THE VAULT

Chianti 81

2009-09-16T21:51:00.001-07:00

Cigarette smoke snakes out of my ashtray of a cup holder. I drum my fingers to Metallica’s solo on the sticky wheel. The air conditioning starts to reek as if something wild crawled in there seeking shelter from an ugly world and died. The drum solo unleashes a savage double bass staccato of machine gun fire. I don’t know why I still listen to Metallica. Probably to remind me of a better time, when all I did was head bang, get laid and let the subway decide my path in life.
My taste buds cry for another smoke and I give into their tears, bringing the pack to my mouth and dropping the next Camel between my lips. I juggle my cell and the lighter around and almost lose sight of the road. A forest appears and the road breaks right through it like nature’s uninvited guest. The moon glows high like a neon exit sign and I know exactly what I need to do. I pick up my cell and scroll through the phone book until I find the number for Things Remembered, one of those gift basket companies with the cookies, soaps, and cheesy thank yous. I got an old girlfriend a soap basket from them a few years back so they should still have my credit card information. As the number begins to dial, I feel that familiar cold pressure at the back of my neck.
“I’m calling a gift basket place,” I say, looking at the Jesus Christ bobble head doll on the dash, who nods with approval. “It’s my father’s birthday.”
I prop the cell to my ear with my shoulder and light the smoke. The lady who answers has a gentle voice. I can hear her doing a radio commercial for gift baskets.
“Hi, thank you for calling Things Remembered. My name is Meadow. How can I help you?”
“Hey Meadow. How’s your night going?”
“Great. Thank you for asking. And yourself?”
“Heh. Well, I’m in a sticky situation. I haven’t spoken to my father in years and now he’s turning sixty five and I want to get him a gift basket, which doesn’t make any sense because the only thing the old man values are his guns and his wine cellar.”
“Well, you are in luck, sir. We happen to have a specialty basket with a bottle of our finest wine, chocolates and assorted nuts.”
“Okay. I guess he’d like that. What kind of wine is it?”
“It’s a Chianti 81 from our very own cellar.”
I let out a drag and see myself as a nineteen-year-old jabroni with a mohawk, jumping into the back of Arty Chase’s Cadillac convertible. We rode to Woodstock for the weekend and never came back.
“Sir?” came the delicate voice.
“Hey. Sorry. 81 was a very…eventful year.”
“I see. Well, where would you like the basket delivered?”
“The address is 4960 North East Miller’s Crossing, Springfield Illinois.”
“You remembered the address.”
“Some things just stick with you.”
“What is your father’s name?”
“Walter Fisher.”
“And your name?”
“Martin Fisher.”
I could hear her fingers dancing along the keyboard and pictured my name engraved in stone, buried under leaves in a forgotten field.
“I see you are a returning customer. Would you like for your Mastercard to be billed?”
“Yeah.”
“And what would you like written on the card?”
“Card?”
“Every gift basket comes with a thank you card with your own personal message.”
“Oh.”
“If you prefer a standard message, we could certainly take care of that for you.”
“No. I’ll come up with one. I might as well. The least I could do.”
“Okay. Whenever you’re ready.”
The pain in the back of my neck spreads to my temples like fire and my mind hits a concrete wall at breakneck speed. I was never good at this writing thing, let alone wishing strangers happy birthday.
“Okay. Let’s see. Dear Dad. Dear Dad. Happy birthday. Enjoy the wine.”
“Mhm.”
“Enjoy the wine. Meadow says it’s the finest.”
Meadow lets out a light giggle and continues typing.
“No. That’s stupid. Take that last part out. Enjoy the wine. Let there be many more glasses.”
I don’t know where my words trail off to, but for some reason my thumping heart is amplified and I could hear my own muffled breathing on the phone. I open my mouth to speak, gather my thoughts, but I could only produce one word.
“Goddammit!”
There is an unbearable silence on the line. The forest seems to grow thicker around me and the road narrower.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Fisher?”
“The bastard was right. He knew I was hanging around the wrong crowd. He warned me. Said you are defined by those you surround yourself with. I didn’t listen. Now look where it’s gotten me. A one-way road.”
And the road begins to curve to the right. The sepia-colored moonlight illuminates the top of the trees and they resemble clawed hands.
“Are you still with me, Meadow?” I ask.
“Yes, Mr. Fisher. I’m still here.”
“Write this.”
“I’m ready.”
Like a spiritual awakening, the words come naturally and sincerely, like they always should have.
“Dear Dad. I’m sorry for abandoning you when you needed me the most. Sorry for not being there when Mom died. I wish I could have been a better person, a better son and live my life in your image. Keep bringing joy to all of those around you. I love you, Dad. No matter what you may think, I always have.”
And now the road is in complete darkness and I could barely see. The Jesus Christ bobble head doll keeps nodding. He likes this. Of course he does.
“Is that all?” asks Meadow.
“Happy birthday. Your son, Marty. Or just Marty.”
“Okie dokie. Your total is fifty nine ninety nine and the package should arrive in two to three business days.”
“Thank you, Meadow.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fisher. Hang in there.”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I toss my cell on the passenger seat, roll down the window and flick away my cigarette. The songs of a thousand crickets resonate outside in a processional hymn on my behalf. They are welcoming me into the wild.
“Thanks,” I say. “I needed to tie up that loose end.”
The pressure in the back of my neck is released, as Arty Chase lowers the gun. From the rearview mirror he looks cryptic, slouching in my leather seats. He is a shadow defined by his eyes, eyes that have witnessed decades of gloom, yet still carrying remnants of childhood in the form of a youthful glimmer. The gun rests patiently on his knee now.
“Pull over,” his cold voice orders.
I step on the breaks and we emerge into a clearing in the woods.
“Get out.”
I follow orders and open the door to something primordial, where the blood of the ages seeps into soil with the chance of re-awakening as an oak tree. The cold steel presses to the back of my neck again and together we approach the timbers and rodents of the wild and I can’t help noticing how utterly peaceful it is out here. I think of Chianti vineyards out in the Tuscan valley and something I read in some science fiction novel about going back in time and changing all of your wrongdoings and how the universe will find a way to course correct itself and bring you right back where you belong. I think about trees falling in the woods and the possibility that they won’t make a sound because nobody is there to hear it. I look up at the stars and wonder what the world looks like from up there. If there is such a thing is reincarnation, I wish I could be reborn as one of them and watch the earth from my fixed position in the cosmos, searching for all of its faults, missed opportunities and what ifs. They really are beautiful.

excerpt from A Soldier's Guide to Survival

2009-06-23T08:09:00.001-07:00

My wife comes to visit me. I request a private room to avoid the horny gawks at my wife but they won’t give it to me. They tell me to show her around and introduce her to my friends. I tell them the only friend I got she can’t see. I tell them it smells in the dayroom and I don’t want my Rosetta exposed to the smell of old people farts. That’s her name, my wife. Like the Rosetta Stone. Her parents named her after exploring The British Museum on vacation.
“I’m seeing another man,” says my wife, a smoke dangling from her lips. She’s wearing lipstick today and it sticks to the cigarette. Her yellow sundress is a direct contrast to all the cold whiteness in the dayroom. For years Rosetta has slept around with men and now she finally decides to lay me in the face with the truth. About time.
“You unfaithful tramp,” I say with the utmost ease, then look away to pretend I don’t care. I don’t, after all, care. Do I?
“Oh Walter. You must have known this day would come. You didn’t think our ridiculous excuse for a marriage would last, did you?”
“I had some hope, now you’ve crushed it. At least now I have a reasonable excuse to off myself.”
She lets out a drag and I know she’s looking at my wrists. I follow her gaze and hide them under the table. “Dear Rosetta. I ain’t no cutter.”
“I trust they’ve done away with the plastic forks and knives.”
“They cut my meat. All they give me is a spork. You know, a spoon and a fork combined.”
“I know what a spork is, darling.”
“So what makes this guy so different from me.”
“For one thing, he doesn’t try to kill himself because he can’t handle a few corpses hanging around his house. But it’s very simple, really. He’s there for me. He provides. He has answered the five billion dollar question as to what women want and that is security.”
“Is that what they want? Life’s greatest mystery revealed. Quite a let down.”
“Yes, well it’s common sense. If you had some, you wouldn’t be where you are now.”
“Does he make you laugh?”
She stuffs her cigarette in the ashtray and smoke simmers out. “He doesn’t make me hate myself.”
We sit for a moment in silence, listening to the autistic moans from the heated card game. Howdy Doody Time plays quietly on the television. The little black girl watches us forebodingly under the oak tree, shaking her pigtails. The window blinds cast black shadows like in those detective films, my very own prison bars.
“How’s my sister?” asks Rosetta.
“Last time I saw her she was, you know, the usual, cold and pale.”
She doesn’t care too much for my sarcasm and looks away.
“But I haven’t seen her in a while,” I say in hopes of redemption. “In months, actually. That’s a good sign. It means she might have crossed over.”
A sparkle glints in her eyes, a sparkle that can only come with a tear.
“That’s good,” she says, then takes my hand and squeezes it hard. I caress her hand with my finger, then she pulls away and hides it under the table.
“You take care of yourself,” she says, standing up and grabbing her handbag. “Try to find the finer points of life.”
“Look around, sweetheart. This ain’t exactly the Sistine Chapel.”
“It’s all in the details. The little things. Like that man’s sweet smile.”
She was looking at Ronnie.
“Him? That’s not a smile. That’s a down-syndrome deformity.”
“That bad attitude will be the end of you, Walter Groman.”
With that said, she struts by the Go Fish game, her heels clanking on the tile, calf muscles flexing at every step. And as expected, heads turn, Ronnie’s rolling eyes scan my wife from head to toe, even the black orderly stares right at Rosetta’s ass as he opens the door for her.
“This is exactly what I didn’t want!” I scream.
The droolers at the card game laugh at me and I grab their table and knock it over. Cards and chips rain down all over us and the group of crazies scatter in all directions, screaming and thrashing like a pack of chimpanzees. The orderlies come at me but I put up my hands in surrender. You see, that’s what these orderlies want, a fight. But by surrendering I get to prove my sanity.
“That’s not very nice, Walter,” says the black orderly. “Now pick up the mess you made so your friends can keep playing.”
“All right, all right.” I bend down to pick up the table. “But they ain’t my friends.”
I look outside and the little black girl under the oak tree is crying. Jackie Boy is sitting at our bench, watching the birds. His uniform is unbuttoned this time and the smell of gunpowder creeps up my nostrils. He trembles like a Parkinson’s patient and looks much paler than usual. I sit down next to him.
“Way to keep your c-composure, padre,” he says, breathing into his cupped hands. His breath is visible in the cold. We stare at the little black girl who’s wiping her tears off with her pajamas.
“What do you think she wants?” I ask.
“I dunno.”
“Well ask her then. Don’t you dead folk have a network of communication?”
“There are limits. I can’t just waltz wherever I w-want to. I’ve tried leaving the hospital but I can’t.”
“Why here? Why don’t you go haunt your ex girlfriend or something?”
“I dunno how these things work. You think I w-wanna be here? I could be at a titty bar right now, but no instead I’m stick with your c-crazy ass.”
Jackie lets out an agonizing cough.
“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, the smell of gunpowder growing pungent. “You look deader than usual.”
“I’m…I’m just so f-fucking cold.”
“You’re always cold.”
“No…b-but this time…this time it’s d-different. I’m not well.”
“Of course not. You’re dead.”
“I don’t feel so good, man.”
“That’s the afterlife catching up on you. About time too.”
“Ah fuck you, Walt.”
With a rush of cold air, Jackie Boy from EZ company is gone like a blown out candle. He does this magic trick when he gets angry. That’s how Jackie handles an uncomfortable situation, he bails. He’s a runner. Don’t worry, Jackie Boy, my weak friend. I’ll be joining you soon.

2009-06-23T08:09:00.000-07:00

excerpt from Man Hunt

2009-06-23T08:05:00.001-07:00

As dawn approached, the sun began to play games with Eli’s head. There was something about six am. He dreaded it every day. It was the one hour where the sun let loose with colors and out here in the open desolate Catskills, he couldn’t help feeling a sense of vulnerability being exposed to that mighty sun. He couldn’t wait for nightfall. They entered an open clearing and he was hit in the face with a blinding sunbeam. For a second he could’ve sworn he saw Charlie’s figure wandering the forest, wearing the same red Thomas the Tank Engine jacket he wore the last day he ever saw him, a scared and confused look on his frail face. Little Charlie reached his hands out to his father, but was soon lost within the thick foliage.
“Come on, Eli,” came Gabriel’s voice. “You’re lagging.”
“Why do we kill?” Another unexpected question. Eli was full of these.
“Huh?”
“You heard me. Why do we come out here every year and kill deer?”
“We hunt. That’s what we do. And it’s fun.”
“It’s not fun.”
“You used to think it was fun. Now you’re starting to piss me off.”
A deathly cry of anguish echoed across the forest. They both heard it, exchanged frightened glances, then quickened their pace. The screams grew louder and louder and soon they stumbled upon an abandoned log cabin, buried by thick tree branches that resembled skeleton arms. It was a female voice, unleashing mournful wails that reminded Gabriel of his mother. The more he heard them, the more he wished she would shut up. They approached the cabin alertly and peaked through a hole in the wall. Quietly, they took turns looking into the tiny hole. A set of legs was standing tall over a young blonde girl, hands tied behind her back, blood covering her face. Her torturer whistled an eerie tune as he beat her mercilessly.
“What are we gonna do?!” whispered Eli.
“Take the right.”
“This isn’t a fucking deer, man.”
Gabriel grabbed his friend by the collar and squeezed. “Don’t pussy out on me now. That poor girl needs our help.”
The wails grew louder and Gabriel couldn’t help hearing his own mother calling out to him from within the cabin. He loaded his rifle and took the left side of the house. Eli headed towards the right side and disappeared. Inside the house, Gabriel tried to fight off the girl’s calls for help from penetrating his head. He approached the room, leveled his gun and peaked through the crack of the door. The punk was no older than twenty. The room had two doors leading to it and Eli approached the second. He put a finger to his lips and together they nodded. They understood each other. They’d been in this situation before. Precision of the kill. Gabriel signaled his best friend with his fingers. One…Two…
Gabriel kicked the door open and fired. The punk slammed back into the wall with a hole in his chest, shattering the window behind him into a spider web of broken glass. Behind the door, another punk was holding a professional video camera, filming the bloodbath with traumatized eyes.
Gabriel slammed the butt of his rifle into the cameraman’s head. The camera stumbled to the ground. Eli fell to his knees in tears and watched his best friend beat the cameraman mercilessly until his face was reduced to a battered prune, his knuckles and the floor caked with blood. When the punk was clearly dead, Gabriel stood up, his bloody knuckles trembling. He looked over at the girl, expecting a thank you, only to find she was more frightened than she was before, curled up in a ball, muttering a Hail Mary. They then realized the girl wasn’t tied up after all. She buried her face in her free hands and wept, breathing in and out as if she were having convulsions. Then, when it seemed like she was about to lose all the air in her, she let it all out, unleashing an ear-splitting cry of misery. She ran over to her dead boyfriend and threw herself over him.
“JASON! OH MY GOD! JASON! WE WERE JUST FILMING A MOVIE!”
It was then that they both realized what they’d done. Gabriel stood up and looked down at his knuckles, then back at the poor kid he’d mutilated with his bare hands. At that moment, he felt his mother was crying hysterically. He acted on instinct, grabbed the camera, took the tape out and put it in his pocket, then pulled the girl up by the arm.
“What are you doing?” mumbled Eli.
“We are tying her up and hiding these bodies. Let’s go. Move!”

Chapter 12 from Galen Shields: Call Upon the Russian

2009-05-23T10:36:00.000-07:00

XII. Call Upon The Russian

A country song played quietly on the radio, as the truck driver followed the narrow dirt road. He switched the high beams on, illuminating his path. A vivid array of stars stretched across the midnight sky and creeping behind the mountains, the lights from Las Vegas let out a luminous glow. He passed the sign that read RESTRICTED AREA: NO TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT. After the sign, it was a straight shot ahead. He glanced at the rearview mirror and examined the crate strapped down to the iron bed of the truck, then focused back on the road, which seemed to stretch endlessly into darkness. He lowered the windows and took in the cool desert air. All was quiet out there, save for the squeaking of crickets.
Finally, a guardhouse appeared in the gloom a barbed-wire fence became visible surrounding the perimeter. The driver came to a complete stop at the guardhouse and two soldiers dressed in Air Force jumpsuits emerged, each armed with an assault rifle. The driver gave the first soldier a friendly nod.
“This vehicle and its cargo are authorized under Vane Horizons,” said the driver. “I have a scheduled drop-off for a shipment 411.”
“Right on time, sir,” said the soldier. “You may proceed.”
The truck drove through the gate and continued down the road. The driver stayed alert, studying every aircraft hangar and facility along the road. Even at this time of night, scientists roamed the grounds like pedestrians in a small town, walking about their busy schedules. This top secret government and military facility went by many names such as Dreamland, Paradise Ranch, Watertown Strip, but most notoriously known to the world as Area 51.
The truck pulled up to the backside of a colossal white hangar, large enough to fit several aircrafts and reversed into a loading dock. The driver stepped out of the truck and climbed on the iron bed, then unloosened the straps over the sealed wooden crate. A bald man came out of the hangar wearing a lab coat and black slacks.
“Shipment 411,” said the bald man. “We’ve been waiting for this device with much anticipation.”
The driver nodded and the bald man climbed onto the bed. Together they lifted the crate and moved it into the loading dock.
“It’s heavier than I thought,” said the bald man. “Your friends at Vane spared no expense, huh?”
“I’m just the delivery man,” said the driver dryly, as he lowered the crate onto a conveyor belt. The bald man pressed a button on a control panel on the wall and the crate was transported into the hangar on the conveyor belt.
“I do request I get the crate back when they are done with it,” said the driver. “We like to recycle them.”
“Of course,” said the bald man before entering the hangar once again.
The driver got back into his truck where he sat, and waited.

The crate moved steadily along the conveyor belt and arrived into the hangar, a massive enclosed structure of metal, stretching two hundred feet high. This monstrosity of an edifice was more than just an aircraft hangar, however, for it housed the most fascinating and unique aircraft known to mankind.
The crate came to a complete standstill at the end of the conveyor belt.
“Shipment 411,” came the automated voice on the intercom.
Instantly, three scientists abandoned their computer consoles and electron microscopes and headed towards the motionless crate. One scientist with curly hair and wire-rimmed spectacles stayed at his console, however, and watched with eager eyes. The three scientists gathered around the wooden crate that read Vane Horizons along its exterior and commented on its groundbreaking contents. They marveled on such a technology, while one scientist tried to pry it open with a crow bar, the wooden top slowly breaking off into splinters. All the while, the scientist with the spectacles accessed the security system on his console and rubbed his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. He heard a repetitive thumping noise that seemed to echo in his head and for a moment thought it was his heartbeat, but then realized it was his watch, ticking closer to the unbearable seconds that lay ahead. The wooden top of the crate cracked open just as he shut the security cameras off. The man’s timer began the countdown.
The Russian popped up from inside the crate with a cigar in his mouth and stared down at the three scientists, hands gripping onto his gun.
A scientist stumbled back. “What the—.”
His words were cut short as a beam of white light shot out from The Russian’s gun and vaporized his body into a grey cloud of ash. The Russian’s lips curled into a smile, the cigar dangling, and the remaining scientists howled in frightened unison as their colleague drifted off into the air. The Russian took his time climbing out of the wooden crate and jumped onto the ground, his black military boots thumping hard on the cement. He wore a leather jacket today under a Kevlar vest and a pair of crinkled black slacks. The battle scars on his forehead were hidden by his streaks of long black hair. His next victim made a run for it so The Russian calmly lifted his gun and fired directly into the running man’s back. The light stretched throughout his limbs and the cloud of ash continued onward, still running for the door, then quickly rose into the ceiling. The Russian watched the ashes rise and fall and thought it a lovely sight that reminded him of the dust clouds in his uncle’s farm.
The last scientist dropped to his knees in shock, staring down at his colleague’s ashes. The Russian took his time on this one. He pulled out his lighter with the KGB emblem, lit his cigar, then snapped the lighter shut. He let the flame settle and gave the cigar a few puffs, before letting out a plume of smoke and stuffing his lighter back in his jacket pocket. The scientist was trembling now, staring up at his killer overwhelmed and beat. The Russian lifted his gun and pressed the tube, which served as the barrel, against the man’s forehead, then let out a childish whistle.
“I admire your willingness to accept death,” came The Russian’s low chilling voice. “If only they were all so prepared.”
A plume of smoke rose from The Russian’s mouth as the ray of light shot straight through the man’s skull. The Russian stepped back as to avoid contact with the ashes. Some got on his jacket and he quickly brushed the particles off his arms.
“Are you about done over there?” said the man with the spectacles at his console.
The Russian nodded sternly.
“We have five minutes before security goes back online.”
The Russian looked up and felt a twinge of excitement as his eyes scanned the immense flying saucer standing proud along the hangar. It was exactly how he’d imagined it, literally a saucer-shaped silver craft with black metallic circles along its hull. The U.F.O. was propped on display against four pillars at each side with wires attached to the ship from all sides, connecting into different stations. Just standing in its presence gave him a mystical aura that made his skin crawl under the thick Kevlar.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
He followed the scientist with the spectacles toward the ship, climbed onto its elevated platform and headed below it. The Russian looked up at the bottom of the alien craft and admired the simplicity of its design. No sign of pipes and complicated layering. Everything was simply flat as a plate and a silver that gleamed in the light of the hangar. As they walked, he let his hands run along the bottom of the ship and his watch instantly slammed hard against its exterior.
“It’s magnetic,” said the scientist. “Watch it.”
The Russian then noticed the hum of a magnetic field somewhere within the ship. He could feel the incomprehensible power of another world resting above him and he longed for its technology, yearned its abilities to overcome the impossible.
“Is this the renowned Roswell spacecraft?” he asked with a fascinated curiosity.
“No. All we have left of that one is debris. This one landed two months ago in Bolder Canyon, Colorado without the slightest dent or a scratch. Same kind of ship as Roswell’s though. Something tells me this beauty was given to us.”
“In exchange for what?”
The scientist looked at him. “I don’t know.”
They continued walking below the ship until the scientist stopped under an opening above them. It was a square hole of perfect dimensions, where they had been working under and inside was a silver oval-shaped instrument attached to what seemed like the mechanics of the ship.
“This is it,” said the scientist.
Together they cautiously pulled the device, that resembled a large egg, out of the hole.
“With this drive, your friends will find what they like to call Avalon.”
The Russian pulled it out of his hands. “I will take that.” He then carefully placed it within his leather jacket and held it tightly.
“Two minutes,” said the scientist, beaming down at his watch.
They walked back out from under the ship, down the platform and stopped dead in their tracks. The scientist turned around and glared up at the Russian behind his spectacles, who towered over him in his boots.
“Are you ready?” asked The Russian, taking out a knife from his sheath. The scientist stood rigid and motionless, his hands at his sides.
“In the chest,” he said with a face covered in sweat. “Watch my heart.”
“What kind of man do you think I am?”
“You tell me.”
“No,” said The Russian, taking a step closer until their faces met. “You tell me.”
The man with the spectacles sighed. “I saw the way you killed those poor bastards back there. Looked like you were enjoying it. I’d say you’re just a regular old psychopath, that’s what I think.”
The Russian beamed at him in deep thought and responded with a simple, “Hhm.” Then, without warning, he thrust his knife into the man’s chest, then pushed it deeper until he felt it make contact with bone and pushed through that. The man’s eyes opened wide and the spectacles fell off his face. A trickle of blood oozed out from the corners of his mouth as he collapsed. The Russian pulled out the knife, wiped the blade clean against his Kevlar vest and sheathed it. The man squirmed in agony, then let out a moan of fear when The Russian lifted the gun over him.
“We had a deal!” yelled the man, blood gurgling in his throat. “No! No! No!”
“This is a top secret government and military facility. I am afraid you are an unnecessary risk.”
“Please!” pleaded the man. “I have a wife!”
“You were absolutely right,” said The Russian. “I am going to enjoy this.” He turned a knob at the edge of his gun, switching it to maximum power. “I promise, you will not feel a thing.”
The man’s scream was cut short by his disintegration and the echo continued to travel even after he was gone. The Russian put out his cigar over the ashes on the floor and placed it in his front jacket pocket for keepsake. He gripped the device inside his jacket and climbed back onto the conveyor belt and into the crate where he came from. He sprawled on his back like a corpse in a coffin and lifted the wooden top over himself.
“I’m in,” he said to the microphone attached to his collar. The conveyor belt began to move again, transporting him back through the tunnel. He began to whistle his own version of Whistle While You Work and even as the truck driver lifted the crate back onto the iron bed of the truck, he continued whistling, adding his own harmonies. He lay in peace, holding the device gently as if it were an infant and waited for the truck to exit the premises. After a few bumps and turns, the driver spoke into his earpiece.
“We’ve crossed the safe zone. All clear.”
The Russian kicked the wooden top off the crate and it toppled to the side. He sat up into the desert night and enjoyed the cool wind in his face. Resting in the crate, as if it were a bathtub, he pulled out the device and ran his fingers over its sleek material. Such a powerful machine, capable of warping an entire ship into other worlds, resting in his hands like a toy. His phone began to vibrate and he pulled it out. The caller ID said it was Jasper Creed, Vane Horizons’s second in command. Just the person he wanted to speak to.
He answered and said, “What a captivating piece of hardware.”
“Where have you got it?” came Creed’s deep raspy voice.
“In my hands.”
“Good. Bring it to The Fortress.”
“If I am to fly all the way to France for you, Creed, I expect to have my money waiting there.”
“Your money can wait. I have another assignment for you.”
The Russian grumbled, then dropped a gloved fist hard onto the wooden crate. “I am not your guinea pig. I only took this job because I want to see Avalon discovered as much as you do. If there is no bounty, there is no job!”
“Relax, Mr. Harkov. This is a regular job. The target’s name is Galen Shields. A fifteen-year-old traveler who is causing quite an uproar in the world.”
“How much are you putting up for the boy?”
“The grandest bounty of them all, don’t you worry. Bring him in alive. He is Vane’s most valuable commodity.”
“Just another traveler to me.”
“Not entirely. This one is…a fast learner, so to speak.”
The Russian switched off his gun. “Finally, someone I could have fun with.”
“Oh and Harkov. There is no need to fly here. The driver will take you to a portal in Silver City, New Mexico that will take you to The Fortress.”
“I wasn’t aware there was such a portal.”
“My friend, if you aware of half the portals on this planet, I wouldn’t be doing my job.”
Creed hung up. The Russian let out a frustrated sigh, sat back into his wooden crate and continued to whistle along the desert highway.

The Graduate film review

2009-04-30T13:29:00.000-07:00

The Graduate

The Graduate holds a special place in my DVD collection as one of my most cherished films. It’s one that speaks to me on a level we can all relate to. Watching it once again in an actual theatre displayed on a wide screen was an absolute joy and it wasn’t until I saw it at the Cosford that I realized the film is perfect in my eyes. I just couldn’t find a flaw, besides a shaky zoom. Every shot had its depth, whether through hidden meaning or simple depth of field.
I first saw this film as an immature fifteen year old kid and I began to ask myself for every situation after (girls and school), What would Ben do? I learned to act rather than think. I was obviously too young to understand this film’s true meaning. Watching it a little older I realized there was nothing good about Ben’s actions. His intentions and love for Elaine were genuine but his way of expressing that was insane. In the end, after all the laughs and smiles, Ben and Elaine stare off into space, just as Ben did at the beginning of the film. He’s right back where he left off, lost and without agency. Sure, they could run off, disappear and start new lives somewhere, but is it really worth it for Elaine? Does she love him that much just to escape what could have been a secure marriage with that other frat dude? Ben did, after all, do all those horrible things. I think her face said it all, that maybe love is not enough. So when I first saw this movie I loved its happy ending and disregarded their blank expressions as bad acting. Now, I now the ending is crucial and defines the essence of Ben. If he keeps acting the way he is, he will always be lost.
Let’s get into the cinematography, which has inspired my own films in so many ways. From its opening shot to the last, every one had its depth. I think the opening credit sequence on the moving platform is a direct mirror to the last shot on the bus. They both express Ben’s descent into nothingness. The imagery of Ben under the pool and framed within the fish tank all symbolize the way he feels, drowning in a world he cannot understand. One shot that stood out for me was when Ben and Mr. Robinson were talking in the living room. All you could see are their heads deep in shadows and between their talking heads is a huge space and in the background is the rest of the house out of focus. When Mrs. Robinson comes down the stairs, the shot rack focuses from the two men to her. The movie is crammed with beautiful shots and sequences like this. I could go on about that montage for another page but I need to move on.
The music by Simon & Garfunkel sets the right tone from the beginning to the end and I think the lyrics truly capture what is going on. The Sound of Silence addresses the film’s use of sound. April Come She Will mentions the months falling off the calendar, as Ben lounges day by day in the pool. Even Mrs. Robinson has her own anthem.
Mike Nichols scored big with The Graduate. He found a topic that would target a particular audience and made it happen, painting a perfect picture of a college graduate, drifting through life without reason or purpose. I’m sure all of us could find a little bit of Ben within us.

excerpt from Galen Shields

2009-04-05T21:06:00.000-07:00

Her heels thumped on the cold floor. The drone of heavy machinery drowned out the fire alarm that was now a distant whine. To her left was a series of mainframe computers that seemed to power the room’s equipment. In the center of the room was a circular chamber enclosed in glass. Insulated red cables connected the chamber to the nearest computers. Suddenly, the chamber began to rotate clockwise and hiss loudly, as a cold air shot out of an overhead pipe. She took in the scent and it smelled of helium. She wondered if she should be wearing any protective gear. A facemask, perhaps? She looked down and noticed the chamber was situated over a moving plate and with every rotation, a cloud of helium blew out of the pipe. She approached the chamber vigilantly, put her hand on the thick glass and peered in. When her eyes finished adjusting to the blinding blue light, she realized she was staring at a young girl.
“Bloody hell,” she said as her stomach lurched.
The girl lay on her back, her closed eyelids twitching as her head rolled back and forth on the platform she was so forcefully sprawled upon. A strange headgear rested atop her shaved head connected to a complex system of wires like glowing snakes. Her hands were bound to the platform by thick metal clasps and at every rotation of the chamber, her hand trembled. She looked no older than fifteen. A monitor flashed pictures of her brain and it made her sick to her stomach. She felt disgusted and betrayed. To know the company her husband put so many years of dedication into was doing such a thing made her want to shatter some of these monitors. Thick bold words flashed on the monitor over the girl’s brain X-ray.
TIME IS LIMITED. SWTICH RADIATION BEAM OFF ON LEFT CONSOLE.
She hurried over to the console, glimpsing back and forth at the poor girl in the rotating chamber. Her hand fell upon every button and switch on the console.
“Help me,” she said. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
She felt at any moment that air lock would hiss open and tall men in lab coats would pin her down. No answer from the messenger. She would have to do this on her own. Her eyes scanned the computer screen and landed on the words SERENA HILL STAGE SIX. Below was a subject history and a moving graph showing Serena’s brain patterns. Her eyes then found the radiation beam key. She tapped on the key and a separate window opened up, displaying its functions. She searched for an off key or something, but all she saw was complicated digital jargon. She decided to take her chances and pressed the first button her fingers could find, then looked up to see what happened. The circular radiation beam pointed robotically down over Serena and unleashed a yellow ray of light that shimmered across her body.
“No! No! That is not what I wanted!”
Serena began to tremble violently in her seat. In panic, she pressed another button and the chamber began rotating again, but this time it didn’t stop and with every rotation, the tube unleashed another rush of cold helium into the air. The computer didn’t seem to like this because it flashed the words, REDUCE HELIUM INTAKE.
“Well I can’t damn well reduce the helium if you will not cooperate!”
She pressed the same button as before and the mechanical radiation beam lifted back onto the roof and shut off, followed by a vibrating surge of power in the room. She pressed a key that said HOLDING RELEASE and instantly, the metal clasps around Serena’s hands and legs opened up and the girl shot up in spasms, her eyes drowned in tears.
“Dear God! How does one open this thing?!”
She scrolled through the endless keys, as Serena fell off the platform and collapsed on the ground, still connected to the headgear. The wires shot out from her head, keeping her propped against the platform in an awkward position. Charlotte pressed a button labeled CHAMBER FUNC.1 and the glass door slid open. Almost tripping over her heels, Charlotte ran as fast as she could into the chamber and kneeled down next to Serena, who clawed at the floor frantically, her legs kicking the platform behind her.
“There, there,” said Charlotte, not knowing what to do.
With a pale face, Serena pulled off the headgear and one by one yanked out every wire from the suction pads on her forehead, then collapsed with defeat. She opened her parched lips and spoke.
“A-avalon and back,” she said, her voice shot. “It’s…just a bedtime story. N-no such thing as m-monsters.”
Charlotte wrapped her arms around the girl and stroked her cheek with the back of her hand. Her face was ice cold. In fact, the chamber was freezing. She wrapped her shawl tightly around the two of them and rocked Serena in her arms like she were a child.
“You poor thing,” said Charlotte, looking around the room frantically. “We need to figure out how to get you out of here without anyone—.”
“H-her vitals are strong,” interjected Serena with her eyes closed. “Making primary incision.”
The poor girl was somewhere else, lost in God knows where. Looking at her up close, Charlotte could see she was once a much more beautiful girl. She had a small nose and wide pretty eyes. Her mouth was long and perfectly formed. Behind the paleness was a hidden beauty. She rubbed what was once probably a bed of lush black hair that matched her thick eyelashes. No doubt they shaved her head for this tormenting procedure.
“What in God’s name have they done to you?”
Charlotte got on her feet and struggled to help the girl up. She was a tall one.
“Avalon,” whispered Serena again, her green eyes visible now. They were indeed beautiful.
“You’ll tell me all about Avalon once we get out of here. Come now, on your feet. Up!”
“Avalon is where the sand dances in the wind. Pure soil and midnight sunsets. The stars rejoice when the Sons of Avalon march upon the Elysium Fields.”
“Sounds like a vacation. Work with me, dear.”
Charlotte tugged at her arm, but Serena pulled away and was able to lift herself on her own. She swayed side to side in an intoxicated hypnosis. She was no doubt filled with numerous sedatives and drugs. For the first time, Serena looked straight at her, tilted her head and said, “You have kind eyes.”
She stepped back, as if stepping onto an invisible moving platform, and lifted her arms out beside her. Charlotte just watched, entranced by her mystery. She moved her little hands around beside her, feeling the air, swatting it as if there was an invisible fog at her sides. Charlotte’s mouth dropped as she witnessed Serena’s irises turn into gleaming silver that spread across her entire eyeballs. With arms pointing out beside her, Serena rolled her head back as her silver eyes glistened against the blue light of the chamber.
“Time to go now,” she said.
The air grew into an arctic cold and Serena vanished into the blue air, leaving behind her a trail of visible energy that instantly faded into oblivion. Charlotte remained motionless in the chamber, watching the vacant air where seconds before, Serena stood.
“This job just got a lot more interesting.”

excerpt from A Waltz in Paris

2009-01-13T20:02:00.000-08:00

“Her name was Julia Lockhart!” he shouted.
Cécile’s eyes widened, a look he hadn’t seen before. A look of confusion astonishment and happiness all put together. Every waitress in the place stared at the both of them.
“In 1989, Julia found out she was pregnant. I know it was that year because that was the same year the Berlin Wall fell. I was ready and willing to raise the child. I thought it was the best thing to ever happen to us. A true blessing. Finally, I would get the chance to raise my own child and I would raise that child in the name of my father. When she told me I had never been so happy in my entire life.”
Cécile began to cry, but he soldiered on through the painful memories.
“Julia didn’t feel the same way. She wasn’t ready for a child and I just didn’t understand why. We’d been together for years now. I was in the middle of my second feature film for Paramount so money wasn’t the issue. I began to think it was me, that she didn’t want to raise her first child with an actor who would never be there.”
“So what are you gonna do, Julia? Please don’t tell me you are even considering abortion.”
“What other choice do I have? And don’t feed me that orphanage crap. You know I can’t keep living knowing my child lives in an orphanage. I can’t do it.”
“So you’ll kill the baby instead! Julia, my love. This baby is exactly what we need. You’ll see.”
“We’re not ready for a child yet, David! I’m not ready and by God, it’s my choice. Not yours!”
“I’m the father! I have a say in the matter. I’ll die before I see my child perish.”
“The arguments went on and on,” continued David and by now, the whole café was listening. “In the end, it got to a point where I was choosing between my Julia and my unborn child. I chose, the child.” He began to cry, letting the tears loose. They streamed down his cheeks, but it never felt so good to cry like that. “That was a bad month. We couldn’t live with one another. We stopped sleeping in the same bed. We avoiding coming in contact with each other when we came home from our separate jobs and eventually our separate lives. No more dinners shared together. By the time her stomach began to show, Julia had left. I came home and she’d cleaned out her drawers. She left a note saying she was going through with the abortion and she just couldn’t see me anymore. After over ten years, she abandoned me and I had to live with the fact that my child was going to be killed, that what could have been another actor to train, what could have been an Academy Award winner, a bright and intelligent boy or a joyful free-spirited girl like you, Cecile, was to be killed in a few months. I have been living with that painful image ever since. The Avalon bloodline shattered. No more hope for future relationships, because the only one that ever mattered to me, the only woman I ever loved, walked out on me because she refused to raise a child with me.”
Cécile leaned against the bar now, her cheeks red with pain.
“About three years later, I got word that she died of breast Cancer. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of her, of what my child could have looked like. Whether it was a boy or a girl. Whether he would have followed in his father’s footsteps. Whether or not she had her mother’s lush black hair and radiant eyes.”
He had to stop himself here. The images were killing him. His stomach ached. His eyes hurt from the crying. He approached Cécile until their faces met. She wiped the tears from her eyes.
“My mother died of breast Cancer when I was two,” she said. “And you know what the funny part is, Monsieur Avalon.” She choked back tears, and then let them all out at once. “Her name too was Julia Lockhart.”
With that being said, she ran right passed him, opened the front door and took off into the rain. Standing in the center of the café, with all eyes on him, David noticed his hand was trembling. He grabbed it calmly and clenched it into a fist.
Cécile. What a pretty name. The kind of name Julia would name her daughter. Lying on the roof of her dorm building in 1979 looking up at the stars on their one year anniversary. It was New Years Eve and the fireworks were crackling, illuminating the sky with red and blue. She said she’d always wanted to live in France. He’d commented on the French and their silly names. She said she loved French names. They were so cute. The language is so sexy, she said. And so are the names. If she could live anywhere in the world, it would be Paris. Lying on the rooftops of New York. Lying on the highest point of Paris. Escapades through the city. Bike rides. Haunted voyages. Adventures. Life is a funny journey is it not, Monsieur Avalon? Smoke and drink and live life to the fullest with no regrets. Those were Julia’s ways.
“Cécile,” he said aloud, turned around and ran after her.
Outside, the rain was icy cold, like the water in that public pool Julia and him had snuck into. He walked without thinking and that walk turned into a run and everything he ever believed, every vision of remorse, every butterfly of anxiety in his stomach was blown out like a candle. The only truth was standing in front of him, shivering and crying in the rain.
Keep her warm, chief, his father’s comforting words. She needs you now.
He approached her slowly. She knew he was coming, glanced at him from within the hands covering her face and she stayed in place, letting the rain wash over her. Standing cold and rigid in the sidewalk, Cécile let her father approach. She moved the hands away from her face, unafraid of her tears that mixed with raindrops. He stopped and stared at her. This was the precious gift he’d been missing out on all these years. His little gem wandering about in the city of love without someone to look up to, searching for a job as a waitress in any shit heal joint just for the sake of paying her rent. A nineteen year old girl watching too many movies about love, because it is the one thing she never experienced. A nineteen year old girl who listened to true stories of love and all the fluff that came along with it.
“Daddy,” she said, letting the rain wash over her tears. She ran now, her cheeks curling into cheerful dimples once again. She jumped into his arms and together they embraced and within that embrace, lay an alternate life that could have been, an alternate life that was now possible, an absolute reality.
“Is it really you?” she cried. “All this time?”
He kissed her on the forehead. “All this time.”
“Is this real?”
David looked up at the grey sky, closed his eyes and felt the raindrops land on his skin. A daughter. Julia had given him a daughter. And she had kept her.
“This is real,” he said, holding his daughter close, finally understanding what it meant to love one’s own child.
For a long while, they stood in the rain, enjoying each other’s softness, the warmth that came with love even in the coldest rain showers.
“Do you want to come to America with me? See the Empire State Building?”
“I would love to, but only if you take me to Time Square on New Year’s Eve.”
He smiled. “Come on. Let’s get some ice cream.”
She laughed. “Is that where you take all your ladies?”
“No,” he said, putting a strand of wet hair behind her ear, like Julia always did. “Only the two that I love.”

Ars Poetica

2009-01-08T21:57:00.001-08:00

Poetry. Who are you? and who do you work for?

You’re like a river flowing. Like a wind blowing.
Motion. Twisting turning kicking like waves in a choppy sea
up and down. How many verbs does it take to prove your point.
We get it. Your words create movement.

Poetry. What are you? and what does it all mean?

You’re like moonlight glimmering in hazel eyes. Skies of melted paint.
Images. A blank canvas caked with kindergarten stick figures that
come to life at night and jump into story books. Descriptions.
Flashing streams of electric current with a starry night sky as a backdrop.

Poetry. Who made you? and why are you here?

ee cummings fantasies of no rules syntax (remember) and no periods
or commas separating thoughts (our) romantic love poems of sex and win red lips (first) you are like a flower that blossoms in the spring my
love you are my everything (kiss?) cheesy fluffy charming ee dreams.

I journey the road less traveled by and sail the choppy sea of wisdom with
Oh captain, My Captain, Robert Frost wearing a Cap’n Crunch costume. I drink
a shot of fiery turpentine with Poe, a Raven chirping on his elbow. I search
the dimensions of words for meaning.

Oh Poetry. Who are you? and who do you work for?

On Set

2008-11-27T11:52:00.001-08:00

Pink skies and rising sun this morning, the smell of hot coffee drifting.
Sound stage echoes reverberating.
Diffused yellow light shows of a thousand watts dancing on walls
aside c-stands and easy jibs, towering on our sacred domain.
Extension cords are sprawled like insulated red snakes.
The food is catered here, an actors diet of broccoli and ranch.
Cell phones turned to vibrate, headsets and walkies at the ready.
DP frames tight shot of Hitchcockian proportions, his eyes
his very own camera lenses, windows to the artistic soul.
Script Supervisor our humble stand-in today, his clipboard by his side.
Monitor calibrated by the chair, bars and tones, a vivid color spectrum.
Marker snaps, rolling, speed, set, Action, stage radiates with life.
We are the gaffers, illuminating the blank canvas.
We are the grip crews, lifting, adjusting, the forgotten warriors on set.
We are the sound engineers, spinning dials for the perfect pitch.
We are the set designers, constructing this period piece, a blast from the past.
We are the producers, the pin-striped execs, waiting behind closed doors.
We are the filmmakers, the ones who do it while others dream about it.
This is our realm and it is ours to rule.
Another day at the office, today we make film history.

excerpt from Galen Shields

2008-11-22T14:26:00.000-08:00

He was all set now and with the simple touch of his remote, he could activate the entire system. He stepped back into the center of the pentagon where he marked the ground with tape in a circle, then lowered the mask over his face, sliding the visor down. He thumbed the play button on the remote and then realized his other hand was shaking. He clenched his hand into a fist and fought the fear growing inside him. He was afraid of what the game might bring this time, what maneuvers the Reapers would perform, but most of all, he was afraid of what would happen if he failed.
Logan’s words stayed with him. “The mind could very well shut off if things get too intense.”
Maybe the machine was so advanced that it would kill him. No. That was ridiculous. There was no way his life would end in the hands of hardware store tools and electrical wires found in his attic, but he knew his brain was the most powerful tool of them all. He was gambling with a part of himself that he was not quite sure of. Doors could be opened.
“Close your eyes,” he said aloud.
He closed them shut, took a deep breath and pressed the play button.
A hot wind crashed against his face, his tie and clothes flapping against it.
Thunder let out a mighty crackle.
He could hear shouts resonating at a distance, deathly cries of men and women.
Open your eyes.
Mayhem exploded into life in front of his eyes. He was inside his own room except the roof was missing, the far wall was torn down and everything was covered in bright orange flames. His bed was still there, but the mattress was a pile of ash over the iron base. This wasn’t right. Something must have gone wrong. This was not how he designed his game demo. He searched for the abandoned farmhouse out on the horizon but what he saw was far from anything he ever dreamed about. What he saw was chaos in Allerton. Every building and every brick house was on fire along his block but still standing. Reapers floated in and out of every building structure, scavenging for a good feed. The smell of sulfur rolled into his room and he was almost worried as to how real it smelled. This odor could not have been created by his brain. He coughed at its pungency, almost vomited.
“What is this?” he said, gazing at the city outside.
He inched his way to the edge of his room, careful not to fall two stories down and watched with horror as two Reapers fought wrathfully. They clawed at each other in mid-air, letting out shrieks that pierced Galen’s eardrums. A Reaper was tossed towards him and he quickly ducked behind the scorching wall. The Reaper landed in the middle of his room and he watched as the second one slit its throat with its claws.
Choking on his own fear, Galen glued himself to the wall, hoping to God they wouldn’t see him. He wasn’t ready. He’d been thrown off guard. This was way too real. So real, he couldn’t take it. He feared for his life more than ever. When the Reaper finished the attack, it turned its scaly head towards Galen and the red eyes widened at sight of its next prey.
“No!”
He closed his eyes tight, clenched his hand into a fist and let the energy run all around him. He saw his room become a massive swirl that fast forwarded into a whirlpool of bright lights, before he pressed the stop button on his remote and the world vanished into black.
He woke up flat on his back and threw the mask off his face. He was in his room again and everything was back to normal, except his body still felt extremely hot and a cloud of smoke surrounded him. He threw off his shirt and began coughing his lungs out. His throat felt dry and stung with pain. He pulled off the wires from his head, ran to his desk and chugged a bottle of water, spilling it all over his face. He reasoned the smoke came from the facemask. Maybe it malfunctioned, but then he smelled it, the bitter aroma.
“Sulfur!”
He sniffed his arms and his shirt. It was all over him. With his heart throbbing against his chest, Galen turned on the fan to get rid of the smell. He went for the window to get some air but before he could do anything, something hard and solid smashed straight through the glass and landed on his bed. Stepping over the glass, he looked at the egg yolk all over his pillow and the broken shell surrounding it. The first egg was followed by a dozen more, hitting the house from all sides. He heard the downstairs window smash, then the noise was overcome by laughter. He looked outside and saw Fin and his friend launching eggs with air cannons, while the other two cronies lit firecrackers on the driveway.
“Galen!” came his father’s furious voice downstairs.
Just as the fireworks began to emit crackling sparks, Fin and his cronies hopped on their mopeds and sped off, their laughter echoing down the street. Galen rushed downstairs.
“Did they get the window?” he asked.
“Dammit, Galen!” said Malcolm. “Friends of yours?! Huh?!”
“Dad, it’s not my fault!”
“Of course it’s your fault! If you’re having problems with your peers then don’t bring them to my house. You know how much these windows are gonna cost me?! In this economy!”
“Stop yelling. Won’t the insurance cover it?”
“Insurance? Ha! Kid, what dimension are you living in? There’s no such thing as insurance. This is not the States. Those days are over.”
“Then I’ll pay for it. Relax.”
“You don’t have any money! You spent it all on that junk in your room.” He sniffed and his eyes went wide. “What’s that smell?”
Galen almost forgot he was covered in sulfur fumes. “It’s the firecrackers,” he said. “They emit sulfur.”
He stormed to the front of the house and Galen followed. The firecracker unleashed its last sparks and Malcolm stomped on it. He looked up at the house. Egg yolk dripped from the walls, the shutters, and the windows. The smell was unbearable and Galen felt like retching after smelling sulfur and egg combined.
“Jesus Christ!” shouted Malcolm, his hands over his head. “Look at this house! This is the second time! Galen, whatever trouble you’re in, you better handle it now because this is unacceptable. I’m calling the Police. I want names, kid.”
“Don’t involve the cops. I’ll take care of Fin.”
“You better. Defend yourself for once.”
“What? You don’t think I defend myself? What would you know? You don’t see me all day!”
“Well you’re obviously not doing something right if they keep egging our house!”
“He’s an Irish scumbag! He doesn’t need a reason to egg our house!”
“Well do something about it, you fool! Send him a message! But in the meantime, go to the basement and get the pressure cleaner. You’re helping me clean this mess.”
“Fine!”
He turned around and ran up the steps and stopped when he saw a figure pass at the corner of his eye. When he looked, the figure was gone. He could have sworn he saw a Reaper. As the smell of sulfur slowly vanished, he looked down at his right hand.
It had not stopped trembling.

Reflections

2008-11-21T08:26:00.000-08:00

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excerpt from Where Nothing Ever Happens

2008-11-20T08:42:00.000-08:00

A single spotlight appears over me, the rest of the stage lost in the darkness. Instantly my free fingers start dancing along the strings and for the first time in thirty five years, there is no pain, there are no choppy notes. Donnie’s flute begins resonating within the darkness. I lean in towards the microphone. I’m hesitant at first but then I realize there is no need for hesitation. Everything always works out in this place.
“There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.”
The perfect pitch. I could swear I robbed Mick Jagger’s voice for the night. The words flow naturally and it feels so right, like I’ve had this voice all along.
“Woe oh oh oh oh oh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven.”
As the song proceeds, the stage begins to slowly illuminate itself. A screen displays a golden staircase rising up into the heavens, where angels frolic through a field of blossoms. A spot light over Ernie, over Donnie, then Gabe slams on the drums as the song makes its ascent into glory. Roses rain down over us, as Judith and I work our magic. Gabe takes off his shirt and tosses it backstage, before pounding the cans with all he has, showering them with his own sweat. Donnie’s got my back, unleashing fiery guitar rifts that ignite the crowd. Ernie puts on his jam face, his tongue sticking out of his lips, small eyes transfixed in concentration and as for me, I unleash what I’d been building up inside of myself for almost thirty five years and the result is an explosion of a solo that rocks the foundations of this whole place. I glare at Ernie, who nods his head, followed by a call of ecstasy. I’d always wondered what rock stars like Robert Plant and Jimmy Page felt like on stage, the raw adrenaline and sheer intensity of blasting out all you have, all your worries and troubles released in the form of a high pitched bellow. The audience flashes us with white lights, they crowd surf and flail their arms high into the air, singing along to the heaven song, mesmerized in the perfection of my voice.
I find my mind drifting to the past. I see Ernie and the guys rocking out in his garage. I see myself showing up late to band practice. We were performing at a party that night, but I received a letter in the mail. My mom told me it was from the government. I didn’t open the letter until I got to Ernie’s garage. I wanted to open it in the presence of my friends but at the same time, I didn’t, ashamed at what may be inside.
“And as we wind on down the road! Our shadows taller than our soul!”
Life is unpredictable. One day you’re living for your music, dreaming of becoming a rockstar with your friends, the next you’re being shipped off to a foreign country where a burning piece of shrapnel waits to rob you of your eyes. I’d never even left Ohio before. I was nineteen.
“There walks a lady we all know! Who shines white light and wants to show!”
Ernie was there for me the whole way. My best friend, my wing man. Even when that godforsaken bus arrived in my lonely hometown, Ernie was there, quickly stashing a few Playboys and cigarettes in my luggage before my mom turned around. We all have that one best friend. You look back at your life and can’t picture it without this person. This is the person you struggled through grade school with, the person who broke you out of your shell and made you who you are now. This is your best friend. This is Ernie. I wouldn’t share this stage with anyone else.
“And she's buying a stairway to heaven!”
The stage is illuminated once again and the last rose hits the stage but the watchers and listeners of the world crave more music and we give them just that. All of our favorite hits, the songs of our childhood, the songs that give us life. Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door to Light My Fire, my voice changing according to each song. Corporal Donnie moves from the organ, to the keyboard, his Aviator specs motionless on his face. Fireworks crackle above us, bathing the stage in red white and blue as we jam to Born in the USA. Tonight we dominate the stage. We conquer Madison Square Garden in the name of Rock and Roll. Tonight, there are no holocausts, no hunger, not one hippie protesting a pointless war. Tonight, we are all friends, our musical ears intertwined as one and when it is all over, after our encore performance has reached its climax, I pull Angela up on stage and kiss her in front of everyone I know, the screen displaying our passionate kiss for all the world to see.

excerpt from The Dealer

2008-11-20T08:38:00.000-08:00

Everything fell silent as the smoke simmered out of the engine and blood trickled from my cut. Jimmy’s headlights grew near, illuminating me in my paralyzed state. I tried to outrun them. I did the best I could. Now I was done for. The agreement was shattered. I’d ran. I’d ran like a damn pansy. The cops can’t cooperate with a runner. I gazed at the empty desert ahead of me and listened to Jimmy and his partner step out from the car, footsteps drawing closer and closer.
The ghostly desert winds called out to me.
I was a dealer.
I was a gangster.
I was an informant.
I was many things, but tonight I was a runner.
I kicked the shattered door open with my paralyzed leg and threw myself out of the car, propping myself up against the hood. Then, I began to run, if you can call it a run. I limped through the sand, staring into the heart of darkness, hearing Nikki’s distant murmurs, as if she was out here somewhere watching over me.
“Game over, Wild Card,” said Jimmy from behind.
I couldn’t run. I was a cripple. A gimp. A loser in two worlds.
“You can’t run outta this one,” said Hunter.
“The desert won’t welcome you, Jake. Give it up.”
They surrounded me, pointing their FBI issued .45 Berettas at me.
“I’m not going back,” I mumbled. “I’m not going back to Vegas.”
“Oh, but you have to. We have to settle this once and for all. We have to bring down the Roman Empire.”
“Go to hell!”
The cut on my forehead stung with pain.
Jimmy approached me until our faces met. “I’m sorry to do this, Jake.”
With that said, Jimmy slammed the handle of his gun over my cut, plunging me into a world of pain where conscious was at a total loss.

I woke up with my face on the dirt, sand in my mouth and bitch of a headache. My legs and hands were tied together by zip ties and I was sprawled in what looked like a desert graveyard. Tombstones looked down at me in my vulnerable space. It was so dark, the only light coming from the flashlights.
“He’s awake,” said Hunter.
The light instantly flashed in my face.
“Oh,” said Jimmy. “Just in time. This looks about five feet. What do you think, Ray?”
“Five feet’s good. Not the usual six. No, tonight our boy will be buried five feet under.”
Jimmy climbed out of a hole, tossing a shovel over a large pile of dirt. I smelled rotten corpse mixed with worms. A full moon shined high over the mountains. I sensed what these assholes were up to and I didn’t like it.
“He might climb out though,” said Hunter.
“Nah, our boy is in no condition to be climbing anything. Go ahead, grab his feet.”
“All right.”
They lifted me from the ground, one by the legs, the other by the arms and swung me like a sack of potatoes into the hole. I landed with a fierce impact on my back, feeling my spine crack. I yelled with pain, chocking and coughing on dirt. I was inside a hole, surrounded by walls of thick soil. The FBI men stared over me, smiling with a look of victory.
“We never meant for it to get this heated, Jake,” said Jimmy. “But you decided to become a fugitive. I hate fugitives because they always eventually get caught. They’re a waste of everybody’s time. Now you wasted your own time and the FBI’s. We were building a steady case. We had everything going according to plan and you had to go pull off this insane stunt.”
“They killed Nikki!” I yelled, spitting saliva mixed with sand. “They were gonna kill me! What did you expect me to do?!”
“You could’ve come to us, bro,” said Hunter. “We would’ve protected you. Didn’t have to go running to old Elvis over there. That redneck’s going to jail for aiding a fugitive. You fucked it over for the two of you.”
Jimmy shoveled some dirt and poured it over me. The dirt rained over my face, into my eyes, my nostrils, my ears. I coughed with disgust.
“You like the taste of that, Jake?” said Jimmy. “That’s what redemption tastes like. The taste of death. The taste of revenge. The taste of liberation. That’s what Neil Wilson tasted, along with all those other unfortunate people The Empire laid to rest in this desert. How does it taste, Wild Card? You like the taste, the smell, the feel of irony. How does it feel!”
Hunter shoveled some more dirt over me. I couldn’t move. Shockwaves of pain enveloped my body, overcoming me to paralysis. The dirt burned my eyes so I kept them closed, feeling the dirt slowly bury me alive.
“It’s your call!” I heard over the dirt clogging my ears. “Just say the word and we’ll throw these shovels aside.”
I love a woman named Nikki Shore.
“Just say you’ll help us and we can get out of here, grab a bite to eat at Lenny’s.”
Nikki Shore was the girl of my dreams.
“Help us bring down the men that killed Nikki.”
Nikki!
“Don’t forget the ones responsible for the death of your girl. You can still get your revenge.”
Revenge. Justice. Nothing matters anymore. I just want my Nikki back.
“The Santucci name will be gone forever.”
I shuddered at the word, picturing Carlo Santucci’s menacing glare, the look he gave when he was angry. I could see him giving the order to kill my Nikki. I couldn’t let him get away with it. I couldn’t let bad men get away with doing bad things. I lifted my arm under the dirt and yelled as loud as I could. Suddenly, everything was very still. The shoveling had stopped. A hand grabbed hold of mine and pulled, lifting my body out of the dirt with intensity. I opened my eyes and climbed out of the hole.
“Good boy, Jake,” said Jimmy. “You got your whole life ahead of you. Don’t wanna end up another corpse in a foxhole.”
Hunter patted me on the back. “Let’s get out of here.”
I cooperated. I walked side by side with the law back to the car, the same car that had earlier chased me through the desert. Sitting in the back seat was none other than my best friend, my old dealer pal. Sally Franchesci stared at me with watchful eyes.
“I believe you two know each other,” said Jimmy.
Hunter was laughing.

Lady Lillith

2008-11-20T08:25:00.000-08:00

Lady Lillith wears red
at the bar of American misery
and drinks a shot of fiery turpentine, toasting the inspiring sorrows of men,
her eyes an infinite black. Lose yourself to them.

Come here. Let me buy you a beer, they offer.
She sucks on their ring fingers and spits out golden vows.
She giggles. She bites. She dances in the velvet light.
They wait in line to taste her forbidden fruit.

The loss of innocence came in the form of a black haired,
black-eyed Princess of Darkness that night.
When the time comes that Man gives themselves up for Lady Lilith

that will be the second Fall. Buy her a drink.
Surrender yourself to her flawless body. Succumb to your just fears,
here in the bar of American Misery.

Chicago Warriors

2008-11-20T08:21:00.000-08:00

The streets of Chicago ran red with yuppie blood that night
We danced naked in a place where the grass was greener.
You cornered and clobbered us with your sticks, goddamn cowards.
Tear gas clouds chased us through the alleyways, no escape.
We took the hill, like Roman conquerors in the Elysium fields.
We climbed up the statue like it was ours for keeps.
We are the curly-haired hipsters living by our own moral code.
We march with Abbie Hoffman, we sing with Allen Ginsberg.
We are the beats, the only ones who took a stand against the atrocities
Miles away our brothers shed tears of blood crouched in cramped foxholes, clutching infernal weapons too big for their frail arms.
Miles away our brothers dodge shrapnel from rebels while we dodge rubber bullets from our own.
We march for the Chicago 10 sitting on the wooden bench, while the judge puts on his circus show.
We march for Bobby Seale, poor negro strapped down medieval style in front of a laughing jury.
Our Chicago has become a concentration camp.
The world as we know it is now a battlefield
God has turned his back on the lowly, the downtrodden warriors of the night,
So raise a glass of turpentine and toast the Chicago 10.
May Abbie Hoffman rest in peace, your yuppies will live on forever.

The Scream

2008-11-20T08:15:00.001-08:00

There is a place where midnight turns to dawn.
Where the quiet laughter of children is left unheard.
Where time stands still in freeze-frame action.
Where waterfalls challenge the laws of gravity.
Below a bright orange sky lies a wooden bridge,
Where passerby’s roam freely in nonchalant strides,
Immersing themselves in the sights and sounds of a hellish paradise.
But on this bridge cries a mysterious entity cloaked in darkness and sorrow.
His scream is an anomaly, piercing the flames in the sky.
His scream is like an endless blast resonating across the horizon.
Filled with gloom and despair this entity seeks a way out of this limbo.
Tortured by the sins of his life and reminded painfully about the love he never had,
This entity cries for eternity in the empty shadows of purgatory.
Here he awaits his passage into the light.
But for now he screams an infinite bellow of sadness.
Redemption will come; these are his last rights.
Fire and brimstone are just another sin away, eternal peace is but a mere prayer away.
Let him scream, it is all he has left.

2008-11-20T08:15:00.000-08:00

GALEN SHIELDS AND THE LOST SCROLLS OF ATEN: CHAPTER 1

2008-11-11T15:41:00.000-08:00

I. Place Of The Voices

Tikal, Guatemala

The rainforest lived and breathed that night.

Doctor Callisto Cross closed his eyes, took in a lungful of clean air and let the rhythm of the winds guide him through the dense jungle trail. The songs of a thousand crickets resonated throughout the primeval world, along with the silent wailing of spider monkeys on the canopy. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could only imagine how this fascinating place looked, but with the nearby smell of tree moss and the distant trickle of a waterfall, he could paint a clear picture of this sanctuary within the privacy of his own conscious.

Closing his eyes was a ritual Cross practiced frequently. It was his meditative experiment of perception. He did this to relax. He did this to clear his thoughts. But most importantly, Cross closed his eyes for hours in hopes of seeing into other worlds. The more he tried however, the more he realized what he was actually looking at was his own inner thoughts. Imagination could be misleading and he knew more than anyone that the human brain was not one to play games with. Sighing with disappointment, he opened his eyes and the jungle slowly manifested back into soft focus. There was the Guatemalan guide riding his donkey quietly while Billy hacked away at the thick foliage with his machete. Suddenly, the feedback from his team’s motion detectors interfered with the sounds of nature. Technology was the jungle’s uninvited guest.

Tikal National Park was a two hundred and twenty-two square mile expanse of thick vegetation and wildlife. So far on their thirty-kilometer trek from the closest city, Flores, they had encountered a family of white-nosed coatimundi, the weasel-like scavengers scrounging for food, along with a variety of birds, who watched forebodingly from their fixed positions in the trees. So far the only threat of the night had been the Park Ranger patrol. The tranquilizers would wear out in a few hours. Just enough time for them to find the location. What followed after that was up to fate alone.

“Follow the moonlight,” came Serena’s ghostly whisper that seemed to echo eerily along the tree line. “The moon will show us the way.”

Cross took off his straw hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief then ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair. She had been repeating those words all night. He had the utmost patience with the girl, but it was at times like these where frustration began to wear in. He looked up at the full moon.

Follow the moonlight. What does she mean?

It had been a week since his team broke Serena out of The Santa Clara Health Institution but the journey had felt much longer. She was an extraordinary girl. The team pitied her but Cross knew that if it weren’t for her Autism, she would not have the unbelievable abilities that had led them this far.

Serena’s eyes darted back and forth along the trees in a focused glare, her mouth agape. For a second he wondered if she was having one of her moments but he reasoned she wasn’t, her eyeballs usually turned silver during her rituals. Still, sometimes he wondered where Serena’s mind lingered.

“The moonlight is our path,” she muttered. “We walk in the footsteps of time. Time is an arrow.”

Cross slowly took her frail hand. She did not once look away from the sky. He followed her gaze. The moon was there all right; a sepia-colored full moon that lit up her pale skin and angelic face.

“What do you see, honey?” he asked her, massaging her smooth cheek with the back of his hand. “What does the sky tell you?”

She blinked once. Blinked twice. Her radiant green eyes glimmered in the moonlight. For the first time all night she looked him in the eyes.

“We’re almost there, Doctor Cross,” she said.

“Okay gentlemen. You heard the girl. Microphones and cameras on.”

The team of four powered on their hardware swiftly and silently, putting on their night vision goggles as they refrained from using torches and flashlights to avoid drawing attention from Park Rangers. Either way, each man was equipped with a tranquillizer pistol should the situation call for it. Charlie was the sound technician for the night, mounting his parabolic microphone at the end of a large tripod, a pair of thick headphones on his ears. Billy sheathed his machete and switched on the atmospheric environment monitor while Hector controlled the motion detectors. Riggs turned on his digital video camera and switched it to night vision. Each man was handpicked for tonight’s expedition by Cross, who had done a background check on each of them. All four were loyal scientists and engineers from Scion Enterprises. They could be trusted. As for Serena, he was putting a lifetime’s worth of research in her hands.

“Ya llegamos!” called the Guatemalan guide. He jumped off his donkey and tied the rope to a nearby tree. “Vamonos!”

He was about to make his way into the clearing before Cross stopped him dead in his tracks. He put a hand on his shoulder and said, “This is as far as you go, friend.” He took his hand and stuffed five hundred quetzal into his palm.

“Pero Señor, you no need me on the way back?”

Cross smiled. “We know the way back, right, gentlemen?”

“Damn right,” said Hector.

“Damn right,” came Serena’s little voice in the shadows, imitating Hector’s deep hoarse tone.

Hector shook his head. “Kid’s getting on my nerves.”

The Guatemalan guide looked at them suspiciously, then quickly pocketed the money.

“This never happened, okay fella?” said Cross, pretending his mouth was a zipper and closing it. “Go home and forget about us.”

“Si, Señor. Secret. I don’t tell no people.”

“Very good.”

They waited for the guide to get back on his donkey and ride into the darkness before assembling their tools. Serena took off her shoes and sprawled on the dirt.

“Put your shoes on, Sweetie,” said Cross. “And get up from the dirty floor. We have work to do.”

“No!” she insisted, pulling away from his grip. “The earth is so soft.” She dug her hands into the soil and pulled out clumps of dirt and tree roots, then smeared her face with it.

“You’re making a mess of yourself, darling,” he said, trying to pull her up but the fifteen year old girl was strong for her age.

“The earth is so pure,” she continued. “We take it for granted.”

“Listen, Doc,” said Billy. “We don’t have time for this. We still don’t know what’s on the other side. How bout one of us baby sits the brat, while the rest of us do our jobs? Charlie, you’re great with kids. What do you say?”

“Not happening,” said Charlie.

“Why not? You have a daughter, don’t you?”

“My daughter’s not a retard problem child.”

“Hey!” shouted Cross. “The girl comes with us whether you like it or not. Your fancy equipment will only get us so far. She’s our link to the other side and could get us back if we happen to get lost. So I’d appreciate it if you treated Serena with a little more respect.”

“You’re the boss, Boss,” said Riggs. “Let’s move out.”

Cross turned his attention back to Serena who was back on her feet, jaw hanging open.

“Retard problem child,” she whispered. “Her condition is severe.”

Cross moved a streak of hair away from her face. “Don’t listen to them, kiddo. They don’t understand.”

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Nobody understands. The universe floats in an endless sea, a mere bubble.” She opened her eyes abruptly. “The door is open tonight. We gotta hurry, Doctor Cross.”

He took her hand. “Only if you promise to stay close.”

“Close. Far. Distance is irrelevant where we’re going.” Her voice was filled with sadness. “Mommy and Daddy just wanted to learn. Curiosity killed the cat.” The tears came, salty beads streaming down her cheeks. “So much violence in a world too complex for its own good.”

“Hang in there, love.”

“We’re almost there, Doctor Cross. The door will be closing soon. Hurry.”

“Pick up the pace, boys!”

They soldiered through the vast darkness until they reached what used to be the Mendez Causeway and was now a rugged jungle path. A hundred yards down the path and Cross could already smell it, the familiar aroma of age-old stone. He’d read about it in countless textbooks, seen so many pictures of the historic sacred grounds, but here it was right before his eyes. It was called the Place of the Voices; the cradle of Mayan civilization still standing after hundreds of years. At the first sight of the Central Acropolis, Cross’s skin began to crawl. Clouds of fog began to appear and he could feel the humidity that came along with them. Right away he could feel the difference in the air, the natural stillness of sacred ground. Suddenly, the hardware came alive with a repetitive beeping noise.

“Just ghosts,” said Hector, gripping the motion detectors. “A lot of them.”

“Getting a lot of heat in this area,” said Billy.

“Ignore them,” said Cross. “We’re headed to the Great Plaza. Follow me.”

Holding Serena by the hand, Cross led the way and soon the Mayan city of Tikal began to slowly reveal itself one stone structure after another. They bordered the length of the Central Acropolis until they met the square plaza, where Temples I and II towered high above the canopy. A staircase made up the front of each structure and led up to the actual Temple. The North Acropolis stood tall before them, a jagged set of stone steps, eroded at base level, set high upon the rising earth. This was once a stadium-like sitting ground where Mayan’s watched their recreational events below. Since this area was a hot tourist attraction, a number of straw huts were built around the Acropolis as information booths. Despite their awkward appearance, the huts didn’t take away from the prehistoric aura that came from the ruins. Cross switched off his night vision goggles. He wanted to look upon these marvels with his own eyes, besides; the moonlight seemed brighter in Tikal.

“Fascinating,” he whispered. “It seems unreal to walk upon the same soil where the Mayans once reigned.”
“Still reign,” said Charlie, gripping the microphone. He turned the knob to get a better frequency. “I’m getting some pretty eerie stuff.”

“They don’t call it the Place of Voices for no reason,” said Riggs.

“Listen to this.” Charlie handed the headphones to Riggs.

“Focus,” said Cross. “Serena said the door won’t be open for long.”

Charlie dug into his satchel and pulled out the EMF detector. The small device was used to detect fluctuations in energy levels by paranormal investigators to measure what they believed to be spirits in the form of heat waves. The closer they moved towards Temple I, the higher the magnification coil rose.

“Detecting 30 watts of heat,” he said. “What exactly are we looking for, Doctor?”

“The kind of heat we’re looking for will fry that little tool of yours. When the coil starts to hit 50,000 volts, then we’re on to something.”

By the end of the 10^th Century, the Mayans abandoned their city for reasons still unknown. Some historians reasoned that the city declined after the nobles fled, leaving the others unable to govern themselves, but there is still no reason why the nobles would flee. What would drive an entire civilization to abandon such a miraculous place? If Serena was indeed on the right track and all his research was correct, they were about to find out why. Suddenly, Serena squeezed Cross’s hand and began to pull him back.

“This is wrong,” she cried, shaking her head uncontrollably. “No! No! Wrong!”

“Control your specimen, Doctor,” said Billy.

She began to run but Cross wasn’t about to let her go. Not after all this. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards him. She struggled in his grip, slapped him once in the face but Cross managed to pin her against the wall of Temple I. He held in his anger, knowing he had to be patient with the girl. They couldn’t afford to lose her at a time like this.

“Don’t give up now, Serena,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Have some faith. Only you know where to find it.”

She refused to look him in the eye and continued to struggle. “This is a bad place, Doctor Cross. The air is still. Shadows are closing in. Waves are shifting. People have died here and people will die again.”

He held her tighter now. “Is that what you see? Tell me, love.”

“I see darkness.” Her head jerked back and forth against the cold stone. “The door is here. Someone left it wide open.”

“Now this is very important, Serena. I need you to take a deep breath and relax. Where is the door? Only you can help us find it. This is your task, sweetie. You’re an incredible girl with a gift. It’s time to use that gift.”

She closed her eyes and he could already feel the energy running through her body.

“Follow the moonlight. The moon is your guardian when it is highest in the sky.” She cried now and through her sobs, Cross could see that she was just a lost child, confused and scared. He felt for her more than ever.

“History will repeat itself, Doctor Cross,” she continued. “It will happen right here.” She took his face in her hands and turned his head to face Temple II. “The moonlight will show you the way!”

He looked up at the full moon and focused on the thick cloud covering it. He tried to move but Serena kept his head in place.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Unable to move, he watched the highest peak of Temple II and the endless steps that led up to it.

“Wait. The moon is coming.”

The cloud moved slowly across the moon.

“Wait.”

His heart raced at what lay ahead as Serena’s whispers sent chills along his spine.

“Now!”

The cloud drifted and the moonlight came. Like switching on a light bulb, the blue rays beamed across the Temple stairwell, killing the darkness in a massive wave of light. When the wave reached the top of the Temple it revealed the floating ball of white light within the entrance for a split second. He blinked once and the ball of light was gone, like blowing out a candle. A rush of excitement ran through his body. He kissed Serena on the cheek and said, “You did it!”

“Anybody else see that?” said Riggs.

“See what?” said Charlie.

“We have our location, boys,” said Cross. “The portal is the entrance to Temple II!” He turned to Serena. “You were right. The moonlight is our guardian. You’re brilliant!”

But Serena did not share in his enthusiasm. The look of utter dread on her face worried him. She grabbed his arm and said, “Mommy and Daddy just wanted to learn. They were happy too but they disintegrated. So will you.”

“What are you talking about, sweetie? This is a breakthrough. You’re going to make us very very rich. I need you to smile for me.”

She shook her head aggressively. “No! They’re coming for you! History will repeat itself!”

“Doc,” came Billy’s voice. “This portal won’t be open forever. We gotta move.”

“Hold on, damn you!” ordered Cross. He turned back to Serena. “You need to come with us, Serena. You’ve done great so far but there’s more to this journey and we can’t do it without you.”

She slapped him in the face again but this time harder than ever and screamed, “Shadows are emerging! They are coming for us!”

That was the last straw. His patience had run dry with the girl. Cross wasn’t a violent man by nature but that night he found himself pinning the poor fifteen year old to the ground out of sheer desperation as she kicked her legs furiously.

“Help me!” he yelled and Charlie came to his aid, grabbing Serena’s legs.

“This is for your own good, you little brat,” he said.

“Don’t call her a brat!” snapped Cross. “Let’s just get her to the top of that Temple!”

The rest of the team watched with awkward stares.

“What are you all waiting for! Get up there before it closes!”

The team reacted to Cross’s orders immediately, gathering the equipment and making their way up the Temple steps, as Serena’s wails grew louder.

“Shadows are surrounding us! You’re all gonna be vaporized! The stars are crying!”

“Shut her up,” said Hector.

Billy took off his bandana and stuffed it in her mouth. This was enough for her to give up the fight. She made herself limp in defeat, her head falling back, her hair dragging against the stone steps.

“I didn’t want it to end like this,” said Cross. “But you just wouldn’t listen. Now, I need you to be a good and cooperative girl on this journey. If you behave, we’ll be nice. If you don’t, it’s back to Santa Clara for you.”

She was deathly silent now with the bandana stuffed in her mouth, but somewhere he could hear her humming an eerie muffled tune.

“Fluctuations are rising,” said Charlie, gripping the EMF detector.

“Put that thing away,” said Cross. “It’s no longer needed. Save your power.”

Before Riggs could switch anything off, the ear-splitting frequency feedback blared through his headphones. He threw them off and fell to his knees, gripping his ears. Smoke began to seap out of the malfunctioning atmospheric monitor and Billy had to drop it before it burned his hands. The monitor smashed into pieces that rolled down the steps.

“Turn it all off!” Cross ordered.

They switched off the hardware and slowly inched closer to the invisible portal at the top of the steps. A pungent odor rolled in, the smell of burnt rubber and ozone. The area suddenly became unbearably hot. Cross heard a bizarre ringing in his earlobes that stung with pain. All the while, Serena’s faint humming continued. The entrance to the Temple was a door eight feet high. Behind it was nothing but darkness. For a minute, Cross thought he heard whispering. Perhaps it came from entities on the other side of the portal but the whispers echoed from somewhere behind them. He turned and looked at the ruins below, and at the Temple opposite him. He thought he saw movement within the darkness, but he knew his mind was just playing tricks again. This happened in moments of great anticipation. He disregarded the paranoia that said they were being followed and focused on the task at hand.

Charlie reached into his satchel and pulled out what looked like a spray-paint canister. He pointed the canister at the door and pressed the top, spraying a cold liquid nitrogen mist into the open air. Instantly, the blinding white light from the portal became visible amidst the spray. Energy waves rippled out from the portal, like those of a pebble tossed in a still puddle.

At last they faced a real interdimensional portal and it was far more beautiful than any textbook diagram. Einstein was not far off in his descriptions. The liquid nitrogen mist began to wear off, so Charlie sprayed it once more. This time a bolt of electricity jolted out of the portal and chiseled the rock inches from his feet.

“Easy,” said Cross. “It’s sensitive.”

The whispers echoed behind them once again. Cross jerked his head back and stared down at the ruins immersed in darkness. The fog below was very still. He couldn’t help the uneasy feeling that they were not alone in the ruins. A thick cloud crawled its way over the moon once again. They were cloaked in darkness as a howling wind blew in from the North. Serena’s humming grew louder. As Cross clutched her firmly, her head dropped again, long hair covering her face, and she began to tremble violently in his arms.

“What’s she doing?” asked Riggs. “She having one of her moments?”

Her humming became a deafening whine as the wind picked up its pace. Something was not right. The air was not responding the way it should. Out of fear, Cross turned to the only person who could give him answers. He grabbed Serena’s trembling head and pulled the bandana out of her mouth. When she lifted her head, her eyeballs were glowing silver. He let her go and she slowly stood up, stretching her arms out beside her, her head tilting to the side. Her glowing eyes felt as if they were penetrating his scull, his every vein pulsing with fury. Her mouth opened and she spoke in a low frequency monotone.

“They are here.”

The whispers became voices now and the shadows became visible all around them as if they had appeared out of thin air. Dark figures emerged from every corner of every building structure. On the Central Acropolis, four black shadows watched from afar. Opposite them on Temple I, another two figures stood at the highest stone platform wearing cloaks that danced in the wind.

“We’ve been compromised!” yelled Cross. “Jump the portal now! It’s our only escape!”

“We don’t know what’s in there!” cried Billy.

Hector prepared to leap into the energy field but suddenly a thunderous blast went off in Temple I and a ball of red light shot towards them landing directly on the portal and reacting in a mini explosion of static electricity. The red light formed a glowing barrier along the length of the portal. Hector went for it anyways and was pushed back with a jolt of electricity that tossed him down the steps like a rag doll.

On the dome above them, a man appeared carrying a strange tube-like machine that glowed with a blue light. He wore a loose black trench coat that seemed to cloak him in darkness. From below, Cross could see the scars across his face and he towered over them with a menacing glare, black eyes filled with hate and a mouth full of yellow clenched teeth. When he spoke, his voice was chilled to the bone.

“This area is off limits.”

With that said, the stranger pointed his machine at Riggs and shot a ray of shimmering light at him that went straight into his chest. The light enveloped his body, illuminating his bones and Riggs became a cloud of black ash that blew off in the wind. The killer did the same to Charlie, whose deafening cry of anguish faded to a whisper as his body vaporized into dust. The stranger jumped down to their level, his boots landing with a hard thump on the stone. Hector pulled out his tranquilizer pistol and shot a dart towards him, but the killer snatched the dart from the air with a gloved hand and stabbed Hector in the shoulder with it. Hector’s eyes opened wide with fear as the killer lifted him off his feet by the shirt and pushed him off the Temple. Cross closed his eyes but still heard the violent bone-breaking impact below. In a hopeless attempt to survive, Billy used a karate move on the killer, kicking him in the head, but the blow did nothing but aggravate the killer. As he prepared for his next kill, Cross couldn’t bear to watch and knew there was only one way out of this slaughter. He grabbed Serena by the shoulders and shook her violently, her silver eyes still glowing in the darkness.

“Take me with you!” he shouted. “Wherever you are, take me with you!”

She responded with an eerie gesture and tilted her head to the side, lost in her own world where nothing mattered but her own traveling conscious. Her body was here, but her mind was roaming the unknown. Falling to his knees, he wrapped his arms around her like a hopeless child and pleaded, “Take me with you! I don’t want to die!”

She grabbed his arms and pulled them away from her and suddenly her strength had doubled. She walked down the steps backwards until she was a good distance away from him, opened her mouth and murmured, “Time to go now.”

With a flash of light, Serena disappeared into the unknown chasms of Space, leaving Cross to fend for himself, alone in the hands of armed shadows. He looked back and watched as Billy was kicked to the stone by the killer and vaporized into a cloud of death. The wind blew Billy’s ashes into Cross’s eyes and mouth. Choking on his colleague, he couldn’t help crying helplessly. He crawled down the steep stairs, falling and banging his head against the stone as he did. When he reached the bottom of the steps, he clawed at the grass with childish whimpers but was met by the rest of the dark figures. They formed a perimeter around him and closed in slowly as the armed killer took his time down the Temple steps, whistling Whistle While You Work at a slow, disturbing pace. He turned a knob on his vaporizing machine and Cross could hear it powering up for his own death. The killer took a minute to observe him, studying him from head to toe with a fixed fascination that made Cross shudder.

“What is your name?” came the bone-chilling voice.

Cross trembled in the grass, unable to speak.

The growl that followed was nothing short of hellish. “WHAT IS YOUR NAME!?”

“Ca…Callisto. Callisto Cross.”

The army of shadows surrounding him watched from the dark.

“Well, Mr. Cross. These are sacred grounds. Your visit has disturbed the natural way of the universe. You are now going to tell me where you heard about the portal.”

“It was the girl. It was all Serena. She…she led us here.”

The fear in Cross’s voice sent a smile to the killer’s face. He shook his head disapprovingly, his yellow teeth clearly visible.

“Blaming it on a fifteen year old, retarded girl. Heartless.”

The killer stepped on Cross’s head, the heel of his boot pressing hard onto his face. “I’m going to kill you, Mr. Cross. And then I’m going to find your girl and I’m going to kill her too.”

He pressed his boot harder onto his Cross’s face who squirmed beneath his foot, tears filling his eyes. He bent down and moved close to his ear. Cross could feel the killer’s hot breath on his face

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “In this reality you may end in ashes, but in another world, you may reawaken as a swirl of matter in the cosmos. The end is only the beginning.” He pulled back and flipped a switch on his machine. “Say goodbye now, Mr. Cross.”

Cross closed his eyes as tight as he could and let the energy surround his body, as he’d seen Serena do. It was in that final desperate attempt to jump into the fourth dimension that he felt his insides ignite before the world plunged into darkness.

THE VAULT

2008-11-11T15:28:00.000-08:00