"Jugular" by John P. Zerga Jr.
Current mood: thankful
Category: Writing and Poetry

Jugular©

Based on True Events

As the smooth slippery skin of his eyelids slide over his cornea, Frankie opens his eyes ending the numbing darkness. Gentle sunlight rushes through its complexities causing his optic muscles to contract. This life giving energy hits his receptors, transforming the luminous images into nerve stimuli. These stimuli reach his cerebral cortex, then the fibers of his optic nerves, inciting his lifes blood to flood the skeletal muscles of every limb of his once dormant body until his conscious mind recognizes the reality of a new day.

He perceives a white tiled ceiling forming a black grid with a shaking ceiling fan in the center. With each wobble, his once quiet ears hear a shrill rhythmic hum. His eyes observe the erratic movement of the fan blades and the bouncy swaying of the pull cords.  A soft breeze blows downward from above, cascading over his bare skin, igniting every nerve ending in its wake. Once stiff muscles become animate, those of his neck motion first as he turns his head to the nightstand beside his bed. The bright red digits of the alarm clock read 5 AM. He takes a deep inhale, filling his lungs, preparing himself to rise and get ready for work.

As Frankie pulls back his covers, lies his feet on the plush carpet floor, he pauses for a minute to gather his thoughts. He has a job today in an old school in Alphabet City. His friend Joe will be there to pick him up in an hour. Every morning they carpool to whatever construction site.  After foreshadowing the plans for his day, figuring that he would go to the gym after work, cook himself some dinner, then end up at the Tonys Café to end the day playing cards, he began his daily routine. He gets up, fixes himself some egg whites with a cup of coffee, brushes his teeth, shaves, showers, gets dressed, grabs his tools, then hes out the door just like every other morning without any fret. Its the same shit everyday.   

Walking onto the porch in his Timberland construction boots, he witnesses a bright sunny day. The heat of golden rays breaks through a small patch of white clouds comforting his face. The chirping early morning birds make him feel vibrate and young. The soothing wind in the nearby trees brings him a sense of complacency.  The air clean and fresh passing through his lungs is the most noticeable factor that he is alive and well, second is the beating of his heart that he could hardly notice.

As a few cars pass by, Frankie wonders when Joe will arrive. In the meantime, he lights up a cigarette. With each drag and exhale, he enjoys the taste and the movement of smoke as it travels down his trachea, into his lungs, then out this body. Yeah, he knows its bad for him, but its one of the small things in life he enjoys. It relaxes him. Besides, he trains in the gym almost everyday. In his mind, this balances things out. He has some vices, but he has his strengths too, one making up for the other, enjoying the best of both worlds.

In the distance, Frankie hears music. As the source of the sounds moves closer, he recognizes the tunes, trance music the kind they play at clubs like Exits. 6 AM and hes blasting music, that Joey is something else. A shinning black Nissan Maxima pulls up into his driveway.

"Hey Frankie! How you fucken doen?"

"Joey! Paisan! Im doen good."

"Come on and get in. We have to get goen."

Frankie picks up his bag, heads down the stoop, walks over to the passenger side door, gets in, and then gives Joeys a hard handshake.

"So Frankie, we got this fucken job today down in Alphabet City."

"Yeah! I know. What are you going to take the Williamsburg?"

"Yeah! Thats the quickest way there. Whatcha do last night?"

"I hung out with Regina. We went out for dinner at Johns on Forest Ave and then we were just relaxing at home."

"How are things going between yous two?"

"Awright. You know, she still has this dream of moving to California and becoming an actress."

"Are you thinking about going with her?"

"Fuck no, Im born and raised here in New York City kid. I love it here and Im not moving for anybody."

"You know her so long, years, shit are you sure?"

"Yeah Im sure! Aint no fucking way Im moving to Cali. Its not for me."

"I dont fucken blame you, aint nothing else like home."

"Fucken aye"

After driving through Queens into Brooklyn, frustrations build after sitting in traffic. Lines of cars as far as the eye can see slowly roll bumper to bumper down the BQE. The smell of exhaust fumes among the muggy summer air weigh down each inhale and exhale like a hard-pressed leather bellow.

"Hey Frankie, look at this fucken guy in the taxi. He just cut me off!"

Joey revs up his Maxima and makes his way onto the shoulder of the far right lane of the ramp just before the Kosciusko Bridge. He rolls down his window. Frankie watches as Joey leaps halfway outside the drivers side window.

"Hey you Fucken asshole! What are you blind or just fucken stupid?"

The Taxi cab driver, too afraid to look Joey in the eye, instead just looks forward into the steering wheel shaking his head like some sort of fucked up string puppet.

Joey then jerks his car in front of the guy with a loud screech, cutting him off, and points his intimidating finger at him. He then gestures him to back off and let him through by waving his hand sideways. The taxi cab driver doesnt even attempt to move forward. He wont look him in the face, but he can feel Joeys daunting presence as if he were a chital about to be devoured by a tiger.  

"This BQE is always fucked up. All this construction, even at 6 in the morning theres traffic."

"Ah! Dont sweat it Joey. Its starting to move and well be at the Williamsburg Bridge in no time."

As Frankie and Joey make there way across the Williamsburg Bridge, Frankie soaks in the sight of the Manhattan Skyline. Hes proud of where he grew up and no matter how many times he sees it, it always impresses him. He used to love the site of the Twin Towers and he wonders when theyll ever rebuild them. In the meantime, he focuses on Empire State Building.

After exiting the bridge, Joey turns down a side street. They pass the school several times circling the block. Not a spot to be found.

"Fuck! Even at this time you cant find a fucken spot."

"Hey Joey, right over there that clown is pulling out."

"Gotcha!"

After Joey parks the car, they both head for PS 91. Several workers are at the job site already. They walk through a wooden barrier around the site to keep pedestrians out. Their foreman Mike is the first to greet them.

"Hey! Whats up fellas?"

"Same old same old," Joey replies.

"You gonna play cards tonight Frankie?"

"Yeah, Ill be there."

"Well be working in the basement today guys follow me."

Frankie and Joey follow Mike down damp cellar steps that reek of the smell of old urine. They pass through a black metal framed doorway into the basement. Its been all gutted, down to the concrete floor and the bare ceiling. The air of the basement is clouded with dust, debris lie everywhere about the floor, along with some rat shit scattered around near the walls. Theres movement all over the place as other workers have there own individual projects, exiting in and out of the dimly lit basement.

Mike motions his hand and points to an area of the room.

"Joey, I need you to lay down some concrete over there with Tony. Frankie, you follow me."

"Awright," Frankie replies.

Mike takes Frankie to a large concrete wall. Droplets of water fall from the ceiling onto their hardhats. Trickles of water spill down from the ceiling onto the black craggy floor.

Mike positions a large construction lamp resting on a bright yellow metal stand towards the wall and turns it on. The bright light uncovers a dead dark-grey furry rat towards the end of the wall stiff as a board. Its hairless lanky tail outstretched behind. A few brownish cockroaches the size of a mans fist suddenly scatters from the bright light. Their long antennae twitching in front of them almost felt alien and their hairy legs move almost mechanically across the floor.

"Frankie! I need you to cut a doorway into this wall, ok?"

Frankie yells over the noise in the basement, "Yeah, sure Mike I got it."

Mike walks away to another part of the basement, while Frankie picks up the large handheld concrete cutter. A concrete cutter uses circular diamond blades with very large teeth to make its cuts. Frankie yanks the starter handle and the muffler howls as he pushes up the throttle. He places the cutter vertically in the wall and begins to make his first cut. The saw begins to easily cut right through the concrete. Small fragments splash against his plastic safety glasses and hardhat making small chipping sounds. The loud roar of the motor overlaps the grainy screeching of the saw blade cutting through the wall. This combination of shrill sounds and the friction of the blade traveling back towards the handles shudder every bone of his body.

Frankie is relaxed and self-assured. Its routine for him. He has the feel for the blade as if it were a part of him from endless hours of working with the tool.

Suddenly, Frankies hands on the grips of the saw become tight. The muscles in his arms and shoulders violently contract to maintain control. The saw blade begins to slow down, but this has happened before.  Still confident, he focuses his eyes where the blade meets the wall, following it down the black line he drew for himself as a guide. He presses onward to make his cut by pushing up the throttle a little more.

Frankie relaxes for a moment, since the cut is moving smoothly again. He shifts his focus and other images flood his mind. He had played lotto yesterday and he wanted to check his numbers at lunchtime. Speaking of lunch, he begins to daydream about where he was going to go for lunch and that he had to call Regina later on. There were several things he wanted to talk to here about. He couldnt express it, but he loved her and her dreams of moving away were beginning to get to him. He would never show it, Frankie was a tuff guy from the neighborhood, as her dream became more and more a reality, he couldnt hold back any longer. He had to tell her how he felt.

Abruptly there is a violent jerk that resonates throughout his entire body like a shockwave. All his muscles painfully tense as he tries to compensate. As he struggles, beads of sweat begin to run down from underneath his hardhat. With the saw blade moving so fast and in the time it would take to throttle down the concrete cutter, he wonders if he can recover. He begins to feel as if he were watching himself on a movie screen, detached from moment, a spectator, with the scene playing out. His body feels foreign and not part of whats happening. Like a self-defense mechanism, part of his mind is trying to take him out of the situation he is confronting. It cant be happening, but the dark reality is that he is amidst a gamble, a fork road, an event that could change everything, from the mundane parts of his life, to the significant, or to finally cross him over beyond the senses, to find the answers to the unanswerable questions every living thing fears from the obscure reaches of ones soul and the jailed confines of ones finite intellect. 

Out of the deepest depths of his chest, he begins to hear his hollow heartbeat over the noise of the concrete cutter. The saw jams, and then unexpectedly bounces out of the wall. Frankie tries to control it, but the momentum of the blade is too much for him to handle. Even though his mind is telling him otherwise, or hoping for the best, in the heat of the moment, his hands are latched on and the rest of his body is just going along for the ride. The concrete cutter leaps backwards towards him, he tries to drive the blade away from him, but its too late.

The saw blade twists in his hands heading right for his face. Utter fright travels through Frankies body like chain lightening as he wonders were in his head the blade will land. Will it land into the frontal bone at the top of his skull, slicing through to his brain, maybe into his eye socket, forehead, and cheek bone, or maybe toward the side of his head between his temple and his ear?

The unstoppable blade with all its weight and momentum behind it lands in his chin like an act of nature. He feels the high revving heated saw blade cut a baneful grove as it races right through the bone. It seems as if his whole life passes before his eyes up to waking up before work. He had plans for today, he was going to go to the gym, have some fun with the guys. He was going to make himself dinner or maybe go out for dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant with Regina, then up to Tonys Café, drink some black coffee with Anisette, play some cards, then enjoy his air-conditioned room with the ceiling fan blowing down on him, cuddling under the covers.    

Though this ride is one he cant get off, one that he alone is part of, totally out of his or anyones control. The only thing is to hope for the best and that God would be with him. The scorching blade, heated from the friction of cutting into the wall travels in a curved shape from his chin, across his throat, reaching to the back of his ear. In an instant, the intricate muscles of his vulnerable throat are opened to the dusty basement air.

Frankie drops the concrete cutter to the ground and there is a loud clank. He instinctively runs his figures up towards his neck, thinking to hold back a geyser of blood. He is surprised to find no blood on his clothes and thinks at first the damage isnt that bad. At first he feels a crease, then an empty space where flesh and muscle should be. A gooey gritty substance smears onto his fingertips as sand and blood blend together. As he travels along blind, no reflection to see the damage, he experiences the texture of smooth slippery muscle, exposed to filth and germs, never meant to be left bare to the harshness of the outside world.

At the same time, he experiences a cold numbing chill in his neck as he runs his intrusive figures unnaturally into the confines of his slit throat. As he pulls his figures away, he touches something thin and throbbing, he realizes that his jugular vein is hanging out of the gapping wound. His breath is no longer the most noticeable factor that he is alive, since his body is in such a state of panic. It is the thunderous beating of his heart that overbears everything else.

Frankie screams, "Help! Someone call a fucking ambulance. I'm cut!"

Mike rushes to Frankie. He stands there in awe as he witness the bare insides and falling crimsoned tissue hanging out of Frankies neck. With not much blood in sight, he perceives the bare anatomy of Frankies throat. The twitching muscles, the pulsating veins, arteries, dislodged glands, and flesh he cannot recognize.

He lies Frankie down on the damp cellar floor. Cockroaches begin running all over Frankies body. Mike swats them away and they land on their feet, not moving, as if to say this basement is fucking ours. Frankie doesnt seem to notice anything.  In apparent shock, he just begins to stare at a focal point in the ceiling. Partially true, since even though Frankie subconscious mind tries to block out the horror of the situation, with a dreamlike numbness encasing him, parts of reality seep through the veil.

Frankie faintly feels abrasive pain in his neck, the awkward feeling of separation where the saw blade blazed its gruesome path, the tingling of the dirty basement air passing through his fresh wound, the trickles of blood traveling down his throat, and settling in a sticky pool about his chest. He feels other sensations, morbid, those of the body and of the soul. He clenches his hands and feels the cold damp dirt slip through his fingers, envisioning being at the bottom of a deep burial plot, stormy grey clouds above him, with all his loved ones looking down at him in his grave. The texture of his clothes pressing about his body, the weight of him pressing against the wet basement floor, makes him feel so mortal, his body so foreign, as if it werent his at all, but just a collection of skin, muscle, bone, blood, and organs all amounting to one big lump of shit. His mind is no longer in the realm of everyday thought, were he wields self-confidence, security, and ownership of his being. That is all swept away in an instant by this mortal wound threatening his life. 

Mike instinctively tries to place some pressure on the wound, but then realizes hed be putting his hands inside Frankies throat. He wont dare try to hold his throat together. He might do more damage than good. As he looks at the dislodged bluish jugular vein throbbing outside Frankies neck, he experiences a distant sensation, like a camera was zooming out. The blood begins the leave his body. Mike rises to one knee, but not before long stubbles to the floor unconscious.

Joey and Tony are the next to stand before Frankie, Mike still passed out on the floor.

"Joey quick go get an ambulance!"

Joey immediately runs off outside to get clear reception on his cell and calls 911.

Meanwhile, Tony tries to get Mike to his feet. Mike begins to gain consciousness and immediately runs outside to get himself air. As Tony kneels down, he tries to comfort Frankie, but he too cant stand to see Frankies open throat with all its shredded skin, raw muscles, and hanging blood vessels.

Tony gets an uncontrollable urge from the bowls of his stomach. He feels an acidy liquid fighting to emerge like an erupting volcano. Tony instinctively, runs towards the wall, places one hand to brace himself and then throws up everything he had in him.

In the distance, the howling of ambulance sirens overbears the commotion of the city streets. Several workers approach Frankie, but quickly turn away in disgust from the sight of the gruesome wound. They talk among themselves in utter disbelief that he is still alive at all.

Meanwhile, Tony wipes his face, stumbles over to Frankie and says, "Frank, the ambulance is on the way. Hang in there! Alright bro."

"Frankie replies, Yeah Tony, I hear them coming too. They got here fast."

"Im glad for that," Tony replies while taking off his hardhat and rubbing his figures through his sweaty hair.

"Where is everybody Tony? I thought there would be a crowd over here."

"Everybody is here Frank."

"What do you mean? Youre the only one down here with me".

"Its nothing kid, dont worry about it"

"Is it that bad?"

"Naw Frank. Youre going to be alright. There just making sure the paramedics know where to go."

"Dont fucking kid me Tony. Nobody is down here because they cant fucken handling seeing me with my head hanging halfway off!"

"Its not that bad. Just dont move, relax and the paramedics will know what to do when they get here."

"I sure hope so Tony. Its a strange feeling. I had all these plans for later on today. Not only that, but for the week and the months ahead. Its as if all my goals, responsibilities, and worries are slipping away and all that is left is this moment, lying here on this filthy basement floor, with my throat cut, waiting for darkness to fall."

"I dont want to here that morbid bullshit. Frank, just keep focusing on getting past this. Its not going to be pleasant and youll have scars, but youre going to get through this."

"How do you know?"

"Because your jugular vein isnt cut, youd be dead by now if it were. Id say you missed it by the tip of a ballpoint pen. Consider yourself lucky."

"Awright! Fuck it! Im going to stay strong and keep all my hopes and dreams alive."

"Thats it. Fuck it! Let go of you fear and take the pain. Youll be alright."

The ambulance parks right outside the building. Its sirens screaming like a banshee in a graveyard. A group of paramedics rush down the stairs with a stretcher. Tony moves out of their way. Franking focuses on the future, past this moment, blocking everything happening to him out of his mind. After the paramedics stabilize him and place him in the stretcher, they begin to carry him out. As Frankie leaves the basement others show their support.

"Hang in their Frankie!"

"Youre gonna be alright cuz!"

After the fuzzy ride to the hospital, Twin doors slam open and Frankie is brought to an operating room.

The doctor approaches him and says, "Frank, Im going to begin stitching you up. Its going to be extremely painful. The anesthesiologist will put you out, ok."

"No! I dont want any anesthesia. Just numb it," Frankie screams.

"You just want a local?"

"Yeah."

A nurse hands the surgeon a large needle. He then slowly inserts it directly into the open wound. Frankie feels a painful pinch that seems endless. The fluid pierces its way into Frankies flesh with such thrust, he clenches onto the operating table as if he had just been bitten by a venomous serpent.  His face becomes flushed with blood and pulsating veins begin popping around his temples in a pattern resembling bluish puffy roots.

As the injection beings to take affect, Frankie feels a ghostly numbness, like part of his body has died and is no longer a part of him. He does feel slight pressing and tugging, especially when the doctor beings to set the inner working of his throat into place, like when he pushes his submandibular gland back in his neck. Frankie feels slight pinches and tugs as the doctor inserts a curved needled in and out of his flesh, pulling the loose skin back together, and slowly closing the wound until it is whole once again.

When all is said and done, Frankie receives 50 stitches to his neck. He could have easily died if the blade sliced through his jugular, only missing it by the tip of a ballpoint pen. Frankie was living an everyday life, but sometimes life is far from ordinary and we are put to the test. A test of will and our sanity to confront our mortality in the wake of our fragile bodies experiencing deathly threats that shake the foundations of our soul to face our past, present, future and what  mysteries lies beyond the darkness of our oblivious minds.     

Thank God Frankie survived and is still with us.

Copyright 2006 John P. Zerga Jr.

5:17 PM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

"Portrait of the Killer" by Katlyn Loch
Category: Writing and Poetry

Portrait of the Killer

7:24 AM - 6 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Vampire's Retribution Part One By Jeremiah
Category: Writing and Poetry

This is the first part of one of my short stories that I will be seralizing here on The Cult of the Bloody Quill.  Enjoy.

VAMPIRE'S  RETRIBUTION

BY JEREMIAH

PART ONE: MORTAL DEATH

Candlelight lit the casino brilliantly and the live fiddle player gave things a joyous air as Carl Tamell sat in his dealers chair, with three players sitting at the blackjack table. The Southern Queen, the riverboat casino in which he had been able to find work, had found port at a medium sized town in Minnesota along the Mississippi River. The ship traveled up and down the Mississippi, stopping at certain ports on its way north for a few days and then it would turn around and stop at different ports on its way back south. Carl hadnt bothered to learn the names of any non-major cities because he really just didnt care. This town was no exception, all he remembered about it was that the players it produced were not adventurous gamblers. They all played strictly straight blackjack, here hed never had a player double down, hed never suspected a player of counting cards, in all these were pretty boring people wagering small sums of money per hand using the casino as a welcomed break from their daily lives.

Carl dealt out two more cards in the new hand to each player one face up and once face down, he then dealt two to himself both face up. As the players looked at their cards he saw his ten and three, since the house hits on anything below seventeen and stays on seventeen and above he said, The house takes a hit. Then flipped another card face up. This card was a king so he added, The house has twenty-three and busts. He paid different colored chips to each player.

"I tell you what boys, this here is the golden table." One of the players, an overweight and balding middle-aged man with long hair on the back of his head, joked as he anted up for the next hand.

Once all of the players had anted up, Carl dealt out the next hand. This time he had the ten of spades and the ten of hearts. Finally feeling good about a hand he said, "The house stays."

A rare thing happened at a blackjack table on that hand. Each player also stayed. The first player flipped up his face down card and had the ace of spades and the queen of hearts. Carl said, "Twenty-one," and paid out. The second player had ace of diamonds and the king of hearts. Carl once again said "Twenty-one," and paid out. The third player had the ace and jack of hearts. Carl sighed loudly, said "Twenty-one," and reluctantly paid out silently cursing the bad luck he was having this night.

Another player, a tall, shabbily dressed man with an unkempt beard said though a big smile which showed his many missing teeth, "This here game is gonna keep my farm afloat."

Before Carl could deal out the next hand, two of the casinos formally dressed security guards walked up to him. One of them said without greeting, "Mr. Uptoll would like to speak with you in his office."

Without looking at them Carl responded, "I've got an open table here. I'll go up to see him as soon as it closes."

The security guard answered, "He wants you now."

Still without turning his eyes towards them Carl began to deal the cards for the next hand and said, "I will be fired for leaving an open table. Mr. Uptoll will understand this. Ill be up to see him later."

The security guard wouldnt be put off and placed his hand on Carl's to prevent the dealing of any more cards. He looked at the players and gruffly said, "This table is closed." He then turned his eyes to Carl and said, "Now you don't. Grab your chips and lets go."

Knowing how much more muscle these two had then he did and knowing that Walter Uptoll, the Southern Queens owner, only hired boxers for security, Tamell decided it was best not to argue with them and did as he was told. After he turned his back and began walking away from the table the bearded, toothless player said with a laugh, "Now don't keep my favorite dealer away from me too long. At the rate I'm goin, I'll be able to afford to put my own casino on this here river and give you boys some competition." At this the other players laughed, Carl ignored the insult in stoic silence and continued walking.

As the trio made their way across the casino floor, Carl's fellow dealers gave him sad knowing looks while their players remained in blissful ignorance of the workplace drama unfolding around them.

After their parade of public humiliation across the casino floor, the three silent people walked up a flight of stairs to the office with a window over looking the casino. They entered the office where Walter Uptoll sat at his desk puffing away at one of his expensive cigars. At least Carl assumed that they were expensive because everything the man was calculated to flaunt his wealth to those who dont have any. The ship's captain, a kind, elderly gentleman with a full but well trimmed white beard stood next to him.

Carl walked right up to the desk while his escort remained at the door. Walter exhaled a mouthful of the foul smelling smoke and got right to the business at hand by saying with his thick southern accent, "I hear you had a bad night", in a serious but friendly tone of voice.

"Mr. Uptoll, I dont know what to say. I've never had a night like this. I can't explain it." Carl defended himself trying to sound nonchalant through the fear gripping every part of him.

Walter Uptoll, a middle aged man who always dresses in the fanciest of fashions and whose face is adorned with a well kept goatee that matched his full head of salt and pepper hair, leaned forward on his desk and took another drag off of his cigar and exhaled before saying in a conversational tone, "In the War of Southern Independence I served the Confederacy as a Calvary officer leading men into battle against you self righteous Yankees. The war was not easy on me. I was hungry, wet and cold more often then not. My horse that I brought with me from my farm, the pride of my stock, was killed in battle. His body landed on top of me and left me in such bad shape that I couldn't sneeze without breaking a rib. When the war ended how was I rewarded for my valiant service? I came home to find my world turned upside down. My slaves had gone, not a single one stuck around out of loyalty when the Great Ape Lincoln told them they were free to go. My house, my barns, everything had fallen into very expensive disrepair. And to top it all off, no one saw to my personal business while I was off defending against Northern aggression. I found myself without enough money to restore the farm that had been given to me by my father, and his father, and his father before him to it's one time greatness. So I did what I had to do, I sold my farm and used what money I had to buy the Southern Queen here. Now, how am I suppose to keep it if I allow my dealers to have bad nights." Then he thought to himself, As if my lifestyle is in any danger.

Carl's voice began to tremble as he responded, "Mr. Uptoll, its just one bad night, one very bad night. Thats all, I've never lost every hand before."

Walter chuckled at this and said, "One bad night huh. Well suppose this. Suppose that your one bad night continues into several bad nights. Then suppose you add one or two more dealers having a streak of bad nights. The Southern Queen will go from being known as the finest gambling ship on the Mississippi to the finest handout ship on the Mississippi. I'll have to rename her Back Alley Whore instead of Southern Queen because she will just be giving it away."

Carl sighed and in a conciliatory voice said, "Dont worry sir. It wont happen again."

Walter laughed this time and said, "You bet it wont. As of this moment you are out of my employ."

His heart sinking into the pit of his stomach, Carl Tamell decided against begging to keep his job and asked, "What will I do until I reach my home port?"

Uptoll took another drag from his cigar and as he exhaled the smoke answered, "I dont care as long as it is not on my ship."

His head reeling with confusion Carl then said, "Then give me the pay Ive earned and I'll leave now."

Walter stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray and this time the anger he felt showing through said, "Consider it a partial recoup of what you lost me tonight." He then motioned the two guards behind Carl forward.

The two behemoths of men grabbed Carl, one on each arm and the ships captain stepped forward to be a non-physical part of the escort off ship. To this Carl said, "I am capable of seeing myself out."

Walter smiled and with fake charm of a southern gentleman said, "Now you wouldn't want to ruin my boys' fun now would you? After all, they do enjoy it so."

With that Carl felt himself being jerked backwards roughly and dragged out by his arms. Security took him out a different door, which was out of sight from the casino floor but connected the ships bridge to Walter Uptoll's personal quarters.

Not so gently they dragged Carl to the side of the ship where they heaved him into the air and laughed as he hit his head on the dock and landed in the water with a splash.

Wet, and cold with blood coming out of the dock induced gash on his forehead Carl pulled himself out of the water on onto the dock. He rubbed his bloody head, shook it to clear the fog of confusion and despair that threatened to overtake him into a panic. Once he had a moment to take stock of his situation and realized just how hopelessly desperate he was he began walking down a street.

Dressed in his rather fine dealers outfit, Carl managed to catch more attention then he was comfortable with. Assuming he was a man of money, the town's prostitutes did their best to sell him their personal, undivided attention and the flock of men that followed the Southern Queen around hoping to beg enough money from the players to live on verses actually working for it begged him for a handout.

Tamell ignored each of these people and continued to trudge on, sliding his hand into his pocket and wrapping his hand around the comforting grip of the old, small, one-shot pistol he kept in his pocket in case of trouble at the tables. He just prayed that after being in the water with him, it would work if he needed it.

As he walked, Carl wondered how things had gone so badly for him. He had begun his life twenty-eight years ago in a middle class New York family. When he was three years old his pa had died in the war with Mexico, so he never knew him, couldnt even remember the man's face. During the twelve years that followed his mother raised him to adulthood. Then, in the year before the War Between the States started she married a wealthy member of New Yorks City Council. During that year Carl had learned quickly to hate his stepfather with a deep-rooted passion. The man was drunk most of the time when he wasnt involved with the city's affairs and when he was drunk he was worthless and violent.

It was with pleasure that Carl became Private Tamell in the Union Army when the South attempted to succeed from the Union and President Lincoln called for volunteers to rise to keep the nation whole. Carl served in the Army and fought in many battles from the wars beginning until Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox.

When the war was over, Carl had had enough of Army life and was tired of the killing so he accepted his honorable discharge and went home to New York and moved into the house his stepfather had provided for his mother, only the peace he sought would still remain out of his reach.

Months went by and Carl constantly heard rumors that his stepfather was part owner of a company that made poor quality boots and sold them to both sides during the war. Those rumors plus the ones that placed his stepfather with all sorts of women besides his mother made Carl dislike him even more then he did prior to going to war.

One night he had heard his mother and stepfather arguing loudly. Carl tried to tone out the voices. He didn't know what they were fighting about and like always didn't care. It was their affair not his.

Then he heard the sounds of violence. Of closed fist striking human flesh and his mother screaming and crying along with the sounds of a very sever beating. Carl had heard these sounds in the year before he went to war, but feeling himself to be no more then a boy he never intervened. Now however, he was a soldier, a man use to fighting and it was time to teach his stepfather a very valuable lesson.

Knowing just how unpredictable the man could be when he was violently drunk, Carl grabbed the Bowie knife he had liberated off the body of a dead rebel and went to face the source of tonight's trouble.

By the time he reached the room that they were in, the arguing was replaced by stone cold silence. Just because it was over didn't deter Carl from his chosen course of action. If he let his stepfather get away with it this time it would happen again, the man had to be taught that a man never strikes a woman.

He came into the room and looked around. He saw his stepfather standing over his mother who was lying on the floor. Her head was bent at an impossible angle, her eyes were wide open and looking off into space and her mouth was wide open. He knew this look from the war, his mother was dead.

A blind rage filled Carl as he charged his stepfather. He saw the look in his nemesis's eyes that one saw on a greenhorn soldier going into battle for the first time, pure, undiluted fear.

The Bowie plunged deep into his stepfather's chest, Carl twisted it three times and without any dramatic death throws he fell backwards dead. Panic filled Carl as the realization of what he just did sunk in. The man he had just murdered was a highly respected city council member and without his mother to testify for him in court, Carl knew he would hang. Without having any witnesses to testify for him, he would probably be accused of both murders. Failing to consider anything about his own survival, his panic that was just as strong as his rage was just a few minutes earlier caused him to flee the house never to return.

In the five years since Carl had traveled the country going place to place never staying in one place very long because he was unable to hold down a job. He had learned to gamble while in the Army, and was excited beyond words when in Illinois he had been taken aboard the Southern Queen and promised by Walter Uptoll a job for life. Now, a lousy six months later he was out of the job again with no place to go.

Carl walked the town, his nerves were to frazzled to do anything else, until his legs felt like they would fall off if he took another step. He found an alley between the general store and the bank and without considering the possible dangers involved lay down in the alley and fell fast asleep.

Carl was woken the next morning by the noises produced by a town coming to life. He stood, dusted off what dirt he could with his hand and set out to see what kind of employment a man could find in this town.

His dreams consisted of nothing but his getting even with Walter Uptoll for how he had been treated. In one dream he had swum underneath the Southern Queen and put several holes into the ship causing it to sink, everyone except for those in Uptolls office made it off safely. In another he stormed the ship with several armed men and took his vengeance on those who were in the office. In yet another he just casually strode onto the ship, physically picked Walter Uptoll up over his head and threw the man overboard thus taking ownership of the ship which was of course greeted with cheers by gamblers as well as the employees. As soon as he saw to his most immediate needs he would have to look into gathering several men and the arms for them. After all, with all of the armed security Uptoll has onboard, he sure wont be able to get revenge by himself.

From the time he woke up until well after the sun disappeared for the night, Tamell went to every business the town had to offer. He went to both saloons, the blacksmith, the jail, the general store, the bank and those were just a few. He even went to the wealthy families that lived in town to see if they might need a butler, gardener, anything but everywhere he went he was turned away.

"There is no work to be found in this town unless youre a lady willing to sell your nighttime hours. But then, with not having had a shower or a change of cloths in two days and having slept on the ground last night my looks and smell can't be helping me very much. Tomorrow Ill go to some of the wealthier outlaying farms to see if I can find one that needs a farm hand." Carl silently reflected on his circumstances as he entered the alley between the general store and bank.

Before Carl had the chance to sit down on the ground he heard a noise coming from the top of the bank. Curiosity got the better of him and he looked up just in time to see a man drop on top of him. Carl felt two burning sensations on his throat, as if someone had just poked him hard with two pokers that had been warming up in the fireplace. Then the pain became unbearable as he felt a mouthful of his neck being torn away from his body. The man didnt make two neat and tidy puncture marks, he literally tore out a gory chunk of Carl's throat and began drinking his blood. Carl knew he was drinking because, he knew from combat experience, the amount of blood he felt running down his neck and chest wasnt anywhere near what it should have been for as sever of a wound the man inflicted upon him.

Carl broke free from his attacker, blood squirting out of his neck, and fell backwards onto the ground. With both hands on his torn neck he began pleading, "Please, please dont kill me. Take what you want. I dont have anything but take whatever I have. Just please dont kill me."

The attacker stood there watching Carl's lifeblood pumping out of his body. Carl saw his blood all around his attackers mouth, caked into his long but well cared for goatee and on his clothing. He also noted two long teeth inside the man's mouth. A second that seemed like an eternity passed with the two men staring at each other before the attacker answered Carl's begging, "You see what I am? Are you sure you want to live like this?"

In his panic, Carl didn't take the time to consider the ramifications of the attacker's question. He answered with tears of fear streaming down his face, as quickly as he could, "Yes. Yes, just please dont let me die. Not like this. Dont let me die like this."

His attacker stood there for a second longer, as if he was searching Carl's soul to see if he was worthy of being saved or not. Then he nodded his head as if agreeing with himself and sank his long teeth into his own wrists and used them to tear open a gash that matched the one on Carls neck. He then pushed is wrist to Carl's mouth and said, "Drink if you want to live. Hurry, you dont have much time left."

Carl used what was left of his feeble strength and gripped the vampire's wrist, wrapped his mouth completely over the gash and drank greedily. After a minute the vampire pulled his wrist back and said, "I hope you realize just what it is youve done my friend."

The blood ceased flowing from both Carl's neck and the vampire's wrist and Carl leaned back with a relaxed facial expression. The vampire then picked up Carl in a fireman's carry and began walking away.

"Where are you taking me? Stop! Leave me be, I didnt do anything to you!" Carl said with panic rising in him. He tried to fight against being moved but his blood loss had been too great and he just didn't have the strength.

"We have to get you out of here. Trust me, what you are about to experience, you shouldnt be within sight of the mortals."

"Mortals? What do you mean mortals?"

"You will know all by this time tomorrow young one. Just trust me for now." The vampire said reassuringly.

Knowing that he was helpless to resist Carl stopped protesting. His attacker seemed to be moving with an impossible speed and after they had been on the move for twenty minutes they came to a stop in the woods, miles away from where they had met, and the vampire dumped Carl not so gently onto the ground.

"Why did you bring me here? Im really hurt. I need a doctor. Why didnt you take me to a doctor?" Carl inquired.

"Relax. Youll heal after your dead." The vampire answered.

"What? Dead? What do you mean dead? You said you'd save me?" Carl asked panic returning to his voice.

The sky started to turn pink with the rising sun, Carl's attacker looked at it briefly and answered, "There is no time for this. Now shut up and listen to me. You're dying yes. But once youve died you will rise to walk a new life. Youre going to be real sick, and youre going to be in a lot of pain. No matter how badly you hurt or how sick you get you must stay here. No one from town must see you. I'll be back after the sun sets to explain everything to you."

With that, the vampire turned around and seemed to just disappear.

The morning sun rose and Carl felt deathly ill, shivering despite the sunshine and sweating profusely. After a few hours his skin became waxy and his shivers became turned into all out shaking and the first of his vomiting began.

The vomiting continued until all of his stomach contents lay on the ground but even then his stomach wouldnt make peace with him. He began dry heaving, his stomach cramped so badly that it felt like two teams were playing tug-a-war with it. The hours went by and the dry heaving turned into a massive release of bile from Carl's stomach. When his stomach had no more bile to give up, the dry heaves began again and continued until his stomach actually burst under the pressure and what seem to Carl like a tsunami of blood came from his mouth. Relieved that the vomiting had ended Carl rolled over to his back and continued to suffer.

Carl lay on the ground continuing to violently shiver and his skin turned from waxy Caucasian to a pale gray. As the hours passed the pale gray turned into an ashy gray.

Despite occasionally vomiting blood Carl's mouth felt as dry as it would if he had been wondering in the desert for a week without any water. More discomfort to add to his agony.

If he had had the strength he would have gotten to his feet and found a doctor. Maybe a doctor would be able to help him where the lunatic that attacked him just left him to die. The prospect of dying this far out into the woods by himself didn't lift Carl's spirit any. He would die here and would lay in the same place for years while his body slowly rotted away and no one would care.

Hour after miserable hour went by and with each passing minute Carl felt a new pain from somewhere in his body. The pains were so bad that Carl would have cried had he not been dehydrated too badly to make tears.

Then his shivering became violent convulsions. These convulsions were so violent that it would make someone suffering from a seizure appear to be calmly resting. These convulsions continued for twenty minutes and then a final gasp of air escaped Carl's lungs and his bladder emptied in both directions.

Carl Tamell had died.

Copywrited by Jeremiah 2006

12:30 PM - 3 Comments - 12 Kudos - Add Comment

"Dead Letter to the Editor" by Katlyn Loch
Category: Writing and Poetry

8:15 AM - 21 Comments - 22 Kudos - Add Comment

Saving Angel by John P. Zerga Jr.
Current mood: stressed
Category: Writing and Poetry

Saving Angel

Like a icy stone
My heart dwells within my chest
Its unearthly weight is unbearable
Ravaging my soul to ruin
Driving out all reason in my mind
The Hellhounds make their run
Carrying the rhythm of madness in their stride
Dismembering my body with easy
Deteriorating my soul an art

So perfect the cogs of evil operate
The malevolent machine consumes soul after soul
Running from its horror is futile
Confrontation is unavoidable
As deranged laughter is heard
The demons painfully strangle their prey in hunger
Slowing down the hopeless runner

The Dark Angel impartially watches on
Reaping spirits
One by one
Taking each soul to its place of rest
Heaven or hell no one knows

Feeling broken and weak
As the sands of time run out
While the machine follows closely
Just a moment behind
Did the savior come to save?
Did the Angels lift you out of harms way
Running onward hoping for my Saving Angel

By

John P. Zerga Jr. Copyright 2006

4:33 PM - 18 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

Dreams of Sailboats and De-existence by Sarah Kelderman
Category: Writing and Poetry