Halloween Fun with Marlon Pierre-Antoine

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CHRISTINE PARKER'S JOURNAL

by Marlon Pierre-Antoine

October 2^nd, 1932

7:05AM

            It would be wrong to say that I had the dream again last night. Better to say that it came for me.

            Just outside the Ormond Plantation house's porch where I stood the old oak tree seemed to stretch on to eternity. It wasn't the oak I saw in my waking hours, a degraded husk whose bare branches bore only the spindly gray webs of moss, no, this tree was lush with golden brown wood and a top rich with the verdant green array of springtime bloom.

            In the dead of night that my dream manifested in, the tree was all that I could see: it was my world. A man stood strapped to the bark, body as black as evening, bare chest pressed against the tree trunk as lines of rope coiled around his back, legs and neck stretched and distorted his athletic form.

            The loud whip-crack of leather tore through the air. A crowd stood around the bound man, obscured by darkness, laughing and howling with every lash that made contact with skin and muscle and sinew.

            Just before the final whip came, the bound man turned his head to me, and through his yellowed, bloodshot eyes I saw something: not despair, not agony but...happiness.

            Despite the distance between us and the soft tone he used, I heard his words as clearly as a lover's tender whisper in my ear. “J'arrive, mon cheri. J'arrive pour toi.”

6:44PM

            I went to the doctor today – it took all the strength I had not to correct him when he called me “Miss” instead of “Mrs.”

            But it would've been foolish to say anything. After all, he was right. I haven't been married for years.

            Thus far in my sojourn in Louisiana I have come to the conclusion that Southerners believe in two things above all else: hokey and powerful medications of questionable legality. My doctor encapsulated both of these sacraments when he advised me once again to keep a diary, in order to calm my nerves and keep better hold of my emotions, and prescribed me a large bottle of coughing tussin just in case the first idea didn't mend my insomnia and bad dreams. I told him that I was resolutely opposed to keeping a diary, but, being a modern woman, I had undertaken a journal. He laughed and told me to carry on. I tried not to take the misogyny too personally.

            Later in the day, dinner in the broad, empty dining room was lonely as usual. For all its elegant trappings and candle arrays meant to convey the impression of warmth, my surroundings were so desolate that every clank, every stirring of the spoon in my bowl assaulted my ears with the unholy racket of a fireworks display. When one of the house servants passed by, head tucked low in submission, I invited her to sit with me.

            “Fleur, isn't it?” I asked the young Negro girl, about my age if not younger, and she nodded nervously. With her soft features and delicate manner, to me she really did appear as a flower.

            “The gumbo is delectable,” I said when it became clear that Fleur was too afraid to carry the conversation, “you must give my compliments to the chef.”

            The girl looked up at me and smiled sheepishly. “Merci, Miss Parker.”

            I was in disbelief for a moment. All the kitchen staff were full-timers. Didn't a girl of her age belong in school? I decided not to question it.

            “You speak French, Fleur?”

            She laughed, candid for just a moment before class and habit reasserted themselves. “It's Louisiana, Miss Parker.”

            So I asked her to translate for me, writing the words the bound man taunted me with in my dreams on a napkin scrap. When Fleur saw them, her eyes broadened, and suddenly her skin looked more pale than mine.

            “This is an old house, Miss Parker. Too old. Too many stories floating around between these walls. Don't believe...don't believe anything you don't see for yourself, okay?”

            She left after that, leaving me to finish my meal in silence.

October 6^th, 1932

5:23PM

            Fleur was right: Ormond Plantation held many stories within its concrete stones and sugar cane fields.

            I spent days gathering all the rumors and old wives' tales I could about the place I now called my home: an old slave curse invoked after a failed uprising, tales of phantasmal figures walking through walls, the sound of gunshots in the night leading the plantation's occupants outside to find a bullet-riddled man hanging from the oak tree only to disappear before they could run out to attend to him, owners throughout the house's history summoned out to meet a letter-carrier and never to be seen or heard from again. I already knew the stories; they were the reason I was able to move here for mere pennies on the dollar, the reason why I moved to the Louisiana swamps rather than to a life of Parisian luxury that would deplete the coffers of my divorce settlement before the end of my thirtieth birthday. But I didn't believe any of it; I couldn't. I was never one to indulge in superstition, requiring neither the hand of God to guide me to do good nor the convenience of the Devil to blame when I did bad.

            So many stories, so many legends...

            Back home, in New York, they told stories about me, too. 'Red Christine', the fool who wrote checks to radicals and Communists who wanted nothing more than to take her wealth, and that of all the city's elite and cultured, away.

            I made it a principle to take every rumor I heard with a grain of salt.

October 7^th, 1932

2:19AM

            I write these lines with a shaking hand and a heart that threatens to burst forth from my body and forsake me to flee for its own existence.

            The dream came again-was it really still all it could be called? A dream? When it felt so real, so vivid, when I experienced such truth in it?

            This time, the bound man and I were as one. This time, each lash that tore into his body tore into mine as well, the stings and burns singing like wasps' stings on my very flesh. I awoke to find my white silk gown tarnished...no, I cannot write this, I cannot admit it even to myself...

            I awoke to find my gown tarnished in crimson and my backside rife with the long, thin gashes of a slave driver's vengeful whip.

            Dreams fade, no matter what their intensity. So I must make note of this detail, before it becomes lost to me.

            The bound man spoke again when our eyes connected. This time, I understood him perfectly.

            “I'm here, Christine. I'm here for you.”

October 21^st, 1932

5:11AM

            Weeks passed without incident, and I thought it was all over, that perhaps I had merely imagined the entire ordeal, my psyche warped by stress and tussin and an ear open to too many folk tales.

            Those were foolish thoughts.

            Moments ago I was disturbed from my sleep, but not by the nightmare. As my conscious mind overtook the unconscious and I was carried from the world of rest to the world of the living, I sensed a presence in my chamber with me. My eyes opened, vision still hazy but clear enough to see the form kneeling at my bedside, umbrous and indistinct, a black silhouette seeming to look right into me even with a face made out of nothingness.

            And I could almost-could I have been dreaming still?-I could almost feel it touching me.

October 23^rd, 1932

9:50PM

            I dismissed all of my staff after one of the gardeners was found hanging by his ankles on the oak tree. He was still alive, thankfully-but could I promise him safety next time? Could I promise any of them safety?

            So I carried about the house alone, cooking my own meals, drawing my own baths, answering my own telephone.

            Alone, but kept in company still.

            Eventually I saw it again, and I put all sense and instincts of self-preservation aside to seek out the answers I needed.

            I saw him from the second floor hallway, a man made of emptiness standing by the front door, a man of shade and mist in pure defiance of the luminous lamp fixtures arranged above him. I made a dash for the stairs and he faded out the door, but I pursued him still, a chase through the lawn and the old sugar cane field that set my somber mind to the utmost alertness and made my blood pulse and soar with the energy of an animal in mid-hunt.

            But who was the hunter: the shadow, or I?

            I chased him to the decrepit shack that was once, so many lifetimes ago, used as housing for Ormond Plantation's rather involuntary staff, re-purposed now to serve as a shelter for the winter wardrobe I found rather superfluous under the southern bayou Sun.

            Entering the shack, I found that the shadow had taken form.

            The bound man. Tall and proud and real, with a tight, muscular chest born to me peppered with scars and high-set cheekbones carrying the pride of African valor. He wiped a veil of sweat from his brow with his forearm, and stared at me with almond eyes that held untold volumes within them.

            “Christine,” he said, with a voice too ephemeral to belong to this plane and too powerful to be  an illusion, “I've come for you.”

            “I know,” I told him. “To kill me.”

            The bound man shook his head. “This house holds so many stories, but you can't believe them all. I killed the others because their hatred would have killed them anyway. But do you hate too, Christine? Or are some of the stories they tell of you true?”

            “Some of them,” I admitted, and then the bound man drew closer to me.

October 24^th, 1932

12:02AM

            It's midnight, and it's time for me to leave.

            I ask anyone who may stumble across this journal not to mourn for me. After all, since when has joy been an occasion for mourning? I have at last found someone real, someone to look past the rumor and see what lies inside. Someone to understand.

            I would also ask that no would-be detective try to unearth the name of my beloved. Yes, he had names, once upon a time, but both were taken from him-one by the trader who robbed him of his life in a faraway land and one by the lash that robbed him of life in the mortal coil. In fact, I would ask you not to remember my name, either. My name is unimportant now, now that I'm going to live on in the wind and the oak tree and in the hearts of all those who burn with love or hate.

            The bound man stoops forward now, stroking my collarbone with hands calloused from decades of labor and yet softer than any touch I have ever known before.

            It's midnight, and it's time for me to leave.

  

Marlon has a GOOD READS AUTHOR PAGE

Twitter name is  @mpierreantoine

Marlon's website is at: http://www.marlonpierre-antoine.com/

Comments Welcome!

Halloween Fun with Cameo Renae

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Hushabye Mountain

Cameo Renae

This was a very short children’s story I wrote a while back. It was actually an entry for a contest which was to turn a song into a story. It won 1^st place! Yay! :) Although there were only like six entries. Lol The prompt song was Hushaby Mountain, and here are the words:

A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain

Softly blows o’er Lullaby Bay.

It fills the sails of boats that are waiting –

Waiting to sail your worries away.

It isn’t far to Hushabye Mountain

And your boat waits down by the key.

The winds of night so softly are sighing –

Soon they will fly your troubles to sea.

So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain.

Wave good-bye to cares of the day.

And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain

Sail far away from Lullaby Bay.

Well, this is my story. Happy Halloween!

Hushabye Mountain – A Tale of a Witch

Screams of agony rattled through our small cabin.

"Grandfather, what's the matter?" I yelled, standing in the hallway.

Grandfather stood leaning against mother's door; his weathered brow furrowed, dripping with sweat. He took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen.

"Sit here Anna," he said, carefully setting me up on a stool. "Your mother is very ill, and in a great deal of pain."

"Is she going to die?"

            He paused, and as he did, hot tears welled in my eyes, and spilled down my cheeks.

My mother was a very strong woman. After my father died, a few years back in an accident, she took over and worked extra hard on the farm. She was all I had, except for Grandfather, who moved in, shortly after, to help us.

"Your mother will die if she doesn't get the proper medicine," he said, averting my gaze. “She’s been cursed.”

My voice caught in my throat. I couldn’t speak. Cursed? Who would do such a thing?

Grandfather shuffled through the kitchen, gathering a half-a-loaf of bread, some cheese, and two small corks, placing them into his small brown satchel.

"Are you leaving?"

"I must, Anna. There is only one thing that can cure your mother, and it is not something a doctor can prescribe. I will be gone a few days, so you will need to care for your mother."

"But, I don't know how. Where are you going?" I pleaded for an answer.

"I'm going to Hushabye Mountain. There is a single tree that grows at the top, which bears a magical fruit. The seed of that fruit holds the only cure for your mother."

"But Grandfather," I cried. "Isn't that the old witch's tree? You can't go there! She'll kill you!"

"Don't worry, Anna. I’ll be back. That old witch can’t hurt me. Besides, it’s just an old fool’s tale," he said grabbing my arms, gazing deeply into my eyes. "I’ll leave as soon as your mother is sleeping and should be back before the sun rises on the second day. Give her two drops of this, directly into her mouth, whenever she wakes. It will help ease some of her pain." He held out a small vial filled with a whitish liquid and placed it in my hand.

I'd heard stories, terrible stories, of the old witch who was banished to Hushabye Mountain. The mountain was named Hushabye, because she'd lull innocent children to sleep with her cursed lullaby. When they’d fall asleep, she'd tie them up, and take them into her cave, where she’d fatten them up, and eat them.

These days no one dared travel to the top of Hushabye Mountain; no one except those in search of the magical fruit. The last person, a farmer boy, who attempted to get the fruit for his sick father, never returned. I couldn't let that happen to Grandfather. He wasn't as strong or as fast as he once was.

Screams from mother's room caused grandfather to run to her side. I crept to her door, which was partially opened, and peeked in. Mother was curled up in a fetal position; her body was covered in sweat, hands clenched in tight fists, and her face was bright red. She moaned and turned to me. I froze. It didn’t even look like her.

I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I hated to see her in such pain. I instantly made up my mind. I was going to Hushabye Mountain to get the magic fruit for mother. I was more agile, a lot faster than Grandfather, and knew I could make it in half the time. Even at twelve, I was the fastest amongst most of the kids in town, and was sure I could outrun an old witch.

As Grandfather tended to mother, I grabbed his satchel, wrapped my mother's shawl around my shoulders, and snuck out the door. As soon as my feet touched the grass I dashed towards the mountain. My heart was racing faster than my feet.

It was summer in the valley and the winds were warm. I looked up and couldn't remember Hushaby Mountain ever looking more beautiful or peaceful. What would be in store for me when I reached the top? The mere thought sent a chill down my spine.

I traveled more than halfway up the mountain before sunset, and found a small hollow in the side of the mountain. It was perfect to stay in for the night. I gathered small branches and twigs from the area, and piled them up to make a fire. Grandfather always kept a flint stone in his satchel.

I wondered if he was mad at me for leaving. He'd probably never catch up to me, even if he traveled all night. Besides, there was no one else to care for mother.

Mother's shawl and the small fire kept me warm throughout the night, and the bread and cheese made me full. I dumped the remaining items from the satchel onto ground and sifted through them. Most of it was junk he'd collected through the years. The two small corks, I saw him put into the satchel this morning, so I tucked them into my pocket.

As soon as daylight broke I traveled quickly towards the top of the mountain. The sooner I picked the magic fruit, the sooner I could get it back to mother.

As I neared the top, I could see large, towering tree. Its branches were shaped like an umbrella, with large, bright-green leaves. The fruit hanging resembled ripe, juicy apples, but shimmered gold in the sun. As I took the last few steps to the top, my stomach began to twist in knots. My knees became weak and shaky.

I stood at the top of Hushabye Mountain, and all the rumors of the old witch began to flood my mind. I quickly glanced around me, but the area was empty.

Run. Grab the fruit. Run away. I chanted to myself over and over.

I studied the branches to see which fruit would be the easiest to pick. The lowest fruit hung on the opposite side of the tree. There were a few that were closer, but it would take some effort on my part to retrieve them. I decided to run to the lowest hanging fruit, pick it, and get off the mountain as quickly as possible.

After one last glance, I bolted toward the fruit. I reached up, and grasped it in my hand. Just as I was about to pick it I heard whimpers and loud sobs. I turned and was startled to see a little boy sitting at the foot of the tree. He looked to be about five, and was dirty, and crying. Muddied hands covered his face.

I quickly picked the fruit and placed it in the satchel.

"Hey kid, are you okay?" He didn't answer. “Are you lost? How did you get way up here?”

I stood, bewildered. I could have sworn there was no one else up here but me.

Suddenly, the boy stopped crying. And instead began to hum an eerie tune.

My limbs became numb, and my eyes became heavy. I suddenly felt very, very sleepy.

A deep-voice shouted in the distance. It sounded like Grandfather, but his voice was muffled.

"ANNA! Don't listen! Put the corks in your ears!"

My limbs were weighted as I tried to reach into my pocket to pull out the corks, but my fingers couldn’t grasp them and they fell to the ground. I looked at the boy as he slowly uncovered his face.

I gasped, horrified, stumbling backwards.

An old, wrinkled hag stared up at me with blackened, evil eyes. She cackled wickedly through rotted teeth and began singing her cursed lullaby even louder.  "So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain. Wave good-bye to cares of the day..."

It was the witch!

I tried to run, but she grabbed my leg and yanked me to the ground. Her nails dug into my skin - stinging, burning. She crawled over me, humming her tune of death. Drool from her rotted teeth dripped onto my face, but I couldn’t move.

Darkness quickly encroached upon my eyes, but before they shut, Grandfather came charging towards me.

"Grandfather!" I screamed, but was paralyzed.

"ANNA!" The voice returned.

Everything went black, but I could hear muffled screams. Screams of pain. Screams of death.

I dreamt that I was floating down the mountain on a white fluffy cloud that settled on my bed.

A gentle voice on the wind called my name. "Anna. Anna. Anna."

I struggled to open my eyes, and when I did, I saw an angel. She was staring at me with bright, blue eyes and a wide smile.

"Mother!" I yelled, reaching out to her. She grabbed me and pulled me to her, hugging me tightly. "You’re okay."

"Yes, thanks to you and your grandfather," she said, pinching my nose and shooting me a look of you-shouldn’t-have.  

“I’m sorry. But I had to,” I muttered. She hugged me again and laughed.

"And we can't forget our neighbor, Mary, who stopping by just in time. She stayed with me while your grandfather went chasing after you."

Grandfather was kneeling at my bedside, grinning and shaking his head.

"B-but...Grandfather... what happened to the witch?" I stuttered.

"Oh, let's just say she's no longer on Hushabye Mountain, and has sailed far away from Lullaby Bay," he said with a wink.

The End.

Cameo Renae is the author of  In My Dreams. My review of In My Dreams. She has recently completed work on a new novel. Details to come! 

Cameo Renae's website is http://cameorenae.com/

Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/cameorenae


Good Reads Author Page: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4794993.Cameo_Renae

Comments Welcome!

Halloween Fun with Weston Kincade

Halloween Fun Book Giveaway Entry


Prison Torment

by Weston Kincade

Standing amidst the decrepit house, Sam’s foldout chair wobbled under his feet, teetering over the warped, termite-ridden floorboards. Sam stabilized himself on the balls of his feet, then looped the rope over a large crossbeam. Other than lingering spots of plaster, the roof’s supports were mostly visible. His royal blue rain jacket flexed against the elastic waist as he jerked the rope, testing its steadfastness. Without heat, electricity, or completely constructed walls, it was chilly inside. Thunder rolled in the distance, drowning the sound of groaning planks as he stepped off the chair. He couldn’t see through the boarded windows, but sheets of rain were suddenly pounding the roof, and the ceiling began draining in places. Sam moved the table and kerosene lantern out of one growing stream and turned the knob. The flame rose and cast shadows across skeletal walls.

Prison was hard and the sight reminded him of the barred rooms, but at least he was alone here. In prison, the guys were unbearable. How was he supposed to deal with them when they all knew his secret? ‘Hey Pretty Boy’ they snickered as he walked by. ‘Meet me in the showers. We’ll play patty-cake.’ The taunts continued, but he tried to ignore them. One incident was all it had taken for him to lose years of hard-earned respect. He couldn’t go back there. Not now.

Damn Simon for rattin’ me out. Why couldn’t he have just kept his trap shut? The relationship hadn’t lasted long, if it could even be called that. Sam had kept it to himself, hoping it would last. Besides, who could he tell… his wife? Yeah, that would’ve gone over well. Simon had stayed silent, too; at least, that’s what he told Sam. But things never work out. Word had gotten around about Sam and the young fish.

“Thump…Thump…Thump,” echoed a sound from out front. The warped door opened a crack, squealing as its hinges flexed. “Ka-thump … ka-thump,” the sound continued, now resounding off the loose wooden floorboards like the clop of horse hooves on cobblestone. A boy, no more than ten, stepped into the room with a basketball and backpack, his hair a matted mop of black waves. The boy bounced the ball on the uneven boards again unconsciously.

“Hey, mister. What you doin’?” His eyes rose when they found Sam, climbing him as though he were a mountain.

“Uhhh…what you doin’ here, boy? Go away.” Sam turned back to the rope and began looping the end around itself.

“Ka-thump…ka-thump,” echoed the sound twice more. Sam thought he could hear the floor joists crack under the bouncing ball’s pressure. He ground his teeth, slipped the rope’s end through a loop, and tightened the knot. He let the noose hang free and turned back to the boy. “Get out,” he growled.

“Why?” asked the boy, nonchalantly pounding the floorboards again.

“What do you want?” Sam demanded.

“It’s wet out there. Just started pouring down. Can I wait here with you?”

Sam’s eyes went to the corners of the small room, rain leaking from the collapsed ceiling, and the solitary foldout table and chair he’d brought with him a few days before. “I only got one chair,” he announced.

“That’s okay,” added the boy, as though interpreting Sam’s complaint as an offer. “You keep it. I’ll use this.” He dropped the ball and retrieved an empty paint bucket from the other side of the room. He plopped down on the upturned bucket with a smile, then scooted up to the table as though awaiting his dinner.

Sam sighed and mentally kicked himself. How was he supposed to stop this insanity with a child here? The boy’s grin sent a shudder down Sam’s spine. He clenched his fists and looked at some point on the far wall, determined to shut out the alluring thoughts that crept to mind. “You can’t stay long, just till the rain lets up.”

“Okay,” the boy chimed. “Got anything to do?”

Sam dropped a deck of cards at the boy’s hands. “There. Now, leave me alone.”

“You don’t want to play with me?” asked the youth, crestfallen.

“Sam’s fists tightened once more, and he muttered through clenched teeth, “No, I don’t.”

“Oh, come on…please. I can’t play alone.”

“Haven’t you ever heard of solitaire?”

“Yeah, that game sucks.”

Sam harrumphed and pulled over his folding chair, then plopped down in front of the youth. His young eyes twinkled behind cherubic cheeks. “Fine. Give ‘em to me, boy.” Sam yanked the cards out of the child’s grasp.

“My name’s Kaleb. You can stop calling me boy.”

“Uh-huh,” replied Sam as he shuffled the cards, focusing his attention on the sound of plastic-coated edges slipping against one another.

“So, what's 'S' stand for? Kaleb asked, pointing at the left side of his jacket. ‘S. Clayton’ was printed in blocky letters below a cluttered emblem. "And why are you staying in a place like this?”

“Sam, and it’s the best place I could find conciderin’…” His voice died, and he began dealing the cards.

“Considering what?” Kaleb inquired.

“Nothin’. Don’t worry about it.” Sam flipped over a card and laid it at the center of the table. “Ever played War?”

“Yeah, I like that game.” Kaleb flipped a card off the top of his pile and took the trick with small, excited hands.

A smile crested Sam’s lips as he watched Kaleb’s reaction. When he realized what he was thinking, he looked at one of the boarded windows, purposefully avoiding the boy. A frown cemented itself on his face. Can’t give into this. It’s wrong. God, I’m horrible.

Kaleb smiled again, catching Sam’s attention. The boy flipped the next card and his grin widened. “A Jack. Beat that, I dare ya’.”

“I’m not sure I can,” Sam muttered and flipped another card. He didn’t even look down, just let Kaleb move the cards to the appropriate side of the table. As the game continued, Sam grudgingly murmured, “You’re doing well,” against his better judgment.

“I always do.”

“Do you?”

“Uh-huh,” Kaleb admitted with a nod. His hair was beginning to friz as it dried.

“Do you like cards?”

“Oh yeah.” Kaleb took down another hand.

The next hand, Sam won. He reached for it and set his fingers on Kaleb’s. The feel of the young boy’s soft skin was unnerving, tempting. Sam flinched from the touch.

Kaleb stared at his new acquaintance in confusion. “What’s up with you? And what’s up with the rope? Isn’t that …?”

“No, it isn’t,” interrupted Sam. “It’s a solution. But you have to go before you get us in trouble.” Sam rose and ushered the boy out with his ball.  Even the touch of the youth’s shirt and back was almost too tantalizing to resist as Sam rushed him out the door. “See, it’s barely raining now.”

“Okay, my mom’s probably wondering what’s taking so long anyway. She might have called the school.”

“Even more reason,” Same muttered and swept the door closed. It groaned and wouldn’t shut completely, but Sam let out a relieved sigh and leaned against it. He was breathing heavily, as though he’d just run a marathon. As hard as it was to resist the temptation, the absence of Kaleb immediately began eating at him. Should he call him back, pull him back inside? It was a longing that made him question which was worse, the action itself, or the feeling after avoiding such things. If they knew, the boys in the joint would never let him live this down. Just something to add to the fire, a bit more kindling before they skewer me and throw me on top.

“That’s exactly why this can’t continue,” he whispered. After a few minutes, he rose to his feet trembling, unsure when he had slid to the floor.

Sam returned to his room and weighed the noose with his eyes. I got nowhere else. Clare don’t want me. The boys'll just jack me. And I can’t blame them either. Stepping onto the chair, Sam fit the rope around his neck but fumbled with the short, gortex collar of his jacket. The two materials chafed on one another. It wouldn't matter, but irritation won out. He slipped out of the noose and set the jacket on a carton with a few of his other things. Taking a deep breath, he climbed the stool once more and slid the noose over his head. The skin around the rope tingled anxiously. God, give me strength.

 Kicking the chair back, Sam jolted against the strain of his own weight. His neck snapped to the side with a feint ‘pop’. Another torrent of rain fell along with him, and the rivulets streaming through the house grew as though a dozen ghosts had chosen this minute to piss in Sam’s skeletal resting place.

A moment later, the door squealed as small footsteps passed back into the room. “Hey, mister. Hey, mist …,” called Kaleb as he rubbed his cold arms, but his youthful tone died like the startled chirp of a cricket. The rope creaked while Sam’s body swiveled in place, the sound echoing over loose floorboards like wind through desert dunes. Kaleb peered up at the man, watching with morbid curiosity. Sam’s rotating body sent shadows across the dark room as though the kerosene flames were hosting a puppet show. In the flickering light, Kaleb glimpsed something printed on the back of Sam’s t-shirt. ‘Stanton Security’ it advertised in the same blocky print as the jacket, as though the letters themselves had lost their flare for life.

A chill sped down Kaleb’s spine, and he rubbed his crossed arms for warmth. Rain water dripped off his soaked jeans and shirt and onto the warped boards. Kaleb’s gaze drifted from Sam’s rotating body and scanned the room. Every few seconds his wary gaze returned to the hovering man as though making sure he was still dead. Finally, the boy's gaze landed on something, Sam's blue rain jacket. Kaleb grabbed it, stretching the front side to clearly discern the emblem stamped over the left breast. Something long, black, and heavy rolled from underneath and clattered to the floor with a double thud. Kaleb leaned down and picked up the foot-long flashlight. His eyes widened as he hefted the weighty object. He flicked it on and illuminated the emblem on the jacket. It was of an axe and pick crisscrossed in front of barbed wire gates.

Kaleb shivered again, glanced back at Sam apologetically, and slipped his arms into the jacket. Light in hand, he retrieved his basketball and trudged back into the storm without another look. Rain quickly spattered a larger logo on Kaleb's back, 'Stanton Correctional Facility'. The basketball thumped wetly as the boy dribbled on the pavement outside. The door creaked closed, sealing the ghostly tomb.

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Bio: Weston Kincade

Creative writing has always been a passion for Weston Kincade. He’s helped invest in future writers for years while teaching English and has a Bachelors of English from Radford University. In his spare time he writes poetry, short stories, and has completed two novels, a Science-Fiction/Fantasy entitled Invisible Dawn and a paranormal coming-of-age story, A Life of Death. A Life of Death is also being released as a free, serialized audio-book on October 17^th at podiobooks.com. He is currently working on the sequel to Invisible Dawn in the Altered Realities Series and a cooperative anthology of short stories titled Strange Circumstances with two other novelists. In addition, he has a website and Facebook fan page. Both books have received great reviews by publicly trusted literary critics and readers. They can be found at Alchemy of Scrawl, Books and Things, Geeky Girl Review, and Indie Books Blog where an interview with Weston can also be found. Many are also available on Goodreads.com and Amazon.com. He is also currently involved in a Halloween Blog Hop with eight other thrilling authors, giving away free ebooks and signed paperbacks. He can also be found on twitter @WestonKincade. As the wordsmithing continues, Weston enjoys finding great ideas in the oddities of mundane life and loves stretching the boundaries of human understanding.

Books can be found at:

http://authorwakincade.blogspot.com

http://www.facebook.com/WAKincade

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4729210.Weston_Kincade

http://www.amazon.com/Weston-A.-Kincade/e/B0058LNVUW/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1317260602&sr=8-1

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/WestonKincade?keyword=Weston+Kincade&store=allproducts

  

Review of A Life of Death here 

Please leave your comments below. I love hearing from you.

Kimberly LaRocca 3

Halloween Fun Book Giveaway Entry
(Book in today's post is not necessarily  in the giveaway)

On Saturdays this month I will be featuring a poem from Kimberly LaRocca. Today's poem is from her book A Black Girl's Poetry for the World. 

Here is this week's pick. I hope you enjoy it.

IT, TOO, SHALL PASS

Pain can't last forever.

It's got places to go.

That bell it rings,

And pain's waiting 

At another's door,

Consuming who it occupies,

Making you believe you died,

Taking over everything,

Till only it survives.

But...

It, too, shall pass,

Because nothing ever lasts

Of pain.

It, too, shall pass.

I love the reminder in this that pain does pass. No matter how awful it feels while you are going through it. No matter how long you believe it will linger. It does eventually move on. It took me quite awhile to learn this lesson in life. I wish I understood it when I was younger as too many times in the past I let pain consume me. Now I try to work through it so it will move on a bit quicker, ( doesn't always work - at times some hurts are so huge they still linger before eventually moving on). 

For more from Kimberly you can go to her website HERE. She has additional poetry there.

Copies of her book may be purchased from Amazon, in PRINT and in KINDLE form. 

To see my review please click the link, HERE

Please leave your thoughts below.

Halloween Fun With Phillip Hall

Halloween Fun Book Giveaway Entry
(A.C. Hall is a participating author in the giveaway)





Directive 57

By Phillip Hall

      "Why'd you leave me?" a harsh voice whispered.

      Kenny fell out of his bunk and onto the hard metal floor.  He jumped up, then stumbled over to turn the lights on.  He pushed the light panel and nothing happened.  He squeezed his eyes tight, and held his breath.  His mind was racing for a logical reason as to why he was hearing the voice of a friend from long ago. 

      "Go away now, please," Kenny said in a weak voice.

      "I'll be back for you, Kenny," the voice hissed.

      The lights came on, and Kenny slowly opened his eyes.  He couldn't see without his glasses but he could tell there was no one else in the room with him.   He collapsed to the floor and started crying.

* * * * *

      Curt stood in front of the small mirror and splashed cold water on his face.  His heart was racing, and he had to take deep breaths to calm down.  He looked in the mirror for a long moment, then shook his head.

      "What are you doing, honey?"  Brittany asked.

      "It's nothing," Curt responded.

      "You don't have to lie.  I know it was the dream again, because I had it too."

      Curt turned around to face her, but when their eyes met they quickly looked away from one another.

      "I'm sorry you keep having the nightmare too," Curt said.

      "Halloween is coming up in just a few days… "

      "Oh stop with that Halloween business,” Curt interrupted.  “You know I hate all the Earth holidays and..."

      "...and after you're promoted to Captain General you plan to abolish all Earth holidays, starting with Halloween," Brittany said in a playful tone.

      "Yeah well, you keep on making your jokes while I make a life for us and future generations to come.  A life lived for us and not for all those worthless pukes back on Earth," Curt said sternly.

      There was a knock on the door.  Curt straightened his shirt a bit then headed to see who was there.

      "Don't worry, I'll get it," Curt said sarcastically.

      He hit the button and the door slid open.  Kenny stumbled into the room.  He was covered in sweat and was almost hyperventilating.

      "Oh it's just you.  Today is an important day Kenny.  Go away," Curt said.

      "No.  I can't.  It’s Trevor, I don't know if he's dead or not.  I mean I ..."

      Curt slapped Kenny across the face, knocking his glasses off.  Kenny stood unmoving, in shock.

      "Shut up you fat idiot.  Every year when it gets close to Halloween we all have the dreams.  Big deal.  Trevor died 13 years ago because he didn't leave your lard butt behind.  It was all yours and his fault.  Me and Brittany had nothing to do with it."

      "You were going to leave us, Curt.  You pulled the bar out of the door and left Trevor behind.  I mean the blood and… and..."

      Curt stepped forward and grabbed the smaller man by his collar.  He pulled him close.

      "In one hour I am going to be elected the youngest Captain General to ever take control of a seed ship.  Do you know what I've sacrificed to get this honor at the age of 28?  I have worked myself half to death!" Curt yelled, then paused and took a deep breath.  "We've covered our tails for 13 years now, Kenny and I'll be damned if some nightmare is going to unravel all that I've worked for."

      "Yes of course.  You're right, Curt.  Like always, I'll just follow your lead."

      Curt smiled, then let go of the smaller man's shirt.

      "I knew you'd see things my way.  Now go pick up your glasses and I don't want to see you until the day after Halloween, because I know you're going to be a nervous wreck until then."

      Kenny turned to find his glasses and was greeted by Brittany.  She was holding his glasses out for him.

      "Thank you, Brittany.  I'm sorry for interrupting this special day for you two," Kenny said.

      "Oh it's no worry.  It was good to see you..." Brittany said before being cut off.

      "She's fine, Kenny.  It's me you should be worried about making angry.  After all I'm about to be your Captain General.  Now make yourself scarce."

* * * * *

      "My second order of business as your Captain General is to issue directive 57," Curt said.

      The conference room was packed full of dignitaries and civilian leaders.  There was a loud buzz around the room as everyone spoke in hushed tones about the directives their new leader was giving.

      Curt smiled to himself and soaked in the thought of all these scoundrels having to answer to him now.  They'd all have to do as he said.

      "People, please settle down.  I know what I'm directing you to do is different from what you've done in the past but it's far past time that we set the course for us and not for Earth.  We are generations of space farers, not Earthmen," Curt said.  "So please pay attention to the holo presenter up front and I will explain directive 57."

      The lights dimmed, and all eyes went to the front.  Curt stood with a pointer and showed each of the steps for his plan.  He explained in detail what would be done.  Once again a murmur arose from the gathered leaders.  Gerald, a housing leader, stood up and spoke.

      "Captain General, first off you have abolished all Earth holidays.  In doing so, you have wiped away generations of traditions.  Now you want to open up deck 57, strip it down; flood it with radiation, then vent the entire deck into space?"

      "You've summed it up quite well, Gerald.  Only one thing you got mixed up there.  I don't 'want' to do this, I am doing this.  Is that clear?" Curt asked.

      He paused for a long moment, seeing if anyone would challenge his newfound authority.

      "It's high time we leave the past in the past.  It's up to us to plan for the future and that future is right now.  Let's get started erasing where we've been so we can have more room for where we're going."

* * * * *

      Curt strode down the hall wearing a full yellow containment suit.  He carried his helmet under his arm.  There were over 200 men behind him as they approached the main hatch for deck 57.  He reached out to push the open button when someone shouted from behind.  He turned and saw Kenny running up.

      "Don't do it, Curt!"

      "Go home, Kenny, right this second."

      "No, I won't go.  Don't you open up that deck.  Spraying radiation and opening the airlocks isn't going to change the past."

      Curt stepped forward and reared back to punch the fat little man, but something caught his wrist.  It burned like fire but was cold like ice.  He tried to jerk his arm free but found that he couldn't.  Then a chill voice whispered in his ear.

      "He doesn't like when you do that."

      Curt's heart skipped a beat and he became light headed.  He stumbled into the hatch release and the giant doors to deck 57 began to open.  Curt stepped back and stood side by side with Kenny.  They both stared as the doors opened to reveal the dimly lit hallway beyond.  The red emergency lights flickered and for a brief moment they saw a teenage boy covered in blood standing halfway down the corridor.

      The lights flickered again and the figure was gone.  Kenny turned and ran away.  He ran straight through the now confused group of workers.

      Curt stood unmoving for a long moment, staring down the long hallway.  Suddenly there was a hand upon him.  He jerked around, swinging wildly.  He caught the side of one of the engineers who was there to help with getting deck 57 cleared out.

      "Sir, are you all right?" the Engineer asked.

      "Ummm, yes… of course I am.  I uh... just need to go home for a bit.  I need to take care of my wife."

      Curt didn't wait for a response, he simply took off running.

* * * * *

      Curt rounded the corner and headed for his room.  He wanted to make sure Brittany was okay.  As he approached the room there was a metal pipe lying in front of his door.  He ignored it and hit the open panel.  The door didn't respond.  He could hear something happening inside.  He pushed the button over and over but it wouldn't respond.  Then he heard a blood curdling scream from within.

      "Brittany!  I'm coming," Curt shouted.

      He picked up the metal pipe, barely noticing it was covered in blood.  He jammed it into the door and started wrenching backwards.  Soon the door popped open and he sprinted inside.  He almost slipped on the wet floor but kept his balance.  He switched on the lights and he immediately began to retch. 

      Blood covered the walls and dripped from the ceiling.  Brittany was nowhere to be seen, but blood and gore were all around.  Curt dropped to his knees, shaking his head.

      "No, no, no, no.  This isn't happening.  This isn't real," he mumbled.

      "Yes it is real.  As real as the day you left me behind on deck 57 with that sick monster, the mad engineer.  You left me there to die, Curt.  You, Brittany and even Kenny.  He didn't just kill me, Curt.  He tortured me for weeks, until he had finally had his fill.  Then he cut me to pieces with his plasma wrench," the ghostly voice said.

      Curt looked over and saw the ghost of Trevor standing in the doorway to the bathroom.  The teenager was a ghastly sight to see, covered in blood and with gaping wounds all over.

      "I'm sorry, Trevor.  I'm so sorry," Curt whimpered.

      A shrieking laughter rose up from the ghost.  Trevor walked slowly over.

      "You're sorry?  Oh you will be sorry, Curt.  Very sorry indeed," Trevor said in a low voice.

      There were footsteps approaching from outside.  Curt struggled to his feet and watched as the ghost vanished.  He turned back to the door just as Kenny came in.  The portly man came to an abrupt halt.

      Kenny stood in the doorway with his mouth wide open.  He stared at all the blood, then at Curt who stood in the middle of the room holding a blood covered metal pipe.

      "What have you done?  Where is Brittany?" Kenny asked.

      Curt looked down at his blood covered containment suit and the metal pipe.

      "I didn't do anything," Curt replied.

      "I'm getting the authorities and I'm telling them everything!"

      "No!  You will do no such thing.  Help me clean this room up and look for Brittany."

      "I will not.  I'm telling everything!" Kenny screamed then turned to run.

      Curt sprang after him and without thinking he threw the metal pipe.  It soared through the air and hit the man square in the back of the head.  Kenny went down hard.

      "I told you to stop," Curt shouted.

      He ran over to where Kenny had fallen and picked up the metal pipe.  Kenny struggled back to his feet.

      "I'm telling everyone the truth about you," Kenny said wearily.

      Something inside of Curt snapped.  He swung the metal pipe down hard, crushing Kenny in the head.  He fell unmoving to the floor.

      Curt continued screaming and swinging the pipe over and over.  He continued hitting long after Kenny stopped moving or breathing. 

      "Now that's the spirit, Curt," Trevor said.

      Curt looked up to see the blood covered visage of his one time friend, then he looked down.  On the ground below him were the pummeled remains of Kenny.  Blood was everywhere.  It soaked his hair and stained his hands. 

      Suddenly the entire ship shook violently.  Curt dropped the pipe and braced himself.  Alarms began sounding and emergency lights flashed. 

      None of it truly registered as he just felt broken inside.  He stared at the horrific image of Trevor smiling at him.

      "That'd be all the airlocks on every deck except this one opening.  I might have rewired them to open on all decks when those on 57 were opened.  I'm certain that at least a few thousand people were just sucked out the airlocks to their untimely deaths."

      "Why?" Curt asked.

      "Oh I think you know why, Curt.  You're missing the real question here, aren't you old friend?  The question is, why now?"

      Curt simply nodded his head.

      "I wanted to kill you at the highest point in your life.  I didn't want to just kill you, but to kill your dreams and your legacy as well.  You had it all and now all you have is a half dead ship, a dead wife and you murdered Kenny."

      The sound of people approaching caught Curt's attention.  He looked up at Trevor.

      "Go ahead.  Kill me,"

      Trevor laughed a shrill laugh, and shook his head.

      "Oh no my friend, it'll be much worse if I leave you to the people who are left onboard.  You gave directive 57, which caused all of this and you made sure every person knew you were in charge.  By the time they're finished with you it'll make what the mad engineer did to me look like child's play."

      As the bloody ghost of Trevor slowly faded away, Curt screamed out.

      "No!  Don't leave!  Help me!"

      But there was no reply.

  

Review of The Bond: Conqueror here

For more information on Phillip Hall please go to Hall Brothers Entertainment