Thursday, November 12, 2009

Killer in the Home

    Two nurses walked down the dimly lit corridor towards the morgue huddled together like two school girls whispering dark secrets to each other.

"You have to see this, I've never seen anything like it before"

"I heard he killed a man"

    Sam Goode was an angry old man. He sat alone every night in his drab little house complaining loudly, his only audience, a cockroach or two off in a dusty corner. He hated everything and everyone and never spoke a kind word. He stood in the damp moldy kitchen, making a sandwich to eat for supper. "Damn stupid kid, can't even buy what's on a list, I don't like wheat bread, I WANTED WHITE BREAD" he shouted into the air.

    The kid had met Sam once, it was an unpleasant meeting. Sam answered his ad in the paper for odd jobs and the kid showed up at the side door of his dilapidated house the next day. The kid reached out with his hand and started to introduce himself, Sam, waving his hands foolishly in the air, said "I don't care who you are, you're here to do a job and your two minutes late on the first day", jabbing the kid in the chest with his dirty finger on the last two syllables. It was an easy deal, every Tuesday at 3pm, the kid would find a grocery list tacked to the side door of the house and an envelope of money under the matt. He had until 4pm to get the grocery and return the left over money, minus $5.00, to the back door. The kid knew that Sam counted the money and went through the receipt meticulously because one Tuesday in the envelope of money was a little note stating he was short 32 cents and if it happened again, he'd be fired. That was six months ago. He found a new list and the money every week but he never saw the old man again. He continued to buy the man's grocery out of pity.

    Sam finished making his sandwich and shuffled across the creaky floor to the living room. He switched on the antiquated T.V. and turned the channel knob to the only station he could pick up, then sat in his threadbare couch and began to eat. The news flickered on the old screen as two newscasters, he couldn't remember their names, droned on about the local happenings of the day. He could feel anger welling up inside again over the wheat bread, "Damn idiot!" and he threw the last half of the sandwich at the T.V. The news ended at 10pm and like every night before that meant it was time for bed.

    Three hours into his restless sleep, Sam was awakened by a sound coming from the kitchen. He flung the heavy covers off his bed and stood up, mad as hell. He could hear someone moving around through is cupboards. There was no way he was going to let an intruder get away with taking anything from him. Quietly and quickly he moved down the hall and looked around the corner of the open kitchen. He spotted a small man wearing a ski mask crossing the floor away from him towards the side door. "You there, what are you doing in my house!" he yelled. The intruder ran for the door and Sam went after him surprisingly quick.

    Sam tripped and ran into the back of the intruder as he was opening the door, forcing it shut again. The intruder, with the weight of Sam pushing him into the door, used his feet as leverage against the door to push back and get Sam off of him. Both stumbled backwards, arms flailing as they fell to the floor. They wrestled, pushed and shoved, jabbing at each other. Sam never felt scared, only anger that someone was taking something from him. Poking a grimy finger into the eye of his intruder Sam hollered as the intruder screamed. The intruder lay on his back withering in pain on the floor as Sam stood up reaching for the knife he left out to cut his sandwich.

    Sam held the knife in his hands and knelt beside the intruder, "no one takes anything from me". The intruder pleading for his life saw Sam hammer down the knife into his stomach. He looked up, in pain and shock, eyes locked with Sam. Sam, with fury burning inside, shoved the knife up the belly with such force, it cut half way through the breast bone. Sam stood up and went to the hallway where the old rotary phone sat on the little stand and called 911.

    Sam stood at the side of the kitchen as the police investigated the bloody scene. An officer knelt down to the body and rolled the ski mask off the intruder. Sam recognized the kid, thinking he had to find someone new to get his groceries now. The kid's jacket had a large bulging pocket and the officer reached into it, pulling out two yogurts and a bottle of orange juice. "Those are mine, the damn kid was stealing my food!" The officer looked at Sam with disgust and placed the items on the dirty counter.

    The two nurses reached the door of the morgue at the end of the hallway and pushed it open

"It wasn't a man he killed, it was a boy. Poor kid, family was so poor they could barely feed themselves"

    The following day, Sam found a new kid to get his groceries and on Tuesday at 4pm they were there by the side door.     At 10pm that night he headed off to bed. The sound of a door being opened awoke him. Sam thought, again, really. Down the hall he flew, quiet as possible to the kitchen. There inside stood a small man wearing a mask at the counter making a sandwich. Jumping him from behind, Sam pounced on the intruder like a dog gone mad. They struggled and fought. Sam grabbed a knife from the butcher block and held it above the intruder, bringing it down in a swift arc. The intruder raised a hand grabbing Sam's wrist, stopping the knife just inches from chest. Sam held his ground. The intruders arm began to shake as Sam pushed harder, the knife inching closer to the intruder's chest. Slowly, the knife pierced the intruder's chest directly in front of his heart. The blade slowly cutting into his flesh, sliced through his heart nearly cutting it in half. Sam called 911

    Walking back into the old rundown kitchen, Sam stopped in horror, the body was gone. The police showed up and searched the house. They told him they didn't find anyone in the house, there was no sign of a break in and no sign of the struggle between Sam and the intruder. Furious that the police were hinting that he made the whole story up, he slammed the front door behind the last officer as they left.

    The two nurses stopped at the third sheet covered table.

"I heard he called 911 a week later and reported another break in, is that true?"

"Yes, one week exact, even to the hour, 1am. Only the police didn't find anything, not even a sign of a struggle. They think he made it up, you know, for attention"

    The following Tuesday after the news, Sam walked the house, checking all the windows and doors, making sure they were secure and locked. He lay in his bed, unable to sleep. He heard the sound of the side door quietly closing and looked over at his clock, it read 1:00am. For the first time that Sam could remember, fear mixed in with his anger. It's a prankster, some buffoon trying to scare him. He would have none of it. He got out of bed and stormed down the hall, "You don't scare you piece of low lying scum! I'll teach you!"

    He burst into the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the butcher block. Across from him stood a small intruder at the counter facing away. He started towards the intruder, hatred in his eyes. The small man wearing the ski mask turned around as Sam approached. Sam swung the knife down, the intruder grabbed his arm, stopping the knife in mid air. Sam put out his other hand to push the intruder back but his hand sunk into him up to his wrist. He could feel the wet warmth of the intruder's insides surrounding his fingers, he let out scream. The intruder moved forward, pushing Sam's hand in further. Holding on to Sam's wrist, the intruder twisted it. Sam could hear the bones cracking as his hand turned facing the other way. Pain shot up his arm.

    Sam still struggling, was pushed down to the ground, the intruder sitting on his waist. For the first time, Sam could see the slit that opened up the intruders belly all the way up to his chest. He looked up and his gaze locked with the intruder, a gaping hole, wet with blood where his one eye should be. The man sitting on Sam lifted his hand to his ski mask and grasped the edge of it. He slowly pulled the mask off his head. Sam recognized the kid. His eyes, full moons as his mouth unhinged to let out a terrifying scream. The kid thrust the knife deep in to Sam's gut, then yanked with all his might, splitting Sam's chest bone completely in half.

    The two nurses both gasped as they removed the sheet and stared at the face frozen in terror, a large gash running the from his neck to his belly.

"Who do you think killed him?"

"The police report says suicide. All the doors were locked from the inside and there was no sign of a break in. The only finger prints found at the scene and on the knife where his"

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

The Creators part 2

    A single track of clean skin formed on his cheek as the tear rolled down. Every morning when he awoke, he would say his name aloud, afraid he would forget it if he didn't. Tom. He couldn't remember the last time someone referred to him by that name. He was called bum, derelict, wino and those were the nice ones. The memory of how he became homeless did not exist. He didn't have any vices that he could remember. All he knew was that it was not fast. It was a slow, painful process that had no details.

    The dry leaves rustled under his weight as he began to stir in his make shift bed while the Sun's rays wound their way through the entanglement of shrubs he called home. He waved his hands around his head to shoo the sound of a tiny buzzing fly to no avail. The fly became increasingly louder as if it were entering his filth encrusted ear. Startled, he sat up. The buzzing was not coming from a fly, it was emanating from down the alley in which he laid. He could see a man facing away from him, a glow growing around his feet. The air began to flutter and dance, lifting the dust of off Tom's clothes. The glow grew brighter, the buzzing louder. Tom held up his hands to shield his eyes that felt like they were looking at the Sun. With a searing flash, the light and the man were gone, replaced by a loud roll of thunder and a blast of wind that sent Tom flat on his back.

    Thoughts flowed through Tom's head, memories, old and dark. He searched his mind, straining for pictures of past but all he saw were muted colors and moving blurs. Sounds and voices by the thousands began swooping in. His fingertips brushed them as he reached out to grab them and drag them back as they escaped into the darkness. As fast as they came, they were gone, leaving no clues. He knew he should have been afraid of what he just witnessed but that thought never crossed him. Why wasn't he afraid? What happened inside his head? He felt deep inside a push of something trying to breakout but he did not know how to help it.

    Tom sat up, a new track of clean skin forming next to the old one, this one for joy instead of sadness. A sliver of hope began for the first time in what seemed forever in finding out who he was, who Tom really was.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

The Creators part 1

    The man stood at the busy intersection on the edge of the continent. He stared off into the vast blue green water that went on forever across the busy street. The warm wind off the desert ebbed and flowed around him like the tide as it blew out to sea. So much flotsam and jetsam in this land he thought to himself. He closed his eyes for a moment trying to picture the paradise that should have been but never came. He sighed quietly, sad. The once joyous visits here were now forced and laborious.

    A stranger, head down, walked by and bumped into the man. The man looked at him, "excuse me" he said as he searched to see the strangers eyes. The stranger never looking up grunted and kept walking. If he knew who I was the man thought, would he change? Would he have treated me differently? Would he have looked me in the eyes and apologized? No, the man didn't think so. He didn't think the stranger could grasp who he was.

    He had enough for one day, it was time to go home. He turned and faced the wind, hesitated, then walked up the crowded street. A little ways down, past the shops, he found an isolated alley and turned down it. The alley overgrown and neglected was quiet. He looked around, seeing no one. He reached out with his right hand, fingers splayed, and held it above the ground. The overgrown plants began to sway as the wind picked up and twirled through the little alley. With a small little hum, a bluish white line encircled the man at his feet. It began to spin, the hum getting louder the faster it went. The line began to move up, creating a tube enveloping the man. In an instant the man was completely hidden inside the tube of light and as fast as it started it ended. The man and the light ceased to be there. The sound of air, rushing into the new found emptiness, crashed with a loud boom, shaking windows for blocks. A couple, two blocks over, stopped and briefly looked at each other then continued on their way.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Bonnie & Clyde

    I saw the movie Bonnie & Clyde with Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway and I have been hooked on the stories of Bonnie & Clyde ever since. I've always been fascinated about the fact that Bonnie Parker loved creative writing, especially poetry. I thought it would be kind of fun to tell a tale inspired by Bonnie and Clyde in prose poem form.


Think twice - can't forget - remember plan

Don't forget - get in car - everyone here

Pulse racing - sweat running - getting nervous



Target approaching - car stopping - get on out - go on in

Pull out note - grab the stash - watch your back

Mind spinning - head swirling    breathing shallow - head on out



Don't turn back - jump in car - yank out gun - shoot at cops

Catching up - pulse flying - sweat pouring

Getting away - turn in alley - escape escape escape



Pulse slowing - breathing normal - hiding out - has to stay

Can't go out - not today - another day - another job



    I hoped you liked it. If you want to know more about Bonnie and Clyde, then check out this great site called Bonnie & Clyde's Hideout by Frank R. Ballinger. You can even find Bonnie's poems there.