Spooky Procrastination – Strange dream at age Nineteen

On December 3, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn Alex Weir, The Fractal Journal, Uncategorized2 Comments

Image result for faceless man

Permit me to indulge in exercise. I am coming to work on my main projects in a graduated fashion. I’ve always had to do a sort of calculus…where I approach the zero of the actual work. To zero in on the actual work I have to do other work if one can call it that.

Perhaps some uncharitable persons will merely term it idle wordplay. So be it. But I submit the whole literary canon of every nation across time may be termed such by persons that equivocate between polysyllabic discursions and smalltalk.

Social commentary aside the whole goal here is to recount what was a dream or perhaps not a dream. This occurred some years ago. I believe I was around 19 years of age.

My neighbor had a couple of MG convertibles. Like most of the neighbors in this particular neighborhood he and I never spoke. I’d always meant to ask about those MG’s but moved away before I ever did.

My silence was sealed by what was a dream or maybe not a dream. I awoke with a start, sitting bolt upright in my undersized bed, and felt a strong draw towards the house across the street.

I hopped off the cot and ran unshod through my front door. As I did so I became more and more angry. Frightfully angry.

I stood in front of the neighbors. Perfectly beholding the house, the accustomed constellations, and the smell of the recently cut grass. All things that made me question the unreality of this dream.

Suddenly the neighbors door opened with impossible silence. The recesses of the home were of a sort of darkness that I’d never known before. It wasn’t so much darkness as the antithesis of light. Not the absence of light…but rather its opposite.

And there on the concrete stoop stood a man. Or what I figured was a man because I could not look at his face. My neck and eyes averted despite my will. As if an instinctual dread enforced by nausea more metaphysical than intestinal had overcome me.

I shouted at the man. Though I did not know why. I knew I hated him. I knew he had no business here. I also felt guilt because somehow through some of my researches I felt that I’d drawn him here. But I did not deserve this we did not deserve this. Cold sweat broke out.

The figure approached. Though I was stepping backwards I kept shouting telling it to come on. I wanted it to follow me to my own yard. For some reason I felt that there was some sort of strength on my own grounds that would help me in some unknown fashion. I kept functioning on suggestions about things which I could only grasp through glimpsing peripheries.

I was wrong about home advantage. I was now by the wooden stairs in the car port and the thing was upon me. I was not so much scared in a mortal way, no I was defiant, but there was nothing I could do.

As the figure leaned over in the final horrid moment before I woke I beheld that it had no face at all. A sort of fertile unwelcome, malevolent darkness, overwhelmed me and tossed me back into the waking world. In the little bedroom with the green wallpaper and the fly fishing theme.

I still recall this dream or whatever it was from time to time and thought it interesting to mention. I had never heard of slenderman or any legends regarding a faceless being. The only thing I can recall as being remotely close is the cover of a Godsmack album but I hardly think that has anything to do with the matter.

Well I hope that this little story brought some joy or entertainment to that dreariest of affairs called Monday. Take care.

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The Prosaic Wall (Full Story Link)

On June 2, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Due to my schedule I have to write things in sections to keep a steady output. I know that some people prefer reading a story in full on one page. So I’ve made that possible.

Click on my patrydork link to read my recent short story in full.

It’s free.

https://www.patreon.com/posts/19200475

I chose to use a link instead of just making a new post because I have aesthetic hangups of posting the same story to my blog twice.

That and shameless self promotion.

Cheers.

The Prosaic Wall – Part Three – Finale

On June 2, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Part One | Part Two

‘Not good.’

What was I going to do?

These folks were bold. They’d hopped the wall. An action which in light of their recent conversation lent a truly sinister impression.

The good thing was they weren’t walking up the length of the wall. If they had…there was no way I could escape unnoticed.

But, my blunder with the phone served as a fortuitous distraction.

Still. ‘Not good.’

I did not want these men to find my phone. I hoped and hoped hard that the battery would just die. I didn’t want them to know who I was, who my contacts were. My habits…everything was there for these creeps to peruse at their leisure.

Beep.

‘Shit.’

They’d crossed the gravel road and were fast approaching the source of that unfortunate noise.

Then I heard the most beautiful sound. The wheels of a car had transitioned from tarmac to gravel.

‘Damn it…’ What if it was the woman, or worse…

I remained prone.

The car was making its way at a leisurely pace. Neither too slow or too fast.

It drove past us. I recognized it as the property of the redneck that lived just over the creek that intersected the gravel at its halfway point.

For a moment I thought of hailing his attention. But, decided against it. Who knew what these people were capable of. They were that terrifying combination of furtive and bold. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were armed and would find live targets mighty appealing.
The car drove on. I was at a wits end as the masking effect of the truck receded and I heard that damned beep.

‘Shit…there’s just no way outta this.’

Then my mind latched on to a boyhood memory from the old country. Sure ‘the pioneers’ had disbanded but the antecedents of the old paramilitary spirit of a more cocksure Soviet Union still held sway.

I’d been evaluated. Psychologically. At the tender age of five.

My profile: actor.

I don’t know how accurate it was but…at this moment it gave me an idea.

I stripped down. I mean really stripped down. Till I was naked.

I took a sharp stone that lay nearby and cut into the flesh of my face.

I caked myself with dirt.

Then I stood up and winced as my bare feet began the journey across the gravel.

It was a bright night. The moon was full. I was plainly visible. I hadn’t shaved in days. I’d also just been napping outdoors. My full thick curls were bushy with moisture and leaves. Dirty, bloody, naked, unkempt…approaching in the dead of night illumined by ghastly lunar radiance…

I may as well have been wearing body armor. At least that’s what I told myself. Nervousness would betray me. ‘This is my armor and they are afraid.’

“Holy shit…what the fuck…eh….HEEEEY!” It was the Yankee.

I kept approaching with bold strides. Making sure that I appeared to not feel the pain of the sharp stones, sticks, and thorns that dug their way into my feet. The pain helped me. I used it to make my eyes as wild as I could. I wanted them to look downright dilated.

“Hey…you fuck…hey…one more step and I’ll fuckin waste ya…”

They were armed.

“Awww…shit….!” I yelped in yokel indignation. “fucking damn it…tawt eww pigs whir gon.”

I was standing in the clay now. Among underbrush. Looking directly at the Yankee with the gun and an Asian man. Both were clean cut and dressed in business casual. A feature which filled me with hope. These foreigners were more liable to buy my ruse.

“What the fuck…” The Asian man said. “What do we do Pete? There’s too much noise…if they find this dead freak…we don’t have the time to move him…”

I almost pissed myself. Something that would definitely be visible….

“Wai..” I said, slurring. “Are ya’ll cops…ya’ll don look like it…now dat I got a beed on ya”

To my great relief, the Yankee started laughing.

“This is just like fucking COPS man…” he said.

“…yea…this dudes been hitting the pipe for sure…”

“Ya’ll scart the shit outta me…I threw muh daym phone…”
It was still beeping.

Pete the Yankee lowered his weapon.

“Were you the one mumbling outside that wall..?”

“Uh..I wuz talkin…prolly…i do it summa da time..I suppose yall weren’t Jake?”

“Who the hell is Jake?”

“Ugh cusstumer.”

The Yankee was really laughing now. “Finished the supply before you could deliver…”

“Pete, fuck it…we should go…half the fuckin neighborhood is probably awake by now…this guy is not a threat..”

I scowled.

“Ya callin me a puhssy!?”

The two men began convulsing with laughter.

“Ey fughk you!” I yelled. “ain’t…no one laughs at Mitch witout cummuppence.”

The pair was leaving. “Well you know buddy…” The Yankee said. “That’s a great name you got there. I’m sure your cellmates are gonna find a good rhyme to match your new occupation…Mitch the bitch!”
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing myself. I grunted and cursed to keep the swell of mirth from betraying my ruse.

There was a gap in the wall with a metal gate. The gate afforded handholds, the pair paused, checking for any sign of other nighttime strollers, climbed it and disappeared back into the neighborhood.

I strolled back into the woods singing. Though it probably wasn’t necessary I wanted to continue my act till I was a good enough distance away. I still needed my clothes.

After a ten minute trek, I sat down in the thick little wood.

I felt ecstatic. I’d gotten my adventure after all. Sitting nude on bare earth in the cool night air post adrenaline rush felt positively primeval.

A sense that emboldened me to hunt the hunters.

Moving as noiselessly as possible I retraced my steps back to the wall. Pausing before I crossed the road. The coast was clear. I donned my clothes. Wiped away the blood and dirt using some puddle water. Then I combed my mane as much as it let me.

My clothes were sporty. A pair of sweats, sneakers, and a t-shirt. I left my flannel in the dirt as I made my way to the gate.

I checked around the corner even more cautiously than the pair of creeps.

My phone was still beeping but that was immaterial now.

I clambered over and began to jog.

I knew that dawn wasn’t far. My athletic garb, the hour, and the rushing blur of my motion was a ruse almost as good as the Meth addict.

I jogged in the direction that I knew the house that had hosted the bizarre conversation lay.

As I passed it I noted a large black pickup in the driveway.

I rounded the corner and ran behind the house that stood across the street.

It was risky but the adrenaline rush of nude forest near-death experience brought out the stalking caveman in me.

Who were these freaks in my stomping grounds…

I climbed over a chainlink fence and hid behind an AC unit…watching.

I knew that they were probably going to get the hell out of dodge soon.

Everything about their conversation and our encounter suggested that.

I wasn’t wrong. Because soon all three emerged pausing on the stoop to set something down.

What I saw them carrying still haunts me to this day.

It wasn’t gore…it was implication that terrified me…as I watched them dump three large black trash bags into the back of the pickup.

Then Pete and his friend grabbed a big cooler that sloshed with untold pounds of ice and hoisted it into the bed just ahead of the protruding trashbags.

Hurriedly the gruesome threesome piled in and drove away.

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The Prosaic Wall – Part Two (Short Story)

On May 31, 2018May 31, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

“Isn’t a bit early for that…” I grumbled aloud at the strong cigarette odor that had roused me from the haze of sleep.

It was then that I realized the bed I occupied wasn’t a fold-out couch in a grungy little house. I was damp with dew.

And rather unnervingly the voice did not belong to Gwen.

I was now wide awake.

“Did you just hear something?” A deep Yankee brogue carried clearly through the wall that had served as my pillow.

“You’re just nervous…” Another voice this time completely foreign. The clipped brassy accent reminding me of my Taiwanese room-mate.

“You betcha…”

“Oh, come on Peter…this…I thought you’d be used to it by now…” This time it was a woman. The first native sounding voice I’d heard.

I’m not exactly sure why I found this conversation disturbing. Despite the impossibility of being seen I shielded the screen of my flip phone as I checked the time.

It was 3:22 AM. I hated these neat little numbers. I always…always happened to look at a watch or odometer and see 3:33, 9:11, 808. A sort of luck and distaste that would eventually find me in a psych ward. But that and Crowley’s little book is a tale for another time.

True terror is not supernatural.

I did not want to be here. I was cold and damp and really hated the little international meeting just a walls length behind my back.

“I don’t like the new supply…”

A chill ran up my spine.

“Hold up Lee…are you sure about Dietrich…?”

“As sure as I can be.”

“You’re nervous tonight Pete…” Came the woman’s voice. “What’s up…? Having second thoughts…you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to…just don’t you know…kiss and tell…”

“No, no nothing like that…”

“Then what..?”

“The same damn SUV…dark blue…I kept seeing it for a good hundred miles on I77.”

“Probably just a family goin back home or visiting relatives…”

There was a pause.

“I first saw the damned thing just outside Columbus.”

“Hmm…so you think that we’ve been followed?”

Pete…the Yankee voice…sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Well, where did you last see it?”

“Not sure exactly but…it was past Charlotte.”

“Shit…” The woman hissed. “Well…I thin…”

A sharp electric beep cut through the predawn dark.

It was so loud. What the hell could that be…

The conversation had ceased.

I heard the beep again and this time I realized its source.

It was the low battery alert.

“Secure the goods Rachel…” the voice of ‘Lee’ dictated in a loud whisper. Before I heard the shuffling of feet.

At this point…adrenaline set in and my presence of mind reached absolute zero.

Instead of just pulling the battery out and hightailing it back home through the woods I threw it.

I watched the dark blur arc its way over the gravel road and land soundlessly among underbrush in the clay clearing at the edge of the wood.

The adrenaline made me move. Which was good. Because just as I had made my way up the length of the wall and thrown myself down into a prone position I heard first one then two pairs of feet land directly on the spot that I’d just evacuated.

I heard whispers and then off in the distance by the edge of the wood I heard a distinct electronic beep.

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The Prosaic Wall – Part One (Short Story)

On May 29, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Image result for brick fence south carolina

I suppose that given my choice of title you are going to assume that this’ll be some sort of symbol-laden existential pontification.

Hate to disappoint but today’s story is short on that sort of trendy ennui.

The wall is not some hardly clever Floydian commentary on the barrier between the mundane and the divine.
The wall is eight feet high and composed of brick and concrete. It stands half the year baking in the Carolina sun and half the year waiting to bake in the Carolina sun with just a few temperate breezes between. There is nothing special about it.

Behind the prosaic wall, there is a prosaic neighborhood of neat brick houses that are just a touch posher than middle class. In front of this fence, there is a long gravel road. A road that is wooded where it isn’t fenced. With a clay field as the only boundary between its crunch and several miles of humid silence.

The wood was dotted here and there with tree stands. I knew this well. I knew this because I knew where every oak would make itself apparent among the swaying loblollies. Many childhood ventures both solitary and gregarious had found my sneakered feet alternating between the crunch of leaves and gravel.

Like all haunts, my old stomping ground always begged for another haunting.

I was straddling that awkward divide between my mid and late twenties. I wouldn’t describe myself as brawny but I was no longer the thin bespectacled kid with the bushy hair. Years of woodland wandering and other physical hobbies had broadened my shoulders and given fiercer sinews to my bones.
I was young strong and slightly inebriated. My buddy still resided in our childhood suburb the two or so miles from the fence. We were fond of passing balmy evenings plotting and commiserating on his family’s deck. On occasion, we’d drink to add edge to our acerbic banter.

I suppose it also helped one meld into the mellow tempo of southern life. Something that was at times difficult for somebody with a nervous disposition. It may just be my ego defending itself but I resent that. The idea that my disposition was nervous. I think it much more accurate to say that I had certain sensibilities that were a touch more keen. I was keener than Manning. Not better but keener. Which is why I always drank just a little bit more.

It was some time not long past midnight that we trooped back into the living room for a bit of fiddling on the guitar and piano. Finding that we weren’t able to lock into a groove the jam session was quickly abandoned.
Gwen was with us. It may have been her that suggested the outing but the cause was something beyond suggestion. It was an impulse that we had all felt. A certain wanderlust had blossomed in our collective subconscious. Perhaps fueled by the mixture of whiskey, coffee, and sweets. Or perhaps by the beckoning light of the spectral moon which hung so seductively visible. The round edge of its fullness teasing the corner of an open window.

Maybe tonight I’d finally be able to help my hussy. That’s the term of endearment that I’d come to ascribe wordlessly to Gwen. I’d gotten the idea from Jimmy Carr who used the word to shut down a female heckler whose romantic strategy was pretty akin to that of the dirty blonde taking a drag from her cigarette.

She was worse off than I in terms of chemistry. So I forgave her failure to acknowledge my status as her boyfriend. Verbal confirmation was desired but not demanded. After all physical confirmation wasn’t lacking. Though this left me in an odd sort of limbo I didn’t mind it most of the time. A more callous lad might suggest that I’d hit the jackpot with a girlfriend that didn’t demand commitment. But then I’m a tad romantic and besides. She did get jealous. In fact, I think her jealousy was one of the biggest sparks that had kindled the complex mess of our recent history.

Forests and the quiet magic they assume were one of my chief passions. And it was this spiritual lust rather than a pining for validation or nooky that excited me this evening. When the topic of an outing emerged I was all for it.

In fact, I likely was the author of the desire. It was I that had sustained the outings, that was ever the chief of the charge to the wood, the chairman of camping, never missing an opportunity for a ramble.

As I’ve said. I feel things a tad more keenly. I knew that the kindling was there. That the adventurous and slightly tomboyish girl that I’d known since high school was a soul as ready for salvation in the loving embrace of the great and ancient church of woodland worship as a zealot could wish.

There was something simultaneously pathetic and noble in her need to bury her keenness in the bottle and bowl. She once commented that she’d prefer to remember nothing at all. Maybe this was why we’d united. Because I wanted to remember everything. Even the most painful things and my pains far outweighed hers by an eastern bloc. I wanted to analyze and blaze and build. She was the blankness of yin and I the inky stain of yang. This notion was supported even by the color of our hair. My head was of a raven hue and hers of a vibrant reddish blonde.

It was so alchemically sound. But of course, all equations are a fiction.

But on that night I still held faith in magic. That the sight of a meadow at midnight as the quail made its quaint entreaty to the babbling brook was a prayer that would break even the strongest spell of that blasted hash strengthened nihilistic ambivalence.

As we rounded the end of the suburb, and went up the first real country road, and finally heard the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath our feet a giddiness arose among us. All three of us were merry. Laughing amid the piney scents and pleasant breezes of an autumn night.

We danced, we sang, we praised, we blasphemed. Simultaneously wild and reverent we were feeling the vibe.

As we passed the fence and the wood to reach a truly lonesome stretch of country bordering the edge of a state park I grew happier and happier.

Yes, tonight. Tonight if on any night I’d have the neophytes affirm the faith. I could see the cascade of happiness that the union of man, earth, and soul would bring into the prematurely jaded lives of these disaffected natives of suburbia.

As night wore on and all that I could find was my clumsy tongue repeating the same caustic and acerbic jokes we’d been rehashing all evening… the chance for vespers was escaping and I grew desperate.

We were back on the gravel road. Taking the same path home as we’d taken to get to the leafy temple. The moon was so full and holy. Like a candle lit at mass.

Surely, I couldn’t let yet another night give way to a somnolent wine soaked morning.

I remarked on the balmy pleasure of the air and the merits of the moon. I remonstrated that we’d never really chewed long enough for the communion to be effective. But no, some odd collusion had risen up between them. Three is a crowd at times, it’s true.

She wanted breakfast and he wanted sleep. I desired neither. I wanted acolytes.

As I was on the verge of despair a thought flashed through my mind. Perhaps tonight was merely a preparation. One in which I could lead by example.

I affected my most stoic expression and went to sit with my back against the wall regarding the moon as a parishioner regards the upheld testament.

I told them to go on without me. That I would stay the rest of the night here to enjoy the moon and air.

They protested for a bit but upon seeing the resoluteness of the most pious gaze that I could muster left me with my God.

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The War Witch (Short Story)

On May 19, 2018May 19, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

It was a humid evening amid the pines. What’s worse, the approaching night carried fog in its wake.

Certainly, a wake would soon be needed.

We were in the tall grass. Cradling the cruel black adonized purpose of our automatic rifles as if they were precious children.

“O good,” Craig muttered darkly.

In the thermal glow of our tax-funnel optics, at least a dozen polychromatic blurs leapfrogged through the trees. We were converging, the professional detachment of the rendezvous reminding me of a corporate mixer. Mars was in the market and Abaddon would close.

These wackos had some PMC in their ranks. Where they’d gotten the funding, god only knows. If we weren’t careful those damned mercs would see us as the same colorful blurs that so tantalizingly danced in and out of my sights.

We were on an intercept. They were on an ambush. Theoretically, we had the upper hand.

It was only logical for them to flank the perimeter of the clearing by staying eastward with the trees. Our five men versus what was supposed to be a dozen.

Surprise, silenced NATO rounds piercing the thick veil of night, like overgrown BB’s, finding their ways into the waiting flesh of the baddies. That’s the theory. That’s the dream…

Daly, the recent hire, tripped on a root. The recruitment battalion wasn’t lying. I bit my lip at the urge to kick the dead weight.

‘He must have some merit if he made it this far…’

I heard the distinct ‘thwick’ of a 5.56 round followed by a sharp cry. A cry that was quickly muffled.

“shhhhh...” Lynch hissed with a fierce quiet as he clasped a gloved hand over Daly’s mouth. When the muffled sound of his wounded panting ceased, “Did I give the order to engage?”

Tom Daly, the chubby-cheeked farmboy from Ohio, shook his goggled head, no.

“Then why in the solemn fuck is your safety off?”

Tom just bit his lip even harder.

“Listen, I don’t care if you bleed out, you probably won’t die…dumbass...though…shooting yourself in the foot ….I don’t give too much of a shit if you do. Just stay quiet, till these fucknuggets are neutralized. Copy…?”

Tom nodded.

‘Shit…shit…shit… There was no way they didn’t hear that.’

It was no sooner than that thought crossed my mind that Lynch’s head exploded like gruesome lightning. He landed face down in the cool dirt, emitting a high pitched shrieking gurgling, with a triangular flap of skull hanging off by the merest whim of scalp.

…military intelligence….

‘No possible vantage.’ …. ‘Tell that to the headshot hero.’

I didn’t have much time to curse the donut dippers as Kalashnikov fire erupted like a martial rain. God these guys were amateurs.

I knew that the Redfern boys weren’t gonna like that. I was right.

The barrage ended. I suppressed a chuckle as I watched one colored blur smack another in the head.

Snipers can’t do much through all that noise. We took the chance and serpentined to a new position taking cover behind an old foundation and some ancient tractors.

Then the damndest thing happened.

A voice.

I heard a voice from our former position. But, Lynch was dead and Tom was probably dead too, from embarrassment, if not enemy fire. Besides, it was a little ahead of our current position. Right by the edge of the treeline.

It didn’t sound like anyone on our team.

“Hey! I surrender! They’re all dead….” It sounded pained and genuine.

‘Who the hell….’ I saw every remaining member of the team do a double take to make sure that we were still grouped.

There was no way Redfern or even those hippies would be dumb enough to fall for that. Though…a prisoner was far more valuable to their cause then a pile of corpses.

Though I could no longer see the glowing blurs, I guessed what they were doing. The sniper or snipers were likely sweeping the area, communicating via radio, I hoped that our prone position behind the remains of the old farm wasn’t ‘within vantage.’

They wouldn’t fall for it…there were only two bodies out there…

Then the voice came again. “I’m bleeding! O God help! I’m so thirsty….”

Well, I guess there were three bodies then…which was slightly more plausible.

‘Seriously…who….the….fuck...could that be…who would be this far out in Colorado…who..would…ACT…like that…’

There was no way… My mind raced. There was no way. It didn’t make sense.

I heard the all too familiar ‘thwunk’ of an m203 attachment followed by the hiss of smoke grenades. Jesus, these guys were better equipped than we were.

The fresh hullaballoo gave me the confidence to momentarily peek over the crumbling foundation. I couldn’t see much because there was even more preternaturally tall wheat between us and the enemy. Though every once in a while I glimpsed a glowing blur through the waving stalks.

They were cautiously… tepidly emerging from the tree line in three groups of four men.

“Help..it’s all clear…I promise…just help me…”

This emboldened the blurs. The first two groups found Tom and Lynch.

The third group. Which was the last to emerge from the treeline…approached the voice.

A piercing scream rent the night air followed by a cacophony of gunfire.

I dipped back behind cover.

“What in the fuck!” I yelled in a loud whisper.

Everyone was dumbstruck.

Everyone except for that other kid… from Arizona, Diego. He was mumbling something to himself. I lifted my goggles to try and make out his expression. A task that was difficult due to fog.

I did manage it though. And what I read in his eyes was abject fear.

“Brujeria..brujeria….brujeria….” He kept mummbling.

I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, Diego…I don’t speak Spanish…what is it…?”

He just kept repeating, “Brujeria…brujeria…”

The screams were growing more confused as the gunfire grew sparser.

Harrelson leaned in…it was strange to see the big Swede so spooked…

“Brujeria is Spanish for witchcraft.”

Normally, I would have laughed, even taunted my mates but…this wasn’t normally.

I frowned. “Well, the commanding officer is dead. And I am not equipped to deal with witchcraft. Any ideas Diego?”

Diego paused…and looked me in the eyes… “Run.”
“Run, when ‘Brujeria’ has already done three-quarters of the job, and dumbass Daly might still be alive enough for a beer and an asswhoopin?”

“Run.” Diego reiterated with added vehemence.

When I didn’t assent. Diego spoke more cooly than I had ever heard him speak before.

“Lieutenant, climb up on that broken step, it’s safe…for now. But do it quick.”

Normally, I would have told him to clarify but something in his voice elicited obedience even though I was his superior.

There were only stray shots now and they were close to the ground.

“What am I looking for, Diego?” I asked…ruefully considering that the sniper might not be as distracted as I hoped.

“Switch to night-vision.”

“But the fo..” I began, stopping myself mid-protest as I realized that it had cleared.

In stark electric shades of black and white, I saw the wheat matted down in a dozen or so places. There was no gunfire now.

‘What the hell could have done this, so quickly….’

I’d only heard one voice. Was it a trap? Was there some second team we hadn’t been warned about….

Then I saw it.

There was a… thing with what looked like a long matted mane, half limping, half crawling, I’ve run out of halves but I swear…half slithering…at a disjointed sprinters speed. I raised my scope for a better look.

Its face…was like a man..but no…more like a serpent…an odd sort of diamond…the eyes large but narrow…the skin of a repellant texture…the mane was thick black hair but…this creature…this reptile shouldn’t have hair…several of its limbs seemed to be broken…and god…was it gutted…

I thought about taking a shot. And right as the thought crossed my mind… the thing trained its cunning snake eyes through my scope and right down my soul.

“Nope.” I said as I lept back down behind cover.

“Uh…Diego…what the fuck is that…?”

“It is yee-nad-loo-shii…”

I can only remember the word as syllables though it still haunts me to this day. Imprinted indelibly on my memory living endlessly in my nightmares.

“The war witch who feasts on the fierce.”

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Hanging with Cecilia – Moody Piano Impromptu and Poem

On February 3, 2018 By Alex V. WeirIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

There’s a wee spider beneath my keyboard…

20180203_124238

so I’m…

Hanging With Cecilia…

Lady Cecilia Meenor Spider spun her silken web

Lady Cecilia Meenor Spider controlled the flow and ebb

Of the weird ocean known as time

Even though lady Cecilia Meenor Spider was no greater than a Dime

Running up and down and back and forth

Up to the south

and down to the north

For gravity, she had nothing but derision

For all her, goings were her own decision

Lady Cecilia Meenor Spider

This masterful seamstress

Was a divine glider

Keeping the magic staying distress

Though the fly’s plight might seem tragic

When caught in her net

His permutation for her satiation

Is a communion without regret

Drunk on her poison feeling no pain

The six-legged flyer releases his soul but not in vain

For Cecilia spider has sent him on home

Where he’s a light beneath a magnificent dome

Thus is the keeping of time and its half

So darling don’t fear

For death is a laugh

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Image Credits: https://torasaurr.deviantart.com/art/Fancy-Spider-334495559

https://catherinetterings.deviantart.com/art/Steampunk-Spider-Watch-Lapel-Pin-343441685