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Street (Flash Fiction)

Since the beginning of time, from Adam and his mythical first-wife-born-from-dust Lilith, to Adam and born-from-Adam’s-rib Eve, there has been a never-ending battle between Good and Evil. Each of God’s creations is faced with moral dilemmas every day, hour, and minute on which path to choose; concerning their own moral decency and pose. More often than not, evil will win; then spreads like wildfire. Evil is an ever-changing, ever-powerful virus that once created, will replicate itself so fast that there is no comprehensible way to put an end to them.

Legend has it that there is one man who is said to be the most powerful Demonologist; one man who nobody has seen or spoken to, but calls to from the depth of their own evil-infested soul, named Street.


The darkened room was only lit by one flickering candle, sitting atop a small nightstand, throwing shadows across the room in soothing, rhythmic beats. Street knelt on the floor in the middle of the small, somewhat comfortable room. A sheet-less cot, shoved against the battered concrete wall, a bucket filled with one can only assume to be rotting human feces and the candle-holding nightstand were the only physical presence in the room. The darkness elsewhere encompassed space like a thick fog, never breaking. He pulled a small piece of chalk from his beaten and seen-too-many-days leather satchel that was slung over his shoulder. The chalk itself had also seen too many concrete floors, walls, and ceilings in its days and Street felt a faint panic rise to his throat. Many things were hard to come by and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever find another piece of chalk if he tried.

Street pulled a self-rolled cigarette from his satchel, lit it and inhaled deeply. “One of the very demon’s curses” he muttered to himself. He then gently grasped the chalk from his satchel in one hand, careful not to pinch his fingers too hard, and started his ritual markings on the floor. The actions that followed are so deeply embedded in his mind that he’s not sure even remembering learning and quite certain cannot be taught. He lightly drew a circle, about two feet in diameter, and then drew a large X through the middle, which each stem drawn further out, north and south. Street dug through his satchel once more and found what he was searching for. He pulled a pocket-sized Bible out and placed it on the floor above the circle, in between the northbound stems of the X, then placed a silver plated Crucified Cross opposite. Street slid off his knees and into a sitting position, squinting between the smoking cigarette between his lips, and began to prepare his mind.

The flame from the candle wavered slightly, almost too slightly to notice, which woke Street from his meditation state. He stood up, knees popping the sound of a pistol crack, and slung his leather satchel that rested on the small of back. He quickly tightened his belt, which there slung two ancient revolvers waiting patiently and quietly for their number to be called, and rested the palm of both hands on the butt of each revolver. The flame wavered more violently now, then winked out. There stood Street, in the thick of the darkness fog so thick it was suffocating. The only light left now was the cherry burning on his cigarette, which he now grasped and flicked towards the middle of the circle. He sighed deeply, pulled out both ancient revolvers, and rested them at his side.

“It has begun.”

There was a rumble that came from outside the room. Street rested his chin to his chest and concentrated. This was the part he hated; this was the dirty work, and this part was what stole his sleep. The first rumbles and screeches came and went from outside his room, and Street waited. He was hoping against hope that the ever-changing demons still succumb to his own bullet concoction; another he can’t remember learning. He felt goose bumps; all hairs rose on his body, and then knelt to one knee. A rush of cold air, so cold and so fast it ruffled his hair as it blew over his head. The room was still black, but their stench follows them. Street opened fire. Each bullet that raced from the barrel cracked with deafening precision, light flashing with each powerful kick, lighting the room to catch glimpses of the retched demon. He did not need to know where he was firing, he knew where they were at all times; he could feel them, smell their disgusting stench. The intruder flew at him, just as he knelt, and got caught in the world-wind circle he had just finished drawing. Screeching came in deafening bursts that not only hurt his ears, but felt tearing at his soul. Street could see the beast with each bullet blasting, piercing him in different regions as the demon got caught in the upper corner of the room. Its flesh, if blackness can be given such a name, was tearing apart with each bullet never missing. He unloaded his clips into the howling thing as it let out one more deafening screech. It twisted and twirled, being drawn by some force not of its own. Street took a step back and watched haggard. His mind started to wobble, his vision blurred, and his leg muscles started to give out; all the while never losing eye contact with the demon. The demon was still screeching, stuck in a whirlpool of force, spinning around the room about the drawn circle. Each time it passed over where the Bible and cross lay, the screech would intensify. Spinning, circling, and with one last gnash of its black hole mouth, struck Street across the cheek, then vanished with a pop.

Street spat blood to the floor and whispered, “May God have mercy on your soul.” He holstered his still smoking ancient revolvers and stepped out the door.


A Brothers Love : 2

A Brothers Love : Part 1

The hardest thing to overcome, to me, from the passing of my brother was the initial horrified shock; obviously. For the first two years, any memory I tried to pull up for him was the traumatic passing, car accident scene (which I never saw in person, just my over-creative image I created myself), where I was standing when I first heard the news, and the funeral. I had a very difficult time moving away from those initials thoughts, so I trained my mind away from him in general, and basically blocked it out. I would tell myself that he is gone, nothing I can do about it, and just plain move on. That worked for an extended period, my conscience mind idling in the background accepting it, and it turned out that wasn’t enough; again, obviously.

My brother and I were living together at the time. I remember the day, five years ago, with such clarity, like it was just last night. My daughter was three at the time, I had just put her to bed for the night, and I was watching college basketball, unwinding. He walked into the door with a couple bags in his hands, just off work. He said, “Can you believe how much it costs for common bathroom shit?” He had purchased a few toiletries – toothpaste, deodorant, shampoo, and a lamp (I’m quite sure) – and basically dropped them in his room.

I laughed at his interesting comment, such a true statement, and continued watching the game. Minutes later he walked to the door again and the last conversation, however short, I had with him went like this:

Him: “Well, I’m off to B-Dubs to watch the game.”

Me: “Ok, see ya.

Him: “Peace.”

I didn’t hear him enter the apartment that night, but something did wake me; the sound of a helicopter that flew just overhead. I woke immediately knowing in the pit of my stomach that something or someone was not right. I checked the clock, 3:13AM. I shrugged it off, attempted to go back to sleep, pushing away all negative thoughts that presented itself.

My daughter and I woke up the next morning to an empty apartment. He had not returned the night before. This wasn’t a complete uncommon action of his, but the past few months of that time was completely out of character for him. At that point I realized that by now whatever had happened the previous night would be on the news. I clicked the TV on, switched to the news, and started to read the ticker at the bottom.

Car accident overnight was as far as I got on the ticker when my phone started to ring. I was actually pissed, this is the reason I didn’t get sleep last night and I needed to know why. I found out soon enough as my stepdad on the other end was breaking the news.

A sheriff showed up at my mother and stepfather’s house that morning. I still haven’t figured out how or why they stopped there first. I don’t believe that was his last known residence and my mother had a different last name. Anyway, this is what my stepdad was telling me, and anyone experiencing this knows too well, just unbelievable. My first thought was that he would never walk out of his closed bedroom door again. I broke. My stepdad asked if I could call my father to let him know and I said I did, and would.

I hung up the phone, attempting to wrap my head around this foreign idea that my brother had passed away, and dialed my father’s number. I immediately hung up after the first ring. How the hell was I supposed to tell my Dad that his son had died in a car accident? Forget the fact that this is my Dad too, how the hell are you supposed to tell a parent that their child died before they did? I couldn’t do it. I hope my Dad understands that I wanted to be the one to call him, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Sword Fight

I have a three year old son who is on the verge of being potty trained.

One night, in our routine, we were brushing teeth, using the potty, and going to bed. I had a sudden urge to relieve myself. I head to our bedrooms bathroom, doing my deed, when my wife walks in holding our son to say our goodnights. My son immediately said, “Daddy using the big-boy potty?” “Of course buddy, you can too! We can have a sword fight!” Fairly harmless comment, right?

That moment was one of those moments that you are so mad at yourself that you don’t have a camera at the ready; the look on my wife’s face, priceless.

“You, you would have a ‘sword fight’ with our son? Have you had one of these with someone before?” I knew I didn’t say something a pedophile would say, so I thought. But I said, “Sure, I’ve never done it with anyone, but he might enjoy it.”

My wife promptly left the room with a disgusted look on her face. I only stood there bemused, until I understood why she had such a look.

“Wait, you do realize when I say ‘sword fight’ that we would not touch them, just the streams?”

She blushed, thought about it, and then said, “Ohhh”.


The Unfortunate

I came across this article on CNN this morning about how a man turned in a missing girl from 1988. This man watched his father kill her, burn her, and had never said anything about it until 22 years later. This is my flash fiction interpretation of how that day may have gone.

The mosquitoes were hellashish that afternoon, Chris remembered. Hiking up that mountain of a hill, through the heat, thick brush, thorn bushes, and an occasional snake were somewhere near his vision of Hell. What his father and Chris packed was not the normal “Father/Son” picnic brunch. They brought nothing but the girl, a water bottle filled with gasoline, and a mountain of tires; which Chris was in charge of dragging into Hell.

To hide from the affects of his daily life, Chris mastered the art of “drawing-inward”. He hadn’t thought of this day in a long time, but at the same time was haunted by it every night. He remembered reading something, an article out of a newspaper he found or a discarded magazine, about mosquitoes and how they act. The author was convinced that if you smack and kill one on your skin, the army feels the death like a body feels losing an extremity. They then focus on you and attack. The only way to appease them as a whole is to just swat absentmindedly in their direction. Sounds silly, but as Chris found out that day, that was his only escape.

“Move faster, we’re almost there.”

Chris’s father had that tone, the tone of a madman masked by a civil face. He is the reason he is here, he is the reason for his pain, and he is the reason Chris cannot sleep. If he had only stopped by the local gas station for a pop, if he had only stayed at school a bit longer, he would have never came home to see what his nightmares consisted of every night, for twenty two years.

“You’ll thank me one day, son”, his father said over his shoulder, “you’ll thank your old man and what he taught you.”

Chris was doubtful, but there is one thing that he can thank his father for, only one thing; how to read people and their selfish intentions.

“Doubtful”, Chris muttered under his breathe. The tires were heavy, but he would not stop or slow down. Fear can be a body’s steroid.

“You say something, boy?” There it was, the sun creeping through the thick fog, his unrelenting anger.

Chris decided it was better not to respond. In most cases his father would immediately forget that he had said anything at all, let alone wait for an answer. There wasn’t anything in his mind that wasn’t selfish and that is where his mind stayed.

“Here we are. Leave the tires there; we’ll throw her in this ditch.” Chris’s father pointed in a swaying motion with his middle finger. He plopped down on a tree stump; his other hand went to his pocket, pulled out a Salem and lit it. He peered through the curling, swaying smoke at his son. Chris was starting to get the jitters. He padded from one foot to the other, swatting directly in front of his face at the grouped mosquitoes; scared for her, who was still alive and scared for him, for his sanity’s sake. He was mainly scared for the girl, she didn’t deserve this. His father was a fucking madman and she was the unfortunate. The girl who would be lost for years; dub her The Unfortunate, fucking sick.

 “Women are like fish, son. Have you ever thought of that? There are millions of them in the sea, all different sizes and colors, and all with the same agenda; attempting to never get caught. Well, my hobby is catching them. I find them wherever, stumble on them in the stream with their scales glistening and their tails wagging. God is great, Chris. Sometimes He just plops them right in my lap. He knows what I like and he sends them to me.” He methodically unsheathed his knife from his belt. Chris didn’t remember seeing it there; maybe dragging the tires blurred his vision, or the mosquitoes. 

“Sometimes you find one particular fish, one fish that you just can’t throw back.” He sent the side of his blade down the girl’s cheek, past the blindfold, over the rag stuffed in her mouth, and down to her chest, cutting open her bra. “Like this. Have you ever seen something so beautiful? They are so perky and full of life. I had my fill with her, been keeping her locked away, son. There is nothing than the feeling of knowing she is waiting for me, legs open, all tied up. Our time has ended now, Chris. We end her now.”

At that, Chris’s father brought the blade to her throat, with one fast impulsive moment, slit her throat. Blood gushed down from the wound and she didn’t even make a sound. In a way, she was prepared and shut her mind down. She had already died before her throat was cut open.

Chris looked away immediately. Vomit rose to his throat, tears showing at the corner of his eyes, and he swat at the ever-present mosquitoes. He sniffed, then looked back just in time to see his father give her a kiss on the cheek and dump her in the ditch.

“Chris, throw the tires on now.” Chris was reluctant, couldn’t hold back his terror and tears. His father shot out a laugh, felt compelled to comfort for a split second, then got angry. “Throw the fucking tires on!”

Chris did as he was told. He never looked at his father in the eye from that day on. His father knew he was terrified of him and that’s the way he liked it. Fear is the body’s steroid.

“This does not leave the woods, son.” Chris’s father grabbed a water bottle filled with gasoline, poured it on the tires that covered the girl’s body, and struck a match. The fireball was instant, but the tires would burn for a long time. “You will never tell another soul of what happened here today, or what you saw. This is between us; between father and son. Do you understand?”

 All Chris could do was shake his head. He wiped the tears from his face and started back towards home, knowing the instant he walked into his house he would pack his shit and bolt; end of story.

 The mosquitoes weren’t as bad on the way back, which was a gift from God. Chris mapped his way back, went over it and over it again in his head, never missing a detail of the trek back. One day, one day, he would tell the world where to find The Unfortunate.

A Brothers Love

Things happen in life that have no explanation; a sort of ambiguty that hangs in the air like stale fish. Nobody likes it. It might be that the brain cannot rest unless it has closure. We need reasons; reasons to set our minds at ease so that we can tackle other of life s problems, heartaches, or other trivial problems. I need closure. I need closure when I don t even realize it.

My brother passed away in a car accident five years ago at 27 years old. Such an early age to depart from this world. In a way, I envy him. He is home; no pain, no sadness, no stress. At the same time I am saddened that he is not here to enjoy what he has and will miss out on today, and years to come. I know, in my heart, that he drops in on us from time to time. When he passed, I had one child. Now, I have three children; all of which I see a little of him. The way their eye will sparkle, a certain way they say a certain phrase reminds me of him.

He will always be with me and with his family; always.

I Saw Him


This is a fiction story set within a true story.

“Did you see him? Did you see him, yet?”

The air was thick despite the season. There was a chill in the air, the kind of chill that passed through the skin, crushing the bone. Only, this was different. This type came in short bursts, pulsating, as if it were a heartbeat sent from some foreign place.

“No, I have not. I’m not sure we’ll get the chance.” There was doubt in his voice, however cold.

The crowd had grown. From just thirty minutes ago at the town square, the crowd had migrated. Migrated like a pack of oxen, stampeding, destroying ground and whatever lay ahead of their step, now at their wake.

 The two slide through the crowd, many screaming insanities, many weeping uncontrollably, but they were vigilant with their step. They both desperately wanted to see; just a glimpse and they would believe.

 Faith is a strange gift; a gift that can be acquired by oneself or given by another, without question or doubt. Along the course of thought, thought of existence or pure love, faith can save. The man was rushed with these thoughts; having never had such seemed queer, given his time and place with his wife. He took in a deep breathe, wrapped his arm around her, held her close, gazed at the horizon, and had faith.

 A sudden burst of cheering and screaming came from their right. They both peered in that direction, unable to see, when a hysterical cry came quickly behind. A woman, nearly shredded of her garb, came quickly in a stumbling run. She tripped, yelped, and fell to the dirt. At that moment, the man noticed something the same instant the woman on the ground did. There was a tiny red blotch of sand; blood. They made eye contact – the woman in tears and he standing in mere shock – then she buried her head in the sand. Her weeps came louder and louder. The man looked at his wife; she was still concerned about seeing, as he released her and joined the woman on the ground.

 The man placed his arm around her back in comfort. Her body jolted, still weeping, and then relaxed. She looked at him with weary, sunken eyes, shaking her head. Her forehead was smeared with blood, dirt, and tears. “This is not right”, she managed to get out as they then started to rock back and forth serenely.

 The man’s wife panicked, not knowing where her husband went, and then finally she saw the two sitting on the ground. She joined them. A sudden burst from the crowd came ahead of them; screams, cheering, and hysterical sobs.

 The man never looked up. He distinctly heard the moans of a truly tortured man, never crying out, never fighting back. Judging by the footfall, they were passing them now. Still, the man never looked up.

 The man’s wife did look up, catching a small glimpse of Him through the crowd. Blood coursed down his face, almost unidentifiable, from the thorns sunk deep in his skull. His eyes were sullen, a pure knowing that this torture from mankind would lead to something good. Something many people will see and many people will not. Tears strolled down the wife’s face and returned gaze to her husband and the woman.

 She whispered, “I saw Him.”


 Three days later, word tore through town that He had come back. Cheers of madness, joy, and anger intertwined together in an awful way. The three of them were eating bread outside their home when they heard the news. They all shared a look and they all shared the happiness. The prophecy He made had come true. He came back. They believed now more than ever, shredding any doubt that existed and they wept in joy.

The Rule of Three

There are three very important virtues to raising a family; Safety, Happiness, and Structure. I think, to an extent, that all parents have these same virtues in one way or another. How you implement them, use them, abuse them, and stand them is up to you; this makes you parents. One major problem with this though; these three virtues hate each other.

Think about a magnet. Magnets have complete opposite sides; basically a positive and a negative. If I were to have two magnets and attempt to place the positive to the positive, the magnet will forcefully disagree. They hate one side, but love the other. Now, add a third. Each magnet attempting to live peacefully but hating their opposite side. Push them together, attempting to touch their opposite enemy, now you have The Rule of Three.

Physically speaking, there is only one way to keep these magnets together; tape. Place three magnets on a table, place tape across the top, now you have a standing tower that is forced to coincide. The tape, in this metaphor, is dicsipline.

Dicsipline to keep The Rule of Three together is, arguably, the most difficult job there is. There is nothing more than I want than my kids’ happiness. Often times their happiness is dangerous (i.e. jumping on the bed). Often times structure makes them unhappy (i.e. bedtime). These three virtues are going to be the death of me. Welcome to parenting, right?

I think that this is the problem that needs to be solved. The problem, above all, will make me happy. This is not true. This is only the core, the structure of my life that need not crumble. If it were to crumble, well, the rest may as well not matter.

On top of all of this is expectations, however subtle. I do not think that my family, friends, or co-workers actively, or coinsciencly, expect me to do anything for them. This is my job, my responsibility, and my most pleasurable act of my existence.

Expectations can be massive boulders placed atop my shoulders. Most of these are placed there myself, without the help or knowledge of anyone else. This is how I live my life. This is my way of keeping myself honest, keeping myself along the path I laid, and keeping myself there for my family. There are days that these boulders of expectations are too heavy to handle. There are days I just want to drop to the ground and let the boulders pin me, tuck myself under them and hide from the sadness I can inflict on my loved ones if I do not follow through. This is what makes life, life. This is what makes me stronger, the longer I hold these boulders up, the stronger I get.

If there was a book on how to live your life right (I know there are plenty of the like) then everyone would be living happily, eating more healthy, life without war, life without complications, and living life without difficulties. What is the fun in that? I think these difficulties are strategically placed in order for us to learn, live, and survive. What other point would there be to live?

Moral of the story: Don’t Do Drugs!

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