Trespasser (Part II)

The look on ole Sammy Dryden’s face was that of pure contentment when it happened. He was fixated on the shape of the ballerina, his one good eye staring as affectionately while the other remained hidden behind its milky cataract blanket.  His heart had simply ceased to continue beating.

His smile softened, then faded altogether as the life slipped away from his old bones. First the knife, and then the figurine he had been carving, fell from his hands.  The first clattered against wooden floor, spinning for several seconds before coming to rest at his feet.  The other landed on its side with a crack.  The right arm of the graceful dancer broke from the impact and shot into the air, bouncing off of the approaching forehead of its maker.

He had been known as Sammy Dryden to his neighbors, though some of the children often referred to him as ole man Dryden, or Sammy D.  He had survived his wife Hazel, of sixty years.  He had outlived both of his sons, Robert and Douglas, who had each served and died for their country.  He himself had served three tours protecting the people’s freedom.  There was no man on God’s green Earth capable of sending him through the Pearly Gates.

As the rains finally died and the water level in the street slowly vanished into sewers already swollen from the storm, it was ultimately time that had betrayed him.

Nobody had noticed when Bryer Street’s oldest resident quietly died that night.  The storm had taken its toll on the community’s residents.  Having become disinterested once they realized that it wasn’t going to be the end of all things, each family had moved into the interiors of their homes to fulfill their nightly routines.

By the time anyone knew he was gone, he had become as wooden as the figurines he spent his days drawing from the wood.

Trespasser (Part I)

Most days, Bryer street was full of activity.  Children were playing in their yards, throwing their Frisbee or yelling “Ollie All in Free” as they chased one another from one hiding place to the next.  Men pulled their cars out into the driveway and crawled under the hoods while the women hung laundry on clotheslines out back.

There were fourteen families along Bryer street.  Five of their odd numbered homes stood solemnly across from their even numbered counterparts, while the remaining four filled out the cul-de-sac at the end.  Each was built from the exact design as the other, with the only difference being the cosmetic differences that each owner had applied over the years.  Where some had simply repainted their wood siding, others had replaced it entirely.

Some families proudly displayed the flag of their favorite home team on the front of the home.  At the very back of the cul-de-sac, one home had gone so far as to design the entire color scheme of their structure to that of their favorite team!  It was the only house of its kind, dark red with gold paint on the trim, and each year they placed life-sized plastic statues of the team’s players along each side of the driveway.

Everyone knew the names of their neighbors in the Bryer Street community.  They had lived together for no less than a decade and congregated regularly at barbecues, block parties, or other themed events.  Each year, the men met at a different house to watch the Superbowl, while the women retreated poolside and shared the latest gossip.

The families were tight knit and on most days they were full of activity.  But then, today wasn’t like most days. Today, every family was nestled comfortably in their homes, watching television, reading books, or doing whatever it was that they do whenever the weather turned foul.  Outside, the rain drummed on the hoods of their cars.  It filled their gutters to capacity and the storm drains struggled to swallow the deluge.

The hours stretched into an endless eternity, or so it seemed to the pale faces peering out from the windows of their homes, and it felt like the day couldn’t get any worse.  They watched helplessly as the waters flooded their gardens.  The soil had long since become saturated and the sprouts were slowly drowning beneath the weight of the uncaring waters.  Phones rang as they called one another.  Some to comment on the severity of the storm, others just to hear the sound of their friend’s voice.

Nobody thought that it would last this long.  Not a one of them thought it could get much worse.

It happened as the evening approached.  The rains had lessened enough so as to allow the waters to seep into sewers which had long since filled beyond their capacity.  Some of the families were either finishing dinner, while others were drying the evening dishes or getting ready for bed.  The only constant was that every family had finally accepted the storm for what it was.  You might even say that they had grown complacent with it.

At the house nearest the beginning of the street, Sammy Dryden was resting in his rocking chair, enjoying the fresh scent of rain.  A retired widower, Sammy was the oldest of Bryer Street’s inhabitants.  As he was wont to do, he spent his days on the front porch whittling various creatures to life from whatever material he could get his hands on. Tonight, he was patiently pulling the graceful form of a ballerina from a small piece of Basswood he had found while walking along the sidewalk in front of the Duncon’s residence.

His hands shook as he worked, but he pressed on with the patience of a predator carefully gauging its prey.  And, as the ballerina continued to appear from the labors of his skilled touch, he reflected upon a time when he was much more agile.

It was a pose common to his neighbors, all of whom spoke fondly of the Old Man Sammy and his Wooden Figurines.  Even beneath the quiver of age and deteriorating health, his hands continued to create the most beautiful creatures ever seen by the eyes of his friends.

He hunched forward as he worked, his elbows resting just behind his knees.  It wasn’t the most comfortable posture for him, but he wouldn’t think of it until she danced free of her wooden prison.  For now, he only watched as the wood shavings fell away with each stroke of his knife.

She Has A Pretty Face Though (Part L)


The following is one of many installments for a story designed specifically for my blog.  While it does step out of my usual genre, there are some things still not suitable for a younger audience.  Violent/Graphic descriptions, strong language and sexual situations may be found through different sections.  Each entry will tell a small portion of the story during different times and may not directly follow the one prior to it.  

This story follows the direct interactions, as well as the deteriorating thoughts of a young man who is struggling not only with the relationships he has with those around him, but with the relationship he has with himself as well.

Finally, all work is strictly fiction and does not reflect the views of the author.  Any resemblance to actual person(s) is only a coincidence.

If this isn’t your cup of tea, then avoid these excerpts and hopefully I’ll see you around my other posts and webseries!


His breath rattled wetly in his chest, and he ran with his left hand clutched against it. What had at first been thought to be one broken finger turned out to be two, his ring and pinkie finger of said hand, and the pain was tremendous.  As his feet pounded sometimes on the concrete, others on the grass or sun-baked dirt, his abdominal wound grew ever deeper.

He was a mess.

Blood coated him neck to knees from two different applications.  From a distance, his jeans looked as if he had spilled oil into his lap, but closer inspection gave way to the sickening truth.  His own life was oozing from the grievous wound which lurked, hidden, beneath a layer of duct tape and behind his chainmail shirt.

His eyes, much like the rest of his hardened features, had also begun their own metamorphosis.  Just as his skin had grown haggard and his hair stark white, his eyes, too, began to change color.  One eye had grown red, while the other, blue.  To peer into his eyes for too long was to invite the madness that lay behind them.

There still remained an aura of misperception about him.  Even when he ran completely in the open, people continued to turn the other way.  Nobody spoke twice of the bleeding madman that ran past, nor did they remember having seen him after he was gone.  The other was fully in control, bending the will of those around him just enough so that he was even less important.

It was nearly over and he was God damned for what he had become.  Tears fell openly from the corners of his eyes as mourned for the death of Scott Vali.

He stumbled from time to time when he missed the cadence of his feetsteps, careening drunkenly about as he fought to regain his balance.  Each was more difficult than the last and there was soon going to be a moment when he found himself floundering at the feet of those around him, helpless and quietly expiring.

When the pressure on his chest had grown too heavy for him to bear, only then did he finally stop.  He could feel the rough texture of brick against his back.  Or maybe it was stone?  He didn’t turn to look, it didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered.  He was too tired to continue.  It was over.

It was then that he realized that there was something in his right hand.  He had been holding his left hand against him using the wrist of his other, which, in turn, allowed him to keep hold of the small rectangular object therein.  It was a smartphone, the same one he had been trying to take from Tommy, and it was the last chance he would have for this to be over.

Using the thumb and forefinger of his left hand to hold it, he searched through the contacts until he found who he wanted.  One tap of the finger and the phone was dialing.   It only took one ring for him to connect to the very frantic person on the other end.

“Tommy?!”  Why the hell haven’t you been answering my calls,” Misty shrieked through the receiver.  Her voice was thick, as if she had been crying recently, and her words gushed in panic.

“Misty,” he croaked.  His breath was short and he wheezed at the end of the single word he had spoken.

“Tommy,” she asked, suddenly confused.

“Misty!”  He spat her name at the phone.  He wanted to say more, but for some reason his mouth couldn’t articulate the words that should follow.  His mind jumbled the letters together, shook them up and poured them over his tonsils, choking him with their nonsensical patterns.

“Glarglearglearg,”  he spewed as his vision began to darken.

“Who is this,” she asked fearfully.  “Where’s my Tommy?!”  Her voice rose in volume until she was whining the last syllable.  He knew that he should answer her question, but she had asked two of him and he was sure of neither.

It was a shame, because it seemed important to her that she have the answer to each of them.  Quietly, even as she continued to speak from the receiver, he pressed the ‘End’ button and set the phone down on the ground beside him.

He was so tired.  His hands fell to his sides and there was a dull pain in his left which reminded him of something important.  Pain?  He wasn’t sure if even that was the answer, for it was becoming nothing more than a nagging sensation in the back of his mind.

“You’re not giving up on me now, are you,” a small voice asked from somewhere nearby.

He smiled weakly as he recognized it, but for some reason he couldn’t place a name or face to it.

“I can’t go on,” he sighed.  “I’m sooo tired.”

“We have to finish this,” the other insisted.  “Misty has to die.”

“You mean the scared girl on the phone?  But she sounded so nice,” he argued.  He was becoming more childlike by the minute, reverting to something that the other couldn’t keep a hold on.

The other screamed in frustration, but it was as a frail and pitiful sound compared to what it once was.

“Who are you,” Scott asked curiously.  He tried to look around, but he couldn’t lift his head from his chest.  Like his hands, it had grown too heavy for him to control.  He could only watch as the ground between his legs seemed to rush away from him, growing farther and farther away with each word that he spoke.

“You already know the answer to that,”  the other finally conceded.

“I do,” he asked softly.  His lips barely moved as the words passed over them, and even as the last word exited his mouth were his eyes slowly closing.

“I am the evil inside of you, manifested by your dreams and brought to life by your secret desires.  And you aren’t the first.  I have come to many others before you, such as James Holmes.  I have shared lives with Adam Lanza and Wesley Neal Higden.  My words have influence the likes of Robert A. Hawkins and Seung-Hui Cho.  

And now I have had Scot Vali.  People will speak of your actions for months to come, some in secret, others more openly.  Most will forget over time, but there will be one person who won’t be able to let go.  What has been done today will haunt them in their dreams.  It will chase them through their nightmares and it will open a door through which I will be able to once again enter.  

I am, and forever will be, the Omega, and I will feast upon the souls of millions before my time has come.”

Scott didn’t hear the last of the other’s words.  At six forty-seven in the evening, he silently passed away while leaning against the exterior to Dewie’s Drugstore, where he had once met with one of the most beautiful girls in his class and fantasized of smashing her face in with his bare hands.