I'm so sorry dear. I was just... just visiting my mother and...”

     She felt it. She heard it. It wasn't her first cracked rib and she knew that it would not be her last. He never went for her face. She couldn't cover that, or rather it would look very strange if she did. It would draw attention and no one wanted that. In the seconds following the blow she found herself glancing helplessly towards the floor; anywhere but his face. Her eyes never met his but did however met those of the cat's. Heidi had made her way into the kitchen in the silent manor that only her kind can. And for that fleeting second when their eyes locked onto each others everything went away; all the pain, all the grief.

     She wanted to hate that cat. Hate it with everything that her body could manage to hate with. She wanted to punish it for taking the place in his heart that she should occupy. But she couldn't. How could she blame such a harmless creature?

     The days and weeks passed and things remained as they always had. The pain was still in her rib; renewed with a new impact. Nothing changed, well almost nothing. Heidi was beginning to grow apart from her current master and instead began to favor the battered woman. Elizabeth took to the cat as well, but in all honesty she wished that Heidi had not grown fond of her in the first place. Frederick did not approve of the new friendship. If Heidi was not to be his then she would be nobodies; and as for Elizabeth; he would take care of that as well.

     His plan was simple, he had done it so many times before. Elizabeth was not his first. He did it in the same manner each time. He would call them into the garage; all surfaces covered ahead of time with plastic sheets. When they entered the room it would only take one shot, or one slash to the throat if he was feeling adventurous. Then the whole lot, weapons, sheets, and woman would be placed in a large blue plastic barrel. He would then proceed to fill the barrel with cement and roll it onto his boat. The next morning, before dawn, he would drive out to the sea and head out. He would go straight out, as far as one tank of fuel would allow him to. The barrels just needed a small push. The blue black waters of the oceans would consume it, finish the job he had started. He would refill the tank with the red plastic gas can he brought along and head back for the shore. If he was lucky he would find himself with enough extra time to try and lure in a pesky smallmouth bass or two.

     He would do it tomorrow night, after the rest of the city was asleep. He would use the blade this time; she truly deserved it. The garage had been set for the next evenings performance. He was growing tired. Up the stairs he carried himself. He found no hate in his heart that night, he would save it all for the following day. That night he slept with an easy mind.

     He dreamt. In his dreams he was free, he could do anything. Inside of his dreams he ran into what he loved most. It was Heidi but not in the way he was used to seeing her. She was much larger, closer to a woolly mammoth than a cat. She played gently with him however, her huge rough tongue laced his face with her cat breath. He loved every moment of it, and then, she spoke.

     “Frederick, you have saved me from the cold and damp. You have given me a place to sleep and feed, a place to be safe from the harm that others could bring me.”

     Frederick blushed a deep shade of crimson. A large toothy grin again stretched across his face, onc e again he looked like an idiot.

“But there is one you never care for, or should I say cared for?”

His smile was gone, confusion and anger had taken its place, “you mean that sorry excuse for a wife? She is lucky that she gets treated the way that she does, she is deserving of so much less.”

Heidi gave a threatening quiet hiss, her yellow eyes growing larger. “It is true you have been unfair to the girl. She took you on as a husband and how have you repaid her? Even a blind man could see it Frederick, she loves you. Even after all you have done to her she still loved you. An honest man can go a lifetime without ever finding a love like that. And yet here you sit, or rather lie beside her and plan her death.”

     She paused, gave her paw a lick, raised it to her ear and gently brushed back her fur.

     “You don't understand! You don't know what it's like-”

     Heidi interrupted with a loud feline shriek, like an alley cat competing for prey. “I do not need you to tell me what I do an do not understand. All these years I have sat upon your lap while you stroke my fur. All those years you have gazed into my eyes and whispered into my ears, yet still you haven't the faintest idea Frederick. You claim you love me? So why is it that when you shut out the lights and pat my head that you enter sleep with a heavy heart and a busy mind? You believe to be because of your wife? No. The woman has done no wrong to you. It is because of me Frederick."

     “When you wake up in the wee hours of the night and spot me silently watching in the corner you can feel it. In the pit of your stomach, in the marrow of your bones, you feel it. But you choose night after night to push those feelings down. You shan’t allow those feelings to ones you truly love, your precious Heidi.

     She stopped talking and gave her paw another lick. This time she wiped it about her neck. Her beautiful white fur turned an awful blackish red. Blood. She tilted her head back and revealed the wound. Across her neck stretched a long deep gash, the blood began to pour out covering her fur and the surrounding floor.

     “Don't you remember?,” she asked. “I was your first. Well your first with the blade anyway, a bit sloppy wouldn't you say?”

     He leapt from where he was sitting and ran. Where he was running he was not quite sure, for the surrounding space was only occupied by a white nothingness. He had gotten maybe three steps before the paw came down. He was trapped beneath it, blood raining down on his face.

     “It can't be...”

     “Oh, but it is sweetie. How your precious little Heidi; excuse me; I mean your precious little Stephanie has missed you.”

Frederick began to struggle beneath her weight, trying to escape, “it's just a dream, it's just a dream!”

     “No,” said Stephanie, “it is not.”

     He could feeling it happening. Little by little. The claws of the massive being were slowly penetrating his chest. The only blood to be seen now was his own.

     “But how?”

     “You were always so naïve,” she laughed, “you always told me that my friends were strange, weirdos. Well you were right. Actually maybe not strange per se but unique. We had grown up with the same group of us since we were all little girls. I can still remember Marcy's grandmother. So skinny and pale, her fingernails almost as long as her hair. She used to babysit us, we hated it. She would tell us these stories of witches and monsters. They got more and more elaborate the older we grew. Then one day she told us, told us the truth. They weren’t stories at all, they were all true. We were maybe eighteen when we joined her coven. We were all so horrible at it, I was the worst of the lot. I could just never get a hang of it.”

     Shortly after you killed me however she found me. She had long since passed herself but still she pulled me back from the black. She is the one who truly saved me. I told her what had happened and she took me with her to another realm. There she taught me all that I would need to know.”

The claws sunk deeper and deeper. He could feel his heart trying to fend them off, his lungs trying to seal the punctures. He could not speak. He could only gasp and wipe away the tears. Stephanie leaned in with more weight.

     “You will never harm her again. Not her or anyone else.”
     This time it was his rib cracking. Stephanie noticing his proximity to death removed her claws. She gave them a final lick and raised them one final time.

     “Let me show you how it is done.”

     She gave one clean slash to the neck and Frederick fell limp. He did not wake up, he never would.

     Elizabeth woke the following morning alone, there was no one at her side. There was no one downstairs. The was simply no one. This did not startle her however, for in her mind this was how it had always been. Just her and the cat growing old together. She had never married, she never found the right man. She was completely content with that fact though. She was happy, she had no problems, no worries. The only thing she ever found to complain about was a slight pain in her rib when she would cough too strongly.

     She stared at the cat, listened to it purr and watched as it slowly gave into sleep. She smiled, gave it a pet, and wondered to herself what that crazy feline could be dreaming of.