A Close Relation Poem

L. Paul Fobert Jr.
12/19/11

A Close Relation

Her hair shiny, black as soot, cascading like a waterfall,
against pale alabaster skin, tinged red in cold winter dew.
Fur warmed her body as she shivered underneath the streetlight.
Her doppelganger, most commonly called twin, I shall be known.
I entreat you now, please, hear my tale of how I am to be.
Life to be gone, evermore.

Knife in hand, silently waiting, for a moment, all too near.
The matter at hand, perfection timed, nearby shoppers will doubt
horrors they may witness when I take my sister’s precious life.
As doppelgangers’ go, I am one in a sea of evil,
and no hesitation comes when I take her life, just relief.
To now be gone, evermore.

Body disposal. Harder than it seems. Especially now.
Her alabaster skin sleek with blood now. Life can be so cruel,
but it's not. She got off easy. Dragging along the body,
a dumpster comes into view. What to do? No more to think on.
Myrtle, my twin, my doppelganger, is gone. Dead. At my hands.
Her life, taken, evermore.

San Francisco’s still streets motivated an easy retreat.
Blending in shadows had become a dominating nature.
Getting back through town across high, hilly roads with no body.
Problematical at best, but worth it, if I pulled it off.
Somehow I did. In my room, sigh, relief. In plain sight, relief.
First time, just one, evermore.

Police come soon afterwards. The acting classes paid off well.
I tell them my name. Myrtle. And my sister is now missing.
The two blues don’t doubt. Much too busy they are at leering.
At my cleavage. Flattering? Yes. And no. I have work to do.
I offer to help, they accept. Smiling, I receive power.
Perfectly placed, evermore.

Not all the officers are receptive to my involvement.
I don’t care. Neither do the leering blues. Disgraced uniforms,
yet helpful to a twin killing murderer. Leering Blue One,
Leering Blue Two and I canvas all night. I steer them away
from the bins where Myrtle’s dumped. Relief. Relief stating all.
Not over yet, evermore.

Questions, questions, and questions. What was I to do? The truth? Lie?
Lie. The best truthful way I could. I saw myrtle yesterday.
No, I don't know who had her. Police activity flourished.
The station stank. Doughnuts. Coffee. Nasty, smelly, tastelessness.
Missing sister wasn't missing. Murdered. Police didn't know.
I grinned in spite, evermore.

How they came to know, based off my answers, I never discerned.
What we both now know and in truth I have always known. Always.
This case easy as it may seem could have me in hot water.
Dressing as Myrtle, hard as it may be, I now need to do.
If I do not, jail is my calling, for the rest of my days.
Depression sets, evermore.

Officers, giving me looks. Not leering like Blues One and Two.
I’m holding out. They’re catching on. Worrisome. What do I do?
Lie yet again? No. Run. Away. Fast. Far. It seems most likely
the easiest thing to do. Under lazy yet watchful eyes
I bolt. Run hard and Run fast. Car theft. This is my crime today.
Lone criminal, evermore.

How did the Cops figure it out? Did they figure it all out?
Does it matter? The chase is on now. Leering Blues One and Two
hide in the rear, leering. How long has it been; my priceless crime?
Week? Month? Year? Sleeping, writing, running. Anything else to do?
Turn myself in? Defeats initial plans. This is what I need.
Hard, hard working, evermore.

I loved my parents. Did they? Loved Myrtle more, so, so much more.
Their will left her everything. From records and player to house.
Sinful sweet revenge, parents and Myrtle gracefully suffered
when ending innocent Myrtle life. Doppelganger no more.
I now hold the cards. Everything is mine. But I’m cop-running.
Bittersweetness, evermore.

Three days. Long and gloriously painful. Tingles. Feet asleep.
Wailing sirens pierce the night. Cold winter dew a reminder.
That night. Worth it? No. Lost everything. Possessions and family.
Waiting for the inevitable. Brutal. Worth it? Agreed.
The leering duo cuff me. Reading my rights without a leer.
Caught! A relief. Evermore.

Pencil, Fly and Worm Poems

L. Paul Fobert Jr.
3/13/11

Story of a Pencil

In the beginning the giants said,
“They will do many things
in the hands of others.”
What this meant, Number Two knew not.
It only knew they would be great.

Handled delicately and
placed with care
next to numerous others,
Two welcomed the new beginning
life was bringing forth.

The wait was long.
Too long.
Sealed in with replicas, Two waited.
Waited for a new day.
For a new tomorrow.

Fresh air washed over them.
Freedom from the bonds of
surrounding brethren was short lived.
Another giant encased Two in darkness
before a painful earthquake shook it’s very core.

Feeling less substantial than before
and held upside down, this new giant
moved Two back and forth
before speaking out loud,
“‘Whistling Bells Toll Insanity.’ A poem.”

Preserved next to duplicates
felt nothing to the annoyance of
flipping back and forth
from gray precedence to pink bottom.
What great work was Two doing?

The giant, at length, read Two’s great achievement.
“A bell and a whistle going off,
marking the starting point. Of what?
In lieu of everything
in the beginning and the end.”





L. Paul Fobert Jr.
3/13/11

Diary of a Fly

Feces, sputum, open sores.
Moist decaying organic matter.
Food.

Summertime is here again.
My time for play.
Fun.

Behind me are the larval and pupa days.
Warm places mean room to breed.
Freedom.

Fluttering wings buzzing through the air.
A lively and energetic sound.
Bzzzz.

A colorful blur swifting through my breeze.
What is it I wonder?
Splat!!!





L. Paul Fobert Jr.
3/13/11

Diary of a Worm

Anal, tubular, slimy and gross.
The earthworm.
Me.

I fertilize biologically, chemically, and physically.
My home is an area as moist as my flesh.
Dirt.

Functioning while dry.
That’s for my enemies.
Birds.

Humans, kids in general, pull at me, cut me in half.
Creating a doppelganger. Myth or not it still hurts.
Ouch.

All five hearts beat fast.
The little monsters come to play.
Soccer.

Funnier When Drunk Short Story

L. Paul Fobert Jr.

2/06/11

Funnier When Drunk

It was time. The pre-planning was over. Mal pulled his cell out of his pocket. His phone was hard to hold onto, that's how sweaty his hand was. It said 12:30 while the clock with the beer bottle handles above the door said 12:27. He would go by his cell, more accuracy that way. He had come into this rundown bar an hour ago and sat down waiting for one o’clock. He was recognized instantly by the frequent customers. He was a frequent customer as well. This was the beginning.

Mal means bad in Latin. That is why he chose the name. Bad people do bad things. Like studying people before they need to die.

He wasn’t drunk, but he knew how to act like it as he studied the people in the bar. Covertly looking up from his glass as he acted his part, Mal saw two big men wearing cowboy hats and plaid shirts with pearl snaps to his right, both of them trying to hustle one another for five hundred dollars. They would be fighting before the night was over. He made a note to keep a wary eye on them. Behind him, at a table, a slim man in a tee shirt was drowning his sorrows, while behind him two drunken young lovers; a purple haired man and a blonde woman; were playing darts. To his left the plump brunette barmaid, who had a scar running across her left arm, was flirting with an underweight redheaded woman with fake tits. These two whores were why he was here. They were his targets.

He clutched Vera tighter to his chest. She was a .22 caliber pistol he had concealed in his oversized parka as he listened to the two women flirting with distaste. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” the barmaid asked, “I love Sex on the Beach.”

The look on the redhead’s face made it clear exactly what she was imagining. She looked flustered before smiling back. It was disgusting. “I don’t have a problem with that. Although I prefer a Comfortable Screw,” the redhead replied after a moment.

They looked at each other for a few more moments before the barmaid pulled the redhead off the stool and into the backroom. “My name’s-,” the barmaid said.

"I don't care," the redhead interupted with a kiss.

She pecked the barmaid. It only took a few moments for the plump woman to respond in kind. How much had they had to drink already? However many it was, neither one seemed to mind the slobber and drool as the two of them continued towards the back room. If any other patrons noticed this they didn’t take any interest or seem to care either. This was why Mal was going to do what it was he was doing.

They had yet to lean each other's names The clocks read 12:37 and 12:40. Having watched these two whores before Mal knew they would be back out here flirting before it was time. In the meantime, he looked over at the other five occupants in the bar. The other casualties in his cause. They would all die. He clutched Vera, thinking about the euphoria to come. The couple who were playing darts sat themselves down next to him. Mal loved to look at her. She could easily distract him. Tonight she was acting more blonde than usual. After every kiss the tall wire-y, beanpole would give her, she would spout off a random nonsensical question.

“Why is it that if you put two cents in you only get a penny for your thoughts?”

“I don’t know,” her boyfriend said, smiling in amusement. When he leaned in to kiss her again he removed his wire-rimmed glasses. His oddly colored hair didn’t clash as much without them.

“What would happen if you got a paper cut on a get well card?”

“Are you asking me these questions or are you just asking them in general.” As he kissed her again Mal noticed that that he didn’t get any feedback. The blonde seemed to be lost in her own world. The man had not yet noticed this.

Mal glanced towards the back room. He had a perfect view of the two whores. Taking in their state of near undress, he knew he still had a little time before he killed them. The two men playing pool were getting louder. The man wearing the authentic cowboy hat was winning and it was making the man in the black hat a sore loser. By his guess they would be fighting before he put his plan into action. They could cry foul at his actions before anyone else. They would have to die first.

The blonde’s ‘boyfriend’ was getting annoyed with them. The blonde herself seemed lost in her own little world. “Why do people say you can read a picture book? It doesn’t make sense. You view a picture book.”

The men at the pool table had annoyed the blonde’s boyfriend so much he was starting to get frustrated with her. “Where’s the barmaid?” he asked, before muttering, “I need another drink. Now.”

“Why was Winnie the Pooh sophisticated enough to put honey in jars, but not get it out of jars without making such a mess? How did he get it in there in the first place? Didn’t he know what a spoon was?” The blonde’s boyfriend had given up trying to kiss her questions away and was wildly searching for the barmaid, who was currently moaning pleasure in the back.

“When Donald Duck gets out of the shower why does he have a towel wrapped around his waist when he never wears any pants?”

“I don’t know the answer to any of these, Caroline. May I have a drink please?”

The barmaid didn’t hear him. Whether or not it was because she and her lover were in the middle of ecstatic pleasure or because the two men at the pool table were nearing the climax of their fight, Mal did not know. What he found most interesting of all was how easy he knew everyone was going to be killed. Despite everyone's attitudes he knew they were all depressed. There could be no other reason why no one cared about whores having loud sex in the back room. What they were doing was against all natural laws of god and man and he would put a stop to it.

12:42. 12:45.

“Why doesn’t glue stick to the inside of the bottle?”

“I don’t know,” her boyfriend replied.

"Is it bad luck if you find a four-leaf clover under a ladder and what if a black cat walks under a ladder and breaks a mirror?”

Mal nearly snorted into his drink. They were the most ridiculous questions he had ever heard and yet they were oddly intriguing. He liked the way her mind worked.

The odd-looking boyfriend didn’t think so. At the top of his lungs he bellowed, “What does a guy have to do to get drunk in this fuckin’ bar.”

The two women in the back yelped and sat up off the shelf of kegs they were sitting on. Only half dressed, they seemed embarassed enough to look around to make sure no no was watching. Mal bent his head down into his drink.

“Coming!” The barmaid shouted.

Her brunette lover giggled.

The redhead slapped the chunky lover's butt playfully before they started fixing their clothes.

“You dirty cheater. I want my money,” the man with the black cowboy hat yelled.

“What’s going on out there?” the barmaid called out, not yet finished with her clothes.

Mal cursed himself. He had waited too long to take care of them. He needed to act fast. He looked at the clock above the door. 12:47. That meant it was 12:50.

“I’ll take care of the problem,” Mal muttered.

He didn’t want to do it this way, but the plan could still work if he got them outside. They were drunk enough.

He casually walked over to the pool table and heard Caroline ask, as if the men weren’t causing any trouble, “When atheists go to court do they have to swear on a bible?” Mal hoped he was never in a position to swear on any bible. He was definitely an atheist.

Picking up their remaining betting money, Mal walked out into the cold, winter, Illinois night. The two men followed shortly after, once they had realized what had happened. As the door opened he heard, “What’s a Hot Pocket called when it’s cold?” 

“That’s ours,” the man in the authentic hat yelled.

“Give it back,” the man in the black hat yelled.

“From what I understood of your argument it belongs to only one of you. I’ll make you a deal. Hand to hand combat, a fight to the death to see who should have the money or…” he pulled Vera out of his parka. Always be prepared. He learned that last time. Mal was the only member of his former gang to serve jail time (He considered himself lucky, the others died in that hostage standoff). That was the way it had to be. That was why he couldn’t leave evidence. Why he couldn’t get caught.

Without warning he shot both of the gambling cowboys perfectly between the eyes. There were no cameras out here. But getting everyone out would be too difficult and take too long. The original plan was still the best option. He put the gun back into the parka and left the bodies where they were, knowing that even out in the open, no one would be coming to the bar until morning. All the late night regulars were already here.

Entering the bar again the only change he saw was the whores sitting where they were before their unnaturalnness.

“How old do you have to be before they say you died of old age?” After being out in the dark, Caroline’s bright pink, tightly-hugging tee-shirt and crème colored leather pants seemed to blind Mal even more than the neon signs decorating the walls. He looked at the clock once more and gave a sigh at how slowly time moved when people paid attention to it.

12:48. 12:51.

“Here’s your Screaming Orgasm sir,” the barmaid said.

“Where’s my Screaming Orgasm?” her lover whispered.

“Didn’t you get yours?” the barmaid asked, whispering back in mock outrage.

Leaning in her lover responded: “No. We were interrupted. But later on tonight, you're mine.”

Mal smiled as he sat down. In nine minutes they would be dead.

“Why did Sally sell seashells on the seashore? It is more profitable to pick them up off the beach for free.”

“Baby,” Caroline's date tried redirecting her attention, “do you know what’s in a Screaming Orgasm?”

Mal snorted once more into his drink.

“Do you want me to help you make one?” The underweight redhead said, overhearing the question.

The barmaid scowled at Caroline then at her redheaded lover.

“If you pamper a cow do you get spoiled milk?” Caroline continued, ignoring the jealousy around her.

“Um, kahlua, Irish cream, amaretto and vodka,” The purple haired boy answered his own question.

“How did the Wicked Witch of the West bathe?”

Mal glanced around to check on the depressed drunk. He had moved only enough to lift his beer to his mouth. The whores had moved down to the end of the bar and had linked hands. They were gazing intently into each other’s eyes. It would not be hard not to pull Vera out and fire her at them right now.

“Why is the alphabet in that order?”

Caroline's date lost all reason on his temper and roared, “I don’t know. I don’t care.”

Mal nearly pulled his gun as quick as he did the night he was arrested. The beer bottles said it was only 12:50; seven minutes to go. The whores looked up in shock, unlinkinking their hands. The depressed man, for the first time, showed signs of life, as a look of warning crossed his face.

In a whisper Caroline begged, “Why do people refer to being happy or in love as ‘head over heels?’ Isn’t that how we are already?” She emphasized the word ‘we.’

Her date calmed in less than a second and said, “Yeah baby, we are.”

She smiled and continued her questions, “Why isn’t ‘palindrome’ spelled the same way backwards? Why isn’t ‘phonetic’ spelled the way it sounds? And why is ‘abbreviate’ such a long word?”

Her date groaned. The depressed man went back to drowning his sorrows. The whores went back to gazing into each other’s eyes and Mal considered three more of the blondes odd, yet compelling questions.

A police officer with shoulder length red hair and a cold, hard stare of blue eyes, narrowed at the room in question, walked through the door which got caught on a rock that the cop had kicked into place.

“Why’s a partially open door ajar, but a partially open jar adoor?”

The lady cop seemed to take Caroline’s hint and turned to remove the rock and let the door close all the way. Outwardly Mal showed no signs of panic. Inside his body was screaming in alarm. She wasn’t one of the regulars. There was absolutely no way she hadn’t seen those bodies displayed out there for all the world to see. Would she know who had done it? He had to hope the answer was no.

“What’ll it be?” The barmaid asked.

“Bourbon,” the cop said, arriving at the bar.

The depressed man looked up again with a little bit of shock before deciding he didn’t care and dropped his head onto the table again.

Mal didn’t blame him. They weren’t the only ones staring. Caroline and the barmaid were also having trouble concealing the fact that an on duty cop would bend the rulebook in front of a bar full of people. But maybe this would work in his favor. Maybe she was already drunk and didn’t see the bodies? That theory didn’t fly considering the glare she was producing to the room. Maybe she would get so drunk she would forget about them?

“Why do flammable and inflammable mean the same thing?” Caroline asked. She was the only one to not notice the cop’s entrance.

“They don't. I don't think. I can't remember. Ask me again when I'm sober,” her date said answering a question for the first time.

“Can I have a beer?” Caroline asked. “I haven’t had anything to drink yet.”

Mal was the only one who didn’t look shocked at this. He was looking at the clock again.

12:52. 12:55. From here on he would go only by his cell phone.

“Why do people say their alarm clocks are going off when they’re actually coming on?” she asked the empty chair that was currently getting her a drink as well as one for himself.

The barmaid was giving the cop her drink when she pulled another one from behind the counter, handed it to the purple-haired boy and said, “Are you sure?”

“No,” he replied, and then added as an afterthought, “Can I get a double Absinthe?”

The whores giggled.

“Unfortunately we don’t sell that here. Considering your problem,” she said, gesturing at Caroline, “Whiskey should do the trick. I might need one too if she keeps it up.”

“No you don’t,” her lover said said, “we’ll just continue what was interrupted a few minutes ago in the back."

The boy's eyes unfocused as he got a faraway, dreamy look on his face. Mal tightened his grip on his gun. The slender lesbian brought the boy back to earth by waving her hand in front of his face. He turned around and squinted towards Caroline not noticing the whore’s hasty retreat, once again, to the back room.

“Why do people squint when they’re trying to see something better?” Caroline asked the reoccupied chair, “Doesn’t that make a person’s vision less visible?” Her boyfriend set the drinks down on the table Caroline didn’t seem to notice, but he took a large gulp of his Whiskey. Watching so many people drink was getting to Mal. He wanted a drink so bad, but he couldn’t until after the job was over.

“Here’s something to ponder lady,” the depressed man said, once again lifting his head from the table, “Why is there a toll on freeways and Why is ‘Joey’ short for ‘Joe?’”

A loud, pleasurable moan sailed from the back room. Mal's cell was even harder to touch than before. He put on his gloves again. His cell read 12:56. They were louder this time than they were fifteen minutes ago. The entire bar heard them. The distraction caused him to pull out Vera without anyone noticing. Still had more than enough bullets for everyone in the bar. Purple Hair, Depressed Man, and Female Cop hit the ground, dead.

The sound of the gun was not only muted by the silencer, but also by sounds from the back room.

He turned his back on the three victims to face Caroline who was looking at him with a frown on her face. “I had four more questions I wanted to ask.”

Smiling Mal said, “Yeah. And what were they baby.”

“What’s a hacky and why is it in a sack? What would a fly without wings be called? And if a singer sings an original song, is it still karaoke?”

Before he could ask what the other question was, a groan interrupted him. One of these days he was going to have to find a way to keep focused on work around her. There were still people they needed to kill. Caroline pulled her own unnamed .22 that did not have a silencer on it out of her pocket and fired it at the rising depressed man’s head, killing him.

“What was that?” The barmaid called out through her orgasms. Caroline’s .22 couldn’t be muffled by sex.

Mal pointed Vera and waited for the two whores to come back into the room.

Caroline walked over to the dead alcoholic, emptied his pockets and pulled out a Police Department badge. “Figures,” Caroline muttered. As she tossed the badge to Mal. They stood next to each other ready to take out the whores when they walked into the room.

The redheaded whore came into the front room curious and unarmed. Stupid. Before she could react, Caroline shot her in the shoulder. She fell to the floor in pain behind the bar.

“Where’s your whore?” Mal asked.

“I thought your bitch was the one who asked the questions,” the injured girl asked. Her voice broke over her bravery.

Mal fired his gun, shattering glasses sitting on the shelves above, raining glass down on her.

“Where is she?” Mal repeated.

“She in the back, where it’s safe,” The redhead said. “Why are you doing this?”

“Come out Bitch, I've got your whore hostage.” Mal yelled, ignoring the barmaid's injured slut.

“She can hear you and she isn’t that stupid. Why are you doing this?” The redhead repeated.

“Cleansing the earth, two by two,” Caroline replied.

Two shots followed immediately. The injured hostage watched as Mal and Caroline hit the ground.

Mal was still, eyes wide open, only breathing in quick, shallow breaths.

Caroline was breathing in big, rasping gasps. The former hostage looked up at the barmaid, who was standing over Caroline with a shotgun aimed at her. They nodded to each other to acknowledge they were okay.

"Honey," Mal slowly carefully and painfully linked his hand with hers. "That fourth question," she said between gasps, “Why is it that when two things almost crash into one another, it’s called a near miss and not a near hit?”

With those words the two died holding each others hands.

.

A Mother's Special Day Poem

L. Paul Fobert Jr.
5/03/11

A Mother’s Special Day

Whether you are friend and companion
or “sugar and spice and everything nice”
a mother is who you are.
“To be or not to be?” There is no question.

Appreciation is an ill-fated rarity.
That’s why there’s Mother’s Day.
This special day falls on a Sunday
which ungodly children make more necessary.

We are right and wrong.
Mother’s Day is of special importance.
It shouldn’t feel that way,
instead should come naturally.

You are wonderful, caring, gentle, and strong,
patient during a loved one’s foolish pride.
The energy required comes from your heart.
How else do you put up with me?

Chauffeur, cook, playmate, friend;
to do it all, I can only wonder.
Today. Mothers Day. A special Sunday
no longer seems enough thanks.

Gratitude for everything.
Anything precious to you,
I hold dear
as long as you want.

Forever will last
not long at all.
The time we are given
will never be wasted.

Mother’s Day is not a day to be forgotten.
It will always be remembered.
My mother, that’s who I need.
You are who I love.

Poems - Zombie Series

L. Paul Fobert

January 29, 2011

Apocalypse

It has begun. The apocalypse, walking dead style.

George A. Romero and Thriller. Examples worthwhile

of our gut-wrenching impending doom.

Holding a gun, I stare in the room.

It is oh, so messy

As it feeds on Jessie.

Night of the Living Dead and Michael Jackson

pop culture icons with this kind of action.

The reincarnated corpse looks up from its meal

intent to gouge. I came along, a better deal.

Its not fast.

What a blast.

Pandemic? Epidemic? Who would know?

A solitary man. Guy named Joe Blow.

He’s dead now. The gun in my hand,

fires at the puppet. Stunned, I stand,

horror turns to shock,

My mind is a lock.

Halloween costumes were fun.

This was all said, all but done,

when the problem began

in the town of No Man.

Years ago that was

now the world’s on pause.

There’s another one.

Where is all the fun?

He’s even more dimwitted

than others I outwitted.

A pain in my neck, from behind.

Now all over. Did others find?

Pain. Ache. Hurt. An unbearable feeling.

Why do they eat as I lay here bleeding?

Ghouls of forgotten lore

Voodoo practice done for.

I am becoming one of them. I am finished.

I will soon be dead. I will be…I am famished.

L. Paul Fobert Jr.

February 06, 2011

I Am What I Am

Hungry. To feed.

Need what I need.

Moving slow, but as fast as I must.

Bloody victims leave me in the dust.

Thirsting for humans who are gory.

The tasty ones are over forty.

Searching graveyards,

fruitless. Backyards,

not so much.

To feel, touch,

I don’t relate. I hunger for human flesh and a brain.

Eating’s my pastime. It is fun. It’s what gives humans pain.

Maybe I should join others,

of my kind. Eat some mothers.

My appetite is wet,

expectations are met,

the smell of mouth-watering flesh,

it possesses me. Hunger, fresh.

My victim heads to the street.

Running, yet walking. These feet,

are burdened.

Awakened.

They need to stay

and still the day.

They are brainless,

I am fearless.

On the run.

This is fun.

Around the twist,

I met a fist.

Their numbers were many

And I wasn’t any.

I was the hunter. How could they be hunting me?

Earth. The world. My eating ground. They let me be.

Why? I must be confined.

This is my final bind.

Poems - Ghost Series

L. Paul Fobert Jr.

January 30, 2011

An Ode to the Afterlife

1. Traditional beliefs, neither good nor evil,

yet always deceased. History. Necromancers, séances, hunters,

cartoons, trains, and ships;

individualistic parts of a whole.

Mythology based and feared in more than

nightmarish dreams of reality.

2. An indoor phenomenon, usually.

Poltergeist. Troublesome disorder. People haunting.

Causing havoc is their fun.

Peeves gets us all peeved.

His pranks are more legendary

than any history recorded.

3. Unfinished afterlife business

causes unwarranted trouble for the living.

Haunting. Apparitions haunt specific areas of designation.

Their purpose becomes our worst fears come true.

Objects moving, nothing to guide,

The restless are not appeased.

4. Appeasing fears religiously.

Spiritualism. Exorcisms and ritual magic

brings joy and comfort

to those who seek truth or fear it.

The world is filled with unanswered questions.

Who’s to say how we find them.

5. To pursue is to fear and we fear what we stalk.

Hunting. Spirits entertained us under our false ideals of study.

We do not study what we fear most of all; death.

If material proof found,

fear would turn to abhorrence

and abhorrence to violence.

6. We need not fear or become violent,

cartoons have proven this.

Casper. He was friendly.

The friendliest one we know.

He had a smile for every soul around.

Alive or dead.

Poems - Witch Series

Burn

Is this what it has come to?
Waiting for death,
my sister next to me.

Eleanor deserved this.
Doesn’t all family?
But what did I do?

The purest of all white magic
was needed to bind her,
black magic and all.

Our future surrounded us.
The newly ordained priest
reluctantly sentenced us the day before.

Was he afraid of us?
Of my sister?
She certainly wanted him dead.

With the town crying at us to burn
I stopped my sister’s attempted murder
And closed my eyes for the last time.










Watching and Waiting

Evil most foul.
Vile and filthy sinners,
all of them.

Sister sinners,
christened dirty
for blood-linking with their ancestors.

All deserve to burn in
fire and brimstone.
The law does not understand what I must do.

Executions were done
one way and one way only.
There are no hangings anymore.

My predecessor was wrong.
I killed him.
No confession to punishing the guilty.

My collar didn’t look as white as usual.
The prisoners were mumbling.
Nothing happened.










Dog Walking

Spike is taking a shit.
He does so on this spot every day.
He’s never been told not to.

New York City is a great place.
Passerby’s don’t notice.
Passerby’s don’t care.

A woman walked by.
She dressed funny.
Was today Halloween?

The dress she wore was in rags,
torn through the middle,
not covering her modesty.

I smiled.
Was she protesting?
Maybe a flower child wannabe?

I smiled again as she turned
and dropped all pretenses.
Her steely glare chilled me.










The Perfect Sacrifice

The twenty-first century.
I was no longer feared.
I am the last of my kind.

My traitorous sister,
long dead and buried
with the rest of the bloodline.

Doesn’t matter now.
I came here for a reason.
The Perfect Sacrifice.

No one will stop me.
The male with the four-legged creature;
both will howl in pain before I finish.

I shed my clothing, beginning the ritual on
a male in uniform, the local executioner,
The Perfect Sacrifice.

“The valley draws me near,
I taketh that which I must,
soul of an unclean warrior.”










Fire

She was talking about me.
The chanting was creepy.
Miranda Rights needed to be read.

Pulling out my handcuffs I said,
“You have the right to remain silent.”
I didn’t get any further.

My eyes exploded in blinding pain.
I dropped to the ground, grabbing my temples.
I reached for my gun.

Iron hot, it burned my hand,
blazing like fire.
How do I put it out?

My heart raced, not from adrenaline.
The pain spread.
My clothes were on fire.

I was on fire.
A young woman rushed to my defense.
I saw no more.










Fireworks

My ancestor.
Eleanor.
Sister of Hannah.

How did I know it was her?
How is she here?
She turns to me expressionless.

The haunted look
in her eyes
frightened me.

“I don’t need you anymore,”
she said to the dead policeman,
“Ancestor’s blood is stronger.”

Absorbing my gasp,
I twisted it into my own device of
horrors to unleash.

I closed my eyes.
Eleanor screamed.
She light up the street like a fireworks display.

Two poems - Gradma and Forgotten Wonders of Time

Grandma

Grandma, I love you.
Where have you gone?
Grandma I miss you.
Why did you leave?

There is comfort you provide
when all seems lost and gone.
There is warmth you provided
when your presence never dare dwindled.

Grandma, I need you.
Who are you with now?
Grandma, I welcome you.
When will you come home?

Every hour is a pinging pain my heart
begs as if in want of your chief loss.
Remembering moments of you
a radiant smile appears on my face.

Grandma, I hate not knowing.
What are you doing?
Grandma, I love you.
How are you doing?

Comfort and warmth is not enough.
Pinging pains grow more sorrowful.
Sorrow turns to joy
When we see each other again.










Forgotten Wonders of Time

Memories exist in motionless places and time.
Current thoughts escape on a cloud,
fluffy and puffy and swirling and pink in their prime.
Nature’s too rich and oh so loud,
for one such as you to ignore.
Rewarding you thus makes me proud.

Forgotten wonders, then and now lost eternally,
neither sun nor moon awaken,
bonds of so so long ago. Eclipsing, faithfully,
all evil tortures forever.
Life eternal and youth divine, make us carefully,
carefully, darefully, hasten.

Sitting, watching, lying around as age takes a hold.
Waiting for youth to reassert
what has been lost to both you and I to extreme cold.
We ignore all said signs of dessert.
Cake, pie, candy, and molasses.
Sinful sloth, absent to assert.

A wakeup call is a sharp slap to lazy faces.
Why have I been holding back all?
When did you, my companion, stop taking all my cases?
We were strong, courageous, and proud.
Fools we were to let ourselves fall.
We get up. Tie our shoe laces.

At Thirteen and forty-two you humbly order me,
Never not knowing I listen.
The day has come and been gone. I fall and scrap my knee.
Hard at work we both do glisten.
How do we continue this new, everlasting road?
What hardships are there soon to be?

Memories of yesterday. Forgotten time and space.
A willingness that is divine.
A depressed moodiness turned into a cheerful face.
At long last, now we can go on.
Now we are great. We are wonderful and we are fine.
Do you feel that way? Like an ace?

This is now the end. Finished. And yet is not finished.
There is no relief in mere sight
for the continuing journey life has now anguished.
Reason and rhyme give form in night
Memories exist everywhere and yet still nowhere.
The sun rises; darkness perished.

Werewolf Poems

Too Much

I can’t stand it.
The sound is driving me crazy.
They’re kids. My kids.
How much noise do they need to make?
I need to put a stop to it.

My boys were wrestling.
My little girl was lying on the floor.
Was she hurt?
Was she in Rick and Jack’s crossfire?
Or were they just playing?

“What are you doing?”
Apparently playing.
A part of me wished
I could act that way again.
“Do you have to be so loud?”

“You could play with us Daddy.
Then you wouldn’t notice
how loud we were,” Katie said,
eyes closed, awkwardly spread on the floor.
I didn’t know the dangers that lay ahead.





I Know What You Are

I know what It is.
Fast and strong, like a bear.
Able to stand upright like a mere cat.
Silent, yet loud
and more dangerous than anything alive.

Hair of coarse fibers,
black as night.
Glowing yellow eyes
twinkle in darkness,
searching for human prey.

The moon’s lunation
directs It at Its target.
The victim turns.
With a growl and a yelp
It attacks.

What could I have done?
Would I have been killed too?
When twilight comes
It turns into human form;
in control until the next full moon.





X

I watched for a month.
The office, the store and home.
Places It traveled.
Its lycanthrope joyride unimportant.
Did It know what it had done?

Last night wasn’t Its first time.
My first viewing
under a bright, yellow moon,
a family of four was mauled.
I hadn’t known what It was.

Regret is strong.
Could I have done anything?
Its name still escapes me.
I call It X.
X calls me dinner.

A sliver of moon is missing.
Tomorrow X will attack
another unsuspecting someone.
I know what X is now,
and how to stop It.





Hunting

I came upon the transformation,
a jaw-dropping event.
My moment was coming.
X needed no sheep’s clothing
to hide what’s inside.

Guns stuffed
in bib pockets.
My face heated up.
Killing this creature in overalls.
Not a pleasant task.

A feral growling
railroaded my thoughts.
I fired my guns in time.
The bullet chipped concrete,
Missing the target by inches.

Death was near.
Blood stained concrete,
none belonged to the animal,
X was gone.
I closed my eyes for the last time.





What Have I Done?

The sun’s rays beam down
on my naked backside.
Groggily I open my eyes to
a mess of blood and gore.
What have I done?

Standing is problematic.
I’m nude in public daylight.
Is anyone looking?
Why?
What have I done?

Running for cover
I left John or Jane Doe behind.
Broken. Beaten. Dead.
I left the body behind.
What have I done?

What was I supposed to do?
Memories start flooding me.
People torn apart.
It scared me.
What have I done?





Why?

Clothes are an invention of man.
My father tells me
nudity is a sweet sin only
around women.
I love clothes.

Why was I naked?
Why was I naked in a public place?
Why in broad daylight?
Why does the light bother my eyes?
And why does that man smell so delicious?

A man walked by.
Shouldn’t be a reason to worry.
The old geezer smelled of raw meat.
Or like raw meat.
Why?

Why was I smelling delicious humans?
Why did they make my mouth water?
Why was my eyesight so weak?
Why had I been nude?
And why did none of these things bother me?





Vengeance

The hardest part was not knowing.
People are right about that.
Should I worry about it?
Too many people smelled good.
I had to investigate.

A month passed. No answers came.
A mauled corpse, keen eyesight and hearing.
A terrible hunger.
The only explanation was…
Wow.

I can’t believe it. I’m a –
I dare not use the word.
I fear it won’t be true.
Tonight is the full moon.
If it is true, vengeance is mine.

The next-door neighbor,
the girl who refused my advances,
my parents.
All of them.
No life will be spared.





The Next Door Neighbor

Midnight.
What am I doing out this late?
Crickets are creepy in the city too.
Every step I take, every sound I hear,
echoes like a gunshot.

Imagination plays tricks
on the mind.
A growling sound.
Can’t be real.
Can it?

I hate the dark.
I want to go home.
Now.
There’s that growling again.
It isn’t fake.

I hit the ground hard.
The weight registered,
then the growling.
What makes that kind of sound?
No animal I –





The Girl

I knew when I dreamed.
I didn’t know how.
Not everyone did.
Falling off a cliff awoke me.
The dream had become a nightmare.

I needed to read
to stem the adrenaline flow.
My thoughts were jumbled.
Clusters of images.
I was chased to that cliff.

Sitting down relaxed me.
Crime and Punishment did not.
I was determined to finish.
I wish Brad was here.
He knew how to relax me.

The window shattered.
A giant shape lunged at me
pinning me to my bed.
My dream! Was this what chased me?
Was this a crime or a punishment?





It’s Over

I lay sprawled on the ground,
my three kids by my side.
Two hours was long enough.
Playtime is exhausting.
I’m the adult. I say when it’s over.

“It’s over kids.”
Jack sprung from the floor.
He had played
The Hunter hazardously.
“You heard me son.”

Jack dropped the dart gun
sulking away with Rick,
playtime’s fearful neighbor.
“Goodnight Daddy,” Katie said,
kissing my cheek.

She had played the scared girl badly.
She tried so hard. I never scared her.
I nicked the dart gun,
lifting myself from the floor.
“Thank God playtime is over.”

Spoiled Fantasy

Spoiled Fantasy

By: L. Paul Fobert

It had been incredible. The best sex, no, the best lovemaking she had ever had. Lynni lay on an extravagant, silk covered bed. Next to her laid the love of her life. One day they would be together in more ways than just the flesh. She was sure of it. She just didn’t know how. Lying there watching her loved one sleep, she began to think. Wonderful memories of the first time they had met. Back when Lynni was working in the kitchens.

“Are you all right child?” A man asked gently.

“Wha…” The girl asked looking around, her long, black, tangled hair swinging back and forth as she did. She had just woken up from a nice dream about...she couldn’t remember what it was about. All she remembered was that it was nice. She wiped the rest of the sleep from her eyes and gazed into the flour-dusted face of The Master Baker.

“Are you all right?” he repeated.

“Yes. I’m fine.”

“What’s your name?”

“Lynni, sir.”

“Do you know who I am Lynni?”

She nodded.

“I’m The Master Baker. Get back to work!” he yelled. Grabbing her by the wrist with his right hand. He was left-handed; he pulled her off the soft and comfortable flour sacks she had been sleeping in and drug her towards the oven. His right hand didn’t have his two middle fingers. Yet somehow even with only the use of his thumb, his pinkie, and his forefinger he managed to have the strongest grip of anyone in the kitchens, and quite possibly anyone in the castle.

The Master Baker had no name. He was referred to as The Master Baker ever since she could remember. The rumors about him flew around the kitchens like scavengers searching for food. Lynni wasn’t sure what to believe. Some rumors referred to him as a pompous ass with a temper and other rumors said he was the most lovable man in the kingdom. With her he was both, so she was always nervous around him.

One thing about The Master Baker that was an actual fact was how he lost his fingers. Lynni knew how this happened because she was the one who had done it, unbeknownst to him. They were alone in a particular room of the kitchens. He was shaping dough while she was cutting the baked bread. Next thing she knew she was slicing through his fingers. The specific details he will never remember. During this incident Lynni had found out that he had a memory problem of some sort. After running out of there so fast she was afraid of tripping over her tattered and worn dress she realized he wasn’t chasing her. She slowly went back and peeked around the corner without being seen. She watched as Theodore, the baker’s apprentice, tried his best to bandage his Master’s fingers while the baker’s boy, who was the apprentice’s apprentice cleaned up the blood that had covered The Master Baker’s white shirt, pants and even his bakers hat. The Master Baker was telling them he didn’t know how he had done it. Lynni thought this was odd since he had seen her do it. She never mentioned the incident to anybody.

“You’re going to scrub the oven clean. And be quick. Dinner needs to be started soon.” Lynni was forced out of her thoughts by The Master Baker’s orders. “After you’re done with that, the stove needs a good scrubbing too.” He picked up a brush and threw it at her feet then he turned and stormed off about to leave her alone, but turned around just before leaving and said in a much more soothing voice, “When you finish here. You’re welcome to leave. I’ll have Theodore finish up.”

For the next few hours she scrubbed until she thought her hands would bleed. “Excuse me, miss?” A soft melodic woman’s voice behind her asked with authority.

Lynni had never heard this voice before. She turned to see the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. She was a noblewoman from the looks of it. Dressed in the finest clothing she had ever seen. Reddish brown hair pulled into a bun to go with a bright red silk dress. Behind her stood a trembling Master Baker. Trembling? This woman must be important. She glanced one more time at The Master Baker and giggled. “What’s so funny?” The woman asked kindly but still holding the air of authority. Before Lynni could say anything the noblewoman answered her own question with a small smile, “He amuses me too.” She turned to him and said with even more authority than she had before, “Leave us. I wish to speak with her alone.” Lynni had never seen anyone move that fast before.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Lynni asked.

The noblewoman standing before her answered with a question, “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty summers.” In The Known Lands, people always answered this question with the season they were born in. Lynni wasn’t sure why. She actually thought it was odd, but it would have been even more odd to say something someone might not understand. “Who are you? What do you want?” She asked again, ignoring the fact that her questions were inappropriate.

“I’m twenty-five summers. My name is Rowan. What is your name?”

Lynni ignored the question entirely this time. Her eyes went wide. Rowan? Rowan was the only widowed noblewoman in all The Known Lands. Rumors around the kitchens told of how men not only in the castle but also throughout The Known Lands traveled for miles to try and win her heart. Her husband had been one of the richest men to ever be recorded in history books. When he died he left everything to her. It always left her wondering whether the men were after the money or her. Now she knew. It was her. It had to be.

“Hey.” Rowan said gently bringing her out of her thoughts, “Are you okay?” When Lynni nodded gently still unable to speak Rowan asked her what her name was again. It took her a couple more seconds but she finally choked out, “Lynni.”

Lynni, I’m looking for a new Lady’s Maid. The king and queen offered to let me use their servant along with them but I politely turned them down. I preferred a hard worker that was female. I was told to see the kitchen staff in this case. I guess what I’m trying to ask is will you be my Lady’s Maid?

“Will I be your Lady’s Maid?” Lynni repeated, not believing what she was hearing.

“That’s what I’m asking you, yes. If your up to it.”

After a moment of thought to process everything that had happened in the last few moments, Lynni breathlessly replied, “Yes Milady.”

Ever since that day about a year ago Lynni has been Rowan’s Lady’s Maid. Everything about it had been wonderful. She turned to Rowan who was sleeping peacefully next to her. She and Rowan had been together since last summer six months ago. It wasn’t easy. The founder of Lavek, King Galin, made a law stating no member of the same sex was allowed to show any sign of affection towards each other. Neither she nor Rowan cared about that though and after a little resistance on both their parts, they gave in.

Lynni leaned over and planted a light kiss on the side of her lover’s head. Rowan woke up groggily until she stared into Lynni’s hazel eyes with her own. Smiling, she slid her hand beneath the sheets causing Lynni to let out a soft moan of pleasure. “Oh, Rowan.” She didn’t stop. “Milady.” That did it. Lynni had once tried to play a game she called master and servant, but Rowan didn’t like it, so every time they needed to put a stop to things, she played the “Milady” card. It was their safety word, in case things either went too far or they just weren’t in the mood.

“Why’d you do that baby?” Rowan asked.

“I need to be getting back to the servants quarters before anyone notices I’ve gone missing.” Rowan grunted her disapproval as Lynni got out of bed and started putting on her clothes. Lady’s Maid’s were the highest servant’s in the castle, but they still had to wear rags. After she finished dressing, she kissed her lady passionately on the mouth before exiting the chamber swinging her hips, knowing that her lover’s eyes were staring at her swaying buttocks.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Dressed entirely in black, the tall, portly figure slid gracefully down the hallway. It was almost sunrise so the figure had to make it quick. It didn’t matter who it was as long as the job got done. Moving through the shadows was something the figure was not accustomed to. The figure was usually followed everywhere. That was why this had to be done now, an hour before sunrise. None of the servants would be up fixing fires. The cooks wouldn’t be fixing breakfast and lovers would be hiding in more conspicuous spots than hallways and corridors. Hearing footsteps, the figure pressed against the wall in the darkest shadows and waited.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Walking through the halls each night was the worst part about Lynni’s relationship with Rowan. She always wanted to ask her to come along, but if anyone were to see them together this late at night it could mean anything from jail time to beheading. She didn’t mind though. It didn’t mean that it wasn’t scary.

The sound of flint could be heard down the corridor. After a couple more steps, she saw the sparks light a candle and a figure step away from the wall. He was dressed entirely in black from head to foot. “Wh-wh-who-who a-a-are y-y-yo-yo-you?” Without saying a word, the figure bent over to place the candle in the middle of the corridor and when he stood back up, he silently stared at her as if looking right through her. Lynni was near panic now, “Wh-wh-wha-what a-a-are y-y-yo-yo-you?”

With the speed of a castle guard-maybe that’s who he was, a castle guard-he was upon her. She was on the cold, wet, stone floor with a man nearly three times her size on top of her. He covered her mouth with his left hand and said in a hoarse but threatening voice, “Cooperate or I’ll cut you like a fish.” A cold, tingling sensation appeared at her throat. It was a dirk. She was going to die. “Do you understand?” The figure still had a hand on her mouth. He pulled it away. She began to reply when he told her to shut up. He still had the knife to her throat so she listened.

He moved his hand back to her mouth and the other hand, the hand that held the dirk, began cutting her ragged clothing into even more than the nothing it was. It took him a short amount of time to strip her completely naked. But unlike with Rowan, this wasn’t in a good way. He lifted the dirk back to her throat. The steel cut skin and drew blood making her gasp in shock and pain. Seconds later she felt something enter her womanhood roughly. The way she use to have sex with the cellar steward, only a little harder and without permission. Sheller, she swore in her thoughts. She was being raped.

Afraid for her life she did as she was told and didn’t move, or at least tried not to. It was hard considering how much it hurt. Tears began streaming down her face, blurring her vision. The pain was excruciating, but the entire time he held the dirk at her throat. She could do nothing.

After what seemed like hours, the figure pulled his manhood out of her and took his hand off her mouth to pull his leggings up. “Why?” Lynni sobbed. The dirk cut deeper into her throat.

“I told you to shut your mouth!” he said in a loud whisper. With one quick motion he tore the mask off his head. The pain from between Lynni’s legs was forgotten, momentarily replaced by shock. Her mouth was gaping slightly. Even through her blurred vision she could tell who it was. Anyone who couldn’t shouldn’t be living in this city. The figure was King Fredrick Dartmouth. If the small whiskers (not quite a beard) on his chin didn’t give him away, the jeweled crown certainly did. What was he raping her, or anyone for? Most people would want him anyway. Wouldn’t they? Except her for obvious reasons. Did the queen know about this? “You will tell no one about this. They would never believe you. Do you know what treason is?” She was still in shock so she didn’t answer. “Do you?” The king asked with a little more force. She hesitantly nodded. “Good. Because I’m the one who decides the punishments and if someone were to accuse me of such a crime it wouldn’t go well for them.”

The king thrust his hood back on in one quick motion, adjusted the eye holes to his eyes, then walked back over to the candle, picked it up and walked away leaving her in the dark.

Lynni couldn’t see anything. The shock hadn’t worn off, but the pain was returning. She couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t return to the servant’s quarters either. All the servants slept in the same room. They would all wonder what happened. She had to get up and get back to Rowan’s chambers. She dreaded telling Rowan what had happened. She didn’t want her to have to see her like this. But there was no other way. She slowly lifted herself up using the support of a large crack in the stone wall. Pain coursed throughout her entire body. It was going to be a long trip back.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Rowan was in a dreamlike state. She was lying on top of the covers, still fully naked, staring at the ceiling, while running her fingers through her hair. Rowan loved this time of day just after Lynni left. She was alone in her room for another hour before Lynni would come back into the room and be forced by the law to act proper instead of how they both wanted to act, like lovers free of the law that said that two women couldn’t be together. “Damn Galin and his cursed law. Anyone who loved each other should be able to have a relationship. Anyone.” She whispered. Her thoughts started to drift to the happiest day of her life six months ago. During the biggest festival in Lavek’s history. The Day of First Breaking.

Rowan was excited. The Day of First Breaking was a festival celebrating the day that Lavek became a part of the Known Lands. The first city in the Known Lands. Every city had their own festival with their own name. Anlet celebrated The Day of Light, Suffolk celebrated The First of it All, and even the biggest and wealthiest city in the Known Lands, Wren, dedicated an entire week to The Week of the Richest.

Every city and town was proudest of their own festivals for their own reasons. Oglen was proudest because their city came first. During this particular festival Rowan had picked out a special dress, but not for her, for her Lady’s Maid Lynni. She had been doing the best job any Lady’s Maid had ever done for her and was a little reluctant to admit that if the law allowed, this would be more than just a friendship gift.

Three loud, long raps followed by three short, fast raps made a presence at the door known. Lynni had been purposely sent away to see to other business just so that she would not be here for this visitor. “Enter.”

Roland, the servant to the royal family entered carrying a servant’s dress that was sky blue and floor length. “M’lady,” he announced as he handed her the dress without wrinkling it. A difficult task even for servants and Maids. She always wondered how Roland managed it considering his hands looked so worn and old. Like her grandfather’s did. Most servants would usually put a permanent wrinkle of some sort in it by carrying it the wrong way. Roland didn’t. It was probably because he was the oldest servant in the castle. She could see why the royal family kept him around. There was no fancy ruffles or hoops. It was standard in everything except color. The standard color for servant’s dresses was brown, but Rowan assured the king that by the time she started working hard it would be as brown as all the others. She looked over the dress while dismissing Roland with a wave of her hand, catching a glimpse of the sunset in his bald head. Crazy or not, the queen still knew her fashion.

Rowan heard a single and gentle rap on the door. She put the dress on her bed before bidding Lynni enter. Most servants and maids had their own particular way of knocking on a door and Rowan was pretty sure that she had gotten all the servants knocks she knew down.

“Milady?” Lynni asked as she entered, “You asked me to come back once I was finished? A final task for the day?”

“Yes Lynni. I have something to give you.” Rowan picked the dress off the bed and gave it to Lynni.

Lynni went into shock. “No Milady, I mustn’t.” Rowan’s face fell. She had hoped that Lynni would like the dress. “Oh. That’s all right. If you don’t want…”

“It’s not that,” Lynni interrupted. Rowan was one of the few masters who would allow servants to interrupt her. Most slapped them if they did. She had never slapped a servant and she without a doubt knew Lynni would never be slapped as long as she was her servant. “It’s just that…well…I haven’t done anything to deserve it and I don’t wish to make the other servants jealous. And…are not servants suppose to wear brown?”

Now Rowan understood. She breathed a sigh of relief, “I thought you didn’t want it,” she replied when she saw Lynni’s startled look.

“No!” Lynni shouted causing Rowan to jump. “Sorry, I do…”

“Then take it, please, as a Day of First Breaking gift.”

“All right. Was that all?”

Rowan hesitated. Did she really want to tell her she loved her? Her husband died years ago. It had taken her longer than she expected to move on and when she did all the men were either too boring, too old, too young, too stupid and just not worth her time.

Friendships seemed to be more interesting. It was one of the reasons she started treating her servants so well, not that she didn’t treat them well before. But then Helga died. She had died while doing a simple task for her. That year she was in charge of Galin’s Day, Lavek’s second most important festival. It was more of a feast than a festival like The Day of First Breaking, and was in celebration of Galin, founder of Lavek. While lighting the candles with another, the flame got away from Helga and the fire spread too quickly for her to control. Once it was under control, she was dead.

It took Rowan a month to replace Helga, which was quickly in her mind but a month too long in most noble’s minds. Rowan found herself drawn to Lynni in a way she had never been drawn to anyone. Not even the way she had been drawn to her husband.

Lynni who seemed to be asking her a question brought Rowan out of her thoughts. She focused her attention on what it was she was saying, “Milady? Beg my pardon for asking but are you all right?” Rowan smiled. This was why she loved her. Her sweetness. Her sincerity.

“Yes Lynni I’m fine,” she replied. “I have something I’m going to say and it may shock you.” Without waiting for a response, she decided to just get it over with now. She leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. Worried when Lynni didn’t respond she pulled back and looked at her. She was standing there in shock. “Lynni?”

“Milady? If this is a practical joke it isn’t very funny. There are a lot of bad things that could come of this…” Rowan felt her heart sink. She was hoping that Lynni would return her feelings. She thought she had seen some signs. Throughout their time together as master and servant their had been glances, avoidable contact, and even extra time spent together at Lynni’s request.

“…so if this is a joke please tell me.”

Lynni stared directly into her lady’s eyes waiting for a response. “This is not a joke,” Rowan replied kissing her on the mouth once again. This time she felt Lynni hesitate before kissing back with just as much passion.

Rowan was surprised when Lynni started removing their dresses, but didn’t protest. “Rowan?” she asked playfully, “Do you own any dresses that aren’t red?”

Six months ago had been the start of the best thing in Rowan’s life. But they had to be careful. They were lovers by night and master and servant by day. One day that would be different. She swore by Sheller it would be different some day.

A moan brought Rowan out of her thoughts. She listened, thinking it was her imagination. After all, there was still half an hour until sunrise. After a few seconds she heard it again. It sounded like it was coming from right outside her door. She got out of bed, threw on her undergarments, pulled a thin cloak out of her closet and walked slowly and carefully towards the door

Throwing it open Rowan saw the most horrifying sight she had ever seen. Lynni was lying in a heap on the floor, nearly unconscious. Without another thought, she threw herself into the hallway, gathered her lover into her arms and as gently as she could carried her to the bed.

Her clothes were torn into nothing. Rowan wasn’t sure how they were still even on her body. They were so badly torn that her breast and her womanhood were both exposed. Her throat was labeled with a wound. It didn’t look life threatening, but there was no way to be sure. She turned to the washstand and wet a washcloth. Wincing, she pressed it gently to Lynni’s neck.

It wasn’t until sunrise that the wound stopped bleeding. Rowan carefully removed what was left of Lynni’s clothes and tossed them under her bed. She would dispose of them later. As she walked towards the closet she heard a soft moan. A pained moan. So different from the one she had been making an hour ago.

Rushing back to her side, she gently held her hand. Lynni shuttered in fright and mumbled.

“Shh baby, shh,” Rowan whispered, “It’s all right, I’m here.”

Lynni opened her eyes and Rowan met them lovingly. “Rowan?” she mumbled, this time audibly. Had she been without water? Had she been screaming? Or yelling? Her voice was hoarse. Why? What happened? At least she knew her name. And was using it. She only used it at night. If someone heard a servant using her master’s name, it would be very suspicious.

“Yeah baby, it’s me.”

“Stay with me, but…”

“But what baby?”

“But don’t touch me, I just…not right now, please. Not after…after…” Rowan watched as Lynni burst into tears. Slowly she put Lynni’s hand back onto the bed and watched as she cried herself to sleep. Someone did this to her. Rowan made herself a promise, whoever it was, was going to pay. She didn’t know who it was.

Yet.

But whoever it was would pay.

With their life!

The Problem

The Problem
By: L. Paul Fobert

I didn’t want to go to bed, even though it was eleven o’clock in the evening. I just wasn’t tired. My eyes were wide open. I had been bouncing off the walls as if I had just eaten a dozen pop tarts and drank a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. Apparently the rest of my family wasn’t tired either. My dad, who usually went to bed around nine or ten o’clock, was reading the paper in his recliner, my mom was sitting on the sofa to my left reading the Reader’s Digest; Emily, my thirteen year-old sister was sitting on the love seat to my right and Eliza, my nine year-old sister, was spending the night at a friends house.
I was sitting on the sofa trying to decided whether or not I was tired enough to go to bed when a tingling feeling shot through my right hand. I couldn’t move it. “Mom!” I said looking at her with eyes full of fear.
“Robert!” My mom called out to my dad.
They both jumped off their seats. My mom knelt in front of me and laid me out across the sofa.
“I…ca…can’t mo…move my…my…hand,” I stuttered as my body started shaking uncontrollably.
Before I blacked, I heard my dad say, “Oh no!”
I didn’t completely black out. I could still make out light through the back of my eyelids.
My whole body shook. The intensity of the spasms intensified so much that my muscles and joints were locked into place. Each breath was shallow and deep. My brain felt like it was on fire. It was worse than any headache I’d ever experienced.
After what seemed like hours, but I would later find out was really only about five to five and a half minutes the violent and uncontrollable shaking stopped, and I could see and hear again. A couple days later I learned that I couldn’t see because I had had my eyes closed and I couldn’t hear because I had been focusing my attention on the pain in my brain which is why I had my eyes closed.
I opened my eyes, but I was still too weak too keep them open, so I closed them and listened to the conversation around me.
“I called 911. It’s all I could think to do,” my mom was saying as she sobbed. At least I thought it was my mom.
“It’s all right, honey. Honey. Honey. Barbara, calm down,” my dad soothed.
After that, the voices started coming together, making the headache that had started to go away, worse.
I tried opening my eyes again. This time I had enough strength to do so, although I was still weak. The first person I saw was my next-door neighbor, Shelley Duran. What am I doing over at the neighbor’s house? I thought. Before I had a chance to ask, a man who was undoubtedly a paramedic or a doctor, at the time I couldn’t tell, shown a light into my eyes.
“Do you remember your name?”
“David Masters.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
I was about to reply when I realized I couldn’t. I didn’t remember. I closed my eyes in disbelief and concentrated. It wasn’t coming to me. How was that possible when there were only seven to choose from? I just couldn’t for the life of me remember, No matter how hard I tried it wasn’t even on the tip of my tongue.
The man continued examining me. A thought came to me and it seemed like it was better to say than nothing. “I remembered this morning.” As the words left my mouth, I realized how stupid it actually sounded, but the one thing I knew for sure was that morning I had remembered what day it was.
A few minutes later I found myself on a stretcher being rolled out of my house to an ambulance. Yes, I was at my house, I had figured that out while being questioned by the man who I could now identify as a paramedic instead of a doctor.
On the driveway, the wheels of the stretcher ran over a Whipper Snapper, the small firecrackers that give off small pops when thrown on the ground. I heard my mom give a yelp of surprise. I smiled for the first time since everything started. Now I remembered, today was Sunday July third. That’s why we had Whipper Snappers on the ground. Tomorrow was the Forth of July.
The ambulance ride was uneventful. Very little happened. My mom and I rode with the paramedics while my dad and Emily were in the car somewhere behind us, or maybe in front of us. I don’t really know because I didn’t see them until after all the test were over. And I’ll never understand how my mom got to sit shotgun in the ambulance, my guess was that there wasn’t enough room in the back with me and one of the two paramedics that were there. Since when were there two. I knew they always came in two but this was the first time I had noticed the second one. I lay there watching the green line on the heart monitor machine move up and down and left to right all the way to the hospital and not once did the driver bother to turn on the siren.
At the hospital, I learned that the paramedics had put an I.V. in my arm and a heart monitor on my finger. It left me wondering When it happened and why hadn’t I felt it? It explained the machine with the green line in the ambulance.
A female nurse with long black hair and loose fitting scrubs, allowed me to let my imagination run free just by entering the room. She transferred me from the stretcher to an uncomfortable hospital bed.
It was a little disconcerting looking at blank and empty, white walls and waiting for a doctor, I was actually starting to wish I was an emergency case, a gunshot victim or a car crash survivor, at least then I’d be attended to. Being attended to by my nurse couldn’t be bad, she was hot. But even looking at hot girls can get boring, especially if they catch you doing so. I found myself again wondering why the walls in this place were so bare. Was it just the ER or was it the whole hospital. I hoped it was just the ER, I can at least understand why they wouldn’t decorate, but why wouldn’t the rest of the building. And why didn’t ER’s decorate. Even television show emergency rooms decorated. ER, House, Scrubs all did. Why not actual ER’s.
I started to get antsy. Waiting when you’re not in a waiting room was the worst. I looked up at the green on the hear monitor and started tapping my chest with the finger that was attached to it. The line started moving up and down in longer strokes faster across the screen. I had done this a few times on the drive over.
But what would happen if…
When the line reached the right side of the screen, the machine started beeping like crazy. The doctors and nurses came running. Now I knew how to get their attention.
One of the doctors was wearing a white lab coat and seemed to have come from nowhere. When I first saw him, I started wondering where my dad and sister were. I hadn’t seen them since the ambulance pulled me out of the house. Would they really be in the waiting room? The man in the lab coat looked like he was in his early thirties, even though he was balding.
“Hello David. My name is Doctor Stephens and I’m going to take you to get a CAT Scan. So we can see why you had that seizure.”
I’d had a seizure.
“Is that all right?”
Without waiting for an answer, they pushed the bed down a hallway to the CAT Scan room. The doctor and nurse transferred me from the bed to the machine. Irritably I wondered if they didn’t think I could walk. In a panic I started imagining scenarios if that were the case. While I was being transferred, I worked myself into a frenzy and just as quickly calmed myself down.
“You need to stay still for half an hour. The machine is going to make a lot of noises. Try to ignore them. And don’t move.” My mom, the doctor and the nurse all left the room. I could, however, see them through the window separating the rooms. Every time the machine made a whirring noise I would jump slightly. Forcing myself to stay still for that long was very hard work.
When the CAT Scan was over, the doctor told us he would be back with the test results later. I got to walk around for the first time in what seemed like hours. I didn’t know how long it had really been and didn’t think to ask. I stretched my muscles for the first time in half an hour.
I got my first glimpse at what the CAT Scan machine looked like. It was a huge circular machine with a hole in the middle. From the hole came a holding tray of some sort that a person could lay on which feeds into the machine.
On the wall by the door there were actually two comic strips. They matched the walls perfectly. They were black and white comic strips. Both of them were making fun of CAT Scans. The first one pictured a man holding a cat, holding binoculars over a man who was lying on a table. The second had a man standing in the middle of a room full of bookshelves which were lined full of cats staring at him. Both of the comic strips had the words CAT Scans printed in bold letters at the bottom.
After about ten minutes, I started to once again get bored, but the heart monitor on my finger was taken off when the doctor and nurse transferred me from the bed to the CAT Scan machine, so I had to figure out another method of amusement. I started walking back towards the bed, which was still parked next to the CAT Scan machine. As I walked, I put my left foot where my right foot would go and my right foot where my left foot would go, making it look, to my mom, like I was still woozy. Mixed with the way my body was handling this seizure and whatever drugs the doctors might’ve given me, it made me look as if I was about to fall down. I learned a short time later that it was a possible seizure symptom.
Mom jumped out of her chair. “David!” she yelled, rushing to me.
Just before she reached me, I stood up straight, said, “Gotcha!” and started laughing.
She didn’t think the joke was very funny. Later I wouldn’t either.
“David Masters. Mrs. Masters.” A voice whispered, although with the way it was spoken, so calmly and in that ‘I have something to say and you’re not going to like it way, it seemed to just boom and echo in my ears.
We both turned to see doctor Stephens looking at us solemnly. A small folder was in his hands. The test results.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“What is it?” I asked.
My mom stood by me with her hand on my shoulder.
“You have a brain tumor which is causing serious grand mal seizures. It’s grown to such a great size and is placed in a part of the brain that it is too dangerous to operate on. At this point radiotherapy and chemotherapy are the only options available.”
My mother and I stared at the doctor in horror.
“I’m sorry.”