• A little about me…
  • A little about me….
  • Film Credit #2 “The Intervention”
  • Film Credit #3 “Darrion: The RPG” I
  • Film Credit #4 | Real Estate Content
  • Publishing Credit #1 “Taiwo and Kehinde: The Wedding Trip”
  • Film Credit #1: “Constant Forward Pressure”

darrionjwrites

  • Three-O I

    December 31st, 2022

    This is yet another story I started years ago but never continued.

    It’s about a trio of young golden-age superheroes who begin to question their perfect (predictable) superhero reality as it begins to crack after powerful new strangers appear to them with a prophecy.

    “One will be the greatest hero… One will sacrifice their life to save the universe… One will threaten the universe as its greatest villain.”

    I’ll continue posting old ideas. They almost feel like they’re a part of an unfinished multiverse.

    Lucy Lockheart

    Routine supherhero stuff.

    Purple bound Lavabeast in purple shadow, blinding it temporarily.

    Fight the bad guy.

    “Jude, like we practiced!” I commanded.

    Jude’s damage mech landed before the blinded creature before firing a volley of crypto-nitrogen missiles, freezing it in place.

    Thud. Thud. Thud. Clink.

    I smiled for the drone cameras.

    Just as we practiced. Our new trio, working well together as expected. I felt happy now that I knew we made the right choice to leave the collective and form our own thing. We’re best friends after all.

    “My turn…” I soaked the roar of the crowd into my right hand. “Time to put this villain to bed.”

    “Do your thing, big sister!” Purple screamed through my communicator.

    “Don’t mess this up,” Jude added in my ear. “I’ve got things to do.”

    “Promise not to hold you up, St. Jude,” I took the air, reared back, and struck the blinded, frozen creature, knocking it into the atmosphere.

    “”Jude is fine,” Jude dully replied.

    “Just Jude is a charming name,” I quipped.

    “I mean, don’t include the saint part,” He added. “I only go by Jude.”

    “Very well,” I said. “Mission complete, Jude.”

    Defeat the bad guy.

    The beast had disappeared into the sky.

    My guess is it would land on the moon among the carcasses of its friends. I was certain the moon had become a graveyard for the lavaheads. Perhaps I could take a trip to the moon to do a cleanup.

    “Returning to base,” Jude said.

    “Just like that?” I said. “At least come back for a photo opp.”

    “Is that an order?” He said.

    “Yes… its an order if it would make you not leave,” I said.

    The moon looked beautiful as always.

    “Yay, nice shot Lockheart!” Purple cheered over the communicator.

    Purple formed like a cloud above my head.

    “Thanks,” I answered with a grin. “You feeling alright?”

    “Don’t feel tired or anything,” Purple replied.

    The wail of sirens grew louder. So did the applause, as citizens emerged from their homes, shelters, and some from the surrounding rubble.

    Start over.

    “Think you can keep together long enough to help first responders?” She commanded.

    “Yeah, I can.” Purple replied.

    The cloud shot towards the sirens on the far end of town with a tiny saucer following it close behind– hardest hit section of the neighborhood.

    But its what I loved to do. I literally couldn’t see myself as anything else.

    “Put on your skin if you’re feeling tired,” I commanded.

    “Okay!” Purple replied loud enough to echo over the sirens.

    Lucy the homemaker? Lucy the lawyer? Not a chance. I was meant to protect and save lives the way I do.

    Purple soared over the Police Chief and Mayor’s caravan and news vans as they maneuvered their way through the destroyed neighborhood.

    There was a reason I was sucked into that portal and given these abilities and I believe the very nature of how my abilities work wasn’t a mistake either.

    “We did good,” Lucy declared. “Nobody died.”

    “Nobody ever dies,” Jude answered from over her shoulder.

    She was the one person Jude could never sneak up on.

    “You should help with the clean up,” Lucy Lockheart.

    “I’ll have some of my drones assist,” Jude answered.

    “Would be better if you were here in person,” Lucy faced him.

    “Maybe after the next attack,” Jude played with the holographic schematics of his repair drone hovering over his watch. “Have something to do at the lair.”

    “That’s what you said the last time,” Lucy said.

    “This won’t be the last lavabeast,” Jude said.

    “It’s not about that,” She said.

    “How many drones?”

    “I really think you should work on your public relations skills.”

    No answer.

    I looked over my shoulder.

    I wanted to look him in his pupil-less eyes, past his mask.

    “If we’re going to be a te-” I shut up as soon as realized Jude was gone and there was a robot standing in his place.

    He always does this.

    I shook my head. “A team…”

    “How can I help?” The Jude-bot questioned.

    “Rude,” I muttered to myself.

    :”Sorry, I don’t understand the command,” The Jude-bot replied.

    “Just… go help Purple with the first responders,” I commanded with frown.

    “As you wish, Lockheart.” The Jude-bot rocketed it off to the sky towards the sea of whirring lights.

    Jude wasn’t a teleporter, or even a powered being, but somehow he always managed to sneak away in the middle of their conversations. Ninjas were annoying. He was annoying.

    “Lucy!” The Police chief exited his vehicle with the Mayor and armed security at their side. “Wonderful job!”

    “Thank you, Chief Pueblo.” II Bowed to both the Police Chief and Mayor. “Wonderful to see you Mayor Ciudad.”

    The Mayor shook her hand just as a sea of reporters crowded them.

    “Lockheart, there’s been a rise in Lavahead attacks,” The first reporter asked.

    I put on my biggest smile. “And we’re doing our best to-”

    “Do you have any idea who or what’s behind the rise in attacks?” The first reporter asked.

    A second reporter shoved the first out of the way. “What steps do you plan to take to stop these attacks before they happen.”

    “We’re looking into that,” Lucy said.

    “Any theories from the second smartest boy in the world?” The First reporter wrestled the second reporter out of the way.

    “Jude is doing extensive research into the matter,” She answered.

    “No more questions,” The Police Chief put his arm around her and walked her away.

    The armed security formed a Kevlar wall between them, her the Chief and the rabid reporters.

    “They’re getting more aggressive,” The Chief said.

    “Comes with the territory,” I replied.

    It didn’t help that she left the world’s most popular team to form her own. It didn’t help that I was the daughter of a slimeball, or that other powered beings like me turned out to be self-serving and evil.

    “The information Jude provided was helpful,” The Chief said. “Scientists at Section 5 appreciate the work from your teammate.”

    “Yeah, Jude’s a real team player,” I quipped.

    The Mayor nodded in agreement.

    “Mayor thinks these latest attacks were calculated,” Chief said.

    That thought of more calculated Lavaheads was insane! They were beasts, no smarter than a feral bear or an enormous rodent– if rodents could burn as hot as magma and melt a brick building with a whip of its tail.

    “The Mayor shared Jude’s data with Team Supreme,” The Chief said.

    “I’m always happy to work alongside the planet’s mightiest.” I maintained my smile by cringed on the inside. “Thank you all.”

    I posed for the camera.

    The paparazzi took several photos of me as I alternated between the looking to the stars pose to the hands on the hips, I am woman feminine pose.

    I could feel my power growing with each paparazzi snap and each awe from the crowd.

    Their adoration for me was strong and growing stronger with each like on social media, each purchase of my plush toy, each girl fighting over who gets to play me in the latest fighting game.

    A cloud zipped over the paparazzi and landed near me.

    The shutters fell silent.

    “No need to be alarmed,” I said.

    Purple retook his solid form. “I didn’t mean to scare them.”

    “That will be all for today.” I waved at the paparazzi before pulling Purple away from the frightened paparazzi, wrathful looking police chief and stonefaced Mayor.

    “They hate me,” Purple said.

    “They just need to get used to you,” I assured.

    “But they’re scared of me,” Purple replied. “I’m scared of balloons animals and I don’t get used to those.”

    She squeezed Purple’s shoulders. “They just need to get to know you. Then they’ll love you.”

    “Promise?” Purple extended his stitched up pinky finger.

    She wrapped her pinky finger around Purple’s. “Of course. Promise.”

    Whirrrrrr!

    “An invasion alarm?” She turned back towards the city. “We just beat back the invasion.”

    A buzz in her inner-ear.

    She hated that intercom and wondered again why Jude was so vehemently against using the wrist watch communicators. Even a good old fashioned monocle with a user display would suffice.

    “Are you reading this?” Jude said.

    “I feel it.” She knelt and touched the ground. “Where are you?”

    “Look up,” Jude answered.

    Jude’s harrier decloaked revealing itself above the city.

    “Something’s coming,” Jude said.

    I faced the worried crowd.

    “It’s alright,” She assured. “I ask that you evacuate the area. We have it handled.”

    Purple ran to her side. “The ground’s moving.”

    I sensed the ground was the least dangerous thing on the move.

    The ground rumbled.

    Lockheart faced Purple. “Get these people to safet-“

    Drooooooone.

    It happened too fast. Too fast for me to react.

    The ground beneath the paparazzi turned neon orange before opening up and swallowing them whole.

    “Purple!” I gasped in horror.

    “I’m on it!” Purple’s smoke form exited his flesh form through his mouth and flew down the hole.

    Lockheart rushed to the edge of the sinkhole. “Purple!”

    We beat back the invasion. Invasions don’t happen more than once every few days.

    She laid on her stomach and tried to pierce the dark in the sinkhole. “Purple can you hear me?”

    Krrrrrr. Static…

    “Jude, can you get a track on Purple!” Lockheart called.

    “No signal,” Jude replied.

  • Fleeting Tale XV

    November 1st, 2022

    Emotional Chess Match

    Some people treat emotions like a chess match. Feelings are like a game to some people. To some, its the literal meaning behind ‘playing’ with somebody’s emotions. It’s why I’ve been considering a new philosophy on life, and the workplace. This philosophy to which I’m referring, I feel (but on the inside) gets a bad rap. But, I’ve learned that in a game of thrones without-the-blades-incest-and-necromancer type culture, keeping your emotions in check isn’t about looking tough, its about your survival. Always count on the office “little-finger” to use your emotions against you and in their favor.

    He debated whether showing how he really felt did more harm that good.

    He exhaled slowly into his face mask, trying to slow his racing heart.

    He wasn’t wrong. His coworker attacked him first and he reacted- just not in kind.

    “Are you following?” His supervisor asked.

    His reaction was human. His reaction was the realest thing the office had seen since he started working there. He showed real emotions, as opposed to the fake offense and hurt she showed- playing the victim role all too well.

    He nodded. “I’m following.”

    He chose to reserve his response for after his boss delivered his monologue about finding ways to come together as a team to support the office.

    He dug his nails into inner wrist, leaving indentations.

    He didn’t start the fight. That woman antagonized him regularly with her snarky remarks and condescending tone. But he was the one being spoken to because he boiled over, after months of that woman applying heat and pressure to his patience.

    “Anything to say?” His supervisor questioned.

    He purposely blocked out a lot of what his supervisor said. None of it applied to him because he was only defending himself against a subtle, calculated attack.

    “Yeah…” He replied.

    He sat up straight in his chair.

    He was a Man, and she was a Woman. The optics. It looked bad. Did not matter whether it was fair or not. He lost his cool. In a female dominated office, he looked and sounded like the bully. The aggressor.

    “I’ll work to resolve this,” He answered, trapping his true feelings behind his deadpan demeanor. “I wouldn’t mind meeting with her more often.”

    His supervisor nodded. “That will help.”

    “Look… I’m here to support the office,” He added. “I’m sure she and I can come to a consensus.”

    His boss smirked. “Great, that’s what I like to hear.”

    He forced a smirk.

    His boss turned to his computer. “I know some articles you can read that can help.”

    “Great,” He replied.

    Why is nobody scheduling hour long meetings with…

    “Send them over,” He said.

    Know what… not even worth it.

    He remembered something he read, which coincided with something his therapist tells him. Something about…

    Frame my thoughts… don’t let outside influences affect me… focus on what I have control over.

    He allowed that woman into his thoughts and emotions.

    His heart slowed to a steady beat.

    He allowed her to beat him. She baited and checkmated him on that conference call and made him look silly.

    Guilt and embarrassment replaced his anger.

    He stood from the chair. “I appreciate the talk, sir.”

    “No problem,” His supervisor replied. “Maybe you and I can talk more often. Discuss your goals and aspirations.”

    “Sure,” He said. “Sounds like a plan.”

    He exited the office calmer, wiser and more humbled than he entered.

    His goal… to guard his emotions in the office, so he can never be caught like he did again.

    He grinned as he sat at his desk.

    From that day forward, until the day he found a new job, all they will ever see is a grin. They weren’t worth any more, or any less, than a painted on grin. A you’re-not-worth-my-emotions grin.

    He opened his browser and typed remote work in Washington DC in the search bar.

    Several results. But he needed a solution in the meantime.

    He opened another browser and typed stoicism at work.

    That’s what he needed. He needed stoicism. He needed to be stoic.

  • The Girl Who Shrugs I

    October 14th, 2022

    The story follows a silent martial arts master called “Girl” as she wanders through harsh environments with her best friend, a pet cricket named “Grasshopper”, and a mysterious vase. She reflects on her past training and faces off against mysterious opponents on the way to her (undetermined) destination.

    The break in the clouds offered her a rare view of the sun and the moon sharing the sky.

    Girl smirked.

    Grasshopper emerged from her sleeve and crawled up her shoulder before resting and enjoying the rare break in the desert sand and ash.

    She removed her head scarf.

    Breeze. The wind brushed her bruised and cut-up face. No stinging sand, just soft breeze.

    She drew her canteen and took a swig of water before offering a cap-full to Grasshopper.

    How could I forget about my Cricket?

    “That bug will outlive you,” A voice stated.

    She ignored the voice and proceeded to stroke her cricket as it drank from the cap.

    “What’s taking you?” A male voice asked. “You should’ve reached already.”

    She shrugged.

    “You lost?” The male voice questioned.

    She recognized the voice.

    “I’m waiting on you,” The boy’s voice stated.

    She felt too good to react to his presence.

    “Great job on the last fight.” Pierre revealed himself as he took a seat beside her. “Great job on the last fight.”

    She shot Pierre a side eye as she took another sip of water.

    “Make sure you have enough water,” Pierre said. “I want you at your best.”

    She nodded.

    She packed enough food and water to last her at least another week, thanks to her last opponent.

    “Not even a word for me, huh.” Pierre said. “No words for your former friend?”

    She looked in his direction.

    “You don’t have to keep the vow with me,” Pierre said. “I’m not really here.”

    She knew Pierre was a mirage, probably caused by her hunger and lack of sleep. She didn’t care. She planned to keep her vow until she and Grasshopper arrived at her destination. A vow she promised the ancestors.

    For once in my life I will keep my promise.

    “Good on you, Girl,” Pierre said. “You keep your promises.”

    She rotated her stiff wrist.

    She felt she did more damage to herself than her last opponent. The bones in her wrist felt fragile after putting everything she had into the thunderous -desperation- overhand strike which won her the fight. She worried.

    What of the next opponent?

    She shuttered at the thought of striking or coverage with fractured wrist.

    “I’m gone, you know,” Pierre said. “When you reach, you’ll be fighting a soulless husk.”

    She nodded.

    “Hmmm…” Pierre said. “And you know you can’t complete your journey without-”

    She nodded.

    “I would help you… But I’m but an illusion… Or, a ghost-spirit.” Pierre twiddled his fingers.

    She smirked.

    “Or, you’re right,” Pierre said. “I’m a figment of your dehydrated mind.”

    She looked up.

    “Time’s almost up,” Pierre stood before her.

    Clouds and ashen mist thickened over the open sky. The moon, sun and stars drowned under the coal-colored blankets.

    “Either way…. Don’t hold back,” Pierre’s voice faded. “Show no merc-“

    He was gone.

    She blinked.

    She was alone. Pierre -his ghost or illusion- disappeared in the split second it took her to blink.

    She clicked her tongue.

    Grasshopper descended her arm and disappeared under her sleeve.

    She returned the cap to her water bottle before returning it to her bag.

    Rest time was over.

    She returned her scarf to her face.

    I was time she returned to her journey.

    She set off into the whipping wind.

    I’m coming Pierre. I’m coming to kill you now.

  • Fleeting Tale Vol XIV

    August 24th, 2022

    Recovering from a gut punch of a rejection.

    Crushing disappointment forced me to face a harsh truth…

    Am I really investing in myself and my own opportunities as much as I am investing in finding opportunities in places I don’t own?

    I’m hurt, but my painful rejection forces a crucial course-correction for my life.

    This place I wanted to be in wasn’t meant for me.

    He felt like he turned a corner– as he turned a corner to enter his office building.

    His stomach felt normal after days on a spin cycle. His body no longer felt heavy. He stood taller. Tears were no longer welling in his eyes as he blasted Demon Days by the Gorillaz in his headset.

    He entered the elevator and pressed the second floor button.

    The doors shut.

    The damage from their rejection felt deep. He kept it deep so nobody could see it.

    And nobody did it. He locked it away behind his Monday morning smile.

    It was Tuesday.

    He flashed his badge and entered the quiet office.

    He received their email from them while he was away on vacation with his wife.

    Congratulations! We’re looking forward to bringing you on board! Thank you for your patience!

    All they needed to do was check his references, and that wouldn’t be an issue. He had the perfect people in mind. He wasn’t a liar. Everything he stated on his resume were verifiable facts. So all they needed was to schedule him for a meet and greet to have a conversation with the people he would be working with.

    He sat at his desk and took a deep breath.

    It took them several weeks before they got back to him. That’s when things took a bizarre turn.

    He reached back to his mailbox to retrieve the mountain of files to scan and enter into the database.

    He sneezed.

    Bless me.

    The night before the interview, the people he would be working for requested I construct an entire mock campaign for their website the night before the meet and greet, which he found odd. Multiple interviews across a whole two month interview process, and the night before they wanted him to accomplish something it would probably take several days for a person working there to accomplish?!

    He removed staples from the document and fed them into the scanner bay.

    He accepted the challenge. He concocted a whole marketing campaign in a single night. He -as he has had to do his entire life because of how he looked- made it his mission to prove himself. He had the experience. He had the know-how. He just had to repeatedly prove his mettle and competence. That was the game. That was always the game.

    He tossed the scanned documents into the shred box.

    He agreed to a phone call after normal work hours. He did what they asked. He fielded every question and scenario they threw at him. He thought the meet and greet (it was really a third interview) went well.

    He sat back in his chair.

    The feeling of uncertainty and inadequacy started to churn in his stomach as well as sap his energy.

    They emailed him a week later to inform him, after the meet and greet, that they decided not to move forward with his application.

    He sank in his chair.

    He did everything right. He had everything they wanted and more. They believed he did everything right up to the so-called, fake meet-and-greet. They seemingly chose him.

    What happened?

    He thought back to his references.

    Could one of my references said something to sabotage me? Why would they do that?

    They were so eager about him in their email.

    He retrieved the used filter and mug from his coffee maker before leaving his office for the kitchen.

    He wasn’t perfect. That was the problem. He stuttered on their last question and they noticed he wasn’t the perfect candidate.

    He stood over the dry sink.

    He struggled to find the energy to even wash his coffee pot.

    It was his fault for applying. For wanting that job as much as he did. For not putting as much effort into creating his own opportunities as he did seeking theirs.

    People like him had to be perfect and infallible just to gain the benefit of the doubt or approval.

    He opened the sink and scrubbed the gunk from the bottom of his coffee pot.

    He was done applying. Done begging others to accept him.

    He filled the coffee pot with fresh water before returning to his office.

    He decided to build himself. It would be hard work, but he couldn’t imagine it being as time consuming as tailoring resumes, interviewing -begging- and updating your linked in profile.

    From now on, I create opportunities.

  • Fleeting Tale Vol. XIII

    May 25th, 2022

    I’m exhausted.

    He barely held his eyes opened.

    It felt like someone attached ten pound weights to his eyelashes. One per lash.

    He experienced an endless, torturous loop of filing, data entry, answering email… wash, rinse, repeat, drown.

    He snatched the last of the spreadsheets from his printer before leaving his office for the copy room where he helped store all of the boxes for the archival initiative.

    He plopped the spreadsheet on a desk and scurried back to his office before his manager spotted him.

    He took a sip from the Jesus is the Gift! mug on his desk.

    Gulp… Gulp….

    Room temperature. Flavorless.

    Third cup of coffee.

    Ineffective.

    Not a single job replied to him since he decided to change his career and cease applying to administrative positions.

    He was just as capable as the people interviewing him. As the people he reported to- except for the ones with law degrees and doctorates of course. He felt these so-called employers should get him while he was still affordable. Before his value skyrocketed once he obtained his degree.

    He reclined in his chair.

    No more work for him. He was done the archival project. Done with that job.

    I’m beat.

    He texted his wife.

    I’m gonna quit… like, today.

  • Fleeting Tale Vol. XII

    May 13th, 2022

    It’s a lonely feeling trying to find myself at my age, especially when everybody around me (co-workers, peers, family, my spouse, people on the internet, etc.) seems to have everything figured out- or at least that’s what they portray. My closest peeps are all making good money. They’re in the prime of their lives with a catalogue of memoires of their youth from which to draw. Meanwhile, I’m in school with kids young enough to be my kids, struggling to finish start my final paper.

    Lonely feeling.

    His eyes felt sore from unblinkingly staring at his keyboard.

    rap rap..

    He quickly closed his browser before looking over his shoulder to see who knocked on his office door.

    His office was an office, but not really an office.

    It had a door and four walls, but half of the fourth wall was a glass, and just as much as he started into the hallway, the hallway stared at him all the same.

    He waved in his coworker.

    “Morning,” He said.

    “Morning, Mister Sir.” His coworker entered his office and handed him a thick binder which he cradled between a tall, barely manageable, stack of folder.

    He wondered why anybody sent paper documents in that day and age. It was a waste of paper and a giant f*ck you to Mother Earth.

    “Thanks.” He took the binder.

    “Did you update the database?” His coworker asked.

    “Waiting on the analyst to inbox me the request,” He replied.

    “Okay, great,” HIs coworker said.

    The analyst hadn’t send the inbox request to create the case as of a few hours back….

    “Let me check.” He quickly signed into the database. “Ah, see… not yet.”

    “Okay, fine,” His coworker nodded.

    “Thanks for the reminder,” He said to his coworker.

    “You’re welcome, no problem.” His worker left, but only closed his door halfway.

    He sighed before standing up to shut his door.

    His left knee cracked. It felt good.

    It was the first time he stood in hours.

    He returned to his seat and pulled closer to his keyboard before reopening his browser.

    Still blank.

    12:01 PM

    His term paper was due at midnight and he failed to write a single word.

    He closed his browser.

    He was less than twelve hours from a zero on his final exam and not even that forced him to write something. To write anything. She stopped believing seeing it as writers block a long time ago. Lack of intelligence, skill and discipline made more sense.

    What was I thinking…

    He left his computer, drew his hoodie from the coat rack and quickly left his office before anyone could see him leaving.

    F*ck a degree. That ship sailed a long time ago.

    He was too old for school anyway.

    He just needed to stretch his legs and come to grips with certain things.

  • Faulty Memories

    May 11th, 2022

    A “Psychological Short Story” by Darrion J. Beckles

    I wrote this short story for my Psychology Class and it deals with several issues studied in psychology. I am no PhD, nor do I major in Psych. I’m just a geriatric millennial working to boost his college GPA.

    #Mentalhealthawareness

    He pulled the signal rope before timidly rising from his seat.  

    He checked the note on his newspaper on his way to the front exit, to ensure that his stop was -indeed- the next.

    Doctor’s office. Union Station.

    He didn’t want to forget his stop like last time. And he forgot to lotion his hands again. They were flaky like old biscuit, and his tongue and lips felt chalky like he’d eaten a spoonful of powdered milk before leaving his apartment, which lead him to believe that he failed to drink any water that morning.

    “Union Station!” The Driver called out to him.

    “Thanks,” He said.

    The doctor said his short-term memory would continue to deteriorate and his blackouts would continue to increase as he got older. He spent years dealing with his cognitive issues. Even held a job and got engaged to be married, like a normal person with a normal brain.

    “I appreciate it,” He waved.

    “Tell Misty I said hi,” He said.

    “Misty?” He answered.

    “Your dog,” The Conductor said.

    “My dog,” He replied. “You met my dog.”

    “Your emotional support poodle on the bus yesterday,” The Driver said. “With the colored tail?”

    “Oh, right,” He pretended to remember as he exited the bus.  

    He was embarrassed. Better to pretend he remember conversations than to explain his condition to anyone.

    He stretched his sore arms before making his way towards the station.

    He lost his marriage and prior jobs because no wife or employer wanted to deal with a man who often forgot their wedding date, or conversations with his bus driver, or whether he brought an emotional dog with him on public transportation.  

    He bypassed several drug addicts as he made his way towards the station.

    “God bless you sir,” A disheveled woman followed.

    He waved her off.

    He may not remember whether he’d met her before, but he instinctively knew what she would ask for.

    “I didn’t even ask you nothing, damn,” Disheveled woman said.

    “I don’t have nothing,” He replied.

    “Nothing?”

    “Sorry…”

    “Well, God bless you too.”

    He waved the woman off again as he entered the crowded main lobby full of rush hour workers.  

    He sniffed the air.

    Coffee. French Vanilla.

    His sensory memory was something his doctor assured him would remain, even as his other memories declined. That gave him some sense of relief. He adored the scent of freshly brewed coffee and freshly baked croissants. They were familiar aromas. Aromas that jogged memories.  

    I work in a bakery. I’m a barista.

    He smiled.

    I ­own a bakery.

    He recalled. He couldn’t keep a job, because of his condition, so he took some of his inheritance money and created one. He was the boss.

    He sighed in relief.  

    He was always happy and relieved when his sensory mind triggered some lost or fleeting short term memories. He remembered where he worked. He also remembered that his job, his business, was not in Union Station, but blocks away, further up Massachusetts avenue.

    He took one more whiff before leaving Union Station and heading up Massachusetts Avenue.

    He took a look at his paper again. There was another note near the crossword puzzle.

    Billy’s Bakery.

    He pressed the microphone on his Google search bar.

    At least he remembered how to use his phone. At least he remembered that much… for now.

    “Billy’s Bakery,” He spoke into his phone.

    ” This business may be closed at this hour,” Google answered.

    “Thanks,’ He jested before checking his watch.

    He was two hours early, but late for daily prep!

    He sighed.

    He was late again. His mother hated him for being late.

    Did I set my alarm? Did I wake up on time? What time did I… wake up?
    His heart started to race.

    He tried to force his memory to the forefront as he raced to his store, but that only made his heart rate increase and his temples pound like drums.

    He wondered how much worse his mind would get.

    He felt anxious. Afraid.

    He was pissed at himself that he was late…  again. He was always late as a child. Late to school. Late to bible study. Late for breakfast.

    He tugged at his hanging thumbnail with his teeth.

    His mother would get so pissed at him for being late. Mother would discipline him every time, and it would only get worse for him the more he tried not to be late.

    He removed his thumb from his mouth.

    His doctor hated that habit. So did his dentist. So did his ex-wife.

    He remembered he was late before. That memory returned, but he couldn’t even remember what time he woke up or what he ate for breakfast.

    Dammit.

    Even memories of why his memories were going were beginning to blur. Why his sensory memories and even some of his long-term memories, like his turbulent childhood, were still intact but holding onto newer and shorter memories was growing to be more and more impossible.

    He hunched over and unbuttoned his jacket.   

    He started to sweat, his heart raced, his muscle tensed as he fought for breath.

    His doctor would always recommend crossword puzzles to job memory, writing things down, and when all else failed, pausing and breathing.

    He checked his crossword puzzle.

    He wrote the notes, but they may as well have been from another person.

    Dissociative amnesia was written on the paper.

    He exhaled.

    That was it. Amnesia. His memory loss was due to amnesia.

    He stood tall.  

    Bill’s Bakery… his Bakery… blocks away. He chose to focus on the positive things. The things he remembered. It’s what his doctor ordered.

    “Hey!” A woman called out to him.

    He turned to see the disheveled looking woman he dismissed from Union Station. She was standing among two disheveled looking men.

    He waved her away and started his way towards his destination.

    The woman grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

    “Don’t turn your back on me,” She roared.  

    “Sorry,” He answered. “Just trying to get to work.”

    The woman grabbed his shirt and struck him.

    Ceiling lights. Beeping. He was laying on a mattress and he was wearing a gown.

    He attempted to sit forward but pain, heaviness, and a restraint around his hands and waist dragged him back down to his pillow.  

    “Where am I?” He asked.

    He checked his hands.

    His hands, covered in welts and dry blood, were in cuffs.

    “You’re in the hospital,” A male voice answered.

    He recognized the voice. His Doctor’s voice.

    “Hospital?” He asked.

    “You were in an altercation,” The Doctor said.

    “I was?”

    “Do you remember anything?”

    “No.”

    He vaguely remembered the woman from the station and two guys confronting him just two blocks away from his job.

    His doctor entered his line of sight as he stood over his bed. “A woman and two men are dead.”

    “Me?” He asked.

    “I’m afraid so,” The doctor replied. “Your condition has evolved.”

    O., Spielman, R. M., & Jenkins, W. J. (2022). Psychology 2e: (Official Print Version, paperback, B&W, 2nd Edition): 2nd Edition. Open Stax Textbooks.

    Cascella M, Al Khalili Y. Short Term Memory Impairment. [Updated 2022 Feb 5]. In: StatPearls [Internet]. Treasure Island (FL): StatPearls Publishing; 2022 Jan-. Available from: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK545136/

    Psychiatry.org. (n.d.). Retrieved April 29, 2022, from https://psychiatry.org/patients-families/dissociativehttps://psychiatry.org/patients-families/dissociative-disorders/what-are-dissociative-disorders-disorders/what-are-dissociative-disorders

  • The Inspiration

    November 17th, 2021

    “One hundred miles from the capital, a mercenary meets the predacious killer he inspired to slaughter a military battalion of government soldiers”

    The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Practical Handbook of Drawing for Modern  Methods of Reproduction by Charles G. Harper

    Every hostage he left behind in the watchtower was gone. Dead.

    He should never have left them. He should have never left his crazy partner to watch them alone. It wasn’t his worst mistake, which was what made him even less confident he could recover the mission.

    He peeked into the upper room from the stairs, using the stone corner for cover in case the killer was still there.

    Nobody was supposed to die.

    The Killer was there. He could hear the Killer wheezing in the room with the tower window.

    The hostages were laying on their side and still bound and blindfolded just as he left them.

    He quietly emerged from the stairs and onto the floor, gun drawn, and quietly walked along the wall, avoiding the puddles on the stone ground.

    The Killer seemed unaware of his presence as they stared out into the woods.

    He was staring out into the woods just hours earlier before he left for his mission. Before he encountered the Killer for the first time, in the midst of slaughtering an encampment full of soldiers. In the midst of ruining his plans.

    He tiptoed towards the Killer who still hadn’t moved from the tower window.

    He was ready to eliminate the threat quickly and move on with his second plan. But he witnessed first hand how strong, indestructible and adept the threat was when dealing with the country’s elite soldiers with nothing more than a knife. He didn’t know what he hoped to achieve with a pistol.

    “You do not have to hide from me,” The Killer called.

    He approached with caution, with pistol drawn. “Is that so?”

    His partner was in the corner of the observatory room with a gash on her forehead. He couldn’t tell whether she was dead or unconscious but she was unconscious in the corner.

    “I expected you here sooner,” The Killer said.

    “I’m starting to expect you everywhere I go,” He answered back. “Are you following me?”

    The Killer didn’t answer.

    “Who are you?” He asked.

    “Who I am is what I’m now figuring out,” The Killer answered. “And you are helping me do so.”

    “Am I?” West circled slowly towards his partner.

    “Since the first time I laid eyes on you,” The Killer added.

    West paused.

    Not creepy at all.

    “You can put your weapon away.” the Killer said.

    “Why’s that?” West asked.

    “I’m not here to hurt anybody,” the Killer replied.

    “But you hurt my partner,” West looked towards Keyana.

    “She attacked first,” the Killer said. “I can’t help but defend myself.”

    Keyana’s head injury didn’t appear life threatening, but he needed to determine that up close. He’d seen plenty of people die from minor (looking) wounds before.

    “You can lower your weapon,” the Killer reiterated. “You have my word I will not attack.”

    “I don’t think so,” West answered. “I think I’ll hold onto it for now.”

    “As you wish,” The Killer replied.

    The Killer was much smaller close up than what he remembered.

    He thought of how the Killer mounted the six foot armored soldier and tore past their armor and into its neck.

    “Look out,” His partner, Keyana, groaned as she shifted her position.

    Relief…

    She was alive.

    That was one less body to feel guilt over.

    “Why did you kill them?” He asked.

    Unfortunately, the hostages shared a much different fate. All were dead, but some were even sitting in the same position he left them.

    “Are you alone?” The Killer asked.

    He glanced over his shoulder knowing Prentace must be putting himself into position to attack the Killer.

    “Yeah.. I’m alone,” West answered. “Answer my question.”

    “I’m always alone,” The Killer looked over their shoulder before reaching back and grabbing empty and squeezing the life out of the empty space behind him. “But you’re not.”

    “Gurk!” Prentace shrieked. “Help.”

    He did his best to hide his shock.

    Even animals with heightened sense had trouble tracking Prentace when he as invisible. His worry was growing with the Killer. His worry grew when he was facing something he didn’t understand, nor had the time for which to prepare.

    “His cloaking fools the eyes,” The Killer lifted the Invisible boy to the air. “But not the nose.”

    “Put him down, please” West ordered.

    “As you wish,” The Killer dropped the invisible boy.

    “That hurt,” Prentace whined. “This guy’s strong like a Grizzly Deer.”

    He’d met killers who took lives for no logical reason. He hoped he wasn’t dealing with one of those. Killers without cause wanted blood. That was all. There was no negotiating or threatening people like that.

    “Go stand outside and keep watch,” West ordered.

    “Alone?” Prentace whispered.

    “Yes, go.” West demanded.

    “Okay,” Prentace asnwered.

    He faintly heard Prentace staggering out of the room.

    “I’m sorry,” The Killer said.

    “For?” West drew closer with his pistol.

    “For hurting your friends,” The Killer answered.

    He didn’t have friends. Only business partners.

    “But you hurt other people,” West replied.

    “Yes,” The Killer coldly responded. “I do.”

    “Why?” West lowered his weapon. “Who sent you to hurt other people?”

    “I… don’t remember,” The Killer answered. “I just felt I should.”

    West examined the Killer for weapons.

    Two small curved blades. No firearms.

    He would think he had the weapons advantage if he hadn’t seen the Killer use his knives.

    The Killer smelled like an extinguished fireplace.

    “Who do you work for?” West inquired.

    He thought maybe Keyana, his crazy partner, tried to set the Killer on fire….

    The Killer turned to face West “I came of my own free will.”

    He looked into the Killer’s eyes.

    The Killer’s eyes were vacant. He couldn’t read anything. No fear. No anger. No lies. Nothing.

    “So, nobody’s paying you,” West said.

    “My desire isn’t money,” The Killer replied.

    West felt more confused then than he did than before he saw the Killer nearly decapitate an armored Guard with ease.

    “Then what is your desire,” West asked. “Revenge?”

    He figured the Killer was a Rising Tide rebel. The rising tide was an umbrella term for several, maybe hundreds, of small anti-government factions all over the country. The Killer could belong to any one of them.

    “I don’t know,” The Killer said.

    “But you’ve been specifically following me,” West said.

    “Yes,” The Killer answered.

    “Killing people around me,” West asked.

    “Yes,” The Killer answered.

    “Why?” West asked.

    “You’re the leader,” the Killer answered. “Isn’t that what you want us to do?”

    “Who?” West asked

    “The Rising Tide,” the Killer answered. “You are the leader, correct?”

    He was the leader. It was what he was hired to do. Be the leader. Be the figurehead and symbol of the fractured Rising Tide movement.

    “Your goals are my goals.” The Killer asked.

    “What do you mean?” West asked.

    West wasn’t the first person in his position. There were several before him. He was the latest iteration.

    “I no longer have to wander alone. I know my reason for being now.” the Killer said.

    “I’m happy to help, I guess.” West raised his pistol. “But I’m going to need you to stay out of my way.”

    “Why?” The Killer asked. “Have I done something to upset you?”

    “You’re making my job more difficult,” West said.

    “Your job,” The Killer said.

    “I can’t have you bringing heat on me,” West said.

    “What would you have me do?” The Killer said. “Tell me… Show me the way.”

    “Frankly, sir…mam, I don’t care what you do,” He said.

    West reached into his pocket for his last mint tobacco straw.

    He was starting to lose his cool. He was losing his grip on the mission, the least he could do was keep his cool.

    “You brought me to life,” The Killer said. “I’ll do what you command.”

    He bit down on the tobacco straw.

    “You can do whatever you want, just not anywhere near me,” West pointed to the fallen secretary who provided him intel in the encampment.

    “What do you mean?” The Killer asked. “I did what you asked.”

    “I never asked for this,” West said.

    “With your actions… You asked without words,” The Killer said. “We’re removing the weeds, like you said.”

    He promised to keep her safe if she talked. He promised to get her home alive to her children.

    “Everything I do is because of you,” The Killer said.

    He had less than a week left in the island nation and he was already was behind on his obligations to his employer. The Grand Archive was still standing.

    He couldn’t allow anything or anyone to derail his well-laid plans and jeopardize his money.

    West turned his back to the Killer. “Once I’m gone, you can kill whoever you want.”

    “You’re leaving?” The Killer cried. “Why would you leave?!”

    “I suggest you find your own way,” West said.

    “But the mission is far from over,” The Killer said. “We need you! I need you!”

    “Lower your voice, please.” West ordered.

    There was nobody else around to hear them -they were dead- but the Killer’s voice was throwing him off even further. The medicine was wearing off.

    “You give me purpose, why would you leave me?!” The Killer asked.

    He bit down on his tongue.

    He’d already said too much.

    “I said, lower your voice,” West commanded.

    “I don’t know what I’d do without you!” The Killer banged their head against the wall near the window. “I can’t be lost again!”

    He wondered how right the killer could have been about what he’d inspired with all his actions, sabotage, and machinations. He never considered what parading around like an immortal, resurrected terrorist and inciting a civil war war do to the island. How many lives were lost and would be lost because of him.

    “I’ll follow you,” The Killer calmed themselves. “I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

    He couldn’t allow that murdering psycho to ruin his well-laid plans, and ultimately his payday.

    “Will you leave me alone?” West asked.

    He wasn’t the one relying on that money. Someone more important than he’d ever be was relying on the money from the job.

    “I will not,” The Killer said. “I will follow you everywhere you go-”

    West fired a single shot into the Killer’s chest.

    The Killer staggered back towards the window and collapsed beneath the window sill.

    He fired, striking the Killer once in the chest and a second time in the head.

    “I’m sorry,” West said. “Can’t let you get in my way.”

    There was too much at stake.

    His stomach turned.

    He didn’t want to shoot anyone. He didn’t mean to spill any blood.

    He felt nauseous.

    It was all messed up.

    He pulled back his shoulders and took a breath.

    He wasn’t sorry. He did what was right.

    “Whoa!” Prentace shrieked. “You shot him!”

    He approached the body.

    “You really shot him,” Prentace shrieked.

    “Why do you care?” West asked.

    No blood from the body.

    “Because we don’t kill people!” Prentace said. “You said…”

    “I know what I said,” West interrupted. “Why aren’t you outside?”

    “That was our rule!” Prentace said. “No killing!”

    “Shut up,” West pointed his weapon at Prentace’s voice. “Why aren’t you outside?”

    They left me no choice.

    “Son of a…” Keyana tried to lift herself from the wall, but fell immediately.

    He would take care of her later… If her condition didn’t make her a liability.

    “Somebody’s… people are coming,” Prentace answered shakily.

    “People?” West moved to the window.

    “Yeah, a bunch of people,” Prentace answered. “And they’ve got a big gun.”

    He could faintly hear the rumbling of the army marching on their tower.

    Shit.

    And all he had was six bullets.

  • Unseen Life

    October 21st, 2021

    His translucent hands…

    He held them up to his bathroom mirror.

    The disease. The curse. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair he had to live that way. It was no way for any human to live, if he could call himself that.

    He opened the cabinet behind the mirror to obtain his last vial of skin-colored makeup.

    Most people in the world were born visible, and remain visible by default. He considered them the lucky ones. They woke up visible and remained so without effort. Not him. He was the what the media called the Unseen.

    He applied makeup to his fingers.

    He wanted to be visible for his job where his co-workers appreciated how eager and amicable he was in his support role. His boss needed to see him so she could pat him on the back and tell him how much of a big help he always is around the office.

    He yawned and began to apply the flesh-colored makeup to his fingers.

    He wanted to be visible for his family. They needed to know what he was like when he smiled, or when he cried– like when he lost his sweet grandmother.

    Much of the junk in the makeup bottle was thick and sticky. It was an old bottle.

    Need to hit the store…

    He wanted strangers on the street to see him. To see him see them. Sometimes he longed to be ugly, because there was nothing uglier in this world than to be an unseen.

    He stared at himself, at his nothingness, in the mirror where his face used to be just days earlier.

    He touched his face.

    He was sick, tired, and he’d been out of work and stuck inside for days, so he couldn’t do anything for anyone. He couldn’t work so he’d lost his entire form during those vacation days.

    He left the bathroom for the living room.

    If he wanted to remain visible to the human eye he had to continue to do things for people. Those were the rules. He had to do things for people and satisfy them in some way, and by doing that, the universe or whoever cursed him with that disease, would grant him momentary visibility. Those were the rules.

    His phone chimed.

    He was a slave to his disease.

    He could feel his hand and his fingers but it was still difficult to guide his hand to his phone.

    It was a text from his sister.

    Sometimes he forgot where his hands were located.

    Stress. It was probably stress. And age. Getting older wasn’t making his Unseen status any easier.

    His sister needed him to pick up their mother from the store.

    He sighed.

    He lived in another state and he was tired. But, picking up his mother from store would be enough to restore visibility to his hand for at least another week.

    He started to apply makeup to his hand.

    He chose to apply the last of his makeup to his hand. He didn’t like how his face looked with makeup on it. He didn’t like how his face looked without…

    It didn’t quite match his mocha colored flesh but it was the only thing he could find in the last minute.

    He exhaled.

    There was no cure for his curse. He learned that the invisibility was permanent, even in death. There was no sense crying about it. It was who he was. One of the Unseen citizens who just had to keep doing things for people if he wanted people to continue seeing him. If he wanted to exist, he had to do things for people.

    He lifted his hand to his face.

    His hand looked like a mannequin’s.

    The problem was, each time he lost visibility, it took more effort –doing things for other people– to restore it.

    And the makeup was already starting to disappear.

    He put on his cap.

    The invisibility had gotten so bad by the time he was thirty years old it would even envelop his clothes. So, no amount of loud colors or glow in the dark paint helped. A slave to his curse.

    “Tre!” He called.

    His dog rumbled out of their bedroom and jumped on his chest.

    “You walked already.” He petted Tre’s head.

    Dogs and cats could see him. Only humans couldn’t.

    “I’ll walk you when I’m back,” He said.

    Tre rolled onto his stomach, allowing his tongue to droop down his snout.

    “I see you, buddy.” He rubbed his belly. “Thank you for seeing me.”

    He stared at his jacket on the hook before swiping it.

    He liked how he looked in his jacket and hat. He just wished it remained long enough for him to appreciate how he looked in it.

    His jacket vanished before he could exit the building.

    He held on to how good he looked in his mind.

    There was a lot of foot traffic outside. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people on one block with either somewhere or nowhere to go in a hurry.

    In a city built for thousand but populated by millions, everyone recognized everyone else, even when they didn’t. And in an apartment of one, outside of his dog, there was nobody to see him. The unfortunate bastard bastard could rarely even see himself.

    He frowned.

    The makeup on his hand dissolved as he set off towards the metro station.

    Hopefully a day in the office and of service to others would allow him to be visible again. Even for a moment…

    He texted his mother.

    His transparent hands danced on his invisible phone– since he’d memorized his mother’s number and the qwerty keys on his smartphone.

    Using the voice option was a painful reminder that one day, no matter how hard he worked, the world would no longer see him.

    He texted his mother again.

    See you soon…

    Though.. he knew she would not see him.

  • Fleeting Tales Vol. XI

    October 18th, 2021

    I should have finished my book years ago. Instead…

    I stared a hole through my monitor. The one line I typed in Word was starting to blur because I refused to blink because I was tired and I knew blinking was too close to sleep.

    All the talent in the world and I was still drafting my novel.

    I sighed. I took my second shot of rum.

    I used to laugh and scoff at authors who spent decades writing their books.

    That will never be me. I’ll be published.

    Decades vanished, and I was no closer to The End than I was a decade ago because I keep starting from the beginning.

    I stood and start punching the air.

    I shadowboxed when I felt anxious.

    Jab. Cross. Jab, cross, uppercut, roundhouse….

    Sometimes I’d set my boxing app and go the whole twelve rounds trying to figure out what to write next. What to do next.

    I took a seat.

    When I started my novel I was forever young, single, and directionless with all the time in the world. I was also a terrible writer. But I had time, and youthful exuberance (ignorance) on my side. Now, I was just old and careful and too painfully aware of my mortality. I was confused at to whether I should care more or care less at my age.

    I typed a line.

    My main character was now in the middle of an existential crisis. It’s all I knew.

    Write what you know, right?

    I closed Microsoft Word and reopened my Youtube browser.

    I chose not to care as much anymore. It was my choice. It made little sense to waste anymore time on a story I’ve failed to finish for more than a decade.

    I clicked on a channel about cameras and filmmaking.

    It was cool. A lot of quick cuts and After effects.

    I yawned. I clicked on Microsoft Word and reopened my story.

    I needed to finish my book. I couldn’t go a third decade without finishing my book. It was the first book of a series. I’d be damned if I died before I finished that story.

    I wrote a paragraph.

    My main character was a twelve year old was crumbling under the weight of an existential crisis. That was how I would write the chapter. A twelve year old child in a fantasy world suffering from a real adult world problem.

    I smirked.

    I felt hope. I would finish my book in the next ten years. I no longer cared whether it was trash or whether anybody will read it.

    Hope.

    F*ck yeah.

    I kept writing.

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