The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

The sands of the desert are cold at night, but it's beautiful. What looks like gritty brown dunes under the scorching, ever summer sun, is a pale blue glow under the caress of silver-blue moonlight against the dunes. When the night is clear of clouds, and sandstorms, you could nearly see into Heaven.



I came into the US Army when being an Army of One was no longer enough for the United States. It had been five years since the looming twin towers fell. It has been five years since the war on terror began, and for five years, I fought the whisper of my country's call.



Someone once told me that the object of war was not to die a hero for your country, but to make the enemy a hero for his.



Five years had passed, and America forgot its patriotism, but I didn't.



Boot wasn't a breeze... but it wasn't what I would call grueling. This is not my father's Army, or my grandfather's Army. Things have changed, so training has changed. Basic's nothing short of just that--basic.



I'm not even there yet, but I'm watching videos now; watching my brothers in arms train for the sandy dunes of an alien land. I'm trying to get used to this shit, but I can't even tell you how hard it is.



It's my last day on leave, and I don't know if I'm frightened, or ready for war. I'm not my father, or my grandfather. I'm not John Wayne, or Clint Eastwood. I'm no war hero. I'm just some kid from Corona, California. I'm a musician, and a theater manager. I'm the son of a patriot, and the pride and joy of a patriot's wife. So. When a patriot and his family throw me a birthday party nine months before my birthday--God--I mean, it's April, and I was born in January. They're afraid I'm not coming home.



Now I have to wonder if I should be afraid.



It's my last night of leave. I can hear the Taps playing over a scratchy record in the back of my mind, as night passes, and the sun begins on the horizon.



I am a US Soldier; I am Specialist Shawn Stewart.



I am a name, and a face.



I am your sons and your daughters. Remember me when I find Georgia. Remember me when I am away. Remember me, when you remember them because I am still alive. I am more than a soldier; I am more than a warrior. You are the heartbeat of this country, but I am the blood that flows in its veins.



Thomas Jefferson said: "From time to time, the tree of Liberty must be fed with the blood of Patriots, and tyrants... It is natural Manure."



I promise you. It will not be my blood.



This is not my father's war. This is not my grandfather's war. People say this isn't our war.



You tell that to my dead brothers.



This war is mine, and I will meet it head on, defending freedom, and democracy around the world from here, until I come home.



Remember me. In the black of night, under the pale and silver moon--I will be staring at it too--think of me when you see it, and remember me.



Because...



I remember you.

COMMENTS

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violetblood667
08:10 Feb 10 2009

Deary,

This is amazing. That is all I can say for it. I feel that is all that should be said for it.

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POST COMMENT

Once upon a time, long ago, there was a beautiful maiden. In all of the lands, there was not a woman who lived, more beautiful. So benevolent was this woman, that her kindness stretched to the four corners of the world. Kings, and Queens came to her, to show their gratitude for her simply being alive.

The maiden was called Divinity Mundane, and for all of the beauty that she possessed, she was a woman of common wealth, common possessions, and common wisdom. Like all women of such wealth, possession, and wisdom, she enjoyed simple pleasures. She was often bored at Palatial functions, and she found neither romance, nor delight in royalty.

One night, a lonely night while leaving the market square from a day of window shopping, Divinity decided to visit the singles tavern for a cocktail. One cocktail turned to three, and then five. Soon she was drinking ale, and singing drinking songs with the locals.

She sang the night away, until the coldest hour passed, and most of the tavern patrons were passed out, or home. Seeing she was too drunk to walk on her own, a man who introduced himself as Fleece Swindle, offered to walk her home.

“I am a respectable lady!” Divinity Mundane cried, pushing Fleece Swindle away flirtatiously.

“Certainly, you are.” Fleece Swindle smiled his most charming smiled. “Surely my lady needs aid. A lady of such respectable nature, and incredible beauty would not be safe stumbling so elegantly her way home.”

“Very well,” Divinity Mundane slurred. “I will let you walk me home.”

Divinity Mundane and Fleece Swindle sauntered drunken through the main roads, stumbling to, and fro, and laughing together.

“I feel like I have known you forever!” Divinity Mundane cried, clinging to her charmingly helpful fellow friend.

“Perhaps it is fate that I help you.” Fleece Swindle smiled.

When they finally arrived at her common cottage, of simple and common possessions, Divinity Mundane stopped at her door. She fiddled through her keys—all two of them—and silently argued how she was going to get them into the lock.

Fleece Mundane, seeing her struggle, aided her.

“You are such a very nice, and honest man, Mr. Swindle.”

“Please, call me Fleece.”

“What a nice name!” Divinity Mundane giggled, drunkenly. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

“I surely would.” Fleece Swindle said, and walked arm in arm with Divinity Mundane, shutting the door behind him.



The next day, the sun shone too brightly through her windows. Divinity Mundane awoke to find her shutters were gone, and all of her exclusively common belongings were gone. She arose from the hard floor, wondering where he bed had gone, and why her legs were so sore.

“So much that the prior nights memories have robbed me!” She cried, stumbling hung over to her bathing quarters. She rummaged through her beauty chest, seeking herbs, or possibly an ointment, or a tonic that would help rid her of her throbbing head pain.

It was then that she realized that not only was her bed missing, and all of her very common belongings, but her mirror was, and the chest she thought she was rummaging through was nothing more than a mere hallucination of her imagination.

“My goodness!” She cried. “Where have my belongings gone?”



The day went by, but the mysterious stranger from the night before was both forgotten, and gone forever. As the afternoon swept over the lands, Divinity Mundane, being a spectacularly beautiful woman, of an entirely too common wisdom, sat where her dining table had once been, and stared at the blank spot on her wall, where her common wood burning stove used to be.

Feeling helpless, Divinity Mundane began to cry.



A passing gypsy heard her weeping from outside her cottage, for the door that had separated the inside from the outside was indeed gone, stolen by Fleece Swindle, who Divinity Mundane neither remember, nor would ever see again.

“Ho! Ho, in there!” The old gypsy called out. “Who cries?”

Divinity Mundane appeared in the empty space where her door had been, still weeping. “It is I, Divinity Mundane. I weep because I have lost all things in this world that I had.”

“Oooh,” The gypsy cackled, “…not everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” The old gypsy woman smiled coyly, pulling a small ivory pipe from within the layers of her clothes. “…it seems to me, so strongly, you glow with more than just a life of your own.” She said, putting a strange blend of herbs into her pipe. The old gypsy, ancient, and thin lit her pipe, and inhaled deeply. Divinity Mundane stood with an unexceptional expression on her face as the gypsy exhaled, blowing the smoke into her face.

Divinity Mundane coughed on the stink of the acrid smoke. “My, old gypsy! That was certainly rude.”

“Manners have no place, for the smoke has spoken!” The gypsy laughed.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You are with child!” The gypsy said. “Today is not for a day of grief, but great celebration. For all those things that you had, whether they were of splendor, or glory, or riches; none of them matter.”

“…but how am I to sleep, or eat?” Divinity Mundane cried.

”Marry rich, my dear.” The gypsy said. “You are spectacularly beautiful, even if you are somewhat dull, and unprepared. “Marry rich, and then deceive the man into believing that the child is his.”

“To do such a thing, I would have to lay with him.”

“You have done such already, why not at least make it worth your while?” The gypsy cackled, inhaling deeply into her pipe again.



The very next week, the beautiful Divinity Mundane was married to the well-to-do Prosper VanAssets. Theirs was a wedding celebrated by the entire world, and within two weeks of their honeymoon, Divinity Mundane unveiled her pregnancy to Prosper VanAssets, and deceived him as the gypsy had instructed her.

Time passed, and Divinity Mundane enjoyed her comforts, and newfound wealth. Prosper VanAssets was a womanizer, but he was nice to her, and because she had wealth, and comfort, and stability, she pretended not to notice his infidelities, and he pretended not to practice infidelity.

Finally, after a long time, she delivered. Heartache swept all the lands as the news spread that Divinity Mundane had died during childbirth.



The baby, a little girl, was named Nausea Mundane, for Prosper VanAssets refused to give her his namesake, as this little new born girl was the most ugly girl he had ever seen. She had all the features of a flawed future, and so she was given away to a convent, that the sisters of the convent might raise her to be beautiful on the inside.



Nausea Mundane spent the first ten years of her young life slaving away for the sisters of the convent, known as “The Sisters of the Convent”. She cleaned stone until it shone, and swept dirt from the earth until it became stone. Of all of the marvelous talents one could have in the world, Nausea Mundane was blessed with the ability to make common things extraordinary, and the ugly, beautiful.

Sadly, there was nothing more in the world that Nausea Mundane wanted, than to be beautiful. She had heard tales of her mother, for whose name she held, the most beautiful maiden the world had ever known. She longed to be as beautiful, but no matter how much she washed her face; no matter how much she scrubbed, she could not wipe the ugly away.

Wherever she went, children who saw her face wept, and mothers lamented. Men of conquest became courtesans to other men, rather than believe that she was a girl. Indeed, such a misplaced curse made her feel very isolated.



Very alone.



One day, while weeping in the convent, and washing the now pure golden floor with her mystical tears, a gypsy passing outside heard her crying.

“Ho! Ho, in there!” The old gypsy called out. “Who cries?”

Nausea Mundane appeared between the golden pillars of the convent, weeping uncontrollably. “It is I, Nausea Mundane.”

The gypsy took one look at her, and frowned. “Truly you are named for what you are.”

The girl, Nausea Mundane, wept harder.

“Ahhh, yes… weep. Weep for what you cannot control… or can you?”

“…but… but how?” Nausea sniffed, wiping away her tears with a dirty sleeve. The sleeve was cleaned, instantly.

“For all your talents, and all your mysteries, ugly little girl, I will grant you a wish.”

“What… what do you mean?” Nausea Mundane said.

The gypsy smiled a gnarled, toothless smile. “What if I could make all your dreams come true, and all you had to do was make a simple wish?”

Nausea smiled. “Could this be done? This is not a cruel joke?”

“It is no joke.” The gypsy said. “For all that you possess inside of you, I will grant you your wish, to be beautiful. With the prick of a pin, and the pressure of your maiden finger, I shall make you beautiful.”

“Very well!” Nausea Mundane cried gleefully. “I shall do it!”

So, the gypsy produced a needle from her many layers of clothes, and pricked it into Nausea Mundane’s maiden finger. When a full bead of blood formed on her maiden finger, she pressed it to a fragment of cloth provided by the gypsy.

“It is done!” The gypsy shouted joyfully. A great, bright light shone from the heavens, down onto them. Nausea Mundane reveled in its warmth, and felt it sweep over her. When it was done, she smiled broadly and looked to the gypsy.

“I am beautiful!”

“Not yet.” The gypsy said sadly. “It has come to my attention that you must perform but one more task… a task of a great undergoing.”

“Gypsy deceiver!”

“My prospective beauty, I never lie!” The gypsy said, smiling a mouth of perfectly re-grown teeth. “You must perform the final task, or you shall never be beautiful.”

“What task!” Nausea Mundane cried out. “What task!”

“You must outrun Ugly.”

“Nonsense!” Nausea Mundane cried. “Even I, an ugly girl, knows that you cannot outrun Ugly. None can.”

“Certainly none can, for all of Ugly was vested into you… but that is the true beauty of this. Because you are so ugly, Ugly is not expecting you should outrun it!”

“It makes perfect sense!” Nausea Mundane said.

“You surely are the daughter of Divinity Mundane!” The gypsy cried. “You have her sense of judgment, and wisdom!”

“Thank you, gypsy!” Nausea Mundane said, and began running.



Running, as fast as she could.



For many hours, Nausea felt as though she would collapse, for she ran as she had never run before. She ran through town, pushing through people with disregard. She ran hard, knocking over the carts of many food vendors.

After the sun began to set, Nausea Mundane slowed. She kept her pace at a slow job, but whether it was her imagination, or reality, she felt as though she was close to outrunning Ugly. When she came to a river, she removed all of her clothes, and dipped into it to bathe. Surely, so long as she kept moving, it should count as running. After she bathed, and dried by the cold air of night, she hopped around on a leg, until she was dressed. She tackled, and rolled, and moved as she pulled her hose into place, and then her dress over her head.



Nausea ran, for years. She ran, and ran, and by whatever mystical powers the gypsy hand granted to her, she never needed sleep. She ate, as she ran, and sped through the world around her with no regard to the beauty of nature, or structure, land, or sea. Nausea ran, and ran, and each day that she ran, she felt certain that the next day she would outrun Ugly.



It was a cold, cold Winter’s night that took Nausea Mundane. No matter how fast she moved, the blistering cold winds slowed her pace.

“No!” She begged. “No, cruel Winter winds, please! I must outrun Ugly.”

The winds had less wisdom than she, or her mother who had passed before her. They were merely winds, and so they blew, and blew, and as the night grew colder, Nausea Mundane froze running.



It was three weeks later that a caravan of gypsies passing through the icy highways came upon her. She was as an ice statue would be, a beautiful shade of blue frozen over a hideous face that should have been a mask for All Hallows Eve. “Stop!” A beautiful young voice called out from the caravan. A woman of regal beauty stepped from the middle of the gypsy caravan.

She was dressed like the old gypsy, dressed in the exact same layers, and smoking the exact same ivory pipe that the old gypsy had smoked when she instructed Nausea Mundane’s beautiful mother. Nausea Mundane, sadly, had passed into the next world, leaving behind an ugly, frozen body.

“Ah,” The regal gypsy cried. “The spell has worked. She has run her course, and I am beautiful.”

The caravan that followed with her applauded Nausea Mundane. The gypsy said then, “For life was cruel to you, death was your only escape. You ran, and you ignored the wailing children, and horrified mothers. You gave me your inner beauty, and the world has suffered worse for it. You devoted your life to being what your mother had been without effort, and in your death, you have earned it.”

Warm light broke through the frozen clouds in the sky, as a sword pierces weak armor. It shone down on Nausea Mundane, and instantly her frozen grave shattered, spilling her limp form into the snow.

Her body rose from the snow, the dirty, shredded clothing hanging from her in tatters. As she rose, she began to turn slowly.

“For what you could not be in life, so you shall be in death.” The gypsy said, and waved a hand. In a flash of blinding white light, Nausea Mundane was beautiful. Her beauty was glory beyond the regal beauty of the gypsy’s, and well beyond the beauty of Divinity Mundane. Her body glowed with a life that simply was not in her.

The gypsies of the caravan placed her body into a beautiful, solid golden casket. They traveled from town to town showing Nausea Mundane’s beauty to all the world, before finally returning her to her home in the sisters of the convent’s “Sisters of the Convent.”.

The world lamented, and was sorry they had ever been cruel to such a beautiful girl, for as it was okay to wail, and run from the ugly Nausea Mundane, surely the beautiful Nausea Mundane would be missed forever, and ever.

She was buried beneath the convent, where the sisters of the convent would live in peace, and harmony, happily ever after.

Corruption is an addiction. It's the first taste of any filthy pleasures, for a price. It is not the mere delight in sin that makes a dirty cop, a dirty cop. It's knowing you can get away with it again, and again, and again.



Drugs. Sex. Power.



Any cop on the straight and narrow avidly avoids these temptations, knowing that once you give in'once you taste the sweet syrup of indulgence'it's almost impossible to give it up.

I'm not the cop who said no. Eighteen years in the goddamned force. I've been wounded twice in my career.

I am not an uneducated man, just an educated man who took an unfortunate trip down reality lane. Shot'wounded within a damned inch of my life'and I get some shiny medal. Then, it's pat on the back, and they call me a hero.



A hero.



You take a slug in the back from an overzealous kid, and you're a hero. Put down a notorious criminal after a grueling firefight, and you're a star. I've been putting these bastards away for ten years, so when reality finally hit me, I wept. No one gives a damn. We wear a black band over our badges when a comrade falls. His replacement will be in next week. It happens' besides, he knew the risk. We give out shiny medals, and call wounded cops heroes, but in the end, it's just our job. It's what we signed up for, and no Goddamn it. It will never, ever pay enough.

So how do you make it right? It's like cheating on your wife, or cheating on your taxes; the first time is the only hard time. After that, it's the easiest game to play. If you're not sloppy, you can do it forever. They say the truth will always prevail, but what is the truth? What if you controlled the truth? Then this game'this habit'is your power. Suddenly, drugs, sex, and power are yours.

The world is yours. Your brothers in arms, naïve children who don't know the way.

Then, suddenly you get this pain. It's not physical. It's not mental. It's in your heart'it's like you just found religion. Christ, Himself, just came and donkey punched you in the fucking heart, and you know you've done wrong.

I have two boats, and some jet skies. I own a bigger, and better car than I can afford, but they're all paid off. It's dirty money. Blood money. It's dead cops, and crying children. I remember when it began, and I knew where it would end.

Here. Tonight.



Right now.



About ten years ago I put away one of the most notorious thieves that ever existed. I'm not talking about some pussy prick pick pocket, or cat burglar. This guy could steal your house and you'd never know it until it started raining. He was good. Too good. Not as clumsy as a magician, or as dull handed as a sculptor. When I arrested him, the bastard stole my gun, ammo, and the key to my handcuffs.

He didn't shoot me. He didn't even escape. It was his accomplice that put the two in my back. It was the same day I turned my back on law enforcement. Sex. Drugs. Power. Money.



Money.



I had a wife. I had a family. She's gone now, with our children. Money wasn't enough. The distance it put between us was too much. So, I'm giving it up. No more dirty business. One less cop on the take. I retire in two years, but after tonight, I'm requesting a desk job at the station. Maybe I don't deserve it, but once everything's settled, said and done' maybe she'll come back. I miss my daughter. I miss my son.



'and then, there he is. Same guy as ten years ago. How he managed to get out of prison I'll never know, but I'll be damned if he isn't going back. Filthy fucking urchins'but he's a different type. There's a woman standing here, next to me. Looks like she's gonna cry. He doesn't, though. She put in the call, and I guess it was just a moment too late that she realized this cat was the one who saved her life. Oh yeah. He's killed. Dressed ridiculously in an undersized tuxedo, split at the armpits.

She told us everything. Thing is. I knew this guy escaped. Tonight, I was told to put him down no matter what. This time, though, I'm going straight.

I order him to get down. He does it.

I order him to put his hands up. He does it.

I'm followed by six officers as I approach the suspect. It's overkill, and I know it. These are no doubt as dirty as I was, these cops. These blood collectors. One of them'Branson'clubs him over the back of his neck, and they start going to work on him. By the time I can get a word to order the halt, he's pretty tender. They drag him, and stow him into the back of my car, bruised, and bleeding. His hands are purple because the cuffs are too tight.

There was a small crowd that started to gather, but they've dispersed, no doubt returning to their black tie affair. I'm done. This was the last case. After today I'm back on the straight and narrow. It's how it should have been from the start.

I get into my car.



'Mind if I ride along?'



I can't see his face, but I can see he's a cop. Could be one of those dirty motherfuckers, but if I tell him anything now, it's my ass. 'Sure partner,' I say in the gruffest voice I can manage. 'Better us two with this sick fucker in back.' I say, pointing my thumb to the back, past the dividing cage.

The ride starts out in an uncomfortable silence. After a while, it turns into a pain in the neck. Literally. I feel a splitting pain for just a moment, and then red heat spilling down my neck, into my uniform.

I'm getting dizzy, but the officer next to me steadies the car out, as we begin to decrease in speed. I look at him as I slump over to my door, vision fading out. My last sight in this world, another law enforcement officer wielding the simple pocket knife that murdered me.

' and to think I quit the old life.



'what a lousy way to kick the habit.

The air is crisp, and clean outside; it smells like what the commercials only wish their soap could smell like. It's what they oughtta smell like... The sprinklers are whirring rapid shots of water over the lush thick of blue-green under moonlight. Soft lamps reflect off of puddles and wet sidewalk, and everything seems so serene.

I don't belong here, but if I don't show up then vice is gonna catch on real quick to who I am. The tuxedo I'm wearin' fits too tightly under the arms, and too loosely in the mid section; it definitely ain't me. Normally I'd just rip this monkey suit right off my shoulders, but tonight again is a special occasion o' sorts. I go an' take this jacket off, an' vice is gonna wonder why I have bullet holes and blood stains on the back o' my shirt. Stupid old codger. Too short, too many questions, not enough sense in that thick head of his. Besides, he was gonna kill a lady. I had to put him down. He was a calm one; the cool, creepy kind of calm that makes a serial killer out o' men. Psychotic calm. The former owner of my uncomfortable ass tuxedo wanted to off some dame because she was a smoker. I clubbed her with the grip o' my pistol, but I let her live. The unlucky recipient of my brand o' subterfuge however, wasn't so lucky. He was a little thick, and a little short; short and stocky some would say. I left him resting in his eternal sleep, sittin' high up in the branches o' some ol' pine in the golf course out back o' the estate. I shot the short ol' man twice--just twice. Buried the muzzle o' my barrel deep in his back, and I shot him good. He put up a fierce struggle at first, an' I thought maybe my luck had just run out, but that ain't the case either.

Alls I really want to do is slip in the back, make my way real easy like through the crowd, and out the front. I'll steal me a car, and it'll be like I was never here. Can't risk gettin' caught because I left my gun with the ol' dead guy I put down. Didn't wanna take chances slippin' through a crowd o' blue bloods like this. I ain't so young, or nimble anymore. I'm strong, but not like I used to be when I was a wrought iron little bastard full o' piss an' vinegar.

Slippin' in is easy. Short little twerp left his invitation in his pocket. I wave it at the doormen as I come walkin?' into this party maybe a little too ruggedly, and a little too roughly. People stare, and I'm thankin' all the Saints under heaven, and beyond that I didn't try to stuff my gun in my trousers. The rich. Damned blue blooded arrogant bastards; same kind o' people who put me behind bars. Murder One, the jury said. Guilty. No one ever even stopped to ask why; just whether or not I did it.

I couldn't tell you if any o' these people had judged me, but they're judgin' me now. Too rugged. Too rough. No grace. These bastards all look alike to me. Ain't no one movin' a muscle. Music's playin' still but the band sounds strained. No one's dancin'. Nothin'.

Then I see why, as I step out the front o' the Manor. Blues lined up ready for a showdown, and that sweet lookin' lady I clubbed. She's pointin' at me like I'm the one what was gonna kill her. Stupid lady, I saved you.

Idiots. I'm not a murderer. At best I'm a world class thief.



They order me to put my hands up.

"PUT YOUR HANDS UP!"



I put my hands up. The seams under the arms o' my new tuxedo rip. It reminds me o' a bad deodorant commercial. Raise your hands. Sure. Cept' I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all why I'm listenin' to any of these mugs. I ain't never hurt a person that didn't deserve it.

Her eyes is glassy, I can see it, though mine ain't. I'm calm, but not that creepy kinda cool that those serial killers feel, no. I'm jus' calm.



They order me to get down on my knees. Now.

"GET DOWN ON YOUR KNEES, NOW!"

I do as I'm told, mainly cuz' I don't want this to end in bloodshed. Namely mine, but quite possibly the trollop who ratted me out to the badges there. The bastards make sure I know they're not playing with me. I feel a club across the nape of my neck, and I'm face down in badly laid asphalt. It's sharp on my cheeks, and smells like dirt and dirty chocolate. It's sticky, from water runoff. The sprinklers were off now, but the water was still trickling about.

An' to think. I was givin' myself up on the life of crime, so I could open myself up one of those fancy flower shoppes. Maybe in Manhattan; probably more like Brooklyn though. I was gonna give up that whole crime thing, but now I'm pretty sure I don't have much o' a choice.

What a lousy way to kick the habit.

...It isn't chaotic, really; golden hues of polished wooden ballroom, and glistening soft lights of flame and bulb light reflected in glistening starlets about the room. A small strings quintuplet plays in harmony, contemporaries, and classical as though they were written in the same era. There is a thick body of celebration in the ambiance of the room, absorbing into the lights, and the sounds; the gentle murmur of the people as they dance across the ballroom floor, twirling, dipping and Waltzing in this, a black tie affair. The men are dressed traditionally, though there are a few set apart from the penguins. Mostly it is young men and old men alike, dressed in all of the grandeur of a police interceptor. The women are somewhat more splendid, but not by much, while many look as though they shopped in the same department stores... at the same time... for the same thing; there appears to be no sense of disappointment in the atmosphere.



Soft. Glistening. Reflective.



I feel someone, among the crowded room, put their hand into the small of my back. It slides up carefully--gently--to the nape of my neck and ushers me forward. I am caught in a moment of memory, my mind whirring back to a time I was a child, where my father would usher me along the same; the small of my back, or the nape of my neck as if to say, "Run along now, go play with your friends.".



This isn't my father though, but as I try to turn and see who it is, a hand swiftly pushes my face forward. Not so much as a glimpse of the stranger behind me. Suddenly I feel the muzzle of a gun in the small of my back.



"Don't turn around. Keep walking." A gentle, remorseful man's voice sighs.



Suddenly, the world becomes colorless to me. The room is as black and white as the tuxedos and gowns that fill it, and everything in my pockets feels ten times too heavy. I reach for my cigarette case, feeling the cool metal of sterling silver. I can feel the etched design, and I can even see it in my mind. A heart with my name in it; a gift from my lover.



"Hands out of the pockets."



I do as I'm told, trying to find a way to stall any way I can--to get anyone's attention before this man with the sad voice gets his way. My hands are out of my pockets, and the silver of my cigarette case reflects the light of the room across the crowd, but no one notices. No one notices how stiff I am, or how upset I look.



"What are you going to do?" I ask him, trying to buy time. Time. Anything to steal a moment. A waiter walks past with a tray of horduerves, ignoring me as though I do not exist.



"I am going to kill you." He says as we push out of the doors, and into a small hallway.



I feel my eyes go blurry as tears fill over the brims. In moments, there is cool air on my face; cold air where the tears streaked, and finally the lump in my throat deflates enough to talk. "Why--why kill me?"



I feel his hand leave my neck as we stop. He pulls the silver case from me, and it makes a jingling clatter on the sidewalk as it breaks into halves, spilling cigarettes over the sidewalk. The sprinklers are on. The smell of freshly cut, wet grass is overpowering, but the world is just a blurry, shaky eight millimeter film to me, complete with sepia and scratches. I know this feeling. My mind is beginning to blank. The fear drowning in numbness, but the tears don't stop. I'm not sobbing, but I wish I were. I feel his hand on my shoulder, pushing me to my knees, and my legs betray me as they thank him for the respite from standing.



"Don't worry," He soothes. "It will be entirely painless, and very quick."



"I--I don't want to die." I hear my voice echo in my head as the muzzle of the gun rests at the back of my skull.



"Well, you're a smoker. You're dying anyway. I just thought I'd help you do it sooner."



I hear him cock the trigger, as I take a deep breath. I know I won't hear it; feel it. I know I won't feel anything ever again. My head is heavy, and I feel it dropping forward; finally, I'm sobbing. Took long enough.



The wind whips through my hair as the man puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. It will all be over soon.



What a lousy way to kick the habit.

The following story is written in a poetry like fashion. I would classify it more as a ballad, but it definately tells a story.



Enjoy.





The Legend of the Outlaw Five



They rode in like a pack of wolves, they rode in with the night; they used darkness as their cover, they'd be gone before the light. Hooves kicked dust in silent struts as their steeds did trot them in, the horrors of the outlaw five were still yet to begin.



The first, he was a villain, his eyes were hard and cold. His dismal glare could raise your hair, and burn into your soul. He led them like a phantom that would lead his brood to hell, his eternal ghost would sooner roast than see the others well.



The second was a bandit, his eyes were set ablaze, a devil's deal had forged his will, a worthy man of praise. His eyes they searched the shadows, in the darkness that they rode, if he had fear none would hear, nor would it ever show.



The third was born within a storm, or so the story goes; his testaments, his tragedies forever left unknown. Gripped tightly were the leather reigns, he led his horse through town; latter knowledge of his poise left many with renown.



The fourth was dressed a gentleman, the finest dressed of five, a six shot gun sat at each his hips to keep this man alive. His face was stern and weary, his eyes were set in deep, the chances of surviving this grew increasingly more steep.



The last was bred from evil, the blackest of five souls. He'd kill all his comrades if it would bring about his goals. In the darkness twelve rounds loaded, six bullets stocked each away, and he raised his guns that gleamed like suns for his team he would betray...



And they continued in while the sun was down, and they made their presence known, darkened thieves on mighty steeds...



...but the last one left alone.