Ghoul’s Night Out

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She perused the menu of the expensive, five pentagram rated restaurant.

A posh, dark ages style torture room decor with stunning views of the unholiest realms.

Perfect for their Ghoul’s night out.

“Let’s see it,” Bestie demands.

She reaches her ring hand across the table.

Bestie closely examines the gem. “Two trapped souls?!”

“I know!” She shrieks.

“Lucky ghoul.”

“And… he loves children,” She adds. “Lightly seasoned… Well done.”

“Your fave.”

“Ahhh… bestie remembers!”

Fiery portals open above their tables. Flaming tentacles place two cauldrons of Boiling Hot primordial soup before them.

“Roanoake U Coven reunion tomorrow.” Bestie tastes the soup.

“The Black Lipstick slut sorority?”

Bestie squints. “Didn’t you pledge?”

“Yes… Before you sacrificed me to the demon, Bilquis.”

Bestie nods. “You’re welcome.”

“Whatever.” She laughs. “Hows dating life?”

Tentacles deliver blood champagne.

“Screwed one of the four,” Bestie answers.

“Horseman?”

Bestie smirks. “Famine.”

“Thought you’d prefer War.”

Too aggressive.”

“Wow… You’ve matured.”

“Two hundredth birthday just passed.”

“Happy belated.”

“I guess…” Bestie frowns.

“Your soulless mate exists. I promise.”

“Yeah, sure,” Bestie sighs.

Explore… Date warlocks.”

“Religious nuts? No thanks.”

“Zombies?”

“Followers. One track minds.”

“Oooh, Vampires? They’re romantic.”

“Total racists.” Bestie replies.  “Briefly dated a succubus.”

“When?

“That semester in Purgatory.”

“Hmmm…. Mummies?”

“Terrible dressers.”

“Wolves?”

“Wild in bed.” Bestie flashes missing finger. “Too wild.”

“Frankenstein.”

“Happily married.”

She groans.

“Ghoul, stop! I’m… fine.”

“You sure?”

Bestie nods and raises glass. “Tonights about you and your unholy union.”

“I guess,” She raises glass.

They share a toast.

 

Jack and Cake

Jack and cake

He remembered my birthday. Nobody remembers my birthday except my mother and Facebook.

I scarfed a piece of my shortcake and washed it down with my nightly medicine.

Straight jack out the bottle. No ice, no chaser. Dark. Strong. Painful going in especially when I take it to the head. Heavenly for my body, short term. Probably damaging my spirit– if I believed in that sort of thing, but oh so good for my mind. I’ll take the headaches. Next-day regrets. Just bring me ecstasy. Pleasure. That hard sleep I haven’t had since I was a child.

I ate another slice.

Sweet, soft, and rich like the nice brother down the hall who brought it for me. Such a solid dude. Always doing nice things for me. And I do nothing for him in return. Nice guy.

I slipped on my favorite lace panties. A skirt short enough to be a blouse.

Something comfortable that I could easily pull up or pull to the side if I was feeling adventurous.

Its. My. Birthday. 

“God damn.” I grabbed my belly roll then looked over my shoulder.

My ass was definitely fatter too. Shit.

My mood darkened. I’m thirty five. Metabolisms slow at that age. Mom was skinny up to about my age as well. She was also married to Dad. Had two kids and was a decade into her nursing career. I was still hitting clubs and putting on expensive lingerie and my best perfume to fuck guys who never remembered my birthday or where they met me.

I lowered the music.

“The fuck?” I whispered to myself.

I felt weak. Emotional. Lost.

Nice brother down the hall tells me I had a pretty face. Even with the smile lines. Guys I messed with compliment my shape and how good I feel. But never how my eyes squint when I laugh. Interesting that the one guy that says the most beautiful things about me was the last man I’d think about fucking.

I ate another piece. Smaller than the last. Turned up the music. Started to whine like I was playin mas in Trinidad.

“I love soca!” I screamed.

Fuck the neighbors. It’s my birthday.

My phone rang.

Shit… nice brother from down the hall calling.

Forgot he had my number.

“Hmmm…” I watched the phone.

Nice brother was sweet… but can sweet collapse my walls and have me sore and shuffling like The Walking Dead into work the next day? Can sweet grab me by the hair and have me screaming bloody murder into my pillow case? Would sweet give me panic attacks and have me shaking, tossing, and turning at night in anticipation of getting split into oozing, bruised up pieces? Sorry… Sweet can’t.

I pushed ignore. “Maybe next time.”

I tossed the cake in the trash. Deepthroated the Jack bottle as I cranked up the music.

It’s my birthday. I wanted strong not sweet. I’d text nice brother gratitude tomorrow. Now, I’m enjoying what youth I have left.

Assassins Curse II: “She’s everything…”

Read Part I here.

His insides were bleeding.

Deteriorating organs. Malfunctioning brain. Heart. Lungs. Fading.

Half paralyzed.

Never felt this way before. Weak… Falling to pieces… In love. So in love.

He’d escaped from the trunk of an old car. Gutted two watchmen patrolling the area. Kept one alive for questioning.

Head cloudy.

She used something potent.  A deadly agent. He died twice. Returned once. For another taste of her succulent lips. Her poison kiss. An aphrodisiac. The things she did to him. She’s the closest to heaven he’d ever be.

“Where’s this?” He struck the guard.

“Scrapyard.” Guard trembled.

He narrowed his eyes. Scanned area for landmarks.

Grandmother’s tune flooding my thoughts…

“Not yet.” He whispered an answer to his grandmother’s calls.

“What?” Guard looked frightened and perplexed.

Eyes blurring. Glowing, mountainous silhouettes of city skylines. The ports. Shipping containers across rivers.

Definitely the East Side. Cross town. Way across town. She meant for me to disappear. Cars get crushed in the morning.

“Who dropped me?” He asked.

He snapped the Guard’s pinky finger.

“Fuck man!”

“A woman?” He gently gripped another finger.

“Yes!”

“How long?”

“Six… Six hours. No seven.”

“Six or seven?”

“Seven! Right after second shift.”

No weapons. No matter. He’s efficient with bare hands. Precise. Guard better not try anything.

He thought of her hands as he dragged Guard by the hair into the security room.

Thoughts of her caressing his chest. Writing love letters in cursive with her fingernails down his stomach.

He ordered Guard into a corner.

“I’m sorry,” Guard pleaded.

“I know,” he replied.

He recalled footage. Hours ago.

There…

His heart fluttered…

An angelic woman. Graceful. Pure sorcery in blood red silk as she dragged his body to the trunk before disappearing off camera. Our first dance.

The bridge. Certain that’s where she’s heading.

They were connected. Intertwined. She’s everything to him. Everything he never knew he needed.

“Your phone,” He demanded.

Guard slowly offered his phone. “You were dead, man.”

“I believe you,” He calmly replied.

Guard had pictures in his phone. Loving wife. Kids.

Love didn’t exist to him until six… no, seven hours ago. Before his killer wrapped her lips around him.

He dialed.

Screen glaring. Characters blurring. Head throbbing.

He pushed call.

“Hello?” A woman answered.

“Hello, sister.” He replied.

“Starvation. Pestilence. War. Death,” Sister said.

“I pray for healing.” He answered.

“God hears all prayers.”

“Thank you, Sister.”

Call ended.

Vrrrrr. Vrrrrr. Cell phone vibrating. Unknown Caller.

He answered. “ I’m… poisoned.”

“Specifics?” Sister asked.

“Unknown… Fast acting.” He cleared sweat from his forehead.

“How long?”

“Seven hours.”

“Who did it?”

“The mark.”

“Delivery system?”

“Lipstick.”

“She alive?”

“Yeah.”

“Poisoned too?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll track her.” Sister suggested.

“Not necessary.”

He knew her location.

“Client won’t be happy.”

He coughed. Spat blood.

“Cancel the contract… return the money.”

Sister was silent. Frustrated breaths. Sister was contemplating something. Next steps. Betraying him.

“Someone will arrive soon.”

“Thanks…” He had a thought. “Wait.”

“Yes.”

“Send… Roses.”  He said. “And champagne. Top-shelf.”

Part 3 soon.

“Ilana’s call”

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Ilana frantically searched for her car keys and taser. She was an hour late for her tattoo appointment with ‘Freeze’, the only tattoo artist capable of drawing Buttercup and Blossom. See, Freeze was an ill-tempered and impatient drag queen with switchblades who moonlighted as a bar-tending dominatrix at a bar frequented by homicide detectives. She understood having two jobs. Understood life as an enterprising diva. Tatts and hairdos don’t pay for themselves. She needed to get her ass in her car.
She snatched her keys and was about to leave when her phone rang.
“What?” She answered.
“June’s calling,” Camaiyah said.
“Impossible,” She replied.
“Seriously.”
“Can’t be him.”
“What do I do?”
“He can’t trace anything back to you.“ She leaned against the counter. “Even if he did manage to escape.”
“Back to us.”
“Don’t do that,” Ilana warned. “There’s no us.”
“I’m not the one who hacked him.”
“You paid me. I did a job.” Ilana used her phone to trace Camaiyah’s location. “I’m just a third-”
Her phone buzzed.
“Party…” She checked her phone. “He’s calling?”
“How did he-”
“Shut up.” Ilana interrupted as she frantically pushed ignore.
But the screen was frozen. Phone kept ringing. Text and email inboxes flooding.
“Damn it.”
“What?”
Phone answered on its own. Speaker phone activated…. on its own.
“I know you’re there, Ilana,” June said.
Camaiyah was silent. Breathing hard. Swallowing spit.
“I know everything,” June said. “I just want to talk.”
‘Lies’ she thought. June wanted vengeance.
“Okay, lets talk.”

Assassins Curse I: “…her frozen heart.”

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Assassins were bewitched by her smile. Her thickness. Her full, succulent lips. Her sharp glances, piercing him deep.

His hand trembled as he aimed.

His red dot. Between her bosoms. Inches left of her frozen heart. All he had to do was squeeze. Empty his clip and end it.

“Someone hired you?” She asked.

“Yes,” He replied.

“Who?”

“Someone who don’t like you much.”

“Shame.”

She stepped closer.

“What’s stopping you?”

“Nothing.” He didn’t know what else to reply.

Disoriented. Weak. Blind with desire. Consumed.

She disarmed him with a smirk.

That’s all it took. A smirk.

His grandmother forewarned him about her.

Son… Karma will come for you…  His grandmother would say.  And poison you with her smile…

He never took his grandmother seriously. An old southern woman with superstitions and stories of evil spirits and spells. And curses. She wasn’t one to take seriously.

She undressed him. Button by button.  Backed him slowly towards the pool.

He couldn’t help himself. Frozen. Immobile.

She circled him as she disrobed. Lassoed his neck with her nightwear. Lead him towards the bubbling Jacuzzi. Stripped him of everything he had.

Gun. Knife. Keys. His free will.

“Want to know something?” She asked.

“What?”

“I knew you’d come.” She pressed her warm body against his. “You have a possession of mine.”

“Your heart?” He answered.

“No,” she replied.

“Your love?”

“Getting colder.”

“Your body?”

“Keep guessing.”

She was calm. Unlike her heart. Her heart raced.

She pulled close. Fulfilled one desire. Fulfilled desires he was unaware of.

“You owe me something,” She said.

“I do?”  

She nodded.

“Want to know what?” She asked.

“Yes.”

She tiptoed to reach his ear.

“Life. You owe me a life.” She whispered. 

He staggered  back. Wiped his nose.

Leaking nostrils. Red covering his fingertips.

She kissed him on the cheek. “For all the lives you ruined.”

He heard his grandmother’s voice… Calling.

Come on home, son… face judgment. 

No… Not yet… Please. Not now.

He collapsed. Struggled to move. Breathe.

“Sleep well, my love.” She smiled. “Send the devil my deepest regards.”

Shit… 

Read Part II here.

“The Principles”

Sketch Wing Chun

The impact of my thunderous kicks to his shins crumpled him. Nearly brought him to his knees.

He shifted his stance. Switched his lead leg. Shocked his horse.

Didn’t matter.

Still on the offensive, I sank lower and pushed forward– in my horse.

Crack! The sound of my foot connecting with his fresh shin echoed through the Kwoon. I swore the impact shook the weapons and photos on the wall.

I’m flexible but I’d never go for a taller opponents head. I’m short so I prefer low kicks. More efficient. Chop a bigger opponent down to size. 

He thought of reaching for his aching leg. I saw it in his eyes. But he retreated into Full Gan Sau instead.

I smiled. “Good… get away.”

He Lurched his shoulders.

I could tell he was frustrated. I saw it in his posture. Training this art would do that to you.

“Simultaneous offense and defense,” I said as I stalked him around the sparring mat. “Both hands.”

He lunged.

I zigged zagged, covering myself at every angle. Batted (pak sau) his hand out of the air. Palm striked him in the jaw. To stun. Not to knock out.

He took a knee.

“Constant forward pressure.” I said. “Coverage. Horse.”

I kept changing angles to keep him busy.

He’s bigger. Wouldn’t dare facing him head on. That’s suicide. 

“Always on guard,” I said.

He went for the shoot, but I managed to sink into front horse and spread my legs wide so he couldn’t take my hips, all while dropping elbow and all of my body weight into the back of his neck.

He stumbled.

I struck him on his way down to ensure he wouldn’t recover quickly. He’s overly aggressive.

Was he getting angry? He needed to calm himself. Breathe… The impatience of youth. 

“Flow with the power,” I said as I backed off of him. “Maintain center-”

He interrupted with a swing to my head.

I weaved back, allowing his punch to fly over me while simultaneously covering and catching him with a low kick he never saw coming.

He groaned.

I’d stabbed him below the belly button with the point of my toes. Pressure point. Couldn’t have felt good.

I wasn’t done. Only the first half of the move.

“We are smaller.” I sprung forward and caught him with a savage Arrow Punch.

My fist and his face collided.

It was ugly. I felt terrible. He should’ve covered.

The impact sent him somersaulting backwards. The impact sent a painful shock up my wrist and into my shoulder.

“Less skilled.” I relaxed my guard and offered him a hand.  “Am I missing anything?”

He smiled. Took my hand and allowed me to help him to his feet.

“You okay?” I asked.

He bowed several times. I could tell he was grateful for the lesson. Its why I chose him as a private student. As the one who will continue the legacy.

“Lets go for tea,” I suggested. “Its on me.”

He nodded.

In A Dominant’s Mind

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The Dominant climbed to the top of the Junk Heap mountaintop and looked down on his creations.

The Dominant looked angry. And sure of himself.

“I built this world!” The Dominant declared.

The countless kidnapped, murdered, tortured, raped, bought, and sold Ancestors of Chattel Creations collectively narrowed their eyes at the Suburban Dominant.

“Did I not build everything?” The Dominant questioned.

Their hands. Bruised from beatings. Disfigured from twenty three hour a day labor, and weekly bone snappings when the Dominant’s ancestors didn’t believe their creations were working fast enough. Discolored from ritual burnings. Scratches from clamoring for the children being ripped from their arms. Soaked from, sweat, tears and blood. Their hands… fading slowly out of existence as its been for decades.

“Of course you did,” The Ancestor replied as they began fading from the collective consciousness of the dominants– also known as existence.

Chattels didn’t god-like, time and space altering power like the Dominant’s. How could they argue their own existence? There was no place else for them to exist and survive within a world not of their making or control– within a Dominant’s thoughts.

They lowered their hands, deciding to accept their fates and allow themselves to be faded out of existence– also known as the collective consciousness of the Dominants.

“Very good. Know your place.” The Dominant placed his flag in the center of the universe. “I claim this world and all its realities.”

The Dominant’s wiped the Creations from their minds and all of existence.

.

The Penalty for honesty… at work.

What’s the penalty for honesty at work? I wondered as I pretended to work.

I stared out the window for a moment.

My heart skipped a beat when my boss entered the room. I froze.

Gotta look busy. Look valuable. 

She quietly entered her office and shut the door.

What’s the penalty for my honesty? I pondered at I scrolled desperately through my social media feed for good news, a motivational post, or photographs of the nieces, nephews, and godchildren I never get to see.

There’s a seemingly immovable forty hour a week boulder in the middle of my existence. Unshakable. Immovable. Virtually unbreakable. Boulder.

I yawned. I stretched. I checked my text messages as I stretched.

I wondered. If I revealed to them… I’m overwhelmed. Can’t seem to get a foothold on the work. Can’t seem to get it together. Can’t tell whether its boredom or incompetence on my part. 

My stomach hurt. Terrible gas.

I skipped breakfast. Late for work again. So much to think about. So much to do. So little time. Vacation was nothing more than the space between misery. Like work release or yard time. I was being melodramatic.

What if I revealed to them that they need not smile in my direction. I know you don’t like me. I know you think I’m incompetent– when I make a mistake– and beneath you. I know you think I was hired to work under you and serve you– which I probably was. 

I stood. Stretch my legs.

What if I was honest with them about myself? What if I admitted to myself and to them that I was equally as fake? I don’t like you either. But I return your illusion with one of my own. Because I understand my role is to make them comfortable. And how crucial it is to the job, and my livelihood, 

I sat. Powered the scanner.

Error.

I restarted the machine.

Same results.

I softly pounded my fist on the desk.

I’m the only tool in the office not allowed to malfunction. And, the easiest to replace.

I slumped in my chair.

Can they tell I dig my nails into my forearms when they dress me down in front of my peers? Can they read in my eyes how much sleep I lose thinking about all the stuff I have to do the next day? Or the people I have to deal with. Or, how I can’t handle the amount of work they are tossing my way Probably not.

“Good Morning,” One of my smiley supervisors greeted.

“Good Morning,” I replied with a smile bright enough to overload a solar powered city.

“How’s everything going?” Smiley Supervisor asked.

“Excellent!” I replied as my face started to get sore from smiling. “Working on this and then I’ll head back and work on your stuff.”

“Okay, great!” Smiley Supervisor said, returning to her office.

Couldn’t afford to be honest. No matter how hard I crunched the numbers, I just couldn’t afford it.

Best Short Film, Spring 2018! Holla…

Best Short Film

 

I wrote and produced, with the help and guidance of an incredible team, an AWARD WINNING short film.

All things are possible when you have a great production squad, great actors, and a great support system around you.

Thank you Adam, Kristin, Zach, Art and son, Ucheoma, Cameron, Sifu Mike, Sister Shay, Brother Thomas, and the Wing Chun Md Kwoon.

On to the next one.

 

Best,

Darrion J.