Rapture

Hello weary friend, I know it's been awhile since we last met. Well, I've been busy, as I'm sure you have. After all, it's not like you checked the blog everyday for almost a year to see if I posted something new, right? Right??? Anywho, here's a little snipit I did for class. It's nothing fancy, but apparently my exploitation of an older, more regal language casts premature ejaculation in a beautiful, poetic light. Enjoy. 

Rapture

By: Michael T. Flanders 

It was supposed to be a simple deed in the darkness, a fevered feast of gluttony upon my person which would be consumed within moments. Valor and virtue would be swallowed by the rosy gale that enveloped the whole of myself, leaving my youth unchecked at the door. To my dismay, the efforts of my defense and self-control were for naught, as a quick tidal effect washed over me, stripping away the promises of pleasure in a sea of euphoria. Instead, my manhood is tested, only to falter against the ecstasy beat of her rhythmic sin and I find myself reminded of something not dissimilar, when the trigger of my hunting rifle was teased and a small ball of lead tore through the air prematurely, like a pheasant flying away from its stalker well before the game began. And like the pheasant, my mind raced in a million different directions, floundering for the best escape. The bird for survival, myself for shameful brashness.

     My eyes fluttered everywhere, drinking in the sights of my host’s abode, refusing to look at her in this frozen moment of hushed awkwardness. Warm, pulsing contractions continued to vibrate below, yet her body did not move after its third gallop, assuring me the steed I brought her was no more than the jackass she expected. A whispering wind billowed through the cruddy cloth the tart hung as curtains, a hint of bitter ale sweeping along with it. It clung to the air, the intoxicating smell mixing with the ripe odor of feminine exertion, crafting the perfect atmosphere one would anticipate a whorehouse to possess. And without warning, the same exact feeling I experienced seconds ago with the explosion of indignity, she plucked herself from the sticky mound that was my lower half and went about cleaning as if it were the norm. On her bed, a slim pad of grime and uncomfortable displacement, I lay exposed and drenched in the juices of my very first experience with a woman. I came expecting a lion’s roar, but was given the soft caw of a pheasant. Without hesitation I retrieved my trousers from the bottoms of my ankles and rested them back at the base of my hips, then walked out without ever giving the woman a second glance. Her shillings rested nicely on her nightstand, there was no need for more false pleasantries.

"Al"

“AL”
“Slit their fucking throats!”

The words still echoed in my mind, the violent urges Al so desperately wanted performed by my own hand. In fact, it was these urges which propelled me even to this day. I don’t mean these harsh actions drive my person, mind you, they don’t control who I am, but rather they cause me to live a life of normalcy. A man of eight years over twenty, I would’ve been a completely different creature had I not taken the straight razor to the throats of my parents. In all honesty, I may have been worse than the Ripper without the stain upon my soul being cleansed at age eight. But even considering this, I know now I still should’ve slashed that monkey to pieces instead of my dear, sweet parents. Maybe in doing so I would’ve only known a life of dull normalcy, not needing to strive for it in the first place… But I’m getting ahead of myself. The story didn’t start with the death of my loved ones. No, it all began with a simple gift.

THEN – Fall, 1888: London

“It’s a Macaque! Isn’t he simply radiant?” Mother’s tone was cheerful. I always hated how excitable she sounded. “Your father and I purchased him from a foreigner while on our trip to India!” Little did Mother realize she would’ve been the foreign one in another country.

“He smells.”

Mother’s face sank, as if taken aback, yet she continued on. “Nonsense, my love. He’s merely a victim of displacement. You’d be rather odd smelling I’m sure, to other people if you were placed in their natural habitat after spending your whole life somewhere else.” Her theories always came out rather dim, I was merely too young to realize it.

“Take him back. I don’t want him.”

Father finally entered the conversation with his steel-trap logic. “We can’t take him back, Pippin. It’s quite a long journey for the return of one simple monkey.”

“I fail to see how I should be concerned with that.” Yes, I’m aware I was a child of a bratty nature. However, you’ll agree with my complaints soon enough. “Get one of the jaundy boys down by the dock to do it. They’d be more than willing to take on such a task for some pocket money. And if not, roughen them up a bit.”

The monkey rattled in its imprisonment, as if to signify its resistance in departing upon another journey. If only my parents hadn’t been so strong-willed about this damned beast, they might still have their jugulars intact…

“Pippin! Such things are not nice to say about the Asian fellows by the dock! They’re just as hardworking as the Irish, if not more! At least we know they won’t steal the clothes from your back while you’re not looking!” Mother wasn’t a fine example of equality, no matter how much she lectured me on my thoughts of the Asians.

“We’re not discussing the jaundies any longer! The monkey is a gift from our travels and you will tend to him as if he were your sibling. Do you understand?” Father piggybacked Mother’s complaint with his usual cavalier attitude, not noticing the twinge in Mother’s eye at the mention of “sibling”. Of course, it’s here I feel inclined to inform you my parents only went on this trek across the globe to the likes of Sudan, Istanbul, or Constantinople for you westerners, and India to relieve their heavy minds of Mother’s great loss. Yes, I was to be an older sibling, but Fate would have it otherwise. Now I was left with a feces-throwing animal as a replacement. Continuing...

“The estate will be a complete mess when you let loose that thing. Do not even begin to fathom I will clean up after its disasters.” Again, I’m quite aware of how spoiled and entitled I came off as. But I did have an extensive vocabulary for my age.
Both of my parents were completely annoyed at this lack of interest in their gift, it was blatant when they both shouted “Enough!” Father was the first to speak after their unified dismissal. “You will tend to the animal, you will play with the animal, you will love the animal. Am I understood?”
What was I to do? Yes, my will still screamed to beat against theirs, but I was a mere child. Arguing with a parent while in your formative years is nothing more than a losing battle from the start. Now convinced they had won the debate, Mother and Father opened the door to the monkey’s entrapment. The little creature hastily fled from the box, running up the stairs of the grand hall and down one of the many pathways the manner possessed. It was here I really noticed how my living quarters looked. Each entry was guarded by dual marbled statues imported from Greece, the curtains were a silk rarity from the upper regions of Asia, the walls, although a stale brown, were accented with nothing short of one of a kind paintings from around the world. This was more of a museum than a place to live, but I made due with the west wing of the house as my playground. In fact, it was that area of the house I had just heard a crashing sound come from. If only I hadn’t gone to investigate…
I raced into my bedroom, a place of white walls and dark drapes. It was here I saw the monkey perched atop my cabinet of toys, throwing things about like a regular beast of nature. However, he wasn’t destroying my playthings in a regular fashion for something like himself, but rather as a miniature human trapped beneath the case of something primitive. This was only the first of many oddities to come.
“What the hell are you looking at, boy?”
Yes, the monkey spoke to me. And even further, my mouth hung open like that of a person suffering a mental ailment. In fact, the monkey even felt inclined to point that out.
“Are you stupid, or just plain retarded?” The monkey hurled another of my belongings across the room just as he hurled his insult not more than a moment ago. But trust me, he wasn’t done there. “Close your fucking mouth, you’re letting a draft in.” He then jumped from the cabinet to the nearby window, trying to pry it open. “Your parents don’t trust you, they have to nail down the damn windows so you can’t get out?”
I stared on, unsure of what to say. After a few moments I was finally able to mutter out “What are you?” I’m quite aware I seemed daft at this point in time.
This stopped the monkey in his tracks, turning his full attention to me. “Ah, it speaks. Here I thought I was the only one with the cognitive capacity to actually say something useful. After all, you didn’t say much more than jack shit when talking to your parents. And let’s get something straight, I’m not a what, I’m a who.”
“Alright, who are you?” Yes, still daft.
“Name’s Al, and this isn’t who I really am. I was actually an American-“
“You came from America? But Mother and Father said they bought you in India.”
Al became enraged. “Will you let me finish, you little shit? I was getting to that... I’m from America, but I was on holiday in India. I came across some sort of temptress and now I’m a fucking monkey. Does that answer all of your asinine questions?”
The only thing I could think was “No”, but I hardly wanted to provoke Al any more than he already seemed to be. After a few more moments of his bumbling to get out and my bumbling around a talking monkey, we sat down and talked at great length. The man-ape spoke about his journeys across the world, about how he always preferred New York to anywhere else. He said there was a sophisticated aggression in New York and I must really plan a trip if I intend to keep my head squarely up my rectum. Being only eight, I couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or insult. I see now it was the latter. Just as our conversation was getting into what Al’s profession was, Mother called from somewhere near the kitchen, “Darling, it’s time for your medication.” I remember shaking my head in shame.
“Was I right, are you fucked in the head?” Al had a very charming way with words. He informed me all Americans spoke like this too. But he did have a point. I sat in my room, my sanctuary of white and enjoyment, talking to a beast which shouldn’t be able to talk back. Was I mad? No…
“It’s nothing like that. I-“
Mother cut me off. “Pippin, can you hear me? It’s time for your pills.”
I rose to my feet and heard Al chuckle. “Boy, I’d shove that bottle down her throat and make her choke on those pills if I were you.” I had no response, or shall I say, what should I have responded with? I merely dusted myself off and began my trip down to the kitchen. I could hear Al yelling at me as I exited though, “Kill the bitch! Kill the bitch! Kill the bitch! Oh, and don’t forget about your father!”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, a talking monkey wanted me to kill my parents. And each point around this time of day, the time I took my medication, Al’s aggression towards Mother and Father became more obvious. I’d walk along the dark halls, judgmental eyes staring at me from the paintings I’d pass, with words like “stab, shoot, murder, kill” pounding through my skull like a bad headache. Finally I stopped taking the medication to get a reprieve from Al’s verbal wrath. Granted, Mother and Father weren’t too keen on my disobedience initially, but they gave up the struggle over time. Maybe a person in their formative years can win an argument with their older counterparts. Either way, my small victory only spurred the tiny mockery of a man to become more angered.
“Slit their fucking throats!”
“Why are you doing this? Mother and Father may be a burden at times, but that’s no reason to kill them.” Truly, I had no desire to kill anyone, let alone my parents… Yet.
The creature carried on his mental torment, “Slit their fucking throats! Do it! Do it now, you little shit!” He continued with his demands, even instructing me to use the straight razor that somehow came into my possession. Was it one of Father’s? Even to this day I can’t recall. “Put that thing to their necks and slice!”
I don’t think there was a turning point, some toggle in my mind that switched on. No, it was more like sleepwalking. I staggered down the hallways in my slumber attire, no longer concerned with the art glaring at me for my thoughts. Oddly enough, each picture I walked by appeared different now, as if rooting for me to carry out Al’s actions. These new emotions from the artwork could be contributed to my mental state at the time, yet I don’t feel the paintings have changed their mind over the years. They wanted me to do it, just as Al did.
The door creaked ever so slightly as I opened the entrance to Mother and Father’s room. There they were, wrapped up like little children in their bed of oak and fancy. I had only been in their room once, but it never looked like this. Shadows danced on the jeweled walls like imps from Hell, the sculptures and statues took on sharp points, as if growing horns. The once ordinary room now housed all of the monstrosities one would see in a fevered trance, or property of Satan. These things would not detour me though, for my resolve was clear: appease Al so he’d let me have peace.
Father didn’t struggle too much if I recall correctly. I mounted his chest and he awoke with the thought I needed something. He started to call down to one of the servants, but failed to make anything audible once his vocal cords were severed. Blood began pouring from the wound instantly, soaking his long johns and bedding alike. The sudden wetness stirred Mother from her slumber, causing me to leap at her with a terrible force I never knew I possessed. We tumbled from the bed, myself somehow underneath her. Disregarding my position, I thrust my arm upward, stabbing part of the blade into Mother’s neck. She loosed a scream, but quickly stopped herself. I can only assume the action inflicted more pain than she was accustomed. The now dying woman reached up to remove the sharp object, but only succeeded with slicing her fingers due to her franticness. Her hands withdrew wildly, leaving me to drag the razor through her flesh, carving an orifice of pain and gore into her person. The job took several moments, and even after she bled out her body trembled. I then dropped the razor and went back to my chambers. Even now I’m quite confused with how I committed such an atrocity, yet somehow managed to spare myself even a single drop of blood dampening my garments.
Returning to my room, I climbed into my bed. I knew I was now free of Al’s torment, his wrath. My eyes began to sink, I was drifting between this world and the one of rest. It was in my final moment of consciousness I noticed the window to my room was pried open and the talking monkey was nowhere to be found.
NOW – Spring, 1908: New York
There you have it. I killed my parents because an animal, no a man, instructed me to do so. The worst part isn’t my ill-deed, or even that the monkey disappeared once I satiated his hunger for death, but that instead Father was labeled the killer. Yes, the police ruled it both a murder and a suicide. With that, I was passed around from servant to servant until I came of age, thus inheriting the family estate. I live there now, with my family. There’s the Wife, the Son, and the younger Daughter. We even have the Dog. I took on a profession at the local pressing and have lived as normal a life as I could given the circumstances. It was a struggle at times, but I made due with the situation I created. It was everything until now which spurred on this holiday with the family. They longed for an escape, and since childhood I had a desire to go to New York. It turns out visiting the local zoo wasn’t such a good idea though…
“Well look what the cat dragged in.” Al’s familiar voice sounded from a nearby cage. I turned my attention to the monkey, never expecting to find him here, or anywhere for that matter. “It’s a nice family you have there. You know what you should do? Slit their fucking throats!” Suddenly I felt the small handle of a straight razor. I looked down and saw the Daughter holding my hand.
“I like that monkey, daddy. Could we keep him?”
Al laughed hysterically as I stared at the Daughter. My head began to pound as it did when I was a child, “stab, shoot, murder, kill”, the beat to my internal drum…
“Yes, sweetheart. We’ll go ask the man right now how much the monkey costs.”
The End…?

Have You Seen My Stapler?

Have You Seen My Stapler?

By: Michael T. Flanders

     The beast waited in the darkness, sending frigid splinters up Howard’s spine. It’d been lurking there for hours, watching, waiting, keeping him pinned in the corner; the only remaining refuge of light in the room. Often he’d find himself in absolute silence, and he remained hopeful that the creature had sunk back into the obsidian pool it resonated from. To his dismay, however, it would remind him of its presence just as soon as he’d muster the courage to attempt flight. A low growl, the sound of its heavy breathing, an occasional clank of some unknown office equipment hitting the floor; the monster was toying with him. It wanted him to run into the darkness, but he wouldn’t give it the satisfaction, not as long as the red emergency bulb above him held true. 

     A sliver of light pierced the dark blanket before him as the door to his office crept open. Joe, the newest intern, popped his head in. “Hey Howard, Legal wants to know if you have those- Argh! Waa! Ugg! No!” The man tried to scream even after his throat was ripped out, letting loose a wet squeak before the beast finally ended him with a loud crunch. Howard didn’t know him that well, but even through his fear he couldn’t help to think that was one hell of a way to end an internship.

     The beast worked on Joe’s corpse, filling the hushed office with noises of gore and terror as skin was stripped from muscle, then muscle from bone. It would toss scraps into the light, small chunks of intern splattering around Howard’s huddled person. Rips and tears grew more frantic, the creature becoming enthralled with its meal, until finally an inhumane shriek bounced off the cheap drywall and a grotesque pop caused Howard to flinch in disgust. Something’s been pulled off, he thought. A flurry of movement came from the darkness, cementing Howard’s despair as Joe’s severed head land squarely in his lap. The office manager couldn’t contain his fright and screamed. It wasn’t planned, he didn’t think someone would come in and save him, but he couldn’t stop. He sat in his beacon of salvation, speckled in blood, screaming to no end.  It wasn’t until moments later that an amused snarl quieted his impulse to jump from his own skin.

     “Howard, don’t you know interoffice relationships are frowned upon,” hissed the creature. “Especially when it’s, what’s the slang term, ‘getting head’?”

     Howard’s dentures bounced atop the few remaining teeth he had left, a falsified chattering being his only answer to the monster’s pun. He looked to the dismembered remains of Joe in his lap and found only flashes of himself instead. Patchy, aged hair, wrinkles upon wrinkles, a grey tinge to his faded pink tone; there was no hint Joe even existed here, it was only a mirror of what was to come. His heart began to flutter with panic and he started to scream once more, but this time with the purpose of drawing attention. Countless people may die coming to his rescue, yet he didn’t care, he wanted out of this nightmare… at any cost.

     “Oh would you shut up,” shouted the beast in the darkness as it shot a tentacle towards the office manager. “You’re giving me a headache!” A quick slash marked Howard’s cheek, but that was all. The tentacle retreated into its black solace before doing more harm, but appeared to be damaged as the light touched its…scales. Were those scales? His gag reflex kicked in, propelled by the idea of the creature’s sharp, slimy touch and the smell of its light-inflicted wound. He choked down gratuitous amounts of bile, attempting to keep his breakfast burrito from escaping its forced residence in his stomach. It was almost a success too, until Joe’s stump proceeded to bleed out in his lap. The vomit came vigorously onto the severed head, draining Howard’s insides of anything relating to sustenance, and it continued well into his body becoming empty, transforming into a violent dry-heave.

     The beast’s amused snarl rang out again, refusing the idea of giving him even a moment of a reprieve in this corner office of Hell. His torment was its entertainment, and the thing showed no signs of mercy being built into its system. Snarl after snarl turned into laughter followed by more laughter, the creature somehow transforming its tone from beastly to human. What Howard could only image as wet slops hit the floor with a slick whistle, sliding across cheap tile into overturned furniture. A moment or so passed and a light suddenly flicked on in the distance. Just as soon as it was born life, however, it soon perished at the push of a button. This happened for awhile, a red-coated fingernail playing with the switch of a desk lamp near where Howard’s desk rested. Finally the light went off, followed by footsteps heading towards the door.

     “Now what did we learn, Howard?” a sultry female voice asked.

     Bits of regurgitated egg clung to Howard’s lips and chin, remnants of food he’d eaten earlier in the morning. “Not to take your coffee mug without asking.” A click sounded and the room was instantly filled with fluorescent relief.

     “Good boy.” said the woman, a nude blonde of heavenly features, save for the black-tinted ooze that appeared to trail from her shoulders all the way to a monstrous husk in the middle of the room. “Now clean up and get back to work, I think Legal needs you for something.” She opened the door and walked out, exiting without so much as to acknowledge the apocalypse that was Howard’s office. Glass was scattered over miscellaneous papers and broken machinery, fixtures in the ceiling dangled from vicarious wires, flayed remains of Joe painted the colorless drywall. Howard drunk in the sight and responded with a delay, “Right away, Lilith.”

     He really hated Mondays at Morning Star Industries.

"The Bald Man"

“The Bald Man”

By: Michael T. Flanders

     Richard knew he was going to die, and it was going to be bloody. He sat in his black, beat up Nissan Pathfinder, gazing out his window and letting a cigarette burn between his shaky fingers. It was that time of year again, the time when ghosts, goblins and other horrific things came to life in shades of black and orange, when it was okay to leave a severed head in your front yard as decoration. He never truly cared for the season, but as all things do, they change.

     The SUV sat right off the curb, resting in front of a particularly horrific house. Richard had never seen such dedication to the holiday since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. There were life-like zombies littering the yard, limbs and gravestones scattered as if they were permanent fixtures, webbing strewn about as if a horde of spiders ravaged the land. There was even a pretty decent werewolf standing chained to the top of the roof. For a moment the man allowed himself to be drawn into the wolf’s gaze. He could tell it was made of cheap decoration and raggedy clothes, that it was fake, but somehow this centerpiece of rage came off as hungry and it wanted Richard. It was during a slew of vicious daydreams that the car jostled, just as it always did when he least expected it.

     Immediately the man began checking his rearview mirrors. He wasn’t afraid someone hit him, or that a person was trying to get into his less-than-humble chariot. No, he was looking for the Bald Man. Anytime his vehicle jerked that way it was usually a prelude to the Bald Man’s approach. He expected it this evening too, just…not so soon. The sun hadn’t completely gone down yet, with flecks of departing light bleeding into the gale of darkness. The Bald Man never appeared when the sun was out. He must be anxious, thought Richard.

     Checking all the mirrors for the fifteenth time, he leaned back in his seat and took a drag off his cigarette. He left the butt lingering between his lips, periodically shifting his sight between the yard and mirrors. Nothing. He expected something to happen, the car to shake again, his cigarette to be extinguished, a cold chill to overtake his spine. Nothing. Richard’s fingers instinctively bounced up and down in anticipation. It was the moments like this that truly scared him. Granted, the Bald Man was a perfect image of fear, with his ash-white head, those diamond entrenched eyes, and that blacked out smile which seemed to stretch from ear to ear. But so far his appearance was only met with little more than veiled threats and occurrences of mild trickery. The moments of silence though, that was where the demons dwelled.

     Richard never prided himself on having any sort of imagination. He had a dull job with the construction company, he dropped out of community college for his lack of interest, and anytime he tried to spur his creative muse he was always met with one everlasting thought – what’s the point? But this was different. This wasn’t real life. This was the paranormal and he never skipped a beat when allowing his mind to drift to some sort of horrific death at the hands of a faceless creature. Vampires, werewolves, even the idea of a killer leprechaun has passed through his thoughts at least once. The Bald Man was becoming a real hazard, especially to his mental state, but Richard started to wonder in those hushed moments, what else lurks in the darkness, and what else wants to kill him?

“Richard,” a voice sounded in the distance. “Richard, I’m coming.”

     Snapping back to reality once more and dropping the cigarette from his lips, Richard lurched forward, gripping his steering wheel without even realizing he did so. The Bald Man was closing in. He always started out a bit reserved and very low in volume, but that generally didn’t last long.

     He called to Richard once more. “I’m coming for you. Are you ready?” The man began frantically searching his SUV for any signs of his stalker’s presence. Nothing. He looked to the yard, letting his eyes investigate each crevice of gore and horror. Nothing. It was as his sight stopped on a zombie in the back that he realized how stupid of an idea this was. The Bald Man encouraged him to search out his fears, to fight them, and supposedly that would be his way of expelling the creature. Now though, he could tell it was just more fuel for the fire. Richard’s heart raced as he began fumbling for his car keys. He needed to leave now, before the Bald Man appeared. He shoved the key in the ignition, flipped the SUV on and pressed the gas, only to be halted as the face of fear lurched from the windshield. The Bald Man had arrived.

"The Bald Man" read by Michael Flanders

Enjoy! Comments and suggestions welcome!

Rum and a Cigar

London, England 1778

Crimson spots dripped upon the pale white ash littering the ground, a mockery of London’s regular snowfall in the winter. Soldiers clad in olden armor and religious artifacts charged across a body-strewn battlefield. Pyres burned into the night, raining down flecks of charred decomposition. One after another limbs and persons were tossed upon the flames, yet they would return twofold in the blink of an eye. Sir Lionwhite looked out at his battalion, worn men charging to their deaths in order for him to attempt his gambit.

You’re all going to die, he thought. The deaths will be noble, but they will be assured no less.

Lionwhite’s thoughts were stirred by an infantryman charging into his tent. “Sir, more undead sentries attack from the north. What are your orders?”

The high constable turned to face his ally. A man of only twenty eight years, Lionwhite’s features betrayed a look of well over forty. His dirty blonde hair was streaked with strands of grey. His chin although chiseled, hung low as if it had been through a decade of wars. A scar rested just below his right eye, the one with a blue tint. His other eye held that of a green shade. He bowed his head.

Contemplation swept over Lionwhite, his brow becoming tainted with sweat. If his men charged forward they would be dead within moments, a feast for the things Samedi unleashed upon the world. If they withdrew then they’d lose this hold and the constable would be forced to surrender yet another town to the zombie god’s hunger. Lionwhite slowly lifted his gaze back to the infantryman.

“Have the men meet Samedi’s creatures,” Lionwhite turned his back to the other man. “Dispatch them as soon as possible. Report when the men have dwindled in numbers and the other side has started their ritualistic cannibalism.”

The soldier cocked his head, as if confused by the constable’s orders. “But sir-“

“You’re wasting precious time, soldier. And time is not a luxury God can grant us at this juncture. You have your orders, follow them.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, the man still unsure of Lionwhite’s intentions. With great hesitation he finally said “As you command,” and retreated back to his fellow brothers in arms. A short time later Lionwhite could hear his men marching to their deaths. It will be worth it in the end, the high constable told himself. Soon I will avenge you all and this bloodbath will be concluded.

***

Smoke wafted through the chambers of Baron Samedi. A creature of robust form, his godly presence was crafted from natural obsidian flesh, the finest of white garments, a top a hat to match, his favored amulet and a glass of the strongest rum this side of the Caribbean Isles. He flicked his tongue between pale lips, knocking loose ash from his cigar.

“Soon my brethren,” Samedi announced through a puff of smoke. “soon we will take our place as the rightful heirs to this world. No longer will we inhabit the night terrors of small children or feeble-minded fools. We shall rule this realm, and feast upon the soul of humanity!”

Cheers erupted through the room, undead servants rallying around the great god of the dead. The necromancer responsible for Samedi’s resurrection laid shackled to a nearby wall, the severed body parts of prisoners and rotting soldiers alike littered the ground surrounding him. He refused to join the festivities, rather adding his voice to the crowd in order to beg for release.

“Samedi, my lord,” bellowed Horus. “I am nothing more than your humble servant, why must I be imprisoned for merely gifting you the pleasures of life once again?”

All together the revelry stopped and everyone’s attention was shifted towards the cowering man. Samedi rose from his throne of bone and iron, plucking the cigar from his lips so his words were clear. “You are absolutely right, Horus. You’ve given me another chance at life, another chance at ruling this forsaken marble. But alas, your intentions were for naught. I was meant to be a pawn in your game, a selfish intention. You wanted the world as your own, yet you were not deemed worthy.” Samedi slowly walked to his savior, building anticipation with every step. Heads turned with each movement, so much so in some instances they fell completely from their owner’s shoulders. This didn’t stop them from drinking in the god’s bravado as he marched towards Horus.

The man shifted in his shackles, suddenly uneasy with all the attention placed upon him. “No, my lord. It was only a misunderstanding. I wanted-“ Samedi’s voiced boomed off the brick walls, vibrating torches and cobwebs with his tone.

“A misunderstanding?! How dare you insult me, Baron Samedi, your god, with such arrogance!”

Horus withdrew from Samedi, crawling as far away from the zombie god as possible. He was unable to go much further than he already was due to his restraints. Samedi threw his cigar and rum away and leapt at him, shocking the entire crowd with his speed, and gripped the necromancer by his throat.

“You are a peon, Horus”, Samedi began through gritted teeth. “You are as worthy of this world as a maggot is. Your presence instills a feeling of utter sickness and I do believe your usefulness has been worn thin.”

His attempts at explanation and groveling were choked away, Horus could not speak through Samedi’s frightful grasp. He pried at the god’s hands, finding the clutch to be stronger than the best forged steel. After a moment his eyes rolled into the back of his sockets, still bulging from the pressure built up from such a hold. His last breath would’ve been one of a sorrowful tone had Samedi allowed it to make a noise. The lord of the dead rose to his feet, discarding the now lifeless corpse that was once his follower. He turned to his army of resurrected souls and addressed them all with the same cold demeanor Horus received only a moment ago.

“Brothers, sisters, brethren of the necropolis, hear me. I am your god, your liberator, but most importantly I am one of you. Not once will I sacrifice you needlessly or task you with something I wouldn’t do myself. But be warned, overstep your place or treat one another as expendable and you too shall suffer the fate of the necromancer known as Horus Hawthorne. Am I understood?”

An audible groan of assurance rose from each undead spectator as they stared in awe at the great form of Baron Samedi. None would defy him, but all his resurrected minions would march themselves to the pits of Hell had he requested that of them. The captivated audience hung on every word Samedi had to say.

“Loyalty is not something to be bought with trinkets or coins, or flesh and blood in our case. Loyalty is won through action, through the placing of a gore-covered boot upon the skull of your enemy and crushing it in right before a feast. You all have served me well, brothers and sisters, and I am thankful to you for that. My loyalty befalls every maggot-riddled corpse in the room, even our newest recruits from the Holy Sanctum Army have my complete devotion. Keeping in touch with that, I wish to-“

A half-rotted solider burst into the chamber, interrupting Samedi’s speech. The zombie shambled to Samedi as fast as he could, sucking in air to propel himself forward, not yet convinced he ran purely on magical compulsion. Getting within arm’s length of his deity, the corpse dropped to one knee, smacking bone into brick where flesh had once been. He removed his rust-worn helmet and spoke through raspy words.

“My lord, our attack in the north has been a success. Lionwhite responded with a battalion we turned into a meal immediately. We await further command.”

Samedi couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. His ivory-white teeth glinted against the moonlight beaming through cracks in his housing. He flicked the tip of his hat and addressed not just the solider, but every creature looking on.

“We march forth, my family. Soon Lionwhite’s encampment will fall and the only defense this pitiful land possessed will be no more. I can feel the meat dancing upon my tongue, can’t you, children? The bittersweet taste of salty muscle tearing at the command of our teeth is only hours away. Victory shall be ours, and then the world!”

Another eruption of cheers sounded, some of intelligent words, others of just groans and guttural gestures. Zombies, ghouls, revenants and various undead monsters raised their weapons to the sky in honor of Samedi, preparing to overtake the land of the living. To say it came as a shock when the explosions occurred would be an understatement, for within a second their cries of celebration turned to cries of pain and death. Bodies flew through the air whilst others were instantly killed when struck from falling blocks above. Limbs and blood showered the house of Samedi as the smell of black powder swept through the place. Pushing rubble and smoldering debris off his godly host, Baron Samedi rose from the ashes of his former war-stead and drunk in the sight of Lionwhite and his men charging through the giant entrance that had just been blown into his fortress…

***

“Take them all, leave no survivors! If it looks dead, kill it again until you’re sure!”

Lionwhite barked orders as his special garrison of holy knights rushed the disoriented underlings of Baron Samedi. A troupe of only ten men including himself, the high constable wasn’t willing to risk the success of this attack on regular men, choosing to put together this stable within two days of monitoring the survival rate of his soldiers. He had worked with far greater men, but desperate times backed Lionwhite into a corner and he had to make due. So far they were faring better than he expected, cutting down two-thirds of the creatures sheltered in the abandoned fort. His attention shifted from the surprising skills of his men to the hulking mass pulling itself from large blocks and wooden beams in the center of the room. Baron Samedi had joined the fray.

“You destroyed my home,” started Samedi. “You killed my family, and you ruined the integrity of my ensemble. If the curiosity of what your intestines taste like has ever peaked your interest, prepare to have that curiosity met.” The god thrust two powerful arms down at his garments, freeing them of dust and splinters, then slowly made his way through the crowd of armor-clad men and decomposing reanimations.

Samedi’s strides were without haste, yet each step seemed to reverberate a supernatural force, causing Lionwhite to rethink his tactic for a moment, but only a moment. He withdrew his blade and stalked towards the unholy terror making its way to him. Nothing stood in his way, allies or undead abominations alike, they all were thrust from his path or beheaded without question. A dozen steps later and both Lionwhite and Samedi were toe-to-toe, a render of titans meeting in Greek lore.

“You slaughter not just my siblings, but your own men as well,” the zombie god questioned. “I thought I was supposed to be the despicable one?”

Lionwhite remained stoic, letting his gaze be unflinching from that of Samedi’s. “These men mean little to me, as do their brothers of war. My loyalty is to that of God, the God. Not men.”

Only half of Lionwhite’s soldiers remained, yet they fought on, dwindling the forces of Baron Samedi. Screams echoed through the chamber and flashes of dismemberment caught the peripherals of the two entities preparing to rip each other to shreds. Fires were let loose upon some of the resurrected beings, causing an inferno to build around the chamber. Soon Lionwhite and Samedi were engulfed in their own private Hell.

“You’ve attacked villages, servants of the Lord, and caused the country to become entangled in a battle for its lifeblood so quickly after revolution. You’ve galloped us back to the Dark Ages when we should be moving forward with our emancipation from the godless persons seeking independence. I label you an enemy of the Holy Sanctum Army and the Holy Trinity. Tonight is when you return to oblivion and take your foul hatchlings with you.”

Samedi offered a half grin. “You must be Christian to be so opinionated”

Before Lionwhite could speak Samedi backhanded him, launching the high constable across the stony chamber. He smacked into a wall and slid to the hard ground below. A daze overtook the man, unable to decipher fiction from his jostled reality. Coppery red liquid trickled down his face, warming his already fevered cheeks. Attempting to stand, Lionwhite found the action easier with Samedi’s cold hand wrapped around his throat, lifting him from the slab of a floor. The deity of the dead held the high constable up to the sky, as if offering him to the god he fought so fervently for.

“I’d suggest praying,” Samedi said. “Because the torment I’m about to put you through will last a millennia.” His other hand started to drift towards Lionwhite, an eerie incandescent light suddenly enveloping the appendage. “Welcome to my flock.”

Lionwhite’s legs began to flail, connecting with Samedi’s torso and face. The gestures were for naught though, the god stayed unaffected by even the harshest of strikes. Quickly gathering himself once more, the man reached into his side pouch and unearthed a handful of salt, thrusting it into the face of Baron Samedi. Steam rose from his face and he dropped the high constable, attempting to beat out the fire which now dominated his attention. The pain Samedi felt was unbearable, and something he’d never felt in all his centuries of existence.

“What the hell did you do to me?!”

Now it was Lionwhite who was grinning. “Salt is a purity reagent, scolding anything it touches which is deemed impure.” The high constable withdrew a dagger from his belt and kicked the zombie god over, preparing to deliver a fatal blow. “Send my regards to Lucifer.”

A flurry of movement erupted from Samedi as he tackled Lionwhite to the ground and launched blow after blow to his religious enemy. Each attack made a wet noise, like someone punching a bag of liquefied mud, until the sounds transformed into the cracking of bones. The zombie overlord didn’t hold back, burying his fist into Lionwhite’s face with unrestrained power. One final strike to the nose of the high constable and Samedi was content. He pushed the corpse of his enemy down and staggered to his feet, steam still rising from his brow.

“My brethren,” Samedi bellowed through the chamber. “Finish off these creatures of virtue and arrogance! Eat their eyes from their skulls! Feast upon their innards after you’ve disemboweled them! Bathe in their blood once you’ve-“ Samedi’s words remained unfinished as a dagger plunged through his skull. He dropped to his knees and revealed the battered persona of Lionwhite, a shadow of his former self. A twist of the dagger squirted blood from the wound and grinded bone, dropping Baron Samedi to his knees. A final word leaked from his mouth. “How?!”

Lionwhite hesitated a moment, finding it difficult to even breath, let alone explain himself. He twisted the dagger once more and leaned down to Samedi’s ear. “This dagger holds the Blessing of Lazarus. Any undead creature it penetrates is claimed by death, whether they’re a simple corpse or a god. In other words, go to Hell.” Lionwhite clenched his teeth and retracted the dagger only to stab it into Samedi’s skull a dozen more times before allowing his body to hit the floor.

The high constable of the Holy Sanctum Army drank in the sights around him, watching fires blaze and zombies fall before his knights. Moments later and the battle was won. The two remaining soldiers grabbed Lionwhite and walked him out of the nightmare they had just survived…

A sunrise overtook the darkness they emerged out of, now seeing the remnants of Samedi’s forces either crumble under the loss of their god, or flee from the lack of figurehead. Lionwhite saw only a few dozen men left on the battlefield and his mind fell to ease.

Remember, the deaths are noble.

“Sir, we’ve won,” interrupted one of his knights. “we actually won. “ A sound of glee was present in his voice. “We faced the horde and we survived.”

“Well, not quite.” Muttered Lionwhite. He shuffled himself loose of his men turned to face them.

“Sir?”

It was quick, neither one processing the action even after they bleed out. It took all of his energy to do it, but he swiped at their throats with his dagger, killing the two witnesses of what had occurred in Samedi’s encampment. He turned his gaze back to the knights on the battlefield and slowly shuffled down to them with his bloodied dagger, strategically planning each of their deaths as well. It would take time, but he would put to rest the truth of what happened here. History would not know of the zombie apocalypse which had been averted that night.

***

Lionwhite waited at the docks, holding a sack. It was only a few days after the events in London, and he was still recovering from the onslaught. After slaying at least eighteen of his men the rest fled, soon he would continue his hunt and silence them all. He silently plotted, not noticing the footsteps approaching from behind. A tap on his shoulder and he was met with a young woman in dark wraps. Her features were hidden, yet he could see markings upon her cheeks, some so.

“Are you Lionwhite?” she asked.

“I am. Are you Ezriel?”

She nodded. Lionwhite extended the sack to her, holding it out with as much strength he could muster for the time. Its contents were a cursed box containing the Amulet of Samedi. He returned to the fire-scorched ruins after attacking his men, searching for anything that could be linked to the bringing of the Baron back. He wasn’t willing to take any chances.

“I’m limited with what I can do to this blasted thing. I need you to take it stateside. In the event the contents are freed, at least there will be plenty of traitors to feel its wrath first. Am I understood?

Ezriel bowed. “Very much so.”

The high constable flicked a gold piece towards the woman. “For your troubles. May God watch over you on your journeys.” Lionwhite turned and walked away from Ezriel, confident his demands would be met. As soon as he was out of eyesight, she removed the box from its sack and looked it over, trying hard not to grin like a child.

“Oh what plans I have for you, Baron Samedi. What plans I have for you…”

Tucking the box into her dressings Ezriel boarded a nearby vessel, satisfied that her schemes were all coming to fruition.

December 26, 2011

A quick poem based upon my stupidity. Enjoy. :)

December 26, 2011
Written By: Michael T. Flanders

Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house
every creature was stirring, including a mouse.
A fight raged on, egos and feelings were hurt.
Both parties were left feeling like complete and utter dirt.
She wanted him to tag along to the family tradition.
He wanted to, but declined due to a back condition.
Neither one quite understood the other’s point of view,
so in their anger and depression they both continued to stew.
She walked out the door, a chilled wind in her wake.
He just wanted the argument to stop for goodness sake!
His apologies rolled off his tongue and he said things would’ve been different
If only she had opened up and said what she really meant.
Her claim was that it was Christmas and he made time for his family,
why couldn’t he do the same for her and avoid this calamity?
The disagreement carried on throughout the day,
even though the man knew he was wrong in every, single way.
A woman scorned is not to be trifled with,
they’re worse than the evilest and most powerful of Sith.
And as for the unintentional guilt trip, it still went through,
so he was left wondering until 7:30pm what he would do…