The New eBook: A Mind Like No Other

FeaturedThe New eBook: A Mind Like No Other

Hello! It’s me and I’d like to share the announcement of my new short story, crime fiction, superpowered fiction story. I wrote it several months ago and published it on Amazon last Sunday. I’d like to share a few chapters to entice interest for anyone willing to read it (it’s free on Kindle Unlimited and a dollar otherwise). I don’t know what else to say, hah, so let’s just get right to it. Without further ado, my newest book! Enjoy!



As a young boy, he lost his mother to a gun. He sat before her dead body and carried her from the house in his small arms, wearing her silver necklace. As a result, he has grown cold and bitter, stronger and weak.


His landlady’s dead and he saw it all happen right before his eyes – without even being there. Young P.I. Hannibal Musa, a telekinetic survivor of darkness, has to solve her murder. His investigation will take him through the rough and twisted streets of Oasleham City. From decadent, burned churches to crime-ridden neighborhoods, he and his partner will come face-to-face with metaphysical enemies and adverse “allies.”


The Moon shone like a symbol of ephemeral light in the shadowy darkness, beaming down its beacon onto a lone house resting in the hilltops. These hilltops had no life growing on their sides. On this dark hill, the grass grew not green but gray. The trees possessed no leaves but rather, as if possessed, the trees stood, dead, with their branches like thin fingers seeking to claim the White Disk for themselves. Beyond these rows of haunted trees rested a house. This house stood awake in the deep hours of the cloudy night.

On the top floor of the house, underneath a twin-sized bed, a boy hid, shivering and sweating profusely from the tip of his brow.

So that’s how you’re gonna do me, huh?!” A voice shouted from downstairs. “You just gonna do me like that?!”

Get out of here!” shouted another voice. “Get out! Get the hell out!”

Tell me! Tell me why you left and took my son with you! TELL ME!”

Oh, dear God… Get out!”

No, don’t run away from me! No Allah to save you now! Scream! Scream! He can’t hear you! Tell me!”


Tell me!”




The boy under the bed curled into a ball, teary and sniffling.

Umi…” he whispered, gripping his legs tightly. The boy struggled to remain quiet, the gunshot sounds echoing in his ear and reverberating through his spine. The boy’s shivering intensified as the sound of creaking and soft footsteps approached his bedroom. The room was pitch-black dark except for the moonlight that palely shone through the window and provided the gravest of light into the deathly room.

The boy stiffened hard when he heard the footsteps stop in front of his door.


The door slowly opened with the barrel of a shotgun peeking through the doorway before the head of the man came through, the top half of his body shrouded in the veil of darkness. Then, like the wildness of a coyote, the man pounced forward, grabbed the boy by his leg, and pulled him out from under the bed.

No! Umi!” The boy clawed at the wooden floor, his fingernails bleeding as he was dragged from the floor.

Shut up, boy! Your mother ain’t here no more!” The man angrily lifted the boy by his collar and threw him to the wall. The boy fell to his knees, coughing from the impact. He slowly raised his head to see the barrel of a gun facing his face. “You and her can both get it…”

Tears began clouding his eyes as he stared down the gun, images and sounds of his mother’s pain continuously flashing through his mind’s eye like a mental slideshow. Veins began popping in the boy’s head and his pupils shrunk dangerously.

What the hell?” The man looked down at his arm, finding it tense and unable to pull the trigger. His arm bent at the elbow, switching the tip of the barrel to the man’s chin instead. “Wait… no!”


The boy watched as the body dropped to the ground with a loud thud, blood pooling beneath it. Numb and still coughing, the young child stood up and grabbed a flashlight before walking out of the room, fingertips bleeding and dripping to the floor like drizzling rain.

He made his way downstairs and into the kitchen where his light shined in the center and revealed his beautiful mother sprawled on the floor, several gaping holes in her chest, stomach, and leg. The boy walked over to the body and collapsed on the floor, his head bowed and his heartstring plucked, emitting a pained melody. His cloudy eyes then saw something through the mist; a sparkle in the darkness. The boy reached out for the glimmer and picked up a necklace, one his mother wore. It was stained with blood. The boy wiped the blood off on his shirt and clasped the necklace behind his neck, tears rolling down his cheeks from the windows of his soul.

Chapter 1: The Rabbit-Faced Ravager

I hate this place…” thought Hannibal Musa, a young caramel-skinned man, walking through the streets of Oasleham City, Oregon, kicking a can as he walked. His hands in his pocket, the boy stopped at an intersection, waiting for the light to turn red. The boy stood under the foggy polluted clouds of his hometown, the sunlight filtered through the black smog.

He was a young man of moderately average height, standing with low black hair, a lean build, and demonic red contacts over his eyes, the sclera a deep black. It also doubled as the main thing that kept passersby from looking him in the eye. Besides the contacts, he also wore a faded black shirt, dark blue jeans, black boots that were untied, a long black leather trench coat – which he kept his hands in its pockets – and a silver necklace hanging from his neck. At the end of the chain was a crescent moon shape with a star resting in the center.

I hate the air, the feeling like you’re suffocating…” the boy’s thoughts continued to crackle, like a fire on wood. “I hate the overzealously religious people, the fact that there’s a nasty hobo on every corner, or that there’s literally a black cloud over this forsaken city…”

The light switched from green to red and, with a huff, the boy proceeded across the street. His eyes circled from the various homeless people lying in the alleyways and boxes, the well-dressed men and women just walking by on their smartphones, and the few cars that drove up and down the street.

Spare some change, sir?” a small old man dressed in rags asked weakly of the passersby. They ignored him or, even worse, treated him with disdain.

Hannibal stopped in front of the man and dropped several dollars into the man’s cup. “Here,” said he. “Get yourself something to eat.”

Oh,” the man breathed out, his cheeks rosy and the stink of alcohol viciously apparent on his breath, “thank you, young man. Yes, yes, absolutely, I will make sure this goes to good use.”

Hannibal could only sigh and shake his head. “Of course you will…” he whispered bitterly, continuing on his way.

What the hell is wrong with the world? Why does it stink so bad?”

No answer rained from the Heavens nor did one grow from the Earth. Silence only accompanied the question and another hard sigh followed it.

This world… is rotten to the core.”

Hannibal eventually stopped in front of a local hat store. The young man walked through the door, smiling politely to strangers as they walked out of the store with bags in hand.

Welcome!” greeted the owner, a bald man with a smile far too wide. “Welcome! Please, take a look through our fine brand here. Or here? Or maybe you’d like something like this?”

While the owner suggested all of those hats, Hannibal’s disguised red eyes rested on a certain hat on the shelf above him. The owner followed his customer’s line of sight and smirked.

Ah, that one?”

Yeah,” replied Hannibal.

The owner reached up and pulled the hat down – a black custom Fedora with the “disk” being narrower and longer at the ends. Hannibal held it, letting the cotton soothe his hands, before lifting it up and letting it settle on his head.

Oh, it looks great!” announced the exuberant owner. “Here, here, see for yourself!”

From the side of the shelf, the man pulled out a hand mirror and gave it to Hannibal. A small smile graced his face as he looked himself over, the hat’s shadow darkening his eyes even further than they already were.

I can’t even lie…” said he, stroking his chin, “I look pretty damn good.”

The owner nodded in agreement. “Yes, you do. That’ll be $29.95.”

Hannibal reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of rolled up bills held together by a skimpy rubber band. The owner watched him pull out a $20 and a $10 dollar bill before handing it to him.

Thank you for doing business with Mr. Shaq’s Hats. Please come again.”

Hannibal tipped his hat to the man, took his nickel in change, and exited the door, feeling rather well about himself.

Alright, now- URGH!”

A vein on the side of the boy’s head pulsed painfully, forcing a collapse to his knees in pain and a grab of his throbbing skull. Everyone around Hannibal continued on their way, walking around the boy like he was a wet floor sign. Hannibal’s mind, however, was numb to the outside world. Deep in his mind’s eye, a scene took place before him…

Stop it!” yelled a female voice. “Get out!”


A hooded shadowy figure stood over the woman’s body, his gun smoking.

Hannibal’s eyes reopened and they were wide as saucers, the experience he just had relatively alien to him. The woman in the vision, however, was not.

Ms. Johnson… no…”

With the speed of a mustang, the young man raced down the street as fast as his long legs would carry him.


The drivers angrily screamed at him as he sprinted and vaulted the hoods of their cars but he paid them no mind, his focus on the danger ahead.

It wasn’t long before he had finally made it and after he pounced up the steps, he proceeded to kick the door in with the might of a Spartan. His nostrils exhumed quick, quiet pants and his body dropped to a crouch as he saw, in the hall, on the first door to the left, the door opened partly with scathed footmarks below the door knob. Hannibal tightened his jaw and clenched his fist before quickly busting into the house and finding a sight that made him gasp in shock.

The woman, Ms. Johnson, laid on the ground with a gaping hole in her forehead. Her eyes were wide open but with soulless pupils, like open curtains to a dead house. Blood was splattered from her forehead and drops scattered around her face. Her arms and legs lay spread out as if she were peacefully laying in the grass.

Hannibal grimaced while looking at the sight, his heart heavy with bitter beats. The smell of death began to poignantly reach up into his nose as his eyes scanned the scene. As he stood there, staring at the body, however, a sudden realization came to mind.

That wound is still fresh… I just saw it somehow… This only happened seconds ago… meaning the killer is still here!”

Hannibal’s head was turned to the sound of a window opening and like a hound on the hunt, he ran to the kitchen where, beyond an open window, he saw the back alley on the side of the building and a hooded man running away from it.

Without hesitation, Hannibal dove through the window and landed on the ground feet-first before taking off after the escaping man. The killer began picking up speed but he wasn’t faster than Hannibal and soon, the young man managed to tackle the figure to the ground. Mounting him, Hannibal reached for the man’s hood when the pinned man, utilizing impressive flexibility, backhanded Hannibal and overpowered him enough to throw him off and onto the ground.

Hannibal’s eyes managed to catch a brief glimpse of a purple rabbit mask under the hood and the tip of a gold necklace sticking out of the man’s pocket. The man, in a sort of fidgety, twitchy motion, turned and ran out of the alley, leaving Hannibal lying in the grime, wondering:

Why didn’t he kill me?”

Liked it? Purchase the entire book (or download) right here.


Figure in the Rain

An intriguing thing, the rain. Its home fills the sky in a drab haze of despair, but like all things to come the droplets fall and rivers form along the waist of the streets. Puddles form in the way of small lakes in dug holes, or ripples tear from the seams of the sky to the ground and from therein little waves of a little ocean.

To observe: a shadowy figure in the rain. He could be your neighbor, your child. He could be your merchant, your father. He could be your lover or an angel. He could be the devil or a mirage. But indeed, his figure is cloaked by the rags of the modern world and what behooves him to move is this rain that graces his cloth. Or perhaps, his skin?

Breath the trails of phantoms exhaled, the figure indulges eyes to iridescent view – the shimmer of the plopping rain, marching from the sky in steady falls. Like the trained hand on the musical membranes of the piano, like the silent tears of heavy art. The chime of aged houses tested shake the chorus of the clouds in movement then progresses to the soft chills the kiss of a watery angel can deliver.

Shivers and shining eyes, the figure sees the wet grass in its kingdom, the crooked trees fed, the houses weeping, and the streets bathed. Streams crept to the belly of the Earth – digested, never again tasted. The figure formed poetry in his heartbeat, the rhyme of the rain giving way to pain’s end. It was not the cool of the clouds or the winds or the water that gave heartbeat’s rush calm but the slow saunter of the figure under the throne of the cloak.

In the aged houses held by tumultuous time, not a soul crept nor pandered beyond their step. Every splash by the rubber made came as waves to the figure’s ears, head bowed in reverence. Sound was minute, a field to the paintings of vision and common man. And under the gray was the canvas for further color, marked by every drop seen, heard, and made.

An intriguing thing, the rain. The figure had surmised as much. No better could he describe his pace through the storm except as an ocean in motion, cleaved into many bodies. And so then, he has waded through the trails of many burdens and many things, and found victory. There was beauty in despair, peace and tranquility in his pain. Every raindrop was a needle to the back and to the chest a sword. So then, through rain, he has waged war. But in himself. And in himself, he has found path through poison and from poison to paradise.

A Mother’s Monster | Chapter 2

A Mother’s Monster | Chapter 2

The sunrise poured on the clouds a purplish hue, bathing in lullaby blue the heavens. A woman approached the balcony, wine glass in hand containing chardonnay. Time’s brush painted its cloth on her skin: wrinkled and folded like a valley. Her hair was a shy gold, morning-time eyes, and fair skin. She wore a simple garb of white pants and buttoned shirt partly split from the collarbone.

She exhaled, moaning subdued-like as she closed her eyes in a cloudy state, sipping her drink. Her hand rested against the balcony bar, eyes watering from the morning mist and rising shine.


The woman turned around, her phone flashing on a back-less leather seat. Walking over to it, she frowned at the identity.

“Just picked her up. Taking her back to the hotel now. You want to meet us there?”

The woman sighed, raising her eyes to the sky with a river of faded images clouding her mind. She looked back to her phone, replying, “Yes. I need to talk to her. I need to talk to my daughter.”



“Watch it, Lisa, shit!” exclaimed her husband, liquor stains on his lively brown jacket. His eyes were a reddish brown, his coat was tinged with the roots of Mexico, and raven chestnut hair mimicking a tree’s stiffness. He smiled – a grain of gold within the crevasses of his tusks – as he wrapped around Lisa’s small shoulders.

Lisa was a small, thin girl with a huge grin and illuminated beryl eyes. Her hair was chin-length and wavy, hazel to the eye, and framing her flower face.

“Fuck a ‘watch it,’ bitch!” cried Lisa, hollering loud as she sprayed the open champagne bottle around the back seat of the limousine, covering the windows, the black leather seats, herself, and her new husband with the liquid.

“I love you too, honey,” retorted the man, chuckling as he witnessed Lisa down the bottle in one attempt.

“Hey, come on,” soothed Lisa, grabbing twin wine glasses, “we’re married now, Eric. Got every goddamn reason” – she poured the champagne – “to celebrate like a bunch of savages.”

Eric smirked, nodding twice. “I suppose you’re right, my beautiful wife.”

“Hmm, get used to it.”

Eric scoffed, putting his glass up.



The couple swallowed their drinks whole, giggling and hooting with the vibrancy of a full moon.

The driver glanced at the rear-view mirror, spying the two passionately kiss – an older man with sunken eyes and saggy face wearing a navy blue suit complete with a newsboy hat darker than the raven ocean. He pulled down on his hat, attracting the sidelong eye of Lisa, and with the glance came a narrowing of her eyes.

“Hey now,” announced the driver, “don’t go home base just yet. I’d get arrested.”

“Heh, don’t worry,” dismissed Eric. “You’d be well imbursed.”

“Oh, I’m sure, but still…”

“How much further to the apartment, anyway?” asked Lisa, parting her hair.

“Oh, shouldn’t be too long now. You know how it is. New York is hell for traffic.”

“Mh-hm, yeah.” Lisa nodded succinctly, embedding deep her fangs into her warm, pink lips. She turned her head to the side, piercing the veil of the man’s face. The man rested his elbow against the car door, tilting to the left his head.

Lisa’s eyes widened, nostrils fumed. She snapped over to Eric, clutching him by the arm and leashing him near. Near his leash, Eric whispered, panic on the tip: “What?!”

“We gotta get outta this car.”

“What? Why? We’re probably only just a few blocks awa-”

“This guy works with my mom.”

“Your mom? What?”

“Yeah, my crazy-ass mom who thinks I need to be in a mental hospital. We gotta go. NOW.”

“Okay, okay- Here, we’re at a light now. Come on, let’s go!”

Lisa and Eric darted from the limousine, sprinting down the streets of Manhattan – tall fortresses of dead men and women.

“Shit!” cried the driver, slapping the wheel.

Lisa and Eric ran for several blocks before careening into a French-based cafe, panting and laughing with their palms upon their knees.

“You know,” exhaled Eric, “I think we lost ‘em.”

“I fucking hope so.” Lisa stood erect, wiping the glare of sweat from her forehead.

“What now?”

Lisa shrugged. “Coffee?”

“So…” Lisa and Eric sat across from each other before a brown round table with a small candle near its center. Coffee mugs and small, empty plates with napkins their roofs.

“So…?” repeated Lisa, drawing it out.

“It’s just… you know, we never really ever talk about your mom. Why is that?”

Lisa scoffed, shaking her head, glancing away. “Ever since I was a little girl, she was this… paranoid monster, always getting me evaluated and checked out for my mental health. Even now, as a 34 year old grown ass woman, she still hooks her Harpy claws in. It’s…” She breathed acidic flames from her nostrils then shook her head.

Eric nodded slow, then shrugged. “Well, I mean, maybe you guys could bury the hatchet, you know-”


The elder woman walked in, wearing black dress pants and a loose, orientated white shirt. Hair was short and curved like mountain skin, gold necklace with a spider in the center. Circling her shoulder was her small, dark, leather purse.

Lisa growled. “Speak of the fucking Devil…”

The woman sifted through the seated sea of people, approaching her daughter’s table swifter than a shadow. “Lisa.”

Lisa sighed, coils of exasperation leaving with her breath. “Catherine.”

Catherine pursed her lips and closed her eyes. She then pierced like an eagle’s beak Eric’s visage, forcing his stutter. Her eyes expectant, Eric leaped from his seat – “Excuse me,” muttered he – then shuffled apace to the bathroom.

Catherine sat, gazing across to her daughter. “So, how long have you known this one?”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “None of your fucking business.”

Her nose crinkled quick, eyes glancing away, flowing thoughts. “You look well.”

“You’re not ruining this one, Catherine.”


Catherine’s hand palm was bound to the table surface, attracting like a fragrance the eyes and ears of several nearby diners.

“This isn’t funny, Isabella.” Catherine was scowling, Lisa glaring with shadows over her irises. “You are a vulture, a snake!” Her voice was subdued, but cacophonous. “Adam… Wes… Xavier…” Her fingers raised consecutively respective to the names. “Those are the names of the men you’ve manipulated, broken, stolen from. You drove Xavier… to suicide! You make men fall in love with you – proud, hopeful men – and you break their hearts, taking with you all of their money.”

With every word spoken, the blanker Lisa’s face. Catherine gritted her teeth, searching Lisa’s eyes: nothing. No more a void than an endless white land domed by a dark sky with endless blizzard and unknown destination.

“I,” continued Catherine, “will NOT allow you to do this again. You…” She trailed, gulping on her words. Eyes fogged with rain, her voice nigh shattered upon speaking again. “You are my responsibility. My daughter… my creation… my failure… my monster… and I… I love you so much… but I cannot allow you to hurt someone else. You are mine to deal with and I will deal with you… by any means necessary.”

Lisa smirked. “You can try.”

Eric rearrived, approaching the table like a deer from the grass. “Um… hello, Ms. Summers. Nice to see you again.”

Catherine offered a brief smile. “Yes, it is. The last time we were acquainted was so… brief.”

“Yeah.” Eric nodded awkwardly.

Catherine rose from the seat, turning away from the table and leaving the cafe without another word. Eric only switched glances from the door to Lisa, bewildered eyes.

“What… the… fuck?”

Lisa shrugged, shaking her head. “See what I told you? Crazy.”


The River

The River

The river is my solace and my peace. It flaps against the shore, its wings the waves. It glows like an iris in the sunlight, then a mirror to the sky above. The night dips its hand in its skin and dares tinge it black, but the river is resilient – its silent spark never withers and of its beauty is a nightglow imbuing both the Moon and its companions, the stars.

See how it can, like a soft blade of grass or floating leaf, flow so serenely – soft in its touch, like a mother’s hum or lover’s kiss – or can rage with lion-like ferocity, pawing with its fluid claws at whoever would dare near. How joyous it is to mime its saunter, its pace; to run along the wings of Time forever, forever, forever.

When I was a child, my uncle would bring me to sit on the bank of this river and meditate.

Breathe, Evelyn.” His vibrant ocean eyes smiling in their hue. “Let the spirit of waters overtake.”

I never truly understood – how could I, young and ignorant – but decades past, I learned.

The river gives life to the world, Evelyn. Just like the trees, like the sky, the clouds, the rocks, and even people. Its beauty, however, is in its simplicity. The river, and all of nature’s children, is the god of simplicity, the Almighty Master. The River lives, yet it lives not in concern, in anxiety, in fear. It instead offers peace, love, direction. It is a mirror of us. It can be as calm or as distorted as we are, as we wish to be. Truthfully, man is nature, nature is man. The river is the sky, the sky is the rock, the rock is the cloud, the clouds are us. All and we, we are all. So, breathe in the peace of the river, Evelyn. Its life, its love. Breathe, and know peace…”

Today, I walk beside this river and feel it: the tranquility of the flow. Simplicity… the true formula of life, of living. Simplicity, simplicity! Simplicity…




My love, what hast thou seen beyond

This cage our hearts had, like webs, wrung

And smiled upon, and loved so fond?

Tell me, rend mine heart – pain be sung!

What hast thou let succumb our bond?


Woe, woe… Despair in minute happiness,

Light waned to darkness, hardly felt in pain.

Indeed, mine heart hath split in black and bliss:

This freedom is like angel’s drink in rain,

Yet true peace from thee is what I most miss.


Dear Arthur, fallen to my touch,

How have us two – like sand and sea,

Blue skies and their white clouds – let crush

Our symphony of seren’ty,

Our bodies ‘twined til cheeks turned blush?


Naught, o Maxine, but all and everything.

Thine hands are but the warmth shy cold avoids,

And while I need such warmth, I too take wing

To flight from thee, leaving my soul devoid,

Hoping for what the horizon mayth bring.


Allow my touch; relax, my love.

Let burn thy stiffness to the fire

And free the feathers high above

That only could lead where retires

This strong resistance tend’d to strove.


Ah, Maxine, sweet, my sweet Maxine!

How deep the depths my love doth reach beneath

This bed so venomous which we have seen –

Nay, have made! To each other, we bequeath

This Hell and Heaven so beautifully obscene.


As if Azrael’s hands seized hold,

Mine heart takes leap and fall to thee;

It rests within thine hand, so cold

And so fragile for this to be;

And only could of its chains mold.


Am I thy love or plague, ocean or flame?

Do I pur’fy thine heart in light divine

Or bury like a tomb thy will like game?

How long mine hands to make once more thee mine,

But misery doth rent such passion tame.


My love, my love! O, my Arthur!

Is not love’s misery the price of life,

The geyser that cools slow aft stir

And delivers a sight so rife

With beauty, none cannot concur?


My heart is like a vine – contort’d,

Twist’d from this petal of emotion felt

For thee and, truly, only thee. Unsort’d

Heartbreak and bitterness so often welt

To the brim of the geyser’s tip distort’d.


Ne’er thwart’d we be, be we thwart’d ne’er.

Again, let us like waterfalls

Repeat this bond to persevere,

Despite Time’s harsh pull to enthrall

Us with the panic of black fear.


How long I to reduce this world to ash

And be with none but thee eternal,

But truly can we ne’er be ‘gain awash

Of glory that we held so infernal,

As it fell from our grasp an open gash.


When dust is dust, naught shall reverse

The state from which ‘twas brought to death,

As what hath died is dead – a curse

Of life’s stale vow. Enjoy thy breath

And with this from me, disperse.


Maxine, Maxine! My one true love, mine heart!

If only pain could dim but a grass blade of length,

Then sans a doubt, I would be thine, ne’er ‘part

From thee again, my love. But yet, our strength

Renders such want futile – like broken art.


Goodbye, my love

My Arthur.

I shall always love thee –


A Mother’s Monster | Chapter 1

A Mother’s Monster | Chapter 1


“Where is it, where is it?”

“Lisa, slow down!”

“Wait, Lisa!”

Rustle, rustle!

Three small figures dashed through the green standing strands: a young, freckled, blue-eyed boy with a blonde bowl-cut; a dull-zaffre eyed, bright-skinned girl – slightly younger than him – with hazel bright hair that followed the wind in flow; and a girl with a muddy blonde tress and stark irises sprinting ahead of the former two.

“Lisa!” cried the boy. “Lisa, Mom said we can’t run away too far!”

“You’re not getting away, little rat…” muttered Lisa, trampling over flowers and butterflies and anthills, racing through the outspread plain, surrounded by pale-hued evergreens.

A small brown fur-coated critter hopped – meandering – left and right, whirling Lisa’s eyes in opposing directions. It skipped under blades, clouded by calm green. Birds oversaw the chase from their perch upon the branches, complacent clouds swimming forth. The Sun glared down heat, peering through the skins of every walking creature to their bones.

“Ugh!” groaned she, leaping some moments after to seize it.


The boy and the girl behind arrived beside her, panting with strings of sweat careening down their flushed faces. Hands on their knees, hunched over, the two gasped and shined smiles upon Lisa’s rise from ground; in her hand, she held a bunny.

It was petite and furry, gray-brown with black-red eyes. It’s stone-like nose twitched, lengthy ears bending slightly. Its head glanced around, bod breathing swift.

“I caught it!” exclaimed Lisa brightly, shimmering smiles blanketing the children’s faces. She smirked, glaring down at the creature with eyes aglown in Caesarean conquest.

“Whoa!” exclaimed the other two, leaning in toward the bunny. The blonde-haired girl giggled, tapping it twice on the nose.

“It’s so cute!” said the girl. “Can we keep-”


A small wind blew, brushing the hair of the blonde girl across her small face. Wide-eyed with tears accumulating, her still face implacidly gazing upon the twisted neck of the bunny.

Its head was twisted around, stoic eyes fixed on the sky, skin wrung in folds around its neck. Lisa’s expression remained unchanged, the boy’s hands hooded over his mouth, and the girl, red-eyed with her small pink lips quivering, yielded to her pale knees, hitting strong the rough floor.

“L… Lisa?” whispered the boy. His foot cemented in place, trembling.

“Yes, Tom?” Lisa lifted her head towards him, smiling angelically.

Tom’s eyes refused to blink, his mouth agape – repeatedly opening then retreating without measure for any language – as he stared at Lisa.

“That… that… why did you… why-”

“AAAHHHH!!!!” The other girl shrieked, her howl warding to flight the avians. Lisa frowned at the girl, releasing from her hands the rabbit.

“No!” cried Tom, diving for its body.


He landed on his stomach, chin skidding slightly against the rocks. He held its body in his palms, panting and sobbing quietly at the sight. Lisa gazed down, bewildered. She turned to the sound of approaching footsteps: a middle-aged dirty blonde woman with spectacles and sky blue eyes came near.

She wrapped her arms warmly around Lisa, pulling her tight. The woman then examined the scene: the other girl hysterically sobbing, her chest heaving and her face sister to a rose; the boy staring distraught at the still creature in his hands; Lisa placidly regarding everyone.

“What happened?” cried the woman.

Tom, his blood-tinged face buried in his arms, muttered, “Dead… Lisa… dead…”

The woman shook her head slightly, mind slipping the anchor of understanding.


Tom raised his head, directly staring into the woman’s sky-blue eyes with his bloodshot red, tear drowned eyes. “Lisa… she killed the bunny.,.”

The mother gasped silently, shaking her head again.

“Uh…” stammered she, “there must be some-some mistake…?” She gazed to her daughter, whom she held in her arms.

Lisa closed her eyes, settling into her mother’s arms. She inhaled softly and whispered in a breath: “You lose…”


Been absent for awhile: I apologize.

However, I do have short stories planned and I’m writing a play specifically for the blog. Thank you to everyone who’s been patient and everyone who follows, likes, and even comments. All of it is seen, appreciated, and helpful.

Also, for any who would like more frequent content from me, follow my second and third blog here: Poetry in Pixels and Mr. X’s Melody. Poetry, art, and music. You can’t go wrong.

Anyway, thank you again. Life’s life, but you know how it is.

See you soon. Peace!

Diary of a Slavewoman

Diary of a Slavewoman

Thursday. VI/4th, MMCV


The beatings were light today. I remember when I first was sold to the Count. ‘Twas he and his son who often hit me. Mostly in the mornings as bonding activity. Indeed, they are closer for it. It is important, after all, for a man to father his son.

Sunday. VI/14th, MMCV

I wonder how Mother is doing? I have often thought of mailing her, but poor Mother dear is still stoned in an age where communication was instantaneous. The War took care of that; it took care of many things. But poor Mother, denied by reality. I should mail her.

Sunday. VII/12th, MMCV


‘Twas quite fierce today, but heat is aged to me. Born in Arabia, raised in Persia, the Sun is my sister, closely adored and despised at once. The Count pays me the most attention this day, after Church. I suppose God drives lust in men.


Wednesday. VII/29th, MMCV


Today, a slave tried escape. She raced under the blanket of the night to know of freedom. Freedom – the breast of life, the cup of pleasure. But she was hunted for her treachery. Hunted and torn. Such is life, such is life. Freedom now is death, death now is freedom.

Monday. VIII/10th, MMCV


New slaves were inducted. I am tasked as head mistress of the Count to learn them the ways of the plantation. As I write, I weep. When last had I wept? I weep not for them, but I, who suffers to further the hand of tyranny.

Saturday. VIII/29th, MMCV


The Count has gone to Colombia to conduct business, leaving me and his other servants, along with his wife and boy, alone. Often, I ponder the War of the World and the War of Colombia. Such women lost, such lives waned, such children pained – what is war but a pillager of life?

Tuesday. IX/1st, MMCV


My sister slaves have approached me today. The Count has deigned them the deed of choosing among themselves which should be of his personal concubines. Fierce with youth, rife with rage, they all concoct a plan to kill him – youth, youth – and ask my aid. I rejected, but hoped.

Tuesday. IX/8th, MMCV

My young sisters, how I pity them. Such hatred for their slavery, such impatience. How I implored the Count mercy, yet they are to be burned like Witches. Cruelty… or, perhaps, freedom found in fire? I know not which, only grief… and broken rage.

Friday. X/16th, MMCV

The days grow cold and short. The Count is to be stationed beyond Colombia and has tasked me to acquaint him. His wife and he of late have quarreled. I wonder of her heart? How feels she of a mistress? How I? And in reflection, I feel dead and suspect so as well of she.

Wednesday. XI/11th, MMCV


The Señora has been publicly put to death, accused of adultery. How many wives have men put to death for this claim? How I hate men, how I hate women; how I hate the sky, how I hate the sea; how I hate this world, how I hate myself.