by Erb, Thom
“You spoke of being a writer and being published, your friends just laugh at you. Don’t you understand Mr. Meeks,” The Stranger emerged from the bedroom holding a manila folder filled with papers. He sat it down on the coffee table and began to rifle through it. He smiled and turned his gaze back to Carleton, slack against the wall.
“Well, how is it that you have so many documents written by your friend Donovan, and you’ve crossed his name off and replaced it with your own. Carleton knew his was guilty. When Donovan had lived with him for a short time, he had left some of his notebooks lying around. He simply…borrowed them. The stranger’s gaze fixed on Carleton’s eyes and would not let them free.
“You were stealing other human’s writings weren’t you Mr. Meeks?” The stranger threw the box into the air and it rained white sheets of paper all over the living room. “Penning them as your own works, now that is truly pathetic indeed,” The Stranger shook his head and fixed the fedora and walked over to Carleton and knelt down and leaned into his lack face.
“It seems you have spent your entire life trying to be someone else. And doing a pretty piss-poor job at it, I might add.” The Stranger grabbed Carleton by the neck and his tongue licked his face. Carleton tried to pull away, but his body wouldn’t respond. He lost control of his tears and they fled in waves. Fear and darkness crept over him like an evil blanket and all around him grew into shade.
“Well Mr. Meeks, you told you friends back at the bar that you witnessed Satanic rituals and the casting of vile spells and even partook in some of them.” The Stranger’s large eyes began to glow crimson red out from under the black fedora and his wide, white smile created a bleak contrast that made Carleton empty the contents of his stomach. “I’ve found no book, but I’m going to do you one last favor Mr. Meeks. You seem to have lived the life of a liar and of a thief. So, please let me do one last thing for you.” The Stranger’s eyes grew even brighter and all about him was black as midnight and Carleton felt dizzy and his eyes blurred and the last thing he heard was the cold, soul-wrenching laughter.
Darkness and silence filled him. Morpheus took hold. He slept. It was the smell of incense that first hit him. He could hear muffled sounds. They were very steady and methodic, but indistinguishable at first. All about him was black and the air was cold. His pores closed tight and he felt his sphincter constrict. He could feel his extremities again. He tried to move them and did have feeling, but the limbs refused to move. They were in restraints. His heart began to pound. He could feel the drumming in his temples.
The strong incense filled his nostrils. He tried to force his eyes to work. He felt cold stone on his back and his arms were outstretched like an eagle. He thought his heart would explode from his chest.
“Greetings Mr. Meeks, Welcome. Please relax. We are about to make a true man out of you.” Grand Master DeMaio stood beside him and he held a long criss dagger and wore a broad smile. The large man wore a long black satin robe covered in strange red runes. All about him stood residents of Arcadia Falls. His heart dropped as he saw his friends; Jared, Ronnie, Donovan and even Bob and Becky, from the bar, were there. Watching and almost drooling with black ecstasy.
The Grand Master knelt down and whispered into Carleton’s shaking ear. All about him he heard chanting. Slow and low at first but building in intensity and volume. The smell of incense mixed with that of sulfur and death. Carleton fought against the restraints but to no avail, they didn’t relent. His tears came fast and in torrents.
The Stranger stepped forward holding a large flesh bound tome in his lizard-like hand and placed it on Carleton’s stomach and smiled down at him. The Stranger came to him and flicked his forked tongue one last time on Carleton’s cheek and hissed.
“Be careful what you wish for Mr. Meeks. Soon you will meet Lord Orcus.” The Stranger stood up and disappeared into the shadows. The Grand Master stared down at Carleton with eyes filled with a hate and darkness. In one quick motion; the tip of the Criss dagger caught the glint of candlelight. Carleton never wished any harm on anyone. He just wanted to be liked. He was different than most of the world from day one. He really believed that his fanciful stories would make the world respect him. Even more importantly… like him.
The next thing he felt was that of cold steel piercing his heart. In the end, he wasn’t a liar.
Finally, with his last breath, he told the truth. He smiled, and the darkness took him.
I'Claus
I'Claus
I have heard a lonely bell chime outside my window. Its sallow tenor makes my old heart ache. It ushers forth a torrent of nostalgic tears that stain the yellowing pages of the book on my aching lap. I am tired. Not just my withering old body; No, my very soul writhes with centuries of pain and the heaviest of burdens.
I feel dead. The world is dead. It is slowly being swallowed up by darkness and negativity. There is no place in this world for an old man like me anymore. This is why I’m writing this note. A note that I hope that when someone finds it and reads it, and shares it with the rest of the soulless, festering, cesspool of a world, maybe , just maybe THEN, they will truly see just how screwed we truly are.
Christmas is dead.
-Good Bye.
The flurry of burnt umber and yellow leaves have fallen
The skies no longer blue, turned gray
Warm winds gone; long gone is the sun and its’ blissful rays.
The sound of hammers and saws ride on the crisp air,
Upon my aged legs the weight of the Book of Names envelopes,
Naughty names fill the pages, nice names pale,
Ink runs red; blood red names and makes my heart ail.
The children who once were sweet and pure, no longer care.
The damned Christmas season is now upon me, soon I will ride,
All over the world, red and green drapes the land
Yet I dread; dread the journey and my spirit is but a strand
Soon the sleigh will be filled with toys, more than I can bear.
The frigid wind does cause my bones to creek and moan,
Trees look like fingers, jutting up from the snow
Claustrophobic grey clouds; dead clouds that smothers my world below.
The Pole- my heart shrouded in darkness, content in my warm chair.
My heart once healthy and giving, now rotting and dead
For I am weathered inside and out, both my heart and soul
Joints burn fire; fire that has ripped heart and spirit whole.
Flesh from bone, limb from limb I feel the agony of time’s tear.
Forgive my sullen words and my somber tone in which I write
Solace is whiskey in my hand keeping the demons at bay,
My solitary friend; friend since sorrow has come to stay
Burns going down, promising a reprieve from this nightmare
The world knows not that the light of my life has gone
She has withered and slipped into the darkened abyss
Love now gone; gone and I will long for her impassioned kiss
Tearful nights I spend, into her cold pillow I stare
It seems another had long ago swept her heart away
Long I suspected her affair and longer did I lay in denial.
She loved another; fucked another and lied all the while
Hatred fired first, grief left them both laying there.
The joyful noise of Christmas carols filled my ears
The jingle of bells and laughter mocked me as I cried
Their bodies cold; cold in death as my dead heart inside.
The barrel smoked, in its haze, I ended the affair.
The joyful noise of Christmas carols from the elves I hear
The jingle of bells and laughter slashes me mocking
Their rotting bodies; bodies stuffed in a grave-like stocking
Beneath the stables, their fornicating corpses laid with care.
Now a lonely bell chimes outside my window.
Its s
allow tenor makes my old heart aches and wails,
The light of life; life for which I’ve loved has failed.
The Book weighs heavy, now in the light seems unfair.
It is Unfair for all that I have given to the world
I look at the names while inside and out, the storm rages
A torrent of tears; nostalgic tears that stain the yellowing pages
The love from wife, do not the children compare.
The bleeding ink stains my finger a sanguine hue.
Long ago, the world has forsaken me, left me behind,
A grave new world; world full of hate and so unkind
It weighs on me so, and getting so, I can no longer bear
Greed and selfishness in the hearts of every living soul
A world full of takers and no one ever giving,
My poor aged heart; heartbroken, filled with disgust for the living
Everyone is for themselves, covered in the cloaks of “I” they wear.
However sadly, it is not their fault nay, it is mine
How did I not see this happening to the world?
The insidious blackness; swallowing darkness were hurled
I have failed the world, left them all to the darkness to stare
Anger fills every part of my aging body and more I cry
In disgust, I toss the Book of Names across the room
Yellow Pages fluttering; fluttering nightshade in the gloom
It slams against blood painted wall; pages splayed open there.
For her I mournfully cry and tears flee from my swollen eyes
I snatch her picture from the desk, holding it to my heaving chest
My body shakes; guilt shakes my body and does it confess
Blood stained sheets upon the bed lay, along with pieces of her hair.
Her death matched the slow demise of Christmas cheer
Holidays of old now but a distant blur and I long for those days
Love, Peace on Earth; Earth I view through a nostalgic haze
Black & white memories fill my mind, todays cannot compare.
A dark cloud has fallen over Christmas and I for one lament
Loss of life, hatred fills the souls of the world below
Christmas is dead; dead, slowly felled by greed’s deathblow
The North Pole a joke, a cliché’, a dark house built on despair.
Long have I feared peace on earth was but a bloody sham
Prayed to God I have, down on creaking knees I’ve bent,
Answered in silence, in concrete silence His will He’s sent
Of relevance I no longer be, all I’ve done, no one cares.
For the gifts, I’ve brought the world, a gift from God I’ve received
Upon my shriveled gonad, my arthritic hand did find,
A bulbous lump, cancerous lump easily defined.
For this world I am not long, a joke it must be, unfair.
How could you punish me so, after all I’ve done?
Bitter Deity you are, heartless and cruel
Treat like dogs; loyal dogs who love you like fools.
Spit on you god I do, curse you do you hear my prayer?
The bitter whiskey fills my mouth and warms me
Its inebriation I welcome, I feel it numb me whole,
Demand from you; you, god from me all you stole
Liquid salvation I imbibe and worship, your name I now swear.
Rage fills me and the whiskey does flow within it
The room spinning red, every muscle tensed in anger
Loathing and hate; ripping hate has become no stranger
The Book of Names I spot upon the floor, my urine surely finds it there.
Weight of fury, guilt and sorrow crush me to the floor
Torrents of cold tears flee down my flushed face, blinding
Blurring my eyes; eyes search for answers, not finding.
In my ears my own wailing of pain I hear, baleful despair.
My shattered heart cries out for you Mama, I need you now
Through the gun site, I saw terror grip you and your lover,
Through hazy smoke, smoke that your shame could not cover,
The bullet shattered your face and forever caught your panicked stare.
Lying on the cold tear-filled floor, rage and regret shiver
My fist pounding the wood, sharp splinters pierce my hand
Outside elves sing; sing songs of holy night across the land.
Body quivers and tears flow but under the bed, answers I find there.
The bluing of the barrel gleams in the red, green Christmas lights
The solace of the worn walnut stock welcomes my sweaty grip
Pulling gun to chest; heaving chest, from the bottle I sip.
Cold metal pleasures my skin and my holiday oath I forswear.
More whiskey down my gullet I throw and swallow
It offers escape and answers to the final questions I ask.
Tullamore dew quenches; quenches my resolve for my next task
Smooth and comforting the liquid satisfies, resolution fills the air
All these eons of loving and giving have come this.
Always giving, being the bitch of Christmas and spreading cheer
The torrential tears stop; stop as I my answer rings clear.
Calmness rolls over me as inside my choice I declare.
Caressing the shotgun, I peer out my bedroom window
Shooting more whiskey as I watch the workshop in its full splendor.
Stars illuminate the Pole; the pole into which I fully surrender.
Given all that I can to this world and children who have cared.
With a resolute smile I sip and from the desk I fetch
The pen and gaze out upon the cheerful Christmas lights
The letter in my hand; hand firm and my name I write.
Made my choice I have; the world is left to deal with the fruit it’s bared.
Placing the pen down I take one last sip, toss the bottle aside
I gaze upon the bed I shared with Mama and tears return
Finger caresses the trigger; triggering the end, all that I spurn.
Mouth wide open, I swallow the barrel and nothing it does spare.
The shotgun blast echoes through the sacred vale
Singing does stop and frantic silence bellows across the Pole.
The Silent Night shattered; shattered as fate takes its toll.
Eternal damage done offering no chance of repair.
Santa’s’ brains now paint the once mystical castle walls
The snow covered stables shutter with panic and despair
Rudolf cries out; out in pain that the other deer do share,
Workshop explodes in terror and scream, snow fills the frosty night air.
Christmas Eve storm blusters across the world, a white Christmas for all
The harsh arctic winds whip and wail into the dark night.
For when the breaks; breaks with sun and offers the fright,
Christmas is dead and we all have ourselves to blame and in guilt, share.
S.C.
*Editors Note: This writing was found at the scene of the alleged suicide of Santa Claus, at his home in the North Pole.
All attempts to confirm this tragic incident with the North Pole Police Department was met with a harsh response of “No Comment”. We were lucky to have had a solid source inside the Claus Compound and that said source, strongly believed that the world deserved to know the sad truth concerning the death of one of our most iconic figures. This distraught, little person had the integrity and bravery to hand this note over to the Reporter, Ignatius O'Brien, who in-turn, contacted our offices.
We will be sure to keep the world posted as more information comes in. But for now, this well be a very silent night, indeed.
Tommy of the hill– Ode to Murrie
Tommy of the Hill– Ode to Murrie
The best bully a guy could ever have.
Tommy kept the helmet in a brown sack and took it with him wherever he went at school that day. He was saving it for recess. For once there, he shall take command and with all the power of the United States Army captured in his new, green shiny helmet, he would be King of the Hill and stand tall on top of the largest snow pile the school had seen in a bazillion years. He smiled all morning, barely touching his lunch consisting of a fish sandwich, tater tots and stewed tomatoes. No, it wasn’t food Tommy hungered for, no, it was victory and with the help from all of the fighting men past and present, he would win this day.
All his friends enviously grabbed at and fawned over the holy relic, but Tommy held them at bay wanting to keep it pristine and at full power for the most galactic event of his ten-year-old life. This would be a day of reckoning and a day of retribution.
Nothing or no one would stand in his way this day! How could they with the mighty helmet adorned, so purposefully upon his chubby head.
Tommy would not be denied.
The recess bell rang and Tommy and his pals raced for the exit doors. They ignored the teacher’s calls: “slow down!” and “No running!” They headed for the massive snow pile that lay at the top of the parking and the hill that lead down to the buried baseball diamond below.