Under cover of darkness the three men hurried through litter-strewn streets that smelled of the night’s recent rain.  The clouds hummed with the threat of electricity and violence.  

Randall Hindley, Cornelius Coombs and Ephraim Gowdy made it onto the flatboat out of New Orleans with soot in their eyes, cash in their pockets and the smell of Chinese spice in their hair and on their clothes.  Between his knees, Hindley clutched a burlap sack that held the dead weight of two pistols.  

The other passengers ask nothing and offer nothing in return.  The only agreement that exists is a complicit silence between the weary travellers.  The boat creaks under the weight of an assortment of humanity as it floats slowly upriver; German, Dutch, French, Chinese.  Men with speech like song.  The boat stops here and there along the river to distribute wooden crates and bundles and take others on board.  The passengers smoke constantly and spit overboard.  At night they lay cramped and snoring beneath a star-lit sky and only the ripple of the water tells them that they are in fact moving.  

On the second day a man fell overboard.  Within seconds he was twenty feet from the craft.  He broke the surface one last time, before disappearing, never to be seen again.  Nobody said anything.

Four nights later, under a broken fingernail of moon, they alight in Baton Rouge.  Here they find work on the Mississippi river, loading and unloading at trading posts, or toiling on plantations.  They sleep at night in a shack on the bank, built high up on stilts.  They fall asleep covered in grime, weary from honest employment, only the sound of crickets for company.  They trade tobacco and other sundries with settlers along the river.  From there they head east to Biloxi.    

The going is hard and the dust from the road clings to their clothes and faces.  In Biloxi they agree amongst themselves to steal some horses.  They confer there will be no killing here.  Not whilst we’re still in Louisiana.  We need to keep our heads down.

It is agreed that Hindley will do the deed.  They lay low in the gathering dusk and wait for their chance.  Hindley is gone for fifteen minutes and just as the other two are becoming agitated, they hear the whinny of horses at the edge of an outbuilding behind the barn.

Any trouble?  

None whatsoever.

They see Hindley’s luminescent green eyes laugh and dance in the darkness.

In the morning there will be seen a sticky trail of bloody footprints now coated with a layer of dust.

They head inland upon the stolen horses, one for each of them.  They sleep where they can – barns, caves, in pine forests, and under stars.  They ball their coats beneath their heads and pull their hats over their eyes.  

They water the horses and treat them kindly.  When their money is low, they steal chickens to kill and roast at camp.

If they meet other company they communicate only with their eyes.  

In four months they find themselves in Atlanta.  In a bar fight Hindley is shot in the thigh and stabbed in the shoulder.  Coombs and Gowdy get him to a hotel and find a doctor to tend to the wounds.  They return to the street and await closing time and the cover of darkness.  By the time they return to the hotel eight men will be dead or dying.

#fiction  

SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT, EVERYONE!!!

Anyways, I have chosen a winner, but first let's read the prompt, shall we?

Tell me six impossible things that you believe in. Share me your list. - https://theprose.com/challenge/5646

I was so shocked that so many entered and gave many fabulous lists to share to the world! 55 entries in total! So much to read so little time!! Anyways, it was fun reading everyone's list, so I'd like to say thank you for participating and how great you all are for making such unique works of art! And now, the moment you've all been waiting for, the winner for this challenge is . . . valossatahi and his/her work "Believe"! It stand out the most to me, and had this alluring charm making me reread over and over again! So congrats, valossatahi! You're our winner! Here's the link to read his/her list!

"Believe" - https://theprose.com/post/166269/believe

Thank you again for participating, everyone, and again I'm so sorry for the late post and making you all wait, I had was a little busy outside the web. I won't be next time! This I swear on my keypad!!! Bye for now, and share and like! XD

I hate when stories begin with the end. The absurdity that I am even at the end of my life at thirty-three is nothing but a cosmic joke that has played out not unlike the rest of my life. I've always said I am not afraid to die; that of course was before the doctors told me my prognosis and I became the elephant in the room. 

I imagine that the day will come all too soon, that I will have to say my goodbyes and not unlike the stories I have read, rekindle relationships with distant and more likely forgotten friends. I imagine that the anger I have held all these years for my father will turn to forgiveness, and the mistakes I have made in my life will somehow make sense.

I imagine that I will appreciate the calendar not as a place to write down future events but a stamp of recognition that another day is gone. I imagine that I will sit with my daughters and be brave while they cry tears that do not fully have meaning yet. I imagine that while in the pain of the end, I will be grateful for the loved ones around me that are not too scared to see me die. I imagine that when I close my eyes for the last time, I will have the peace that I have earned.

It’s funny how we live our lives with the full recognition that someday our parents will die, and often we experience the death of a grandparent as a rite of passage. We acknowledge that this is the proper order of things, and so be it. Death is spoken about in terms of the inevitable but not the logical. Each time we experience a death in our lives, whether it be a family member, friend or even a pet, the experience is not truly ours. We grieve the loss and mourn the upcoming awareness of holidays not attended and birthdays not celebrated, but in truth we grieve for ourselves. We grieve for our memories and the lack of future ones. Now being on the other side, I have come to fully understand that death is not about the dying but about the ones that are left behind. I am just a player in the makeup of your experiences from death on. 

This of course pissed me off at first. I am the one dying and the reality is that it really isn’t even about me, it is only happening to me. Think about it, you come over to my house to profess your love for me, your anger at this disease, the unjustness of this plight. You bring a casserole and well wishes from your family. You then proceed to lose your composure and cry uncontrollably on my couch. I then spend the next twenty minutes getting you tissues, assuring you that it will be okay, and serving you the casserole you so graciously presented me. The unfortunate truth is that death is very little about the dying and more about the continuation for the living. I have heard “what am I going to do without you”, “how will I go on” and my favorite “I just had to come see, I would never forgive myself if you died and I hadn’t said goodbye.” Believe me I understand that my death is not going to sustain mourning beyond a certain period, apart from my mother and children, so as the day’s sashay by, I take in the broken winged and wounded allowing whatever emotion you need to express.

I have become enamored with how it will end, the conversations that will take place, the confessions released, the passion for life that has never been. I have come to love my fatal disease; it is the first time that I have felt alive, awake, and real. The need to satisfy the most basic yearnings has left and yet been replaced with the knowledge that my life will no longer be about the struggle against all that I have fought so hard to keep at bay. All that I have needed is already here. The beauty of dying is that the answers come much quicker, as time is shorter. I no longer have the need to know everything. Soon, the answers will be free. When they do come, I hope I can pass along the message. I am not sure how this exactly works, but I imagine that I will have beautiful wings and fly gentler and more graceful than I could ever dream. My wings will be white with flecks of silver that shimmer against the sun, they will be so bright that when I rest on your shoulders, your skin will warm and you will feel safe. I know that you grieve for me, but soon I will be free. 

There seems to be a need to blame God for this, there seems to be the desire to get angry with an entity that we thank for the abundance. The juxtaposition of this brings strong men to their knees, so I imagine that this push pull feeling of anger and gratefulness only adds to the already confusing issue of settling the feelings of helplessness. Truly the anger is that there is nothing that can be done, I am going to die and what just God would have this tragedy at his feet? The idea that I am being punished for the deeds or maybe the lack of them seems all too punishing, is it a karmic thing? Did I poison someone in a past life, am I paying for the sins that I don’t even remember? I am told that this line of thinking will not help me in aiding me to heal my body, that the energy is lost in the negative and that I need to focus on bright white light, healing light. So, the confusion is that while I believe that the body can heal itself, what if this is my penitents, what if this is my Hail Mary?

I imagine that someday all the black will turn to pink, that the darkness that I have lived in will be bright and full of flowers. This is what I hope for every night, after I have put my girls to bed and braved the day’s pain of cancer burning my bones. I dream of tomorrow, putting braids in golden hair, making grilled cheese sandwiches and having one more truly remarkable day. 

I was an unusual kid - keeping very much to myself inside a world designed by a dark imagination - held in check by a morbid fear of everything.

A child born without siblings who may have aided in the buffering of my parents’ violent and deeply disturbing relationship.

I did have a dog, though. His name was Teddy. Teddy was a terrier mix with soft brown eyes and a wiry, cream, scruffy coat. He was always at the foot of my bed when I woke of a morning, and we played together for hours every day after school.

I fucking loved that dog.

On that Saturday morning, as my parents started into their usual weekend argument regime, I leashed Teddy to take him for a walk before punches were thrown and the Police got called again.

We lived in a semi-urban environment about an hour west of Sydney - an area growing fast due to development, helping to provide low-cost housing for families struggling to survive the city’s property market boom.

Teddy and I had been walking for about 10 minutes when I caught sight of Gary Boil and his two Chinese flunkies.They were in the park and seemed to be attempting to uproot a seesaw.

I lowered my head and quickened my pace, all the while praying for the power of invisibility.

“Hey homo!”

I shuddered.

Frozen to the spot, I stared at the ground, I could hear them run towards us.

“Look fellas, even his dog is a homo,” Gary sneered.

At this very moment, I was wishing Teddy was either a German Shepherd or a Pit Bull - anything other than a dumb and friendly mongrel that was gazing playfully at my tormentors.

Gary Boil began backing me into a tree with a prodding finger rammed into my chest, all the while questioning this 9-year-old boy’s sexuality.

I looked up for the very first time to witness him staring into me with hate filled eyes, his face flushed red and a strand of spit nestled in the corner of his grim mouth.

“Don’t look at me, homo,” he snorted, as he slapped my face with an open hand.

Something inside me broke. I let go of Teddy’s leash and raised both hands to Gary’s throat. I began to choke him.

I then sunk a knee into his gut, which caused him to double over.

Interesting enough, Yin and Yang seemed surprised and happy to allow this turnaround to continue.

With Gary at my mercy, I put him in a headlock and began to pound his head against the tree.

It was then I heard the squealing of tires and a yelp followed by a horrible, pathetic whimper.

Turning my body around, I faced the road with Gary Boil’s head still pinned in my arms. My dog was laying motionless inches away from the front wheel of the stopped car. I threw off Boil and ran towards Teddy.

Dropping to the road, I rested Teddy’s head gently in my lap while searching desperately for any sign of life.

There was none to be found. My dog had slipped away.

The driver, overcome by grief and guilt, knelt down beside me.

“I’m so sorry kid,” he said.

“He just ran out.....I couldn't stop in time.

“I don't know what to say, mate.

“Please accept this.” He held out a twenty dollar note.

I looked into his eyes, tears streaming down my face, and he handed me another twenty.

The driver nervously backed into his car and drove away.

Gary Boil threw a rock that hit me in the back as he and his henchman skulked off down the street.

“Boo-hoo, homo,” he taunted in farewell.

It didn’t matter.

I looked at the forty dollars in my hand and then at my dead dog, Teddy.

Something else inside me broke that day. The one last strain of attachment in my life had just been severed, and my tears had given way to numbness and a void. .

I carried Teddy’s body home and into the garage to administer some much needed repairs.

Patching him up was relatively easy. I washed the blood off his coat, and, as luck would have it, I found a can of beige spray paint for the bits I couldn’t repair. Admiring my handiwork, I carried him back out onto the streets.

Waiting between parked cars, I chose my moment carefully.

As a speeding vehicle approached, I launched Teddy onto the open road.

My technique improved as the day progressed. Feigning grief and manufacturing tears -getting it down like a pro.

I cleared $250 in five hours. Each time Teddy got hit, I would take him home, repair him, and then return to my gruesome enterprise.

It was only after my fifth run that the motorist smelled a rat.

“Kid.....this dog has stitches for eyes.”

He handed me ten dollars anyway, and I didn’t argue.

It was time to call it quits.

I buried Teddy under the hammock in the back yard with his favorite chew toy and twenty dollars.

I loved that fucking dog.

I will admit I have my quirks - and you may very well question my morality - but to my credit, I haven’t owned a dog since Teddy.

     Growing up, my father taught me many important lessons that have helped me throughout my whole life. The last lesson that my father ever taught me, and perhaps even the most important, is to give up hope. Now I understand that most people believe the opposite. I also used to believe that hope was something we should hold on to, sheltering it from doubts. But I know now that you and I have both been mistaken.

       My father has always been very important to my brother, my sister and I, and we have always been important to him. His dedication as a father started even before I was born. 

      The story goes that when my Father and Mother were dating, she nervously came to him one afternoon to tell him that she was pregnant. He reacted by taking her in his arms, spinning her around a few times, and setting her back down with a kiss on her forehead. He then told her he would be right back, and left for what my father says was about an hour, but my mother claims must have been closer to five.

My mother was left with a mixture of many emotions. Happiness at his initial excitement, turned into confusion at his sudden departure and then ending with anger that she had received no explanation to his whereabouts. And that is how she stayed, stewing angrily on the couch while watching the door.

      At the sound of his arriving truck, my mother sat up a little straighter, running her hands through her hair. She was ready to deliver the lecture that she had been developing in her head while she waited. After a few minutes had passed without my father opening the door, my mother angrily walked over and opened it herself to find my father walking back from his workshop in the garage. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips. My father always said her stance resembled that of peter pan. He rushed right over to her, smiling real big, grabbing her hands in his own and told her, "Come with me, I want to show you something." She faltered a little, caught of guard by his excitement. She had spent so much time perfecting his scolding, and she didn't want all that time spent festering to go to waste. But she let him lead her to the garage, her curiosity growing with every step.

      My father covered my mothers eyes with his hands as they walked through the door, and when he lifted them, she saw everything.

      It was just wood. Lots and lots of wood. Long pieces, short pieces, thin pieces and thick pieces. Stacked all along two of the walls.

"Isn't it great!" He said excitedly to my my mother. His eyes were lit up with excitement.

"Are you going insane?" she said, turning to him, her hands returning to their previous position on her hips "Did you even hear what I told you in there. I'm pregnant!"

My father grabbed her waist and turned my mother back around, till she was facing the wood. Pointing to one pile along the closest wall, he told her "That cherry wood over there is a hard sturdy wood. It has a beautiful grain to it and darkens to a rich reddish brown with age. It's just right for a crib."

     His hands still on her waist, he turned her slightly till she was facing the other wall with more wood stacked against it. "That wood is black walnut" he told her "It's for the bassinet, cause I'm sure you'll insist on the little bugger sleeping right next to you in the bedroom for the first few months. It has a beautiful color to it and doesn't even need to be stained. With some oil and clear finish it will practically glow. It will have solid brass hinges, to easily rock the baby to sleep, and a stop pin, if you want to lock it in place. Those pieces next to it are basswood, to whittle figures for the mobile. I was also thinking i'd make...."

"And then she spun around and kissed me" my father would say, proudly smiling. "Well, it was the only way I could get him to stop talking" my mother would add, giving him a coy look.

     The crib was just as beautiful as he had imagined it. Each one of us slept in the warm embrace of my fathers crib, with a mobile of little wooden tools that he had whittled hanging above us. From that very first day that he heard he was going to be a father he became devoted to us. He not only taught us about patience, hard work, and selflessness but he demonstrated them to us every day in his actions. He taught us all the most important lessons in life and guided us gently through each awkward milestone. He was better than any father in the world and I, nor my sister or brother, would be the people we are today if it wasn't for him. When we married, he took on the same role for each of our spouses. And when we went on to have kids of our own he went from being not only the quintessential father but also the quintessential grandfather.

     We've had regular family dinners for decades. All the grandchildren run straight from their car to my fathers workshop where he leaves a bin of his scrap wood for them to nail together and attempt to make their own creations. My father would work the grill, talk and joke with everyone while we ate, and then chase the grandkids around when dinner was done. It was a routine that nobody tired of.

     Then everything started to change. There was no scrap wood for the kids to play with, because my father no longer stepped foot in his workshop. Instead of working the grill, he sat in his armchair quietly watching game shows. At first he would join us at the table when the food was ready but after a while he started eating on a dinner tray in front of the tv. He no longer chased the kids after dinner. He no longer left his chair at all, when he did it was to say goodnight and head to bed, before we had even left.

     This change didn't happen over night. It was a slow change that took place as he entered into his senior years and encountered a few health problems. Ha had had a mild stroke, due to high blood pressure, and was experiencing some hearing loss and arthritis. It was a sad sight for all of us. It was strange to see my father without the usual light in his eyes and it made us all uneasy. 

     One night we all met up to talk about what should be done and it was decided that we would approach my father after the next family dinner. An intervention of sorts. And so we did. We talked to him about not giving up. About trying different medications. About fighting off the depression. He didn't say much. He told us he appreciated our concern. He said he wasn't aware we had been worrying about him so much, and he was sorry to have caused us any stress. He gave us each a kiss on the forehead before we left. Later that night, we all mentioned how we thought we saw the light going back into his eyes and we all felt a little better.

     When we came came for the next family dinner, I walked to my fathers armchair to greet him, but there was nothing except his impression there. I went to the kitchen to ask my mother about him, worried that he might already be in bed. My mother smiled when I asked her. "He's in his workshop" She said. "He had some wood delivered last week. I don't know what he's working on but he's been in there almost every day."

     My father sat at the table with us that night during dinner. We all left feeling relieved to see that he was doing better. For the next few dinners that we came for, he'd come out of his workshop, wash his hands, and sit at the table for dinner with the whole family.

     One night I got a call from my mother that made my heart drop. After hanging up the phone I grabbed my coat and rushed straight over. I don't even remember the drive there, I was in such a state of shock. The door to his workshop was open. I ran straight in. My mother sat on the floor, staring at her feet. My father sat in a chair in the middle of all his tools. It almost looked like he had fallen asleep while taking a quick break. Except for the mask on his face. A plastic tube led from the mask down to a small tank at his side that was labeled Hydrogen.

     Along the same wall, where the wood for my crib once sat, was a casket. It was a beautiful casket, made out of mahogany. It still smelled like fresh cut wood. Resting inside of it was a note.

I love you.

I'm sorry to disappoint you. I know you thought I was getting better. I saw the way you'd look at me as I left my workshop. With a sappy hopeful look on your faces. And that's where you went wrong, holding on to hope. Hope for what? Ten more years of being an old man on the couch? Hoping for things to be better won't help me sleep, it won't help me be able to hear again, it won't make the arthritis in my hands go away,it won't get rid of my waves of confusion or lower my blood pressure. Sure, it would be great if all those things could happen, I'd like to be able to run around with my grand kids again, but I'd be a dumb ass to hope for it. Hope is good in it's own place, but not stupid hope. Not hope in the improbable. Not when it gets in the way of accepting and moving on. People stay in horrible marriages in the hopes that one day it will get better. People waste years on awful jobs in the hopes that they might get noticed and promoted. And if I had pushed on, in the name of hope, I would have costed all of you years of worry and thousands in medical bills. If I couldn't accept that my life was at an end, I wouldn't have been able to plan for it.

So here's my parting wisdom. Don't hold on to hope that things will change. Either take action to change it yourself, and if that can't be done, accept your circumstances and move on.

This isn't sorrowful for me. I've had a good life. I loved every second with you kids. I loved watching you grow up and become parents of your own. You all make me proud. It's because of you and your mother that I'll die a happy man.

Goodbye.

I love you.

I put the note back in it's place and joined my mother on the ground, staring at my own feet.

"He left a note for me also." She said, not breaking eye contact with her feet. "Casket's can cost near to five-thousand dollars. He used the money we saved to pay for a trip through Europe for me. He says he's sorry that due to his health we haven't been able to travel like I'd always wanted."

     My sister came running into the workshop much the same way that I had, a few minutes prior. She stared at our father, read the note, and joined our mother and I on the ground. Five minutes later my brother did the same. There we all sat, on the floor of the workshop, staring at our feet.

Uncertainty is the bane of many a young and old. This feeling flows through the soul of the young like a ruthless conqueror, oppressive and demanding of those who wish to try something new. Parents know the feeling, grandparents, even ancients who lived of stone and fire. It binds one down, forces them to watch their lives pass and do nothing to stop this warlord. The young, uncertain of their future do nothing as they lack experience to bring down such a foe. Meanwhile, the old cannot stop their uncertainty due to the frailty of their bodies or the decay of their minds.

Daniel was one such person who let uncertainty control him, lost to the world and afraid of its many dangers. Even from a young age the lad let this dastardly feeling control him. What would a young lad such as Daniel be so uncertain about, though? Throughout his time in school, he was told that he was a genius boy with a bright mind. He constantly received remarkable remarks on his reports home. He followed the rules and never got in the way of anybody around him. Again, what would someone like him be so uncertain about?

For one, Daniel was always afraid of being reprimanded for doing some new and possibly dangerous activity. He was uncertain about ever trying. By being uncertain over this, he never attempted anything new in his life and resided to go to the safer, more secure path of simply achieving something passable in school and never trying anything outside of that. Thus began the depressing part of his life that many a young people would dread, the later years of high school. While yes, still and outstanding student, he achieved complacency and never sought to try anything new with his life.

Uncertain of rejection, he never strived for a job.

Uncertain over getting in trouble, he never left his room.

Uncertain over his future, he found the simple solution of joining the military.

It was certainly a shocking choice to his parents who had always seen him and someone meant for other things instead of a job would not allow them to see him for long periods of time. Yet, it was certain that Uncertainty would strike again while he prepared on embarking on this great adventure through life.The conqueror stopped him and made him think. Questions began to storm into his mind and held him hostage.

What if he were not good enough? What kinds of other jobs might accept a lowly person such as himself? Why attempt anything at all?

These thoughts paraded around him, puppets of Uncertainty. Daniel was forced back to his regular routine of the normal activities of going to school, go home, do not try anything new, and go to sleep. It was a rinse and repeat routine, but it got him through his days. Sadly, this is what it would be like for the rest of his time in school as he watched opportunities to better himself come and go. It was truly a sad, sad life that led to an awkward depression, that was not truly depression but more of a time of complacency.

Never once did he try to get a job.

Never once did he try to introduce himself to others.

Never once did he even attempt to form a lasting relationship.

A relationship? How could the ludicrous villain now as Uncertainty strike down someone from having a relationship? The answer is simple really, fill him with the fear of rejection. So Uncertainty did, filling the boy with a staggering fear that would pin him to the floor and watch those whom he longed for become taken by some other males. Uncertainty told the boy that it was better on the path Daniel was on. A relationship would only get in the way of his complacency.

And so would be his life, always choosing the safest option whenever it presented it, never doing what might be remarkable or life changing. Uncertainty now controlled every action that Daniel did, from going to the store to finding a show to entertain himself. There was simply no happiness to be had, only dreams now turned to regrets. How he longed to go back and do what he dared not do. Yet, deep down, the now older man knew that he would not change the events in his past even if he wanted to, Uncertainty too controlling. It was the feeling that even know effected him as an adult and probably would follow him to his grave.

It would seem that Uncertainty would claim another victory. Another life that may have done something good for the world was now gone at the hands of this merciless conqueror. That conqueror brought regret to all at some point in their lives, always influencing.

A great lesson in life to be had: do not let Uncertainty control every aspect in life. Only regrets would follow by allowing this. Take risks, believe in the capabilities of what can be done by a sharp mind and a good attitude.

Do not allow Uncertainty to win the war.

All the lies that I hear

All the whispers in my head

Telling me I won't make it

I better give up instead

It's far too challenging

Halt while I still can

Choose an easier path

They'll find a better man

It's not worth my time

I'm not enough anyway

It costs too much money

Find a simpler way

I've got to stop listening

To the negatives I hear

Push past their expectations 

Say no to my fear

Where did it come from

These limits on my worth

It's not something I came with

From the moment of my birth

I'm capable of far greater

Who decided anyway

That I wasn't made stronger

Than their feeble minds can say

I must decide not to listen

To discouragement and jest

See I have something to offer

That doesn't come from all the rest

Of those who thought me nothing

More than a sweet girl

But I've gotten something wild

Dearly needed by this world

I will stand up and say

My voice must now be heard

It's time to silence the doubters

Show the power of my word

It takes just a moment

For me to finally see

Those voices telling me I couldn't

Those voices were me

When I go on the playground,

And walk up to a bunch of words,

And ask if I can play too...

They never say no.

Ever.

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