HAIKUS: Aqua-Man and Elmo

Is there a connection?  Is there?

HAIKUS: Spider-Man and Wolverine

Marvel at these haikus and cartoons.

SHORT STORY: Track 14 – I Did My Best

Track 14 – I Did My Best

James Frank, or Jimmy the Tank as his coworkers dubbed him, clenched the phone in his hand and cared not if it shattered to pieces in his hand. Actually, he let the notion sink in, if one of the glass shards were to infiltrate his vein it would solve his one major problem of the night. He looked down at the phone that was on the verge of giving way and muttered to himself.

“You alright Tank?” Jasmine asked and ran a caressing hand across his chest.

“Trouble with the ex,” Jimmy grinded his teeth.

“There are reasons they become ex’s,” she whispered into his ear. “Want me to take your mind off of her?”

“Sorry, I need to figure this out,” Jimmy stood and tossed Jasmine a wad full of bills before passing by the other scantily clad women and exiting the dressing room; Tim’s Tata Emporium was a frequent stop for Jimmy the Tank.

“Hey that’s for the talent only,” a bouncer reprimanded as Jimmy pushed through the door.

“It’s only me,” Jimmy held up his hands as if he were being apprehended.

“Sorry,” Carlos, a mountain of a man, grinned and patted his friend on the back. “Hope you had a good time and sorry about the tightened security, we have had some troubles this past week.”

“I have some troubles of my own,” Jimmy kept walking and did not entertain Carlos for the conversation he was trying to rope him in on.

Jimmy left his home away from home and sank into his pickup truck with an exhalation of defeat. He could not let her dictate his life, not when something so important is on the line; if he disobeys he runs the risk of losing much more than leverage. Jimmy started up is truck and pulled out into the dusk.

Driving around, what he figured was aimlessly, Jimmy passed by the same church that he had passed by dozens of time before in any given week without even a second thought. Today was different; he could use some spiritual guidance even if he was not a religious man.

The early evening was unusually quiet and the crunching gravel drive of the church parking lot sounded as loud as thunder in Jimmy’s addled mind. The truck came to a stop and the driver sat there for a moment taking it all in; could he just walk in and everything would make sense? What exactly was he expecting; Jimmy had no idea what he was doing.

Large, beautifully carved doors opened and the spliced smell of musty pews and incense infiltrated his olfactory system. Jimmy wanted to sneeze, but he fought the urge, although on second thought he figured he should have taken the opportunity to be legitimately blessed. Quiet, Jimmy thought and feared that it was so silent that his thoughts could be overheard; he was just being superstitious about the teachings on an omnipotent and all seeing God that were driven into his brain as a child.

“Hello?” Jimmy called out when no one came running to greet him and throw themselves at his mercy; again he did not know what to expect.

“Come to escape the bite of the wind?” A robed and aged man almost appeared out of nowhere and took a few strides towards Jimmy before stopping so that his smile could be fully appreciated.

“I am…um,” Jimmy fumbled. “I was hoping for like confession, or advice or something.”

“Would you like a private or public forum?” The priest questioned with a delicate nod.

Jimmy looked around at the empty church but for some reason he still felt it would be proper if they talked in the confessional. “Would you mind if we made it private?”

“Not at all,” the priest smiled and took his position behind the door of his booth.

Jimmy the Tank cautiously opened the door, as if to make sure he would not be smote for any quick movements, and he knelt down to make it official. “Father, I am in need of some counseling. I do not really have anything to confess, other than being a lousy husband and an alright father, but I did my best. Now it is my boy’s birthday and my ex-wife is throwing him a surprise birthday party that she was trying to keep from me so that I would not show up. But I found out about the party, and I called her up and tricked he into letting it slip, I guess I lied a little, so I guess I can confess to that and I apologize. She tried so hard to keep it from me and when I confronted her about it she threatened me with a restraining order if I try to come. Now I am all sorts of messed up in the mind, and I want to show up just out of spite, but I do not want to jeopardize how much time I can spend with Jamie.”

“First off, two Hail Mary’s for fibbing to you ex-wife,” the priest smiled through the mesh window. “I can tell by the conviction in your voice that you have nothing but love for your son, as it should be, and I can tell by our brief time together that you are indeed doing your best, but that is in no way an admittance of inadequacy. A man’s best in most occurrences far exceeds expectations. It sounds as if you and your ex-wife are both suffering from bouts of stubbornness trying to fight for Jamie’s affection at this crucial time, and for what? Fighting for a child’s sake does more damage to them physiologically than good can be gained from more bonding time with you. Teach Jamie civility, teach him how to be humble. If there seems no way to attend the party, have you considered having Jamie come to you after the party? Jamie gets his party, Jamie’s mother can have the party as she intended, you can spend time with your son on his birthday, and Jamie gets two celebrations.”

“Bring Jamie to me,” Jimmy smirked with a wave of understanding; this whole religion thing really did open up one’s mind. “Thank you Father, thank you. I know what I need to do, thank you. Two Hail Mary’s coming your way, and who knows, you may even see me on Sunday.”

Jimmy jumped up and hastily made his way out of the church and to his truck. He started the engine and screeched around the block back onto the highway while unsuccessfully getting his ex-wife on the phone. She was probably screening her calls now; he needed to find a pay phone.

With mind racing about how to put his plan into action, and his vehicle racing towards a truck stop that he knew of with one of the only working pay phones in the area, Jimmy the Tank seemed to have it all together. He pulled up to the stop and quickly jumped out of his car with quarter in hand.

“Hello?”

“Claire, it’s me, don’t hang up.”

“I have a party to prepare for.”

“I know, I know. After the party is over would you mind if I take Jamie out for ice cream or something. I just want to see him on his birthday.”

“You can see him on your weekend.”

“That is not his birthday. It is not the same.”

“I am not having this conversation.”

“Hello? Hello?”

Jimmy slammed the phone down on the receiver with force; she had hung up on him. Jimmy had expected that she would not be cooperative and that he would have to resort to Plan B, and he was fully prepared for the consequences. Jimmy made his way to convenience store attached to the gas station for the proper supplies.

Two key ingredients to the plan; Jimmy was focused. First and foremost, he needed a birthday gift for Jamie. The store had a small section of stuffed animals, which Jamie had always loved when Jimmy would bring him back one went he went away on business; perfect. A plush and, masculinity aside, adorable owl was the obvious choice, so brought the toy up to the counter where he knew he would be able to find key component number two; a bag of mixed nuts.

“Just these two things,” Jimmy said to the teenage clerk who seemed to have more important things on his mind like playing with his cell phone.

“Twelve seventy eight,” the kid said while running a hand through his unkempt hair.

Jimmy took out his wallet and tossed a credit hard onto the counter.

“System’s down, no cards,” the kid mumbled.

“Check good?” Jimmy asked, reaching into his pocket.

“Nope, just cash today man.”

Jimmy looked into his wallet and saw a solitude five dollar bill, which was enough for the nuts, but not for the owl. The owl was the most important part; he needed a gift for Jamie. Jimmy’s heart started to pound and sweat started to emerge on his brow, but he needed to remain calm. Without looking suspicious, he glances around the corners of the store; no cameras. “Can I also get a pack of smokes? Marlboro.”

The kid nodded with a glazed over look and turned around to open up the cigarette case. Jimmy grabbed the owl and nuts off of the counter and ran out of the store, into his truck, and spun back onto the highway. It was for the right reason, Jimmy told himself; perhaps a few more Hail Mary’s could be thrown in for good measures.

Jimmy the Tank pulled into a strategically placed bar, tucked the owl into his back pocket and entered. “Whatever’s on tap,” Jimmy muttered as he sunk onto a bar stool and took out his protein packed mixed nuts.

“Here ya go,” the bartender produced a home brew that look to be a wheat beer. “Wanna start a tab?”

“Sure thing,” Jimmy smiled, thinking to himself that another Hail Mary may be in order after what he had planned. Jimmy then took the perspiring glass and took a swig along with a mouthful of nuts. Chewing down Jimmy tried to figure out what all the fuss was about, and although tasty, they seemed a little too salty for his liking. Any minute now, he waited, knowing the reaction was on its way to link his plan together. Jimmy coughed and a rush went to his head that caused him to topple forward. Is this it, Jimmy thought to himself, did he go too far? Was this a stupid idea? Was he now circling the sink of life, never to see Jamie again? Why did he think this would work? Jimmy’s world faded to black.



“Dad?”

“Ughre.”

“Dad, are you awake?”

“Jam, raagh.”

“Jimmy your son is trying to talk to you, are you awake or not?”

Jimmy sprung up in the hospital bed, he knew that voice, he knew both of the voices; Jamie and the ex. “I’m awake.”

“You scared me dad, but luckily the restaurant you were at was right next to the hospital,” the boy smiled at the sight of his superman overcoming another challenge in the form of an anaphylactic attack.

“I thought you knew you were allergic,” she hissed and walked out of the room.

“Happy birthday Jamie,” Jimmy leaned onto an elbow. “Go over to my pants and check in the back pocket, I got something for you. Jamie, I did my best for you.”

SHORT STORY: Track 13 – Nothing to Write Home About

Track 13 – Nothing to Write Home About

Harley Crisp sat and sulked before his large hand crafted oak masterpiece of a desk. Occupying the desk were only two stationary residents, a single sheet of blank paper and a motionless pen. Harley winced and let his tear be the third arrival to the desktop party and his sigh of contempt was the soundtrack. His life was not all that people made it out to be and he knew it.

He picked up the pen with great hesitation and he hovered over the upper left hand corner of the page. It should be so easy, he told himself, just “Dear Mom,” and then tell her all about the good things in your life. What good things, he scoffed; he gave away all the good things a long time ago in order to achieve this level of fame and fortune.

Harley could write about how he up and left his small hometown in Alabama for a bright future in acting, completely ignoring his mother’s pleads for him to stay. He could write of how he dropped out of school and turned his back on the only people who genuinely loved him. He thought about this constantly and the shame he had been able to bury was the greatest thing keeping him from having any communication with his family for over fifteen years; he had brought this on himself and he was punishing himself for it.

Harley shed another tear as he recalled some of his mother’s words of wisdom that, at the time, sounded like nothing more that empty lies to keep him grounded in Alabama. She said that this place of acting and money was filled with nothing but cruel people who are only out for themselves. Why didn’t I listen, Harley damned himself. He placed his head into his hands and took in a deep breath thinking that no one here in big time Hollywood understands what it is like to feel so alone and empty because they are hollow already; Harley did not want to grow hollow, but he really saw no other outcome for himself.

In all his time living the glamorous life, had he learned anything of value, Harley clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. Why live this life at all? What was the money good for? Harley reckoned that the answer was the same as what war was good for, and yet he remained, doubting that he would be able to turn away mostly for the fear that he would not be accepted back home.

And who am I anymore? Harley stood abruptly at the thought and knocked his solid chair over with a crash. “John, please sign this,” or “Dear John, I admire you,” or “John we have a perfect role for you,” from the so called fans, and producers, and agents, but that is not his damn name, John is a character he played and every time he was called by his most famous persona he felt a little piece of the true him died. Harley punched the wall and slumped to his knees weeping; it was all his fault, he wanted this.

Who was he to complain, he leaned back and stared at the ceiling fan mocking him with its carefree existence. There were worse things in life than a bout of identity crisis and being homesick, Harley winced, like having a real crisis or actually being sick, like the millions of people all around the world. He was just one miserable millionaire, so he had no right to talk about his woes; no one wants to hear the selfish ramblings of an egotistical and self-centered hypocrite. Just keep on doing what you do just like every other day Harley Crisp, dance like the fool you are.

“No,” Harley shouted at no one in particular and jumped up to his feet to readdress the blank letter. “I control my own fate; I can teach myself the things I have yet to learn.” Harley reached for the pen and with great control he scribbled exactly what he wanted to say.

“Dear Mom, I love you. Love Harley.”

SHORT STORY: Track 12 – Tell Me When

Track 12 – Tell Me When

What is the point? I stand up from my bath which I was hoping to relax me, but I have grown used to disappointment. I stand there and let most of the beads of water drip off, they want nothing to do with me and I can’t blame them; join the party. I reach for my towel and finish drying up, this is my daily routine, work, bathe, sleep alone. Day after day after day, when does life begin, because this certainly is not a life.

This is no way for a thirty-five year old woman to live; I should have children by now to love me, or at least a husband. I would settle for anyone at this point, faithful or not, just someone to talk to. I look at my exposed self in the mirror and I can’t help but think it is laughing at me. Who is this fool, the mirror says, she lost all that weight so that someone would find her attractive, but still no one wants her. The mirror is right.

I step out of my bathroom onto the carpet of my bedroom; the only other room in my miniscule apartment besides the kitchen. I don’t even have enough room in my apartment to have anyone else in my life. I need to get out of here; this place will not be my final tomb. I throw on a t-shirt and jeans, dressing to impress, yeah right. I reach for my keys and in doing so I knock my phone off the receiver and onto the floor. Should I pick it up? Why the hell should I, who is going to call anyway? I leave the phone, leave through my front door, and close the door loudly behind me.

“I hate you,” I scream to the door, aiming my words at the apartment, but my life and myself earned some of those words too. I put my key in the knob to lock it up but then I pull my hand away. I will just leave those there so that it is easier on whoever has to clean it out, God forbid I inconvenience anyone to the point of calling a locksmith.

I walk to the curb where my car was resting and I start it up, it too sounds like it’s on its last breath. It sputters and rocks and we are off. I am not sure where I am headed, and I really don’t care, I know the right place will present itself as long as I am looking. I start by driving around my dark neighborhood, looking into my own eyes in the rearview mirror. You really are nothing to look at even for myself; why would anyone else want you? I take to the deserted highway and under the lonely moon my car moves along for eight miles before giving up all together. Just what I needed, a stalled car in the middle of nowhere, but was this my sign?

Just in front of me was an overpass to a river below. Coincidence that I am stopped right here, or simply fate? I can just ease off and end it all, and no one would know; or care. Just as quickly as I am forgotten I can be gone, and why else would God stop me right here? I can do this.

I leave my car and approach the edge of oblivion. I can hear the rush of water below and even in its fury it seems tranquil. I can do this, this can be how my life begins; with the end. Just hold your breath and let go. I step up onto the guard rail and I can feel the breeze of the night caress me. It is chilly, but none of that will matter soon; one last exhilarating plunge. Just let go, you can do this, you earned it.

I can’t. I didn’t earn it, I didn’t earn anything. I just got dealt a hand of life and the house always wins. I can never do it, I am not brave enough, and in fact I am not anything enough. Not thin enough, not beautiful enough, not smart enough. I am maybe sad and hopeless enough, but then again if it was enough I should be able to follow through.

I retreat back to my car and pick up my cell phone. I flip through the numbers on my speed dial and punched in the tow truck company I have become a regular of. I told them where I was and I sat in my car for twenty minutes until they arrived.

The driver was an older, balding, somewhat muscular man and to be honest it was good to just have someone else there, even if it was just to load my car onto a hitch and drive us somewhere to fix it; perhaps that is why I go out for my midnight rides all the time?

During the ride back to the shop, I sat in the cab with the driver and I tried my best to look enticing, but I am such an amateur he paid no mind, why would he, he was probably married with kids and a whole handful of people who cared about him. We pulled in and after the mechanic looked over the car he informed me that I was just out of gas. Perhaps I was aware that I was running low on fuel, perhaps not, but this was the third time in the past six months this mechanic told me the same thing. I paid him and the driver for their services and I went on my way; this was my life, and this was my social interaction.

I decided to just head home when I came to a red light. While idling and waiting my turn, I noticed the neon glow of a bar that had just opened up. A new bar I thought, that means a whole new crew of men whom look the other way, but at the same time they never saw the skinny me. Maybe I can meet someone? What’s the worst that can happen, I head home miserable; already there.

I pull into the partially filled parking lot and enter the bar. The air smells musky, but the bar had not yet been tainted by the smell of sour beer; give it a few more weeks of spills. I sat at the bar and smiled at the bartender who nodded back. He asked me what I will have, and I said I needed a moment to decide. Playing games, I know, but I wanted someone to buy me a drink. Never in my life has someone bought me a drink, and I needed this. Just one drink, just a few bucks and I will feel like I have started a new chapter. Please.

My wait turns into ten minutes, and then twenty minutes, and as I smile at everyone in the bar they all turn their heads. I could understand no one looking my way when I was fat, but I am thin now, I thought life would change. Why did I bother putting in all that work on this body? Am I not thin enough? Is it just my natural look? Is my nose too big? Am I too old? They aren’t much younger; someone has to at least acknowledge me. Even the guy sitting alone by the bar won’t look at me twice. Him, he is a little husky, has a full reddish beard, and short reddish hair. He is kind of cute, but certainly no catch, even by my low standards, and he won’t even look at me? Perhaps I should have taken the jump.

Wait, why am I waiting? I waited my whole life, I deserve better. Screw the house always winning; I am going to make my own luck. I stand up and almost knock the bar stool over behind me, but I don’t care. I walk over to the bearded man of solitude with as much confidence as I could muster and I take a seat next to him.

“I would like to buy you a drink,” I said as I flag down the bartender.

“Well alright sweetie,” he said somewhat uncharacteristically effeminate. “I’ll take it, but y’all know what type of bar this is right?”

Just my luck I let my head fall in defeat. What kind of cruel sense of humor does God have? I knew better than to think it was that easy. “Tell me when does life begin, or better yet, tell me when it ends?”

He sees the tears run down my cheek and places a meaty arm around my shoulder. “There now, don’t fuss yourself over me,” he said sweetly as he patted my shoulder. “You know what, my brother is on his way here to pick me up and he is not like me in one regard, and I think he would just love to buy you a drink.”

SHORT STORY: Track 11 – Just Like Anyone

Track 11 – Just Like Anyone

She looked out of her makeshift home into the blackness of night. She knew the way and could easily get there with her eyes closed, but that was not what was freezing her there; it was fear. She had been living there with her tribe for what felt like three years now ever since the catastrophe which left them stranded and cut off from the world. She often wondered why no one looked for them, but only in the first few months; after that survival trumped all other thoughts. Survival, she ran through her head again and again.

Just twenty short feet into the woods was all she needed to go. To compound the issue, the stress she was currently undergoing was negatively impacting her stomach, which meant that she had little time left to convince her legs to walk before she would be soiled. Why didn’t she just take the safe route and claim it was an accident? She knew why, she could not handle that sort of torment, not anymore. You would think that a small group forced into a society through hardships and tragedy would not have the time to find and ridicule an outcast; she would forever think, but she was always wrong.

Just then the gloomy clouds parted and the pale moonlight lit the way momentarily; this was her chance, she sprang from the door and ran barefoot into the unknown. She reached the plank door of the outhouse, pulled it opened as quickly as physics would allow and she slammed it behind her; she cared not if she woke anyone with her antics. She took in deep calming breaths, dismissing the aroma, and allowed her heart rate to settle.

She went about her business and reflected on the one friend she had when it all began. Tom was about her age, give or take a year or so, and he was kind to her. Whenever the others would gang up and find it their duties to explain how useless she was, Tom would appear and put an end to it. That was over two years ago, because he was the second to go missing.

They had set up their little village, the twenty three of them, and went about living. There were three to a room at first until time allowed them to build more homes; which consequently became a moot point. After a year full of constant failed attempts to discover where they were, and how to return, they began to grow disheartened and drop their guards. One night, after hearing a savage rustling of the trees and bushes about the village the strange things began to happen. In the morning, the exteriors of the houses were severely damaged with what could only have been claw marks. None of them knew what to do and after a distressed meeting, it was decided to fortify the windows and see what the night brought again. That was the night Tom went missing.

He was never found, but after him, once a month or so, another would go missing, some of which turned up weeks later; or at least parts of them turned up. Two years living in fear, and now she sat in the darkness amid the woods as one of the only four remaining survivors.

Why? She thought. Why me? Why not me? My own kind will not accept me, and whatever it is out there does not want me either? Must I be picked last for everything? Torture upon torture. Wait, she screamed in her own mind, can’t I make my own fate? Can’t I choose to be chosen? Why couldn’t I be like the other nineteen before me? Why couldn’t I be more like Tom? I can, I can be what I want.

On that she stood and pushed the plank opened to reveal that the moon had once again retreated behind the clouds for complete shade. She stepped out with pride in her step and conviction in her marrow. One step led to another, but she was not going in the direction of her straw bed, in fact she was heading in the opposite direction; into the unknown.

Unknown, she chuckled to herself, was it really the great unknown? She knew where she was headed and she knew what to expect. She was going to be one of them, one of the majority. She took each step eagerly and no longer cared to mask her sounds. Although she was not tracking the time she was walking, she was sure that she had not been traveling long before the air became frigid and so did her muscles. She stopped in place and heard the muted hiss of breathing; she was no longer afraid.

She felt something dig into her shoulder and the pain was welcomed as her world spun around her like a top. She was no longer going to be just the awkward her; she was going to be someone else, just like anyone.

SHORT STORY: Track 10 – Eyes of a Child

Track 10 – Eyes of a Child

Clarissa Ewings ran through the park as the sun almost finished its descent of the day. Beads of sweat were escaping down her face as she hastily hustled towards home; if only she had lived closer. So much to do and not enough hours in the day, she thought to herself, allowing her mind to become overwhelmed once again.

Clarissa had to get home to Johnny and Jacob before six so that the babysitter would not charge an additional hour; money she could not afford to hand out. She had to make a quick dinner, probably pasta, before Bethany and Clyde had to leave for their part time jobs; it was sweet of them to help out, but Clarissa wished she could support them all so that this was not the case. She needed to help Frank with his math, help Susan with her reading, and make sure the other seven did not kill each other with rough housing while she did all that. On top of the children, she needed to find a cheap plumber to fix the toilet, but how to would find the money to pay for it she did not know. She wished that the broken toilet could go the way of the broken toaster and vacuum and that was to just stay broken, but a toilet seemed like a necessary item.

Lost in her thoughts Clarissa tripped over something on the sidewalk and almost lost the small brown bag she was carrying, which was the whole reason she was out in the first place. In her bag were Johnny and Jacob’s cold medicine, and a full array of her prescriptions for anxiety, depression, and various other medications to treat the ailments of an overworked, overstressed, single working mother of thirteen. Clarissa looked down on what she had tripped over and her eyes went wide and her heart sunk.



Meanwhile, on the other side of the park Royston Jenkins trudged along in a zombie like state as per his typical daily ritual. His mind was thinking of nothing but sleep as he clung to the worn newspaper gripped in his fist. Visible on the newspapers pages were highlighter marks and red circles around various employment opportunities for anyone with no discernible life skills.

Royston coughed into his free hand and looked down at the paper thinking, how was he going to handle a fourth job? He got no sleep as it was, waking up at four in the morning to get to the hotel to serve as their watchman, and then for a few hours later he would head to the hospital to serve as a file clerk if they have anything that needed filing, and then after filing, he headed through the park to wait on tables at the diner, sometimes until two in the morning; and then the routine restarted.

When would he even have time for another job, he asked himself, but he did not really want to know the answer, all he knew was that he needed money to get his car back, pay his lousy ex-girlfriend child support so that she did not have to lift a finger and could just float through life. He also needed to earn enough money to pay for the medication and doctor’s visits he had to frequent as of late; ironically enough, his decreased health was due entirely on overexerting himself and running himself down, which he did so partially to pay the bills to make him healthy again. As Royston let his mind go he could not help but see a woman standing over a crumpled form, and even though he was already running late and his tips would suffer as a result, he had to stop.



Cat saw the two adults standing over a small and filthy boy laying there on the ground, and even at her mature age of thirteen she could not help but reminisce about when she first hit the streets seven years ago and degraded herself to once thought unthinkable things to earn money. That was around the time she ran into Rick, who said he would take care of her, and in a way he did, but it was not exactly the caring a young girl would have hoped for. Cat knew that she was just a tool to Rick to turn a profit, but for a while she was alright with their arrangement as she had no other options.

Not sensing the girl behind her, Clarissa looked down at the quietly whimpering boy and extended a hand. Should she take him in, she asked herself. She already had thirteen children at home and, although she may not be able to identify which deadbeat father sired which one, as if it mattered because they were never going to come around anyway, what was one more? He was clearly in need and she thought about what it must be like for him living all alone on the streets. Children are supposed to have high hopes and ambitions, to dream of the stars, and not have to go on day by day wondering if you will eat any time soon. Being a child was supposed to be a glorious feeling of ignorant bliss before learning of all the turmoil in the world; this boy needed love.

Royston watched as the woman leaned in and touched the boys shoulder and he let a tear run down his cheek. His whole life he was thinking about himself and by doing so he filled himself with rage. He was working hard to earn all the money he could to pay for his child, and who cared if his lousy ex-girlfriend lived off of it? He was providing a home for his son, he was providing food for his son, and that was all that really mattered. This tattered boy lying on the ground in a dark park did not have any of that Royston knew; and it broke his heart.

Cat watched the two adults and she felt a sudden twitch of nerve run through her, a side effect of one of the toxins the wonderful Rick had introduced to her, and she was beginning to go through withdrawals. She then looked down at the boy and she smiled. This boy has no home, and has no family, and has no food, she knew. These two adults see that and they feel sorrow for him because they think a better life exists out there for him, Cat sighed. I know there is a better life out there for him as well, Cat smirked and raised her hands in front of her, and I know that the optimistic thoughts of the fools won’t do anything for him, but that doesn’t mean they are of no use.

“Empty your wallets,” Cat demanded as the two spun around with stunned faces as a thirteen year old girl waved a pistol back and forth between them.

The two obeyed in fortified shock as the girl collected the small amount of money while her filthy and despicable accomplice stood from the sidewalk and joined her at her side. Cat smiled at her partner, an eight year old con artist in training named Tim, and the two ran along their way; just a few more scores like this and they could truly run away from it all for good.

SHORT STORY: Track 9 – Caged Rat

Track 9 – Caged Rat

Rupert looked across his confined cage in disgust. Is this all there is to life, he pondered as he normally did. Can’t be. Alone with the only entertainment being walking to the other wall repeatedly and then once or twice a day getting injected with God knows what by a researcher; Rupert had deep thoughts for a rat.

The wide eyed rat stood up on his hind legs, litter clinging to his underbelly as he glanced over to an adjoining cage. Look at him, so disinterested in everything, and modesty aside, why am I so much more intelligent, Rupert asked himself. Is he even planning his escape? Wouldn’t he want to crawl back into the hole he once called home? How can he be so content?

No, Rupert decided, that rat had no hopes of escape even if he tried. Rupert’s thoughts then became interrupted as the fluorescent lights flooded the room when one of the researchers entered.

“Munson test trial thirty-six,” the man spoke into his small metallic recording device. The man then produced two syringes and went on to inject both Rupert and his neighbor. “Rupert and Davey both received the serum at twenty-one hundred hours.”

The man then looked over Rupert, frowned, sighed, turned, and then left the laboratory. Rupert snickered at the thought and could not help but feel that the scientist was blaming him for the failure; ridiculous. It wasn’t me who ruined the experiment, Rupert shook his head disapprovingly. I was only the lab rat in the whole thing, and besides I could not even begin to comprehend the sadistic motivations of those scientists. Rupert placed his front paws on one of the bars of his cage facing the door and let one final thought warm him, that is why tonight I will set myself free at any cost.

Rupert had spent as long as he could remember of his life in the cage planning his freedom day and this was the day. As he had already decided, he was far more intelligent than his fellow rat, and as such the humans did not suspect that he could think of the unthinkable by rat standards. How were the humans to ever consider that a mere lab rat would be able to cling to the top of the cage and push the latch that locked the hatch so that the door could freely swing open? Also, once the rat was standing on top of the opened cage how were the humans to ever suspect that the rat had already devised a way to trigger the automatic pressure sensor doors of the lab? The only inhabitants of the room were rats, the humans must have told themselves time and time again; why would they need locks? The rats were too light to open the doors, and while this was indeed the case, the superior rodent intellect known as Rupert’s mind was already one step ahead.

Already following through with the first step of his plan, Rupert crouched on the edge of the cage he sat in just moments before and he jumped to the ground. It was a five foot or so drop and the impact on his legs was stronger than he intended, but that seemed like a small price to pay to live the life of the liberated. Rupert limped across the linoleum and started to climb up the six foot tall storage shelf that held beakers and other lab equipment. Using the notches in the metal frame as great leverage to grip his claws into and shimmy his way to the top, he found himself from a whole new vantage point; he was on top of the world.

This was it, Rupert took in a deep breath; the time of the great uncertainty begins. Would he be able to squeeze behind to top of the shelf and push off against the wall with enough force to cause the shelf to topple? Rupert knew that there was only one way to find out, and that is what truly separated him from the others, his ability to want to try things out, and be inquisitive, and quest for knowledge. Rupert crammed his head between the wall and the cold metal and in a second’s time sat in an awkward position with his neck resting on the shelf with his hind legs propped up against the wall.

Rupert pushed and he could feel all the weight in the world upon his neck. Nothing moved besides maybe some vertebrae. He pushed again, even harder this time, but still nothing intended moved. He was not strong enough, but also unlike the others of his kind, he did not give in so easily. Rupert jumped down to a lower shelf and in his teeth he picked up a metal shaft that he noticed on his ascend earlier. Although he did not know what the metal rod was used for, he guessed some sort of prodding, poking, or other implementations of irritation, but the proper use was inconsequential as it would provide him the torque he needed.

Rupert wedged one end of the rod between the wall and the shelf and left the other end jutting out into the open free air. Rupert reached up and pulled down on the makeshift fulcrum, but he could still not provide the force he needed. Glancing around at what was available and at his disposal, Rupert ran over and picked up some straps that were used in transporting crates and looped one end around the rod and held the other end in his teeth. Weight, he thought, something with weight. The only thing left on top of the shelf other than a rat, a rod, and a strap was a cardboard box, so Rupert thought that would be the best place to start his investigation.

Dropping the strap he bounded over to the box and peered in. To his delight Rupert spied some dusty and decrepit, yet burly and thick textbooks. At least five books that he could see; that should do the trick he thought as he wrapped the strap around the box and fastened it with the clasp. All he needed to do now was push the box off of the shelf and hope that the force brought on by the mass of the books and the gravitational acceleration would be enough to act on the rod through the strap to create enough of a moment to bring the shelf down. Simple physics, Rupert grinned wide enough to show his incisors, which gleamed in the dim glow of the safety lights; a typical rat would never use physics.

All was going according to plan as Rupert snuggly placed his shoulder against the cardboard for one great push. Readying himself and thrusting with all his might, the box did not budge. No, he screamed internally, can’t let myself give up now. He gave it another try and gained some ground in the form of a centimeter slide. This meant that he could do it. He let his mind free and he repeated a motivational mantra and with one final grand gesture, he took a few steps with the box in front of him and the load came crashing down. Somewhat unanticipated to Rupert, which as an afterthought he should have seen coming, as the shelf tipped over with such force and started its descent, so did everything that was on the shelf, including the rat. Gliding across the room like a flying squirrel, Rupert landed with a thud that was silenced by the racket of shattering glass, and all of the breaths he had been saving escaping him at once.

Standing up with eyes shut tightly to help moderate the pain, Rupert cringed in agony. It’s all worth it, Rupert told himself, and then once he opened his eyes, he actually believed it. The door was open, his plan had worked. Running over to the opening, not knowing how much time he had before it closed again, he was not going to waste any time.

Into the hallway, the great unknown of his escape, Rupert now saw a massive corridor filled with nothing more than doorway after doorway. One of these has to be the exit; Rupert reasoned and started his exploratory trek. At the first door he came to Rupert was able to scale the wall up to the thick pane of glass imbedded in the door so that he could peer in. Cages upon cages of more rats. What where they up to with all these rats? Rupert jumped down after quickly deeming that the rat room was not an exit, and he moved on only to discover that the next six rooms were almost identical. Why all the rats, Rupert asked himself. This is sick, he winced at the thought; it is unjust and cruel.

Moving on towards a metallic door that stood out from the others, Rupert considered whether or not he should simply escape or try to stop the mad men once and for all. Can a rat take on humans, he questioned. Am I capable of killing them, physically and morally, he questioned further. If the opportunity arises I will see what I can do, Rupert shook off the thoughts and decided to focus on his own hide.

The shiny metal door before him gleamed like a beacon of hope as he neared, and he dreaded that this to would be a pressure or motion sensor like the others. He took one careful step in front of it and to his surprise it slid open with a hiss. Uneasily Rupert stepped into the dark room and the lights sprung into action.

“I was watching you on the monitor,” the researcher from earlier chuckled heartily at Rupert’s expense.

“Bastard,” Rupert called out in a squeak.

“I assure you that I am not a bastard,” the researcher said as he took a step closer and knelt down in front of the rat.

“You can understand me?” Rupert dropped his jaw in awe as he was taken aback all at once.

“You and I are not all that different,” the human took off his glasses in what Rupert deemed as a gesture to seem sincere.

“You and I are nothing alike,” Rupert shrieked at the thought, not fully understanding how he was able to communicate. “You are torturing the innocent, and for what?”

“For you,” he said. “Rupert this is all for you.”

“I saw all of the rooms,” Rupert gritted his teeth. “There must be hundreds of rats. You are killing them all slowly and stripping them of a livable life.”

“It is remarkable how you retain so much and yet lost your sense of identity,” the scientist scratched his head, looking as if he wanted to jot down some notes.

“I ought to strike you down where to kneel,” Rupert filled with rage at the audacity of the man to still look at him as an experiment. “If that Dr. Munson was in the room, the one who presumably started this all, I would kill him as well.”

“Oh he did indeed start it all,” the man nodded. “And he is also in this room as well.”

“Munson,” Rupert cried out in anger. “You are Dr. Munson, I will destroy…”

“No, no, no,” the man’s eyes revealed that he was about to tell a great truth as he leaned in. “Dr. Munson is my mentor, my teacher, and my friend. He dreamed outside of the bounds of the possible and he saw those dreams into fruition. He is a genius and fell victim to his own hubris. He became part of his work in this lab studying trans-species metamorphosis. My dear friend, you are Dr. Munson, and we are trying to turn you back.”

SHORT STORY: Track 8 – Crawl

Track 8 – Crawl

Jesus Christ I gotta get out of here. Please let me live through this. I got to go; I got to go, but where? Open nothingness behind me where the danger hurriedly seeks me. It is only a matter of time before it realizes where I went, I am sure. Then before me, the unknown. Can I even make it? I have never before, nor has anyone like me. I have heard rumors, but am I special, can I crawl to a new home?

Imagine me, sucking in air and blowing out my exhaustion; that would be the day. Please, I need this. I already lost my wife today; watched her gobbled up by the behemoth. Now it wants me. I just want to live, please let me live. I promise I will not take anything for granted anymore, and I will always look fondly back on everything I had and appreciate everything I will have.

Why does the beast have to put me in this situation? Why does it need to destroy me and my life? Just stay wherever you are and let me be. Just let me go away from here. I should seriously try crawling away, what is the worst that can happen?

A new life, a new me, and a life of solitude; is that really that much better than painfully being devoured? I guess it depends on your state of mind, and right now mine wants to survive. I feel it; it is nearing. I could fight. I would lose, but in the pain at least there will be the joy of knowing I fought for the loss of my love. Who am I kidding, I am a coward, fleeing is my only viable option.

I poke my head up and I am greeted with a welcoming droplet of water. The rain should make the transition a little easier, but will I still dry out? I have no time to consider, it’s now or never. I look back with one final glance of farewell and I lock eyes with it. It found me, and it is racing towards me with stealth I have never seen before. So swift, so deadly.

I lean forward hastily and I flop onto a rock, I try to breath, but nothing is happening. Was I foolish to have hope? This could never work, I am a victim of my own temptation, but then again I was a goner anyway. I feel the sensation of suffocation overwhelming me, but I feel no pain as I witness the blood curdling jaws trying desperately to get at me from just out of reach.

One more failed attempt at breathing, yet I am still alive. Why? Perhaps these short gasps I am making through my mouth are helping? But what is the use if I just lay here and bake once the clouds retreat? I need to move on if this is to work.

I stare above me and see a winged predator circling the skies. Great, I have had dealings with them in the past and I know they are just as cruel as the behemoth; who knows where it would drag me to and what it would do to me. It swoops down; I have no time to think so I just react. I roll over and when it is within striking distance I hurl a nearby stone into its face. It must not have been expecting that because it retreated with a shrill squawk.

How did I even do that? I could never do that before, but I guess I never tried it before. Wait, I hear something. Friend or foe? I roll over because it is my only option and I scrap my fins across the boulder were I lay. Traction; I move forward. This is working, but now what? I keep it up, I keep sliding and crawling and I make my way up the mound that was once before me.

I feel as if I am on top of the world, and for a moment I am. I look down at what is in store for me and I am elated. Scurrying about I see others like me. Moving about with ease, they must have all made the same desperate journey. I have a new home; evolution is a wonderful thing.

SHORT STORY: Track 7 – String of Pearls

Track 7 – String of Pearls

Jennifer Paddock felt as if she were on top of the world, and why shouldn’t she? Her family had recently fallen on some hard times, in which Jenny, as her husband called her, utilized some of her specialty skills and found a way to feed her son. Jenny looked down at the score resting in her hand while she passed underneath an illuminated street lamp which shone off the glimmering pearls. Each of the thirty or so black beads of wealth was larger than the next, with the grandest of them all intended to fall right below the clavicle, and the green hue to them was breathtaking.

“Like taking candy from a baby,” Jenny snickered aloud, “or at least jewelry from the wife of an unfaithful millionaire.”

Upon her quick examination she was certain that this set of Tahitian pearls would fetch her enough to feed her family of three for at least half a year living on the lap of luxury; or at least they would consider luxury. This particular piece, of which she also had some lesser ones snug in her purse, had to be a family heirloom and looked over a century old. They certainly do not make them like this anymore, Jenny thought as she spun the necklace on her finger in a display of victory.

Jenny could not help but smile at the ease of the lift, but then the aged fastener on the necklace was indeed as ancient as she had guessed and as such it’s structural integrity had deteriorated over time, thus the necklace snapped and black pearls of all sizes decorated the poorly lit street corner.

“Damn it,” Jenny cursed as she fell to her knees in haste in a futile attempt to grab the falling payday. Unbeknownst to Jenny, at that exact time, Paul Edwards was behind the wheel of his clunker of a car racing down the slick street with mind dedicated to his destination and not anything on the road in which he drove.

Jenny Paddock had managed to pick up seven of the pearls when she just so happened to look up and see the dim headlights of a car with no intentions of stopping on behalf of her occupying the same road. Stunned at first, all she could do was stare, and in that gaze she witnessed the possessed eyes of the man behind the wheel. In a final moment of clarity she dove deeper onto the sidewalk in an attempt o find refuge, but to her dismay she was clipped by the bumper.

“What was that honey?” The calm breathing Wilma Edwards called out from her lounging position in the backseat on her way into labor of what the doctors suspected to be a high risk pregnancy.

“Nothing,” Paul called back, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He needed to get Wilma to the hospital, the doctors said that there could be complications and that he may lose everything he holds dear and he could not allow that.

“I heard a thud,” Wilma attempted to sit up to look out of the window.

“Must have been a raccoon or something,” Paul lied. “Lay back down love.”

Fifteen minutes later, Paul screeched into the driveway of the hospital where he and his wife were met by two nurses and a wheelchair. Wilma was rushed in, and the next twelve hours passed like a haze inside of a blur for Paul Edwards. Never leaving Wilma’s side and holding her hand for the entire duration, Paul assisted his wife through the difficult birth which resulted in a healthy baby boy; albeit that the baby boy had two legs, four arms, and two heads, and some argue that the pluralization of boys would be more apt.

Paul and Wilma Edwards raised their boys, Phillip and Jacob, as best as they could and went on to home school them to avoid their sons undergoing the ridicule of being conjoined twins in the public school system. Then when they were eight years old, Paul Edwards was diagnosed with a terminal brain disorder which resulted in his abrupt death only months later. It was at that point, with their mother under extreme duress and depression, that Phillip and Jacob decided it would be best to relieve their mother of the burden of their education and they would endure the public. That is where the twins truly blossomed; Phillip taking on a strong interest in the student government and climbing the social latter with the most popular kids, and Jacob on the other hands, although dragged along to the parties which Phillip was always invited, preferred to socialize with the intellectuals and ‘nerds’ as Phillips friends would label.

Public schooling was the greatest thing to happen to the boys and they learned to embrace their differences both within each other and with the norm. To the credit of Jacob’s studying, the boys won a full scholarship to Harvard and became prominent in investment banking before turning their sights for bigger and better things. As one thing led to another, the now men grew wiser and more respected, they entered politics and where unstoppable. Pairing the conservative nature of Phillip with the liberal ways of Jacob, the Edward’s twins were able to cover both left and right politics without ever being accused of flip-flopping.

Sitting in the Senate, Phillip and Jacob Edwards were convinced with little hesitation, to enter the Presidential race; which they went on to win with staggering results under the campaign slogan ‘Two Ed’s are Better than One’. Then, just two years into their term, all major news sources were reporting that President Edwards would go down as the greatest President of all times. Little did the media know that one late night while Phillip and Jacob were reviewing policies in their office that Frank Paddock would enter the room and lock the door behind him.

“Frank,” Phillip greeted his long time Secret Service Agent. “What can I do for you?”

“Forty-three years ago,” Frank solemnly said with a sigh of fatigue. “That’s how long ago my search began.”

“We are a little confused,” Jacob adjusted his glasses.

“I was young, but I knew I would one day track him down,” Frank went on. “Her name was Jennifer Paddock and she was my mother.”

“I don’t recall ever meeting your mother,” Phillip stated.

“Is she well?” Jacob asked.

“She is dead,” Frank shouted.

“We are sorry to hear that,” Jacob said as he grew uneasy.

“She was walking in the street when she was struck by a car, that is what I learned,” Frank hissed, his eyes growing fiery and unpredictable. “There were witnesses, but none of them put it all together. Not even the cops put it all together, but I did. Forty-three years ago, on the day you were born, Paul Edwards struck a woman with his car on the way to the hospital.”

“Our father?” Phillip and Jacob exclaimed in unison as they sometimes did.

“Yes,” Frank let a tear drop from bloodshot eyes as he produced a knife. “He killed her so that he could get you to the hospital and never said a word to anybody. He could have driven her and she could have been saved, but by the time the ambulance got her there she was gone. He selfishly left her. He traded her life to make yours a little easier; give you a few more seconds.”

“Why are you here Frank?” Jacob regained his composure and tried to level with the man. “Our father passed away some time ago.”

“I know that,” Frank Paddock cried out. “You think I didn’t know that? It eats away at me to know that I did not have the chance to slide my blade into his heart and watch him die. You are the next best thing. After all it was you that drove your father, so to speak.”

“Frank you have worked for us since the Senate days,” Phillip was in shock. “We did a background check.”

“It never would have shown our connection on the background check,” Frank smiled as if he had just won a debate. “We come from different walks of life and your father was never tied to my mother’s death. There is no connection. I have been planning this since the day I put it all together and found out the mighty Paul Edwards was dead. I have been patiently waiting for the opportune time, and that time found me. Tonight is the night I ease my mind and my pain.”

“What about your wife, Claire, and your daughters, Jenny and Lisa?” Phillip tried to reason. “Imagine what this will do to them.”

“There is no other way,” Frank’s eyes were streaming now. “I wish there was, but I am sorry.”

“We understand,” Jacob nodded as he exchanged a confirming glance with his brother and self. “We are ready to accept responsibilities for the actions of our blood.”

Upon hearing the concede, Frank Paddock felt a wave of anxiety and pressure rise off of him as he slide his father’s knife into the most well respected men in America. Frank breathed heavily as the men slumped over onto the carpeted floor. His original plan was to clean up the mess so that at least the President was found in a respectable position, but after futilely trying to mop of more pints that imaginable, Frank simply ran out of the office covered in blood.

Frank slammed the door behind him and discarded the soaked and saturated mop along with his blade next to his unconscious partner and he started to run. Knowing that he had little time left, Frank followed the escape plan that he had practiced practically every day so that it was now second nature. He was on his way home to say goodbye to his wife, and his two girls, who were luckily home on college break.

Frank screeched into his driveway, but Claire’s car was not there. Did she run to the store, he asked himself, but then he noticed the white corner of a piece of paper protruding from the front door. Frank ran to the paper, knowing that he had little time left before he was caught, and he pulled the paper out of the door and opened it up to reveal that it was a letter.

Frank immediately started to read the words on the note which he recognized as his wife’s handwriting. “Dear Frank, the girls and I have tried to endure, but we simply cannot any longer. We love you and that is why this is so painful. We know that you have some demon inside of you that is taking you away from us, but the fact that you will not let us help you or explain what it is you are going through and you just pushed us aside. We tried and we tried, but you grew distant. We cannot sit by while you ruin yourself. I am afraid you are going to do something dangerous and we cannot be a part of that; we love you too much. If you find our being around such a distraction then perhaps you will be better off without us. The girls and I have left until you are ready to let us be part of your life again. Please don’t make us wait. Please stop whatever it is you are obsessing over. Please, I want my Frank back. Love Claire.”

Frank fell to his knees in tears, defeated. It was all over, he knew he would never see his family again, and it truly was all his fault. At the same time but different locations, Claire looked out the window of the train traveling west deeper into Virginia. For some reason she could not fully understand, she started to cry uncontrollably, and she felt as if it had something to do with Frank. He was acting so strange lately, she thought as she wiped away a stream. She took in a deep breath and thought of her daughters and how she had just put them each on trains headed back to their respective colleges, cutting their breaks short. It was what is best for them she knew. They could not stand to see their father like that, at his worst.

Claire then let her mind drift from Frank to the only other man that was in her life, Manny Perkins, whom was technically no longer in her life. Manny was her longtime boyfriend through high school and college and the man she swore that she would one day marry. Things did not turn out quite as she had planned however as Manny turned to drugs and alcohol which ultimately lead to his demise, a fate she was certain her husband Frank would see sooner rather than later as well. The similarities between Manny and Frank were actually the driving force behind Claire deciding to walk out of her home upon hearing of Manny’s death; poor Frank, he had so many demons.

She reached her stop and Claire looked down at the watch clinging to her shaking wrist; she had no time to get the coffee she desperately needed. Running twenty minutes behind schedule, the train put Claire in the position to sprint towards the cemetery rather than waiting for a cab; luckily she was familiar with the area due to the fact that this was where she was born and raised.

Sweating and winded, Claire bounded through the iron gates and composed herself before nearing the ongoing service in the sacred place. Upon entering Claire locked eyes with Manny’s widow, Jessica Perkins, almost as if she were waiting for her to arrive. “Nice to see that you finally showed up. Had better plans?”

“Can’t we just get through this civilly Jessica?” Claire asked.

“You have no right being here,” Jessica snapped. “You walked out on him when he needed you most.”

“If I had not walked out on him as you so eloquently put it, he never would have married you, so I guess you are welcome,” Claire fell right into the trap Jessica had played.

“You knew he had addictions and he reached out to you,” Jessica screamed and pointed an accusing finger. “He never got the help he needed or the support he wanted, and now all these years later he fell victim to his own vices. I found him with his head in a urinal at the bar. He needed your help.”

“Don’t you dare put this on me,” Claire gave it right back, many eyes now relocating from the preacher to the two women. “I wanted Manny clean, and he was not bending. Then he found you, who partied just as hard as he did. So no, it was your responsibility to control him and all you wanted was a good time. So no, this is on you. This is on Manny. I am just here to pay my respect to a man I once loved.”

“You mean a man you once screwed,” Jessica unleashed and with no warning slapped Claire across the face.

After the unexpected assault, Claire went on the offensive and thrust her shoulder into the midsection of Jessica, knocking the two of them backwards into the crowd. Claire got to her feet quickly and gripped Jessica’s hair and with a tug swung her with all her might. The momentum, coupled with the pain, caused Jessica to stumble forward into Claire, who consequently lost her footing and toppled along with Jessica into the open grave where Manny’s casket resided.

“Father Malloy,” Manny’s Aunt Ruth ran up to where the short bald man nervously watched the chaos unfold. “Do something.”

Father Malloy did just that; something. Perhaps it was not the something that dear Aunt Ruth had in mind, but it was nonetheless something; leave. As Father Malloy watched the two, when they were still above ground, he tried to fight out the thoughts which were surfacing, but two women fighting were one of his weaknesses. “Calm yourself William,” Father Malloy whispered under his breath. “Lead us not into temptation.”

Father Malloy turned his back on those attending the funeral of a junkie and he silently got in his car and sped away. “You did the right thing,” he kept repeating to himself over and over as the funeral grew distant, but deep down inside he knew this was not the truth; he should have been able to control his compulsions better than that.

Starting to change his tone from reassurance to reprimanding in his inner monologue, Father Malloy caught the glint of something in the street on his way back to the rectory. Peculiar, he thought as he pulled over to the side of the road to investigate. Why he stopped he will never know for certain as it was out of character, but in times afterwards he credited it to a sign from God to stop punishing himself for the being simply a mere mortal.

Leaving his car running, Father Malloy scurried over to the pile of refuse along the gutter and plunged his hand in to retrieve what could have easily been the tab to a soda can, or something equally as shiny. But this was no soda tab, Father Malloy stood with object in hand astonished.

“A black pearl?” The man of God questioned aloud, blinking feverishly as if trying to test whether or not he was stuck in a dream. Father Malloy was uncertain as to why a pearl of this size and quality would just be discarded; it was as beautiful as the heavens and larger than the tip of his thumb.

Father Malloy drove back to his home with the pearl clutched tightly in his hand the whole way, and upon entering his domicile he immediately ran to his bathroom to wash away the filth of the street that it was unjustly subjected to. This was no way to treat such a precious pearl, Father Malloy thought to himself as he obsessively scrubbed it spotless.

Over the next few days the pearl was all Father Malloy could think of, and then when the days of obsession transformed into weeks, and those weeks into months the Father knew he had a problem. “And lead us not into temptation,” he said to himself with tears of shame in his eyes as he wrapped the pearl in a handkerchief and ran out of his home.

Father Malloy hastily made his way through the halls of the convent, with the one person whom he could trust to free him. He gently knocked on the door of the older nun he had known for nearly three decades.

“Just a moment,” sounded a sweet voice from the opposite side of the door where the man with a valuable package stood. “Father Malloy, to what do I owe the pleasure?” The nun greeted as she welcomed in her friend.

“Sister Mary Theresa I have been tempted and I am in need of your guidance,” Father Malloy ashamedly admitted.

“God forgives all,” Mary Theresa reassured while placing a hand on Father Malloy’s shoulder and guiding him to a seat. “How may I help?”

“This pearl,” Father Malloy revealed as he opened his handkerchief. “I found it in the street and I know it is worth a great deal, but it is all I can think about. I have been late to mass on more than one occasion on its behalf. Please take it from me; relieve me of the burden.”

“William, you know I cannot accept this,” Mary Theresa smiled. “I have taken a vow of poverty and although beautiful and truly one of God’s great gifts of nature I simply cannot.”

“Please,” Father Malloy begged. “Help me find someone. A charity or someone in need; I fear what it will turn me into.”

“You are a good man, and have an unbreakable faith,” Sister Mary Theresa stood and took the pearl in her hand. “Anyone weaker would not have been able to do what you have done. Asking for help and giving up an object of such value. I know of someone in need. I found her in sleeping on one of the pews this morning and I took her in. Hard times have found her and her faith is being tested.”

“Thank you,” Father Malloy stood and smiled his utmost appreciation and gratitude.

“You would have done the same for me, or any other of God’s children,” Mary Theresa nodded as she headed for the door to lift her young new friend’s spirits with the gift. “I thank you for giving me the opportunity to help those in need. It is wonderful how God’s plans unfold in the most mysterious ways.”

Sister Mary Theresa smiled to herself as she headed towards the guest room she had made up for the young girl. She could barely be older than twenty-one, the nun thought to herself as she took her aged strides. Too young for the hardships she had found, and far too young to turn to such acts of vulgar desperation in exchange for money.

“Lisa?” Mary Theresa called out as she knocked on the door which was already opened.

“Hello,” Lisa turned and smiled kindly from the desk where she was sitting at examining the broken chain in her hands.

“That necklace meant a great deal to you didn’t it?” Mary Theresa said as she slowly sat herself on the edge of the bed.

“My father gave it to me,” Lisa sighed with obvious signs of emotional pain running throughout. “It used to have a pendant, but that broke last night when it happened. It was so surreal. He struck me and tore it off of me for no other reason than he just could. He refused to pay me and called me,” Lisa paused for a moment as if to gauge whether or not her words were appropriate to speak to a nun, “a whore.”

“You are no such thing,” Sister Mary Theresa frowned, hoping that the young lady’s self image was not completely shattered. “There are great evils in this world and it is up to those of faith to work through them. It is the challenges that teach us and bring us closer to God.”

“I just wish my life didn’t get so messed up,” Lisa started to shed tears. “Three months ago I was a normal college student studying to be an electrical engineer, I was just home for Spring break and then the next thing I know, my mom rushes me back to school. I do not question her, but then the very same day I saw on the news that my father was killed after being blamed for the whole assassination thing. I know he had his problems, but I know he could not of done it, why would he?”

Sister Mary Theresa knew that this was a rhetorical question and that Lisa was in need of someone to listen to her, so she remained silent.

“Then I found out my mom was arrested for attacking someone at a funeral,” Lisa wept more heavily now. “Did I even know my parents? Then the house that my sister and I were raised in was seized and my school kicked me out claiming that I had not paid tuition, but I think it was because of my name and parents. I had nothing, so I ran. All this in three months. I wish I could go back in time.”

“God smiles on all of his children,” Mary Theresa interjected.

“I know,” Lisa Paddock sniffled. “It is just feels like sometimes some of us are neglected more than others.”

Sister Mary Theresa reached out and placed the pearl on the desk in front of Lisa. “This single item was made pure and simple by one of God’s creatures. Man recognizes the craftsmanship and values it highly, as they should. I have never seen one quite this size in all my years and I would like you to have it.”

“Me?” Lisa questioned in shock. “Why?”

“Because you are a good person and you are in need,” Sister Mary Theresa beamed with hope for what Lisa could achieve. “Although this pearl would serve as a pretty replacement for your lovely necklace, why don’t you sell it instead and use the money to pay your tuition and become that engineer. Lisa Paddock, go make the world a better place.”

SHORT STORY: Track 6 – Bittersweetheart

Track 6 – Bittersweetheart

What am I if not just a recipe of ingredients from my parents? Am I nothing special? Is any part of me actually me? To compound my lack of identity I think I was made up all wrong; corrupted. I know I am not right; no one will want me. I am stamped with the name that declares me the best and yet I will be tossed aside and discarded as a complete and utter disappointment; such is the life I never asked for.

I look up and try to look around; it is so hot in here, and far too dark to see anything. It seems like only moments ago I was the primordial goo with not a care in the world, but I was thrown into the heat of life and forced to harden. But, that was the old me, I need to look towards the future, even if I can’t see. I need to figure out a way out of this predicament, so that I don’t crumble, which is inevitable I guess for what I am; is there any real point?

Even if I were to try an escape, what do I expect to happen? I would burst through the door that has to be more than one hundred times my weight and made of a material much more than I. I would have the time to quickly find a makeshift weapon out of whatever was discarded on the floor. I would threaten my way out with the high heel shoe I found. Completely absurd; I would be laughed at and put down. That is an even worse way to go out than what is in store for me; being eaten alive. And the eaten alive part is not even the bad part, I feel like it was what I was made for so I am prepared, the worst part is knowing that I am no good and that I will be spat out. My life is a waste and is essentially meaningless.

The others around me have no clue and not a care in the world. Do they even know what is wrong with me? Do they know what is wrong with them? They are unaware what went wrong. They may think I am a few eggs short, but they would be wrong; if that was the case I would surely fall apart and not just mentally. I am, I mean we are, missing the key piece, what makes us special; no one will be fooled.

I could launch a revolt, power in numbers right? Laughable I know; because we are going to die anyway, why not just accept my fate? There is no need to break the others of their ignorant bliss. I am right enough inside that I do not need company to join in my anguish. I know I am just being eaten away at the inside because I just want to feel the tender touch of the lips of another and know that they are going to smile forevermore. I know I am an enigma, such angst and yet soft on the interior.

Wait, there it is. The light, the blinding shine of the door. I am done; forevermore came so soon. They enter, wearing protection against the elements, or perhaps as a caution against the revolt I briefly considered; it is reassuring to know my efforts would have been in vain anyway. Ah, the cool air greets me; it is actually refreshing after what I have been through. Now the waiting game begins.

I am placed in the staging area while those resembling ravenous vultures lick at their chops until they get the go ahead to devour. They are cunning I can tell, keeping a watchful eye on the master in hopes that with a turned back they could gain a head start; but not today, the master has joined them amongst the lingering.

It felt like an eternity passed as I am waiting, but then it happened, the flag was dropped and the signal given. Grubbing hands flung out at me and caressed and obtrusively massaged me and the others; I guess testing us for the proper choice. I guess I was good enough, because I was a first round draft. I am lifted and I near an anticipating smile, knowing that I can only lead to dissatisfaction. The teeth sink in and I am introduced to pain, and now I am no longer whole; a feeling I had grown used to already.

I am pulled away and I hear the noshing and gnawing on what was once me. I hear a crunch and I know that is the sound of the culprit and my downfall; I knew I was not fully done, not like that would have helped. The master must have seen the look on the face of the consumer and she quickly fetched a tall glass full of a white liquid to hand to the free hand of my holder. The face grew from grim to glad as a healthy chug was taken; perhaps an antidote to my foul poison?

After the swig I am reintroduced to the chompers and this time a sign of pleasure graced the lips. A curl of contentment? Could this be? Me? But this cannot be true? I was created to be a disaster. I thought I was a punishment of sorts. What baker in their right mind starts creating without checking their stock? To not have semisweet chips, and to make a replacement with those on the opposite spectrum, baking blasphemy.

But alas, I am to be ultimately enjoyed and I fulfill my true destiny. I guess there are those in life that can overlook what is inside and see the big picture. My faith in life has been restored in knowing that a chocolate chip cookie with a bittersweet heart can still be enjoyed by a child.