It started with vodka and your aroma of fresh bread,

frozen stones of dirty streets melted in open pools.

I wanted, yes yearned, to pitch tents with you

in the blaze of midnight sun and the scent of rain.

I wanted you as my igniting spark with ember words.

I felt drawn and impassioned to give myself to you -

a drunken state with liquor bottles reflected on night stands,

breathing and moving together in well rehearsed symphony

as I waited for you to be close enough to stroke my hair,

a touch to reaffirm my existence and worth as a human being.

I felt sheltered in my naked skin as I let you come in

alone, together, promising only to be one night friends.

I begged you to be my shadow soul mate singing tipsy love songs.

The next morning, minus you, I remembered the drunken sex,

sweaty lust and wet passion engraved on shards of my mind -

the pieces left behind while I returned to my own bed alone,

awakening to begin my search, once again, for a heartbeat.

If I wanted you, Id be wearing your skin like clothing. I'd trace your blood along my body with my fingertips. Pointing, and trailing down to my abyss that screams your name.

If I wanted you, you'd be stained from head to toe with the crimson of my lips. You'd be drenched entirely in my desire, gasping for air with your fists clenched.

If I wanted you, you'd be rooted deep within me. I'd cut out all your vital organs, and then disassemble you. I'd hide the best of you deep inside me, keeping you warm and out of sight of intrusive hands.

But if I didn't want you, I would never be claimed by thoughts of ways to see my pain pour out of me. I would hunt the path to a smile of my own, and never once look back at all the skeletons you created.

I wouldn't be burned by your landscapes, or crippled by your uncharted waters.

I'd be breathing.

I stare at the array of items in front of me: my father’s Glock, my prescription bottle of hydrocodone, a package of razors I bought last week, and even a dusty bit of rope I found in the neighbor’s garage, though it’s nowhere near long enough. It’s not like I have a place to hang myself from, anyway. The scene deserves a chuckle, it’s so ridiculously cliché.

But there’s nothing funny about this. And it’s been so long since I’ve smiled.

I used to. Smile, that is. Even though the depression was always a weight on my chest—some days it was damn near impossible to breathe—I still managed to grin and bear it. Maybe that’s why no one ever really understood; why they still don’t.

Why she doesn’t.

Will she have any regrets when I’m gone? I’d like to think so, but I’m not sure I really believe it. More likely she’ll be happy she has one less thing to worry about. Not as much stress on her plate.

She has no idea what stress is. None of them do.

The pain’s bad—fibromyalgia’s a bitch, after all—so I go ahead and pop a pill. Just one for now. It’s not quite time to swallow them all. The cold water burns going down. I wince, then cough and sputter. I take another gulp, trying to calm the irritation in my throat. My eyes water, but I can breathe again. I lean back and wait for the meds to kick in.

My phone pings at me. I pick it up, swipe the screen. It’s a text message from James.

“Hey. How you doing?”

I’m getting ready to off myself; that’s how I’m doing. I set the phone back down, knowing I won’t type those words. If I did, he’d try and stop me because unlike her, James actually cares about me. We’ve been friends for a couple of years now. I’m not sure how it’s worked out, seeing as he’s married, and I have no one in my life romantically at present. I used to, but Rick wasn’t up to dealing with my issues. Not after … But I don’t want to think about that just yet. I don’t blame him. Hell, it looks like even I’m not up to dealing with my shit anymore. But James—and his wife, for that matter—they watch out for me, and they’d be absolutely horrified if they had any inkling of what I’m about to do.

The phone goes off again.

“Hey, you okay?”

It’s not like me to not answer. I know that, and so does he. If I don’t respond, he’ll get worried. But what can I say? I’m not okay. And if I tell him I’m not okay, he’ll want to talk, and I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m sick of talking. I just want to be done.

I’m feeling slightly drowsy, but the pain’s still getting through, so I grab the prescription bottle and shake out another pill. It goes down easier than the first one.

After a minute, I get up and dig out a notebook and pen from my desk. I should write a note. It’s customary. Expected. They’ll look for a note—something that says goodbye, or at the very least provides some sort of explanation for my actions. They’ll want to know.

She’ll want to know.

I open the notebook, uncap the pen. A surge of fury washes over me, and I hurl the items at the wall. No. Fuck her. Fuck all of them. If they’re only going to give a damn once I’m dead, maybe they should have given one sooner. Maybe she should have tried a little harder to understand, to be a little less judgmental.

Tears prick my eyes, and I sink back down on my bed. Everything’s still sitting on my nightstand, all lined up in a pretty row. I reach out, grab hold of the gun. It’s loaded, the rounds already racked. There’s no question of whether I’ll use it; it’s more a matter of when and how. You’d be amazed at how many failed suicides come out of people shooting themselves. I certainly was when I researched it. Fifteen percent. Fifteen out of every hundred people that shoot themselves don’t die.

I will not be one of them.

The fuzziness weighs a bit heavier now, and I’m a tad slower grabbing my phone when the next text message comes in.

“You’re starting to scare me. Where are you?”

A few minutes later, the phone rings. Billy Boyd’s voice, singing “The Last Goodbye” from The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies reaches my ears. The song is appropriate, and more than a little ironic. Needless to say, I don’t answer the call. Besides, by the time James gets around to acting on his uneasiness, it’ll be too late.

Setting both the gun and the phone back on the nightstand, I cross to my desk once again. Opening the browser on my computer, I pull up Netflix and turn on an episode of Grey’s Anatomy. It’s the finale of season two, where Izzy snips Denny’s LVAD. I don’t know why it’s my favorite episode, because it’s depressing as hell. I can’t ever get through it without crying, even after ten years and God knows how many viewings.

But watching anything that isn’t depressing seems wrong; there’s something off about killing yourself while watching something that at one point would have made you laugh. As the show goes on, I down a couple more pills.

Suddenly, I want a beer. Which is weird, because I don’t drink beer. But I feel like I ought to have one—a celebratory toast to my life, as it were, in spite of how fucked up it is. I stand and head for the door. I’m pretty sure there’s a few in the fridge. I have no idea how old they are; Rick brought them with one of the last times he stayed over, and that was months ago. Whatever. They’ll work.

I stumble into the kitchen. The meds have kicked in. I’m a touch unsteady on my feet. Doesn’t matter. Once I get back to my room I have a feeling I won’t be getting back up again. I open the fridge, peer inside. I shove the milk carton and some yogurt to the side.

There! Three bottles of Shiner Bock, with their mustard yellow labels bearing a ram’s head. I pull one out, let the fridge door swing closed. I need a bottle opener. I spin in a slow circle, my mind hazy. Opening drawers at random, I finally find one with the rest of my utensils. I put it to the cap, wrench up. The opener slips.

“Shit!”

I’ve sliced my finger open. It’s bleeding, but I don’t really feel it. I should probably rinse it off and slap a bandage on it, but what’s the point, really? Setting the beer on the counter I try again. This time the cap pops off, and I take a swig.

My stomach roils. How did Rick ever drink this shit? In spite of the nausea, I bring the bottle back to my lips. After another sip or two, I head back to my room. Passing the bathroom, I pause. I think I’ll pee now. Maybe then I won’t wet myself so badly when I die. That happens, you know. When you die your bowels go lax and anything that’s in there comes out. They never seem to mention that on the television shows. Dead bodies on screen, though grotesque, tend to be unusually clean. God forbid the public be forced to face reality.

I slide my pants off and collapse onto the toilet.

Reality’s ugly. That’s why they never depict it on-screen. Because no one wants to watch something that hits too close to home.

I listen to the steady stream of urine, then fumble with the roll of toilet paper. It takes three or four tries before I manage to get a decent handful. I wipe, rise, flush. I don’t bother putting my pants back on. Too much effort. Besides, I won’t be needing them where I’m going—wherever that is.

I make it back to my bedroom. My vision’s fuzzy. I know I shouldn’t put my head down, but I’m so tired. I’ll only rest for a minute or two. Then I’ll get back to business.

My head hits the pillow. Shapes swirl in front of my eyes. The sound of Meredith and Christina’s voices morph and shift. The walls melt away …

“—your fault! You weren’t watching him enough! If you’d paid better attention, this wouldn’t have happened!”

“That’s not fair, Mom! I did—”

“You didn’t! I asked so little of you. All I needed you to do was keep an eye on him, make sure he took his meds, make sure he ate.”

“I did all that—”

“It really wasn’t that much to ask. You dropped out of school, then you lost your job. It was the least you could do in return for my putting you up.”

“Putting me up? This is my home, too, Mom, it’s—”

“You should have been out of here forever ago! You’re twenty-two years old, dammit! I should have put my foot down and made you find your own place. I should have known you weren’t responsible enough to handle your father. I should have just hired a nurse and been done with it.”

“Mom, please! You didn’t need a nurse, and I did watch him. Dad was sick! He was sick, and this was always going to happen. You know that. The doctor said—”

“It didn’t have to happen now. He could have had another ten years. Maybe more. But because of you, he’s dead. You killed him. You killed your father!”

“No! God, please Mom, don’t say that! I didn’t. I never wanted this to happen. I loved him, Mom, just like you!”

“Get out!”

The scene shifts, and he’s there, feet up in his recliner. I stand beside him, a glass full of water in one hand and a collection of pills in the other.

“Hey Daddy, how you doing?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah? You feeling alright?”

“Yeah. I’m feeling pretty good, actually.”

“That’s good. I’m glad. Here. It’s time for your meds.”

“Yep. Seems to be about that time, doesn’t it?”

He tosses the pills in, takes a drink, swallows, and then wipes his hand across his mouth.

“I need to go to the store later. That okay?”

“Sure, Dad. Just let me know when, and I’ll drive you.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“Sure thing. And you’ve got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, I think so. At ten, I think.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure I’m ready to go.”

“Sounds good. You got any plans for tonight? You going out with Rick or anything like that?”

“Rick and I broke up, Dad. Remember?”

“You did? Oh, yeah, that’s right. I remember now. I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“No problem.”

“Well, he’s an asshole. And so is any guy who thinks my baby’s not good enough for him.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

His recliner twists and contorts, flattening into a rectangular box lined in a light navy satin. He’s lying inside. His eyes are closed, and his face is covered in a thin sheet of make-up. His hands are crossed above his navel, stiff and cold.

“What are you doing here? I told you not to come.”

“He’s my father.”

“Yes. He is. And it’s your fault he’s dead.”

“Mom, please, don’t make a scene here. Dad wouldn’t want it.”

“Don’t lecture me about what your father would have wanted. Your father would have wanted to live. He would have wanted to stay here, with me.”

“We all want to stay here, Mom. For as long as we can. But we don’t always get to make that choice.”

“No, we don’t. And in this case, you made it for him.”

“Stop this.”

“You weren’t watching him.”

“Mom—”

“You left him alone.”

“It was an accident—”

“You killed him!”

The slap catches me off-guard, the sharp crack echoing in the quiet room. The murmured chatter dies. Pairs of shocked eyes all shoot in our direction. I lift my hand to my burning cheek, unshed tears stinging my eyes. I look for her, but she’s not in front of me anymore. Now she’s sitting next to me, her hand gripping mine. Her eyes brim with tears of her own.

“You’re sure, doctor?”

“Yes. I’m very sorry.”

“But, Alzheimer’s ... He won’t be able to work. He won’t be able to … How will he …? Oh God, what are we supposed to do?

“Right now his condition isn’t terribly advanced, but it will worsen over time, and unfortunately, there’s no way to stop the deterioration of his mind. We just haven’t progressed that far. For now, he’ll probably be lucid more often than not, but as time goes on, he will have longer and more frequent periods of dementia. The pattern of those periods may also fluctuate; at times he may remember who you are, but not where he is. At other times he may think you’re someone else, or not know you at all. Most likely he will experience episodes where he has lost track of time and is reliving something that has happened in his past. The most important thing for you both to remember is to try and keep him as calm as possible. If he sees you getting frustrated or upset, or if you get overly flustered trying to convince him of something, it will only make his situation worse. His sense of reality is going to shift exceptionally, possibly from day to day.”

“So we won’t know when we wake up each morning how he might be.”

“That’s true. His daily reality continually shift as the disease accelerates. Eventually, however, it is my belief that he will reach a state where he will no longer remember anything of his current life. His moments of lucidity will be extremely rare, if they happen at all.”

“Oh, God!”

“I’m sorry. The nature of Alzheimer’s is cruel. It is not an easy disease to handle. I don’t like having to suggest it, but you might want to consider putting him in a home where he can receive professional care.”

“No, I don’t want to do that.”

“Mrs. Fowler, I understand you want to do what’s best for him, but—”

“I’m not going to put him in a home! He’d feel so betrayed by that, so hurt! I can’t do that to him, I can’t!”

“Mrs. Fowler—”

“NO!”

For the first time since the doctor uttered the word “Alzheimer’s,” I speak up.

“I’ll watch him.”

They both look at me.

“What?”

“I’ll look after him, Mom. I’ll be Dad’s caretaker.”

“But...what about school?”

“I can finish school anytime. This is more important. Besides, it’ll be good practice.”

“And your job?”

“I’ll manage. And if it gets to be too much, I’ll ask for a leave of absence. Or I’ll quit. Whatever it takes. I know putting Dad in a home would kill you, and you’ve got enough to worry about. So don’t. I’ll stay with him. I’ll take care of him, for as long as I can.”

“You’ll stay with him?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll keep him safe?”

“I promise, Mom.”

She looks at the doctor, an eyebrow raised in question. He shrugs, then leans forward and rests his folded hands on his desk.

“I see no issue with it for now. But please understand that a time may come where it will be best for him to have professional care.”

“I understand, Doctor. You’ll excuse me, though, for praying that day never comes.”

We leave the room hand-in-hand and head for the hospital stairs. Reaching the top, I’m suddenly alone, and when I look down, my father is crumpled in a heap at the bottom.

“Dad? Daddy!”

I race down the stairs, falling to my knees at his side.

“God, no! Dad!”

I feel for a pulse. There isn’t one.

“No, no, no! Daddy, please!”

Shaking, I yank my phone from my pocket. It clatters to the floor. I pick it up, manage to punch in three digits. I don’t remember speaking. But within minutes, I hear sirens. I watch, frozen, as paramedics rush past me. Muttered phrases slip through my ears, but don’t truly register. Broken neck. Dead on arrival. Nothing can be done.

“Ma’am? Ma’am. Do you know what happened? Ma’am!”

“He must have fallen. I don’t know. He’s not supposed to be upstairs. What was he doing upstairs?”

My mother’s voice blends with my own.

“What was he doing upstairs? What were you doing upstairs?”

“I don’t know, Mom. He must have tried to follow me, but I don’t know why. I was only up there for a second, I—”

“Why were you up there at all?”

“He wanted you guys’ wedding afghan. He kept asking for it, saying he needed it. He was getting agitated, and I couldn’t get him redirected. He kept trying to get up, telling me he was going to go find it. I told him I would go get it for him if he would just stay put. I knew where it was, it would only take me a second to run upstairs and get it from the hope chest. I made him promise he would stay where he was, and he did. He promised.”

“You know you can’t trust him. The doctor told us that!”

“I know, Mom! But I was only gone a minute. I don’t even know how he got up the stairs that fast. I was just closing the hope chest and getting ready to come back down when I heard the crash. It was only a minute, I swear.”

“You shouldn’t have gone. You shouldn’t have left him alone!”

“It was the only thing I could think to do. I didn’t think it would hurt anything.”

“Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you!? You killed him!”

“I killed him.”

My words are slurred. My face and the pillow beneath are soaked with tears. My phone rings again, then pings. And pings again. And once more.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Answer me, dammit!”

“If I don’t hear from you in the next five minutes, I’m coming over.”

So that’s it. I’m out of time. James lives about fifteen minutes away, which gives me about a twenty minute window. Not a lot of time, but enough.

It takes three attempts, but I eventually manage to sit up. I reach for the pill bottle. I struggle with the cap, fighting to add enough pressure to get it to twist. Finally it comes off and lands on the carpet with a soft thud. I raise my shaking arm, bring the bottle to my mouth, and pour the rest of the pills in. I look around for the beer. It’s gone, and I wonder if I left it in the bathroom. I must have. So I grab the water, now tepid, and gulp it down. As I swallow, the glass slips from my fingers and falls to the floor. The remaining water splashes and seeps into the carpet.

Next, I rip the package of razors open. It’s difficult, the hydrocodone is quickly taking hold. Honestly, the meds are probably enough. But if James finds me passed out on painkillers, there’s a chance they’ll pump my stomach and revive me. I can’t allow that to happen.

I drop the first razor, and I’m too lightheaded to try and pick it up, so I yank the next one from the package. Slipping the guard off, I lay the blade along the skin of my wrist and jerk, making a swift, jagged, horizontal cut. Something whispers to me that I should have cut vertically. The artery lies vertically beneath the skin. I know that. My textbooks told me so. Then again, I don’t want to bleed out so fast I can’t finish what I’ve started. I switch the razor to my other hand and make another clumsy slice.

Blood flows down my hands, oozing over my fingers, and pooling on my bed. Nothing hurts anymore, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I smile.

I should be scared. I’m dying, after all. But all I feel is a sense of relief. The pain is gone; I don’t have to live with it anymore. I can finally be at peace.

My vision is growing black, and I know I’m on the edge of losing consciousness. Reaching out, I clasp the Glock and hug it close to my chest.

“I’m coming, Dad.”

All of a sudden, I’m five years old, and he’s there. I’m standing on his feet, raised up on my toes, and we’re dancing. With a laugh, he swings me up into his arms and spins. Then he plants a wet, slobbery kiss on my cheek, and I giggle.

Raising his gun, I put it to my temple. Covered in blood, it’s slippery in my grasp, so I tighten my hold. My breath is shallow; focusing one last time, I suck in a deep breath.

Below me, I hear a frantic pounding on the front door, along with muffled shouts. Floating above the noise, a quiet whisper tickles my ear.

“I’m waiting for you, sweetheart.”

I grin and pull the trigger.

I wrote my manifesto

In human hearts and souls

Invested in those pages

All my aims and goals

But they shredded all the paper

And tossed it in the fire

Abandoned in pursuit

Of each his own desire

So I painted it across the sky

Brushed with gold and pink

And wrote it in the stars

Embossed in silver ink

I recorded it in waves

Surf pounding on the shore

But ears were only deafened

And eyes could see no more

Stroked their cheeks with breezes

And perfumed the velvet rose

But still they never saw Me

Smoke burning eyes and nose

In the whisper of the grassy plane

On the crags where eagle's nest

In a newborn baby's cry

And in thunder, I was manifest

The world of harmony, of music

Wobbled in its orbit

They couldn't read the manifesto

But instead chose to ignore it

Stepping off a balcony of stars

I clothed myself in flesh

To die the human death

Perhaps in this...

Love may manifest

Tossing out words for people to read

    Often they don't make sense.

The heart can be freed

    From anger and greed

         By letting go all pretense.

Give me your tale

    The darkest detail

          The secrets you shouldn't confess.

Tell me your fails

    Your time spent in jail

           Lay bare your soul and undress.

Why do you cry

     Like the stars in the sky

When you read a poem like The Tyger?

The others seem dry

     Although people try

            To cause the reader distress.

Just let the words flow

    As the screen lets off glow

Maybe something genius will strike.

I just want to know

    How low you will go

           To write something I will like?

Don't you hold back

    Let me see all the black

The devious dark that you hide.

Are you a hack

    Or is it faith that you lack?

           Tell me, have you ever lied?

Confess all your sin

    Excite me and win

My attention for just a moment or two.

Is there evil within

    Disguised by a grin?

Give a peek at the true blue you.

I want what you hide

    To come on outside

           And play with the others like us.

Let's take a small ride

    Into the dark side

          To the place you won't even 

                   take those you trust.

(This is one I wrote about a month after I found Prose. I thought it would be a good sample for 2016)

I think I’ll head off today.

All this time I’ve been

Getting farther and farther away,

Well, I think I’ve finally

Gathered enough courage to say,

No more.

I’m ditching this road, stepping bare feet

Dripping with blood from

This rough asphalt and all its heat

To greener grass and

A better place to meet,

I hope.

I sacrificed the map when I decided to go,

What the future has in store

For me, no one can know.

And strangely, I’m okay with that,

This odd high that comes with breaking a low,

I’m free.

Nothing but a thumbs-up and goodwill to guide me,

The whims of the joyous, the

Rush of looking as far as my eyes can see

And knowing I can walk that horizon.

Because this is my journey,

I leave.

To greener grass and happier times in 2017! Luck to you on all of your journeys :)

This may not be categorised as the best but this is definitely my favourite. Every time I read this poem I still feel the same emotion and what made it special for me was when my son Avi chose to recite this poem in his school recitation competition. That day the poem became a memory for me. 

In the by lanes of the terror capital,

There is a dusty ground.

I saw a small boy playing with marbles

Surprisingly he made no sound.

He must be nearly six years old

The baby look persisted

His face was round with a button nose

And his eyes glowed bright.

There was a speck of dirt near his little mouth

But his smile was what held me still.

For days I had met the leftover people in this bloody town

He was the first one who neither cried nor carried a frown

I picked my camera to click his picture,

And what a pose he gave.

He smiled at me with all his might,

In his hands he held his marbles tight.

His clothes were torn, but his soul intact,

His shoes were tattered but his spirit unscratched.

I asked him about his home, he said he had none.

I asked him what he ate,

He said, “Kind people sometimes throw me a bun.”

“But I have marbles you see” he said,

“And they are enough for me to have fun.”

That night as I retrospect my work of the day,

The boy’s happy face, kept my focus at bay.

The next day I walked back to look for the marble boy,

The ground was dusty as ever but the boy was not there

I looked around hoping to find him in some corner eating bun

A passerby said, “You will not find the child again cause now there is none.

And when I questioned why, he said,

They snatched away his marbles yesterday,

In his hands he now carries a gun.”

Written 4 months  ago for the challenge that asked us to make up Stripper names.

The 'Strippa-hoe' Tribe

One day we decided to be indians.

All the girls were bored and, well, alcohol wasn't an option in this joint.

We dudded down in Brown's and tans,

We were gonna scalp a man.

We each got names for our special tribe,

I was "Dances with poles" of the Strippa-hoe tribe!

I do the traditional "makes it rain" dance just to survive.

A kind of pervy monotony to this kind of life,

but that day, THAT day, I was truly alive.

Whooping and Hollering and not thinking twice,

I was just dancing with the girls and damn it felt nice!

Not worried about jerks trying to squeeze on a slice,

maybe because tomahawks make these bad boys play nice,

But hey, in any business customer service always comes with a price...

We were indians! What a night.

Enter username and password.

WesternPaladin

********

He waited for a moment while the front page of Prose refreshed. There was a now-familiar red dot on the “Activity” icon in the top right of the screen. Without waiting for the page to load fully, he clicked on it.

OnyxCity started following you.

2 hours ago

He blinked several times, releasing his grip on the mouse. The last time he’d seen those two words used so close together was almost a year ago, continents away. They reminded him of the smell of those old books bound in some type of leather no-one had ever seen; of the ship they’d found drifting with no sign of the crew on board, and of dark mountains shivering under strange stars.

He pushed it from his mind. It had to be a coincidence. Nobody could possibly have known about that expedition to the Antarctic - they’d managed to keep it out of the press, though it had cost them a fortune. And that was without counting the promises made and favors owed to every government with an interest in the frozen continent. Certainly there was nothing amiss with this person’s profile: a close-up photo of an ordinary-looking person, presumably OnyxCity herself. An address for her personal website.

And here was some blank verse, posted just a day ago. It was a somber, reflective piece about the protagonist’s emotional state. Little, it seemed, to distinguish it from the other poems that went up on Prose every day. He raised an eyebrow when he reached the closing stanza, which had an odd rhythm unlike the rest of the poem. Even though the poem was mostly made up of short, everyday words, it ended with the word “firmament”.

He closed the poem and navigated to another of her posts. This one was about summer, and its imagery was suitably light and breezy. It was only four verses long, and the fourth verse’s cadence again shifted dramatically compared to the other three. Its rhythm was jarring, even as it spoke of an eternal green meadow, and a chill crept up his spine.

He stared at the screen for a minute, and another, not blinking, until it felt like his eyes were on fire. Then he leapt to his feet. It took only a second to reach the trunk he’d brought on the Antarctic expedition. He hurled the papers on top of it to the floor, threw it open, and started rummaging through its contents. He’d used the ciphers a thousand times, and he more or less knew them by heart, but in a situation like this, he had to be absolutely certain.

It took him hours to copy every one of OnyxCity’s poems onto paper. It took him more to make the calculations and transpositions for each one in turn, starting with the oldest and going all the way to the most recent. Evening slipped away to night, and the sun rose again outside, but he didn’t notice as pages torn from his pad piled up around him. Even as he found a description that matched no planet in the solar system, he tried to imagine it might still be a coincidence. Even as a collection of haiku became an incantation to the King in Yellow, he still prayed he had made a mistake in his calculations. Even as her most popular short story concealed a quotation that exactly matched a passage from the Mad Arab’s writings, he still half expected to wake up at any moment.

He pushed the pages to the floor, his hand shaking. On his monitor, the browser window was still open to Prose. By reflex, he pressed the refresh button again. There was a new post on OnyxCity’s profile, a mere ten lines worth of rhyming couplets. His head swam as he performed the calculations one final time. The pencil fell from his nerveless fingers.

For the one who has read and understood. He awaits you in Stethelos.

Crow perched upon a high branch, drawn to the fresh corpses below by gluttonous hunger. There was a dangerous-smelling man sitting at a fire nearby that left Crow a bit wary, elsewise Crow would have been feasting on the banquet of fresh death unconcerned. Instead, Crow pondered if the delicious corpses were some form of trap to catch unclever crows.

Caw!

The man looked up and smirked at Crow, as if he was waiting for him. Crow studied the man untrusting, and how the shadows surrounding the man seemed angry. Crow’s desire to steal a taste from the fresh bodies ended up trumping his distrust though. Crow glided down and settled on the human corpse, wings taunt, poised to burst into flight if the man indeed tried to trap Crow.

Caw! Caw!

The man laughed as if he could read Crow’s thoughts and cawed back, “Go ahead, clever crow. Feast! Leave nothing behind but his fuckin’ bones!” Shadows flickered violently.

Crow responded to the man’s invitation by ripping off a morsel of the sweet flesh from the opened neck. As Crow ate, slowly another brother from his murder flew in to join his feast, then a sister. Once the corpses were being devoured by the full murder; the man laughed his awful laugh, and cawed at them all, “Yes! Leave nothing behind...”

The murder of crows cut off the rest of his words:

Caw-Caw-Caw-Caw…

~~~

Detective Elliot spat in defiant disgust, as he looked up into the trees, never believing so many damn crows could cluster together; cawing their collective rage.

It was ominous to witness. It was irritating to listen to. It made the crime scene feel even more grim. Between the morbid display of the bodies and how the lighting threw queer shadows that seemed unbound, the scene didn’t need any help with its sense of grimness.

“Is there anything we can do about the damned birds?”

“Sorry Detective, we figured just working the scene would have eventually driven them all away,” the forensics tech responded, leaving the rest of what he wanted to say unsaid.

Detective Elliot gave the tech a slight disgruntled nod and turned his focus back to the two corpses. Both more bones than flesh now.

“Any idea why the killed deer was placed next to our John Doe like that?”

“Not sure the motive, detective. However, it definitely attracted the carrion feeders quickly.”

“Anything else odd or out of place you’ve found so far?”

“The victim’s ring finger is missing and the bone appears to have been cut.”

“Hmmmm...” Detective Elliot took in the scene, so much familiar, yet so much uniquely out of place. Odd pieces to an all-too-familiar puzzle. Puzzles compelled him forward. He had a talent making the pieces fall into place. That was why he was given these grim cases.

Caw-Caw-Caw-Caw…

Detective Elliot looked forward to finding the bastard that committed this crime. There were hearts that probably needed closure, and justice that needed to be administered. He hoped punitively.

Caw-Caw-Caw-Caw…

“Can someone do something about these damned crows?”

~~~

I can still feel the echo of my throat being slit, as I watch the detective and the other’s study my lifeless body. A body I do not even recognize at this point, no small thanks to the crows.

I can still recall how the blood spilled from my neck as the investigator probes what was once a simple gash.

I can still recall the feeling of trying to take a breath but drowning on my own blood instead.

I recall the exact moment of my death. My soul suddenly watching my killer hold my lifeless form, a feral smile of satisfaction on his smug, bastard face. I recall trying to attack him, but only an echo of my former shadow seemed to glance him, with little to no meaningful outcome.

To think I pitied him. To have agreed to take him with me on my usual solitary hunting trip as an act of kindness and fellowship.

The bastard lied about it all! He lied being me being one of his few friends, about his lack of hunting expertise, and about never being to this spot before. Watching him now as a shade of what I was, it was obvious he had an intimacy with this place, with my particular hunting spot. He didn’t just have a moment of passion; my murder was something planned, over a long period of time.

I recall when that crow finally chanced to feast upon my dead corpse. Choosing mine over the deer’s. I recall the rage that filled me when I felt the words, “Go ahead, clever crow. Feast. Leave nothing behind but his fuckin’ bones!” How I raged.

I knew at that moment, I desired vengeance and be damned if that vengeance sent me straight to hell!

Perhaps I should follow this detective for a time. Perhaps the most I can hope for is to find a way to nudge the detective to the direction of my killer and at least give me some justice.

I recall the haunting sound of the murder of crows when they feasting on my former form.

Caw-Caw-Caw-Caw…

Screw that! I would rather have vengeance. I just don’t know how I will get it...YET!

~~~

“Mrs. Losstrum,” Detective Elliot said somberly, with a balanced compassion, “we have found your missing husband.” Elliot waited for her to respond, but notice she could read the news was not good. Instead she tensed, waiting for the blow. Elliot, more gently continued, “I am afraid to inform you that he was found murdered in the woods.”

Mrs. Losstrum wept. She wept in a way that didn’t make Elliot question that she was sincere in her loss. He still needed to ask her questions though. It was always harder to ask the questions to the innocent, but in these next moments, the subconscious tended to provide the best clues forward.

“Why would someone just want to kill him for no reason?” she eventually asked aimlessly.

“Why do you believe there was no reason?” Elliot replied, curious.

“Well, he always hunted alone and no one knew where his secret spot was. He never even shared it with me.”

Elliot pondered what she said, but didn’t say more. Perhaps it was a kindness to let her believe it was a random act. Too many hints of brutal intimacy for him to believe it was. More likely it was someone Mr. Losstrum knew and trusted.

“May I ask another question?” Elliot asked without waiting for permission to, “Can you describe his wedding ring? We couldn’t find it at the site.”

As Mrs. Losstrum began to described the simple silver band, marked with only two tiny sapphires, she broke down again in a pool of uncontrollable sobs. All he could do was watch the shadow of her on the wall and in a trick of the light, another shadow comforting her.

The illusion gave him a chill down his back and for the first time since visiting the crime scene, he thought about all of the crows and their shrill song, but it came out as:

We know-We know-We know…

~~~

“...and how well would you say you knew Mr. Losstrum?” the detective asked.

“Not well,” the man lied, while imagining how beautiful it would be to slice open this bastard cop’s neck wide open, frustrated that the bastard was interogating the staff from Steven’s old office. It was dangerously shrewd, a cruel genius to do it in a room with so much...familiarity. Easy to lie, harder to lie with the feeling of a ghost watching you. “I mean Steven and I obviously worked together and tended to be the last ones out of the office, but we really never socialized outside of the office.”

“Did Mr. Losstrum mention his hunting trip at all in one of those late nights?”

“No,” he lied easily again. Although, it took effort for him not to smile thinking about the crow eating Steven’s corpse and telling the crow to leave nothing behind but the fuckin’ bones!

“Did you know his wife?”

“No,” he lied, even as she bloomed fully into his imagination, a forbidden fruit almost in reach now, almost all obstacles out of the way. Steven had everything he wanted. Now everything Steven had was slowly becoming his. The wife was the last prize and was only a matter of time, even if she was to be a singular taste.

The detective’s shadow seemed to dance violently at that thought.

A picture frame on Steven’s desk suddenly fell over, brushed only by the shadow. It was a picture of the wife. It was impossible not to look at her for more than just a moment, his final prize.

“I mean, I met her briefly at office parties, but that was about it.”

“I see,” said the detective, “thank you for your time, Mr. Gilmore.”

“Anything to help,” Gilmore replied, shaking the bastard cop’s hand while dreaming again about slicing his throat. The detective left him wary. The way shadows taunted him since killing Steven made him edgy. The detective’s shadow seemed to shift regardless of movement of his body. It made him think the crow cawing:

He knows-he knows-he knows...

Yes, this bastard cop just might know. He might need to die for it too.

~~~

Detective Elliot looked at the body crumpled like a ragdoll at the bottom of the stairwell. If the poor bastard didn’t die of a broken neck, thought Elliot, he died from every other bone being broken. The wall was nearly as broken as the man. The head resembled a smashed fruit. It was as if someone shot the poor bastard out of a canon from the top of the stairs. It was a scene of disbelief.

“Detective! You’ll want to see this!”

Elliot turned and followed the officer to the landlord’s office. There, they replayed the close-circuit security feeds of the stairwell and the hallway leading to it. He watched the victim leave his apartment alone.

“Pause it! Yeah, right there!”

Detective Elliot studied the face. He knew that face. It was that Don Gilmore that he interviewed a few weeks back regarding the Losstrum murder. He got an odd feeling about the man, but nothing solid that would have put Gilmore anywhere near the top of the suspect listof Mr. Losstrum’s murder.

“Detective?”

“Oh, sorry. It is just I met this man not too long ago. Go ahead, and continue the video.”

Elliot watched as Don Gilmore got to the top of the stairway. Then, he saw something unbelievable.

“Go back. Play that again!”

“I told you that you needed to see it, detective!”

They played the scene a second time. A third in slow motion. Don Gilmore’s body flails at the top of the stairwell as if he was suddenly pushed impossibly hard from behind. Yet, after his body starts to fly down the stairs, his shadow seemed to stay behind at the top of the stairs.

They watched each feed dozen more times, to see if there was anyone else there. The videos seemed to show no one else, just Gilmore and his queer shadow.

Elliott recalled how shadows seemed to actively haunt the Losstrum case. He gut screamed a suspicion.

“I would like to look in his apartment, please...”

The landlord lead Elliot into Don Gilmore’s small apartment. It didn’t take long to find what his instincts suddenly urged him to look for. Sitting naked, alone on Don Gilmore’s nightstand was a simple ring of silver. Looking closer, a simple ring of silver with two tiny sapphires.

Elliot had a vibe go up his spine. He could almost hear a crow caw:

See...See...See...

Elliot solved one case in that moment. He knew this new case would always be a mystery. Who would believe that a man was killed by a shadow pretending to be his own?