WHAT LIES AHEAD?

 

As regular readers of my blog already know, Trick or Trick came early for me this month.

 I remember the words I put in the mouth of my outcast angel, Darael.

 "The Creator has shaped the world in such a way that there will always be troubles so that there will always be a time for heroes, a time for Man to be better than what he believes he can be."

Hero? 

Not hardly. 

I have lost how I make a living.

I am about to lose where I live, most of the possessions I cannot afford to move.

Above is the famous painting by Viktor Vasnetsov, The Knight at the Crossroads (1882.)

What does the stone say?

 Does it matter?

The past is what it was. 

Our current state is where our choices led us.

What lies ahead may be fraught with peril or death. In that age there was no Google.

There really is no Google now that forecasts our future with certainty.

We do the best we can with what we have. Make the best decisions with the facts at hand.

And deal with the consequences ... and fight the Darkness ... until we can't.

Oh, you want to know what the stone really said? 

You won't be any happier than the knight who could read it.

Wish me luck. The way ahead is dark, and I am scared.

STILL HERE

 

I've faced cancer, heart attack, destruction of my apartment by hurricane, homelessness -- 

but this is scarier.

After nearly a quarter of a century, I find myself alone without daily contact with my work friends --- my only friends.

Never have I had an accident or ticket ... and that was no accident.

The video from the newly installed cab camera that showed my offence revealed no traffic at all anywhere around.

How many of you could never take your eye off the road for a second with a camera right in your face? 

Or not scratch your nose once, taking one hand from the wheel?

My work friends want to help ... but the need is too great.

I won't ask for help from you for the same reason.

I am scared. 

GOT FIRED ON MY BIRTHDAY

 

I got fired from my job on my birthday today. Talk about a nasty Trick for Halloween!

All of us drivers have a camera aimed at us. I do not recall running that stop sign.

23 and a half years without one ticket or accident ... then this.

With a camera aimed right at me, it was bound to happen to me sooner or later.

I was hoping for later.

All my coworkers were crying ... even my supervisor.

I am 75, no savings thanks to hurricanes/medical bills, and expensive rent.

Who will hire me at this age?

As lame as hearing "Everything happens for a reason," 

it is better hearing it out loud.

Because when you hear it your head, it sounds an awful like "Anything can happen with a razor."

If you can donate anything to my PayPal account, it would be deeply appreciated.

paypal.me/rolandyeomans1

HOW DO YOU KILL A ZOMBIE BUILDING?

 

Where do we come from? The dust.

Where do we go? 

The grave.

Does blood stir in the veins of a dead building?

No. 

Only the night wind.

What does it hear?

The Abyss between the stars.

Like a raw scar across a beautiful woman's face,

The shattered remains of

the towering Capitol One Building

haunted all who viewed it

in my city.

Those in power seem to sift the human storm for souls.

Hence the needless suffering in states where FEMA is sluggish.

The Federal Government seems, like a zombie, to eat the flesh of reason, to fill graves with the helpless, and to stumble forth with empty words.

Oh, I asked how do you kill a

Zombie Building?

Here's how

(with a glimpse of the beauty

of my city)

WOULD YOU WRITE HORROR? IWSG Post

 

Image by <a href="https://pixabay.com/users/blackrabbitkdj-13427895/

We are living in a horror movie.

The Russians are said to be deploying 

a Poseidon torpedo.

Fact is they may have already deposited one off our shores months ago

Then, there is Russia's Dead Hand:

Of course, WWIII may be on the

brink of starting:

It seems Trick or Treat has 

come early,

doesn't it?

OCTOBER is horror month. 

It is popular to be scared now.

But not this scared, right? 

After all, movies, shows, and months eventually end

Do you know what galvanized President Regan 

to work so hard for world peace? 

A TV movie.

I have been finding it hard to write about 

fictional horror, 

feeling too much like Nero

fiddling while Rome burned.

Scientific studies indicate that those

who are not so empathic

can enjoy horror movies more

than those who feel more

negatively about those in torment.

What do you think?

Stephen King wrote:

"I think people do kind of gravitate towards horror stories when times are tough, and times are scary."

Have you found writing harder these days?

There is a quote from LOVE IN THE TIME OF CHOLERA:

"Human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them.

But Life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves."

What do you think?

DEADLY HARVEST_An Untold Tale of the Son of Lucas and Ingrid of the DARK HOLLYWOOD series of books

 

https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/

Yesterday, a ring of evil looking mushrooms appeared in the grass in front of my apartment door.

No other apartment had them across the entire sprawling complex. 

None did today. 

But my mushrooms had multiplied ... 

and gotten closer.

Cue the spooky music

For Increased Effect read 
accompanied to music below post

HOW YOU DIE

(999 words)

 

Nola bizi, hala hil. 

(How you live is how you will die.)

– Basque proverb

Scofield studied me with eyes holding all the warmth of a hawk’s.  

 “ I’m unsettled by the mushrooms,” she said with a voice as cold as her green eyes.

We were playing chess and not eating her cooking. Not that I would be so foolish as to eat her cooking.   

Her last name wasn't Scofield any more than mine was Templar.

  Her beauty when young was legendary, leading to the death of many of her assignments.   

Even in her sixties, Scofield was striking.

“There’s much that’s unsettling at Dunwich Estates.”

Her voice cracked with fear.   

“Those black mushrooms just appeared at the farthest mansion … 

their ring sprouting at twilight, circling a dead cat, though by dawn the cat was gone.”

 A black cat strolled lazily out from under the table to rub against my leg.

Scofield paled.  

 “When did you get a cat?”

I turned up the corners of my lips.  “There are worse things awaiting the living than death.”

Her thin lips tightened.  “I was enjoying the south of France until the Service forced me to move next to you.”

“You could have said ‘No’.”

“Ending up on the same list as you?”

“I’ve been on that list a long time.  I’m still here.”

“How have you managed that?”

“I … find a way to arrange a win/win situation for myself and … uneasy allies.”

The cat moved as if to rub against Scofield’s leg, and she rose quickly.  

 “I have to go.”

I watched her almost run to the front door, flinging it open, 

revealing a full moon against a stark night sky as if it had hungrily devoured all the stars.

The cat laughed in a man’s voice, “Tókša akhé.”   

‘Later’ in Dakota.

It looked up at me with hungry eyes. 

“Soon,” I promised.   

Its eyes said it had better be damn soon.  Emphasis on the damned.

 In the following days, I went about keeping my word.  

 I built one Dakota Burial Platform after another on the front lawn of my estate 

until the grounds bristled like some grotesque beard.

***

I was putting the finishing touches on the last platform 

when the black cat flowed out of the deepening twilight shadows. 

“Osiceca.”

“I know. The storm is almost here.  We’ve run out of time.”

Scofield appeared as if out of nowhere, holding a bowl of liquid.  I sniffed.  

 Mushroom soup.

Her voice was still her own. 

 “The lights have gone out all over Dunwich Estates.  Only your estate and mine have lights on at night.   

One manor after another has been swallowed up by those damn mushrooms.”

“Doesn't explain that soup.”

“Arthur’s grounds were taken over last night. I took these mushrooms from his front yard.”

“The President of the Community Board?”

“He wouldn’t answer any of my phone calls.  I went over to his front door just now 

and saw him and his wife standing motionless in the front room just staring at one another, 

their lips wiggling but no sounds coming out.”

I shrugged.  “At least none that human ears could hear.”

“Damn you!  You know something, don’t you?”

“The developers of these estates really knew how to pick their sites.   

Not just any Dakota burial site, mind you, but one whose spiritual energies blocked the way to ….”

I trailed off, not having the words that an assassin bred in the “real world” would understand.

“Dakota?  I thought you were Basque.”

I nodded.  “My grandmother was full Basque.  

 My grandfather didn’t stay around long enough to tell my father just what he was.”

“He was Dakota?”

“Apache.  But Elu's ability to inhabit dead animals helped him get around.”

Scofield asked as if to a madman, “Was that his name?”

I nodded to the black cat studying her like a red-tailed hawk would a lame mouse. 

“Is his name.  Meet my uneasy ally.  Everyone from the Service who've tried to kill me already have.”

Scofield dumped out the soup with a hurried flick of a wrist. 

The cat laughed in a very unfeline way.  She paled.

I nodded to the tiny mushrooms sprouting up from the spilled soup.  

  

“As you have lived so you will die.  You failed them.  I’m sure they don’t forgive.”

“H-Help me.”

“You sowed the seeds. Now, comes the harvest.”

“Please!”

“If you run fast enough, you might make it to your front door before our possessed neighbors drag you down.”

Scofield watched the growing black mushrooms with ever-widening eyes for a heartbeat, then raced away into the night.

“Spry for her age.”

The cat grunted: “Hiya Onsi La?”

“No mercy in war, Elu.”

In the darkness beyond my gate, Scofield cried out.  

 Once.

I looked down at the impassive gaze of the cat. 

 Its eyes said there was a justice not written in books nor found in any court.

In the 19^th century, the railroads exterminated the buffalo to force the Dakota onto reservations. 

After a harsh winter, the Minnesota government withheld food and payment for their lands. 

“Let them eat grass,” said one trader.

Bloodshed ensued, ending with the largest mass execution in U.S. history, 38 Santee warriors, 

after a trial of five minutes with neither attorneys nor witnesses allowed.

I looked up at the diamond dust of the Milky Way, the Hanging Road, which led to the Camp of the Dead.   

Trudging through my gate, the possessed of Dunwich Estates silently swayed and suddenly stopped.  

 Glazed eyes studied my 38 burial platforms for long moments.

Flying whips of fire hissed down from the sky to consume those platforms.   

What emerged were grim-faced figures of living flame. 

 The Wana’gi Elu called them.

In Karmic retribution, the Wana’gi sprang at the mushroom-controlled humans 

dispossessing the bodies and claiming them for their own.

More darts of strange fire sizzled down from the stars toward the houses beyond.

“Come, Grandson,” gruffed Elu’s voice from the cat.   

“As a White, you will not be welcomed.”

I nodded, walking into that darkness which never forgets … nor forgives.