everpeasant

[everpeasant]

Ghost Trip

It has been 2 years since I have passed and they still don’t hear me. I shout I scream, I even try to push them, and violently attack sometimes, out of pure anger. But they don’t react to any of it! I feel like I am going insane! Can ghosts go insane? Maybe I should ask around since there is literally all of us. All that have ever lived are ghosts. That is something I wished that I knew when I was alive. But instead, here I am dead as Alexander the great (he is a great friend; we play ghost ball together with Ben Reitman). Makes you wonder what we were picking up, because it was sure as hell, not ghosts, because they are everywhere, absolutely everywhere. We also thought that ghosts could only be in the place that they died in. Not true. I have been following my friends, for most of those 2 years I have been dead, I took a sabbatical a couple of months ago, spent some time in Italy, it was nice.  

Anyway. I just get so annoyed with them, maybe I get annoyed with myself too? I was a ghost hunter for what 10 years, I die and then I can't talk to them? What's that bullshit? Makes you wonder what this existence is. I personally think I am in a different dimension. Sigmund Freud thinks that we are existing only in the last moment of brain activity that our alive bodies had, hence that we are imagining this whole thing. I know right? What a junkie.  

Anyway. I'm back to following my crew. Oh, watch this. Tom’s doing the intro for the episode. “What's up Ghost Heads? I'm you're host Tom Watkins, and you are watching Ghost Trip.” So now they're going to reshoot that a few times to get some options. But when you are watching the show, it will just transition into the intro. We managed to talk Warner media into letting us use Ghost Song. We all thought that it was really funny. Our editor Marco was proud of the intro. It had all of these clips of us screaming and running down hallways, pretty neat stuff. “Were here at the Richard Adams School for Ungifted Children in Bronxwood Kentucky. This old schoolhouse is the site of multiple hauntings. The story is that a teacher murdered her whole class. But that’s about all we know about this story, don’t ask where we found this. But this place is filled with ghosts and is very scary”.  

“Wait did you say ghosts?”  

“Yeah Cody, this is our job.”  

“You know I am afraid of those.”  

That’s Cody, he is our primary cameraman. He said that once in an episode and since has kind of become his catchphrase. The community loves it, makes him our comedy relief. He hates it though. He does a stupid bit the entire time that we are recording. He drinks himself to sleep most nights. I didn’t know that till I died. Kinda feel bad for teasing him about how we’ll find his dead mom one day, or how he always smells like pungent penguin urine. He doesn’t even smell. I guess I'm just an asshole. Or... was an asshole, I guess. Either way, let's not dwell too much on that.  

Oh, watch this. See that? They think they're going to get something, but they never do. “We were walking through this hall earlier and got a spike on our EMF detector. Let's see if we can get anything else. Oh, got another one! Oh! That’s a big one! Let's follow it! It leads to this wall. Look at the painting. That is the founder, Richard Adams. Maybe this is him trying to tell us something. I think that it's him.” “Hey, Tom. I think that there is an electrical box behind the painting.” “No there isn't. No. No there is. Looks like it was nothing fellas.” They do this all of the time. I'd say about half of the episode is them running into different electrical boxes.  

Lately, I have been trying to get their attention. By just screaming. YOU HALF-WITS OPEN YOUR GOD DAMN EYES! LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! They just can't see me. I have been wondering lately what it's all about. ‘It’ of course being existence. Both their existence and my own. I don’t want to sound depressing, all doom and gloom. I mean I am a ghost, that feels a little hacky. But I don’t know if there is a point. Not in a bad way. I think we just exist because of scientific factors that are so out of comprehension for us that our race, either in life or in death, will understand. That’s not a bad thing. I mean I'm not in heaven, but this isn't hell. More of a limbo type of situation. But we have fun. Don’t have to worry about morals as much as the church said when I was alive. I mean don’t be a dick head or murderer. Dahmer isn't treated very well here.  

I think that’s all I got. I mean if you wanted to, we can talk about Star Trek or something, I'm a big Treky. Or not. We don’t have to. Just come back if you want to talk or play some ghost ball. Alexander and I are setting up a double's tournament.

#afterlife #ghost #writing #My writing #creative writing #story #My Story #original story #short story #ghost hunting

[everpeasant]

The Cross of Lorraine

The empty cemetery is cold. No love, no laughter. Names carved into stone or granite are set to mark the spot to loved ones. For children to show their children, and their children. But as the generations go on, is this tradition continued? Time marches forward. Names fade from stone. Sometimes surviving families replace the headstone, cutting deeper into the stone in a vain attempt for their ancestor to be remembered. Yet this will most likely be the last time they visit. Names being the only trace of life. After all, who comes to the 100th anniversary of a death? Snow softly lands on a gravestone it reads Aurore Soyer 7/21/1901 - 8/12/1941. On the same plaque read Lucien Soyer 2/24/1898 - 5/3/1944. Engraved above Lucien’s name was the Cross of Lorraine. Next to these were two stones that read “Soyer Baby 1936” “Soyer Baby 1938”. An older man stands above the Soyer family graves. His face and eyes retain a sadness that permeates from him. The show turns to ash around him. The chill does not bother him, it is a memory to him. He bends down slowly, trying not to break any more bones. His outstretched hand wipes the snow from the gravestones. Staring back at him in the reflection of the granite was his face. So old, wrinkles seemed to be the foundation, eyes sunken and dead, moving only on instinct, not on emotion or desire. He sees the glistening in the reflection, remembering why he came he grabs at it and holds the small medal in his hand. The cross of Lorraine. He places it on his old friend's stone. Taking a single moment of quiet reflection, he does something that he has not done in quite some time. He wept. The tears glide down from his eyes, they burn with icy cold, inserting their way into the cavernous wrinkles of his face. After a long pause, he steps back. His tears freezing off of his face.   He looks to the gates but knows that he should honor the rest. Turning around he marches forward. Glancing at the names carved into stone, not giving them more attention than he can emotionally offer. Lumiere 1941, Lacroix 1942, Giraud 1941, Rigal 1943, Chauveau 1944. Some names he recognizes yet does not remember why. Maybe an old lover, or a friend. A Shoesmith, or a teacher. It is all a blur for an old man with a dusty brain. The names seemingly go on for endless rows. He balls his fist. They shouldn’t have been taken. Not one. Not when the battle began, not during the occupation, not during the summer of 44’. Hopes, dreams, all ended with the piercing steel of SS bullets. Some were executed, some fled, others fought. The old man remembers fighting the enemy in his own home, in the town square, in the halls of Le Meurice. There are more than this. More lives snuffed out during a casual slaughter. They will not be remembered, only being counted as a number on a government statistic entitled MIA. The old man begins to make his way out of the cemetery. He passes a young man, who is standing above a freshly dug grave. Their eyes meet and exchange a look of understanding, and pity. The old man puts his hand on the young man's shoulder for a moment, then walks on. He passes by the Soyer grave, it is now completely covered in snow.

#resist #ww2 #My writing #creative writing #writing #My Story #short story #original story #story #dark

[everpeasant]

Future Inclinations

His words rang through my head. “What is your biggest regret?” The words bounced around my skull, becoming distorted, contorted, and then he retorted. “Hey, you still there man? It’s been like a minute if you don’t want to tell me that’s fine.” He continued to stare at me as I struggle to spit out my words.

“No, I am out of the house anyway. I should probably open up a bit.” I slowly looked up, meeting his eyes, they are full of energy. I don’t know what it is, but Charles always is full of energy. Drugs? I don’t think so, his eyes aren’t bloodshot. They are crimson red, which is somewhat terrifying, but that isn’t the point. His words would continue to morph “What did you do?”, “Why did you do it?”, then finally into “You want to bring them back don’t you?” Why is a coworker asking questions like that, to me of all people? I was the loner, I didn’t cause trouble, I didn’t even talk to him really. Why was he interested in me, why did he invite me out? Is he just a nice guy trying to build me up, is he gay, does he want to rob me too?

“I had some trouble years ago with some bad men,” I say in a soft voice. “They were convinced that I owed them money, but I paid everything off! I shouldn’t have even taken it in the first place. I shouldn’t have taken the money…” I whisper to Charles, but really to myself.

Charles looks dumbfounded, he signals for the bartender to pour us a shot. “Hey man, I didn’t know I was talking to a walking logline for some b-movie”. We clink our shot glasses together and swig down the bitter gin. “What you need the money for anyway? You a gambler, like the ladies, maybe a senator’s son who lost his inheritance?”

As I finished cleaning out the peanut bowl set in front of me, I glance over for a moment. In the clouded mess that was my mind, I sludged through memories of pain and suffering, of mine, and of… I couldn’t get myself to say their names. “No, nothing like that.” I say weakly, “My wife and I needed to pay for medical bills, for the baby.”

“I didn’t know you had a wife and kid.”

I squint at the shell of a peanut that I was fidgeting with. “You wouldn’t. These bad men ran them off the road a couple of years back. To get to me, to send a message, the only message that I got was that my life was over. A worthless life. To have all of this hope for the future snuffed out in an instant is the most excruciating thing in the world.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a small purple plush octopus, its eyes are teared, and charred, some legs are missing, with a stained dark crimson on the mouth. “This was my daughters. She would bring this octopus everywhere with her, its name was Scylla, like the Kraken, I would always read my daughter Greek Mythology. I found this at the crash site. She was still holding it. My wife was only alive long enough to look me in the eyes, she held our daughter.”

Charles signaled for the bartender to leave the bottle for us. “You blame yourself then? I mean you think it's your fault.”

I turned to him, Charles reaches over the bar and takes two-pint glasses, fills one for him and one he pours and offers to me. I hesitate but take it. “I do. I killed the only two people that mattered to me in this world. I don’t even want to look at myself in the morning.” I take a swig.

“When was this?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“When did the accident happen?”

“May 3rd, 2018,” I say a little standoffish.

Charles gets up and finishes his glass. “Well, I gotta go piss, I’ll be right back.”

I nod to him as he walks away. That amount of alcohol should have killed him. Charles is a weird guy, although he can probably handle his drink, as for me I don’t want to pass out in an alleyway. I poured a little over half of my gin back into the bottle. I never really have had someone to talk to about this. Maybe it would be a good idea to talk to a therapist, I clearly am emotionally distraught about this.

Charles makes his way from the bathroom back to his seat. “Now don’t be mad.”

What would I be mad about? “What do you mean?”

He pulls Scylla out of his pocket, it is in pristine condition, just as my daughter had it. “I stole your daughters’ toy.”

I reach into my bag and the toy is gone. “What did you do? How did you fix it? Why did you-?”

“Nothing like that my friend. I did nothing except step through a wormhole I produced in the bathroom.”

“Is that some type of gross way to talk about you pooping?”

“No. I just…” Charles sighs “I am a time traveler. I literally took this from your daughter. The accident still happened; I just took this from your house the morning of.”

I sit still I feel like I have been violated. “No that’s not possible.”

“Felt that way for a little bit. I forgot to ask where you lived, took me several loops to find the right place. I remembered that you could look up who owns a property through a library database, thank god they have that.”

“But this can't be real, you must have bought a new toy. But why would you do that? Are you trying to fuck with me!” People start to stare at us.

Charles comes closer. “Listen, I am not monstrous enough to do something like that. Also, when would I have the ability to go get this exact toy, along with steal the one that you had?”

“You think that time travel makes more logical sense than getting a new toy and sleight of hand?”

“Well, I was never any good at sleight of hand. I am more used to time travel, so It's not too farfetched for me.”

I stand up and grab his coattails and drag him to the bathroom. He struggles. I kicked open the door and threw him to the ground. “Hey what are you doing!” Charles says rubbing his head.

“What the hell are you talking about?! You're a time traveler? You can go back in time and change things huh? Why are you lying to me, what are you getting out of this!?”

“I can prove it to you. Umm um um um… I can bring any famous person here, to prove it. Would that do it?”

“Anyone huh? Bring me, Socrates.”

“Well… that'd be kind of hard since he doesn’t exist.”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like you say that a lot. Socrates was made up by Plato, and Plato was made up by Aristotle. Kind of a crazy story that one. Aristotle was trying to hit on this lady, but he was a pretty lowly philosopher. No name for himself, so he made one. He made up this sort of lineage of great philosophers that he descended from. It really is quite interesting.”

“Sure, I believe you. That sounds totally true. Okay, Why don’t you bring me Lincoln?”

“Yeah, sure give me a minute.” He walks into the stall and goes to close the door, I eyeballed him. “What I can’t do it if you are watching.”

The door closed; I rolled my eyes. A large flash blinds me as my hair shoots straight up. Wind circles around the bathroom sending paper towels, and toilet paper careening any which way. Trying to recuperate myself I pat down my hair and call for Charles. I get no response. I peek through the slot in the stall to try to see if he is there, fully expecting to be ridiculed for doing so, yet nothing. No ironic 50s horror movie woman scream, no tirade about personal boundaries, nothing. Charles was gone. The door was still locked. I looked around and saw no window that he could sneak out of. Could this be real? I thought.

That’s when a flash of light emerges, wind resumes its hectic tirade. The chaos dies down leaving me startled again. The stall door opens and out steps Charles in a Sergeant’s uniform followed by a tall man with a tall black top hat. His face is friendly but confused. “Where are we Sergeant Geller? I don’t know how we got in this Lavoratory, but it is dandy!”

I stared dumbfounded at the Former/Current President. Still trying to deny my eyes I ask Charles, “How on earth did you do that? How did you get this actor in here without me noticing?”

“Actor?” replies Lincoln

“Don’t say such things! President Lincoln here hates actors.”

“No, I do not.” Says the president.

“Well maybe you should,” Charles says as he ushers the president back into the stall. “Say goodbye to the President.”

I wave bye to Lincoln, still not fully believing what has happened to me. The light, the wind, it all returns. Charles walks out of the stall rather confidently. “Eh? Eh?” Charles spreads his arms apart. “What’d I tell you? Time fuggin traveler!”

“Was that Lincoln?”

“Honestly, just assume that I’m telling the truth at this point, it is starting to get annoying. Of course, it was Lincoln.”

“I need a second to breathe, this is all too much.”

“Sure thing. Hey while you’re waiting how about you pick if you want to bring your wife, or your daughter back to life.”

“Huh?”

“Who lives who dies, oldest trick and the book, right next to the ol’ stab em and rob em, that one’s, my favorite.”

“I don’t care about any of that! You can bring them back?”

“Only one. I kind of have this project I am working on, and I needed a test group.”

Rage fills my eyes, the next thing I know I am flying through the air, tackling Charles to the ground. “What do you mean only one!? You sick bastard, are you going to make me choose?! This is just some fucking experiment to you!”

“Well yes-” My fist decks Charles in the face. He starts to bleed from his nose a little bit. He tries to move his jaw. “-ow. Listen man my hands are tied, and not because you’re pinning them. The people I work for are having me do this.”

“We work for the same people!”

“You know you can have 2 jobs, right? Clearly not, otherwise, you wouldn’t have needed the mon-”, my punch lands on the other cheek. “-Fine that one was called for. I can’t bring back more than 1 person at a time. Trust me it gets messy if you do more than 1. Just give it some thought. Who do you want back the most?”

I let go of Charles. He looked relieved. Tears began to pour from my eyes. I ran to the stall to have privacy. “Wait not that one!” I slam the stall door and start to bawl. “It was just a joke… relax.”

What the hell is going on? Time travel? That is something that only happens in hacky movies that don’t know how to get out of a situation. But in real life? Oh my god! Do I have to choose? The love of my life? Or my precious daughter? I love Clarisse so much, she was the best woman a man could have asked for. She stood up for herself through any bullshit, even my own. She would make me a better person every day. Her laugh brought light to every room. I could use some light in my life right now. But Iris… my sweet daughter, I needed to protect her, and I failed… She would always wake me up early on the weekends and ask me to play with her, read her the Iliad, or make her favorite Chocolate Blueberry Pancakes. Those moments may have been the happiest of my life, raising my daughter to be the person she would turn into. Would… I sighed. I miss them both so much. I want them both back, but I can’t have that. Dark thoughts entered my mind, it was as if I was a whale, speared, hooks in deep, pulling at the barbs only making it more painful. Clarisse… I want you back. But I know you would never forgive me if I saved you instead of our sweet Iris. She has such a bright future. I hope you will forgive me.

I sit on the toilet, my eyes red, rubbed to the point of blistering. I am unable to cry more. I must accept fate, or reverse fate in this case. Struggling to my feet I push my hands to the side of the stall for support. My hand is placed next to a drawing of Kilroy, along with the quote “‘Sometimes, you have to step outside of the person you've been and remember the person you were meant to be. The person you want to be. The person you are.’ ― H.G. Wells”. I open the door and slowly make my way to Charles. Standing above, I look him in the eyes and say, “Save my daughter, oh please dear god save Iris!” He looks at me, no quirky remark, he only nods. Blood still drips from his nose, covering his shirt. It looks like he used the wrist of his Sergeant’s uniform to clean blood from his face. He enters the stall and the bright flash and wind return. I stand nervously, not knowing how to feel. Was I mad? Was I glad? Panic set its sights upon me as the flash of light returned.

#My writing #My Story #creative writing #writing #short story #original story #time travel #fiction #abe lincoln

[everpeasant]

Billions

Bolstering bruises and brittle bloodied bodies surround me, a black scarf falling into the courtyard and resting at my feet acts as a harbinger for doom. The last drop of drinkable water had run out the week before. Something we had hardly planned for. Our destruction was written in stone since takeoff, hell, maybe even since our birth. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would die an old bitter man with pustulating sore and broken bones. I was living the life, a tycoon with a finger in every pot of industry. My company grew with the ages, developing from one which the people confidently cheered for, into that of a boogeyman to fear and to despise. Now here I am dying. A fallen god… When we planned the expedition there was hope for leading humanity out of total extinction. We were the heroes to save the species, to keep the memory alive. But quickly hope and good intentions can change into despair and selfishness.

The Proprietor Association as we called ourselves was a group of Earth's richest society men and women; that is all, no laborers, no doctors, no politicians, no one that would try to tell us what to do. Gods Anointed, people would call us, although the ironic turn of phrase seemed to be lost on some of my peers. Our group formed a plan. A plan to escape the pain and suffering of everyday life on Earth. For a peculiar reason, the planet seemed to be dying, smog blocking out the sun, water being not only undrinkable but untreatable. We could afford to escape, we had to escape. The plan was to reach the Jezero Crater of Mars, selected for its supposedly being a water source for us. An ancient river used to flow on the surface of the crater, so what was above, could be below, buried deep.

Terraforming was easy, turn the switch from off to on and our machines would go to work, and by the end of the week, we had large buildings built across 15% of Mars’ surface. Working transit systems that would arrive on time all the time, city parks on every other block, and glorious public art depicting our perseverance from death itself. The city truly was beautiful, yet lonely with nobody to occupy it. We squeezed the planet for every ounce of water, eventually having to recycle our urine and chemical runoff. I was forced to piss into a bottle that would filter out chemicals in my urine, dropping it in clumps. Although the machine worked quite well, psychologically it was a nightmare. The filters for the machine were in short supply, and we knew that we could only use them for so long.

Eventually, as we aged our useless cities began to be more and more blocked by smog. Why was this happening? Was this the curse of mankind? For a functioning society to exist it must move on every few decades as to not destroy itself, like a suicidal band of Nomads.

But that was not the case. When the Proprietor Association, or what was left of us, came together in a pathetic attempt to try to rationalize what we were doing we were stopped dead in our tracks. One of our members a tech giant was able to get into one of his old servers to see if humanity has died off. It was supposed to be a morale boost “We survived where others haven’t, we must fight on for the remembrance of the human race!” but that is when we heard the squeak from the tech boy. “They survived.” We assumed at the rate we left the Earth at we would see a molten rock, possibly split in two from nuclear hellfire. But what was there was a green and blue marble. No smog, no destruction, not even space junk. A peaceful life, no hate, no murder, no fear of rapidly changing seasons of arid Death Valley heat to a blistering Mt. McKinley freeze. Renewable energy was abundant, task forces were sent out to clean up homeless camps and help them into apartments, and my company was transformed into a delivery service for giving supplies to those in need. The people elected to listen to science and logic, and we listened to our wallets.

Hope faded as we tried to form solutions on how to contact or travel back to Earth. Eventually, the tech giant was able to message the White House with a plea for help. We only received back the words, “We are better off without you.” With this crushing message we accepted tried for one last push for survival on the ‘Red Planet’. I was no help, I could manage, but I had no talents that could help. A few of our members perished, parched for water, and infected with Martian diseases. I stared at the corpse with fearful eyes, as I plunged my hands into the stomach of the corpse. Tearing open the chest to pull out and suck the liquid from the heart. My peers only watched, they did not join, but they did not stop me. I had what it took to survive, and they did not.

But now, many deaths later I lay on the cold hard granite of the founder’s courtyard, I am the last one standing, or rather, lying. With bones picked clean I can no longer keep the dark thoughts from my head. What have I done? There were so many things that we could have done, that I could have done. I see now that it was our fault. We were careless, playing gods, changing the structure of society on a whim, decaying the atmosphere just to save money on transportation, along with crushing labor unions. All of which only served to help financially, but what is wealth in a world destroyed by it? Why did we do it? Our motivation, was it to live a comfortable life, teeming with luxury and flamboyance? If so, then it seems that we have failed. We achieved those things for a time, but with all good things, it was fleeting. I look around for a skull to hold as I pass on to the underworld.

#eat the rich #scifi #future #society #my writing #My Story #story #short story #fiction #billionaire

[everpeasant]

Revelations

A man in a toga is working on combining two pieces of wood. He is hammering away, sweat drips down from his brow to his chin. He takes a moment to catch it. Another man approaches and sets up next to him.

“Hey, Kyle.” Says the first man. Waving his hammer.

“What’s up Jordan?” Responds Kyle.

“Eh you know, just working on this crucifix.”

“Yeah, the Emperor has been wanting more of those lately. What do you think they're there for?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Well, ya know, I mean is the Emperor using them for decorating some palace? I mean I shouldn’t complain, it's pretty easy work, just the two pieces. Other stuff takes way longer, I mean a trebuchet? I don’t know how it is supposed to carry things and hold a lot of water; I always make it wrong. It always just throws the water really far, and makes the fruit fall off the base.” Kyle says while scratching his head with a chisel.

“Well… I… You know what they use these for Kyle, stop kidding.” Jordan says trying to convince himself.

“You saying the Emperor is not an interior decorator?”

“I might be saying that you're dense.”

“I’ve been trying to lose weight you prick!”

“I… no no, I just… Sorry, didn’t mean to be rude. The crucifix is meant to kill people.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, you put a guy up there and he dies after about a day.”

“How do you get them to stay up there?”

“You take one of these-” Jordan grabs a very long metal stake, “and you put this in both hands and through both feet.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“Yeah, they killed him on one of these last week.”

“That is crazy. I had no idea. To think that I have been helping to make those… things… what did you call them?”

“Crucifixes.”

“Yeah Crucifixes. I am never building one of those again. I will not contribute to any murder, mayhem, or harm.”

“Well…”

“What?”

“You know the trebuchet is not for holding water, and fruit. It is an instrument of war. It flings flaming debris to destroy enemy strongholds. They kill a lot of people. Pretty much everything we make here is used for murder.”

“You have to be kidding me.”

“When I interviewed you, you said that you were okay with helping forward the Roman Empire through carpentry.”

“I did, but not to kill people!”

“Hate to break it to you, but that’s what Rome mostly does.”

“Surely everything we make isn’t violent. What about those big boats?”

“Oh, you mean the War Ships? They are literally called War Ships.”

“Well, yeah, I guess. What about those weird-looking toothpicks?

“Yeah, those are swords. Training ones, but still. They are meant to teach the army to be better at murder.”

“Dear Jupiter. Well, what about doors, that can't hurt anyone.”

“Parents tie children's loose teeth to them and slam them.”

Kyle sits still for what seems to be a decade. He wonders about his place in the universe, about his place in this world. I am a war profiteer. A monster that allows atrocities to happen and enables them to happen. He takes a long breath and lets out a loud sigh.

“Why does the world have to be so violent.”

#my wriring #original story #historic fiction #conversation #short story #story #mystory #my story #rome #religion #creative writing

[everpeasant]

Ouroboros

Salisbury Steak and baked potatoes. That is what the Mrs. was making for supper tonight. But instead, I am eating a bologna sandwich with Anderson driving down Sunset Boulevard. We got called in. Some schmuck gave up the ghost on a derelict trail up by the Griffith Observatory. The ever-present rays of the moon shine upon our old ford. As we travel, I notice the women of the night scatter as they see our car approach. I pay them no mind. Cannot say so much for Anderson, I smack him, so he stays focused. The young buck, still itching for a way to uncork his champaign. Being precociously zealous to dames landed him as the partner to this washed-up old fool. I have made my mistakes, paid for most of them, paid double for others. Maybe a perfect pair we make, ‘The old fool, and the young buck’. My hands' jitter as I turn off the road, into the dirt lot nearby the observatory. I may have seen many bodies from the war, along with this job, but you never get quite used to it. You see it’s the bodies that have been lying unnoticed for some time that gets me. Looking ghoulish with their muscles and organs consumed by filth and vermin. The groundskeeper at the Griffith told Harley down at the station that the body must have been dead for some time, ‘could come no closer due to the smell’ he said.

The groundskeeper waits for us. He is using a shovel to prop himself up. His left leg missing. Best not to ask. As we approach the man the smell becomes clearer. An atrocious smell of what I would describe as mothballs being used to ferment pomegranate.

“You called about the body?” I asked nodding to the groundskeeper.

“Yes detective. Mr. Wallace, Mr. Eli Wallace”.

“I am detective Curtis Striker, the boy here, is Detective Thomas Anderson.”

“Mr. Wallace”. Anderson tips his hat to the frightened groundskeeper. Can you take us to the body?

“Oh yes of course.” The groundskeeper leads us to the beginning of the trail. “Not a whole lot of people come this way anymore since the observatory was put in. This land used to be some sort of mass grave for some Chinese murdered some time ago. They say that the Chinese used these trails to pray for their ancestors.”

We walk down the side of the hill. The word dutch angle comes to mind, yet I do not know what it means. The body is not too far down the trail. It is half decayed. Pieces of skin seem like they were ready to slide off. The face had features only on one half, leaving the other with just bone, making facial features impossible to distinguish. The groundskeeper waits a few feet away, not wanting to be too close.

“Hey, how long ago did you say they buried the Chinese here?”

“1871” Groundskeeper Wallace responds.

“Couldn’t be then.” I reach into the corpse's jacket pocket looking for a wallet or anything that could tell us who he is. I feel only one small circular object. A dime. “Man’s got a dime, but no name.”

“Hey, Striker. Check this out.” Anderson waves me over to a spot on the ground. “What do you make of this?” He points toward a snake in the grass.

It is as if nothing I have ever seen before, yet it is a distant memory. Its body is contorted in a way that leaves its body bending back toward itself. Into its mouth. It makes a perfect circle. Tail in mouth.

“What are you boys looking at?” calls the groundskeeper, his curiosity overwhelming him he approaches. “Oh, sweet mother of god.”

Anderson leans over to pick it up while I am turning to look at groundskeeper Wallace. “Do you know what this thing is? Is this a real snake?”

“Oh, for the love of God don’t touch it!” Shouts Wallace. I look over at Anderson who is about to move the tail from the mouth.

“Stop whistling Dixie, or I’ll snap your cap!” Anderson calls back to Wallace.

I put my hand out to call for Anderson to stop. “What is this all about groundskeep?”

“That’s an Ouroboros.” Our faces are blank. “The world serpent, The leviathan, The child of Loki.”

“What is all this gobbledygook?” Anderson says looking at me. “Who is Loki?”

“The Ouroboros is the creation of life, and subsequently the end of days. Pulling the tail from its mouth ushers in Ragnarök.” Our faces are blank. “Or Revelations in your case. The end of days. The water will turn to blood, and other calamities!”

The old man is on to something, but it is not a world of gods and monsters fighting for dominance. We have a new killer.

Anderson and Wallace are arguing about religion when I interrupt them. “Gentlemen remember why we are out in the sticks anyway. For Christ's sake, we can still smell him. This isn’t the end of the world.” Leaning down to pull the snake's tail from its mouth, I notice the knife wound. Attached to the tail is a note. Raising it to my face I eyeball it, slime oozes off it. “We have a serial killer on the loose.”

“What does it say?” says Anderson.

Wiping slime and blood off the note I struggle to read it.

The first seal has been broken.

More will follow.

#religon #writing #noir #crime writing #my writing