The Man Called Death.



                For some he was a myth, a story to tell those that would steal, that would lie, and to those that would kill.  Some called him the Hand of God while others said he rode on a black horse and was Death incarnate.  There was also talk that when the moon was high and full in a night’s sky, you could tell him by his glowing red eyes.

                The stories of the man grew as any tale of old would.  No one actually knew who he was.  No eyes had ever seen him that now lived.  Still the stories were told; the tattered hat, the dark and worn black duster, his pistol, which people had taken to calling the Hand of God, and of course the tattoo on his right wrist.  But again, no story could agree on just what was there.  Some would warn it was in a tongue not to be read by man, that to do so would set your eyes and tongue ablaze leaving you blind and unable to speak what you had seen.  Others had opined that it was perhaps a burn mark from gun powder, a scar that the man tried to hide.  But others would relate such a black spot as one would stories of the seas long ago, that to see it would always mean certain death.  No matter the telling, it was an ill omen and the only defining feature for the man himself.  A man that was told to be young and old, scarred or handsome, frightfully tall or average as any other man, a man that could be sitting right next to you or the man whom you’d know the moment you saw him. Continue reading

Love. Beginning and End.

I watch her.  Shoulders bare, exposed, blessedly white.  That skin of hers a milky hue, virginal, alluring, and all too tempting.  She moved to taunt at my desires. Hips swaying  and dropping to each side with small strides she walks away from me.  It’s this dance, it calls me straight to her.  I see her every day like this, and nothing about it has ever seemed monotonous, only beautiful.  But I’ve never told her this.  Breaking that silence, leaking that tempted desire, it would weaken me too much I think, so I hold my tongue, and I remember the night I met her. Continue reading


            Tibbits was alone in the alley.  He had been there for the five hours since it started to rain, the rattling calming a nerve pinched just behind his left eye.  Above, a gutter emptied out onto his shoulder, sprinkling his face thickly, and soaking everything from his ruined fedora down to the garbage heap of donut boxes, food scraps, and whatever the Vietnamese restaurant’s bus boy had been throwing on the pile for the past few days.  He hadn’t moved an inch since he sat down, but his body continued the small rising heaves every few seconds as he took in a breath as if the air itself was a last cigarette, holding it in, tasting it, feeling it dance in his throat until letting it go into the cold wet fall. Continue reading