They Can't Kill Us All

By Nomar Knight


You can't live life without taking risks. In my world, something routine like getting food, can be lethal. Only the strong survive and size does matter.

I stand frozen, hiding in the shadows, aware of my misstep. A giant creature occupies the very territory I set out to explore. The others warned me not to venture off at daylight, but when I started my journey, darkness had concealed my presence.

I swear these creatures are gods. They possess gargantuan size, incredible strength, and somehow they make light appear at will. Illumination is my natural enemy. Our species survived for centuries because we lurk in the shadows.

The beast not only controls light, but also the elements. With one swift motion, the creature makes it rain. Not soft slow drops, but fast powerful pellets that when striking the surface, sound like the war drums of ancient tribes.

The creature succeeds in blinding me with light and pounding my senses with rain. Its slow psychological warfare awakens my survival instincts. I want nothing more than to cut and run, but from the tales I've been told by survivors, I must wait and hope for total invisibility.

Our deep hatred for each other's species began with their total disregard with our right to exist. While the creatures grow in abundance, we do what is necessary to procreate at a more accelerated rate. We believe that we have power in numbers.

Oh, oh! The vile creature is caressing itself.

It stands on what amounts to two enormous trees and its appendages, like thick branches, are attached to spider-like worms that seem to move apart from the rest of its body. What hideous rotten monsters!

Careful not to move, for the slightest motion on my part would spell instant death, I search my surroundings to no avail. The daylight blurs my vision. Fortunately, I can retrace my exact steps until I reach the comforting shadows. For now, time stands still and so must I.

The powerful rain bounces off the creature's hairy back and splashes on me, almost making me flinch.

Don't move! Don't move an inch!
Suddenly, as its appendages work in unison throughout its shell, a disgusting filmy substance escapes its pores. The creature, at first dark, is coated with the color we hate most--white. At least that much I can see.

As I pray for my survival, my thoughts become preoccupied. All I can think about is what drew me here. My mate left one night to find us food, but like so many others, never returned. His dangerous mission is our reality since we depend on them for nourishment. Putting my children's safety before my own, I began my journey only to find my life hanging in the balance.

Now what?

The rain rinses away the disgusting white film leaving the creature shining like a majestic bronze statue. Its strange physique has an almost alluring quality about it.

Focus! It is the enemy. It wants you dead!

As sudden as the rain started, it stops. At least before, the creature could not hear me, but now, surrounded by an eerie silence, its senses heighten.

Run for it!

Courage is not a word my kind knows. The creature's overwhelming size causes my insides to constrict preventing me from losing my previous meal.

Wait! Damn it! Wait!

A boisterous boom wreaks havoc with my senses. Then, darkness encompasses me, giving me a sense of triumph. The shadows have always been my friend. I dash back from whence I came, allowing memory to guide me.

All of a sudden, a sharp slam, followed by blackness and intense pain crushes me. My insides splatter about, paralyzing me.

No!

As I lie there helpless on the tiles, only my antennae moving slowly, I cry for my babies, my precious offspring.

"Yuck! Disgusting Cockroaches!"

The ominous shadow returns over me and I laugh. My last thoughts, these creatures, these humans, they can't kill us all. What do they call it? Oh yes, the human holds what they call a sandal. I call it a building.

You may kill me, but you're too late. My babies will have babies and they'll have others and no matter how hard you try to erase us, you can't because we're resilient. In the end, we will win.

WHACK!


717 words

Previously published in August 2009 issue- Suspense Magazine.

Ghostly Visits

The dead don't play by the rules of the living; they don't play at all. - The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight

Ghosts roam the halls of the living. What you think is a shadow or a trick of light just may be a former human testing the limitations set forth by mortality. Surely, you’re not one of those people that lie awake at night because you sense you’re not alone. You hear footsteps on the wooden floors. You see movement by the closed window. My question to you is: why should this worry you?

Some people's experiences with ghostly apparitions tend to be limited because they do a wonderful job of shutting out the distractions. Sometimes they're tempted to think ghosts like playing games with us foolish mortals, but the reality may be that they have trouble communicating with the living. Let’s face facts; many people prefer to live a simple life, oblivious to other worldly possibilities. Is it really better to turn a blind eye to the existence of ghosts?

Those who have had ghostly encounters may feel that the apparitions should have been off to some magical paradise, but instead felt compelled to either enlist their assistance or tie up loose ends. Smirk all you will, we can’t see air but we know it’s there. Just because you’re not sensitive to your surroundings doesn’t mean ghosts aren’t real.

There’s another theory that explains ghosts. Some believe in alternate universes and they say when a hole hits the fabric of reality, we can see the other beings as if they were ghosts. Sounds like something entertaining to write about, but that explanation doesn’t hold water for me. Many believe we go somewhere when we die and I prefer to keep an open mind to the possibility of life after death. This is not an attempt to convince skeptics, for they will believe what they want to believe. Instead, this an attempt at starting a conversation about possibilities and perhaps help form a theory that could explain the phenomena of ghosts.

Got to go now. Oh, what's that I see? Is it a familiar face now a shadow? Perhaps a ghost is waiting for me to listen. Have fun if you care to uncover a mystery that may only get answered when we move on to another realm.

Nomar Knight

Carving a Soul

Some of you out there may think I'm incapable of writing something light. Well, I've written a few light poems and "Carving a Soul" is one I'm most proud of. Yes, my muse is 98% dark but sometimes light shines through.

I dedicate this poem to a dear friend, Ann Carter, who befriended me in spite of my love for horror. Thank you Ann, you are a doll.

Without further adieu:

Carving a Soul

Never underestimate the power of goodness.
Flood evil with kindness
And sing soothing hymns.
Douse their sordid pleas with brightness.
Disarm the decaying spirit.

Darkness strikes with blind fury.
Return fire with a smoldering smile.
The Master's words sharpened the path
To enlightenment and carved truth,
Enriching even the darkest souls.

Flash the beam of love.
Spread joy to the masses
And rebel against fear
For daylight extinguishes the
Uncertainty that lies in the shadows.

Oh, rejoice in the power of prayer.
Eliminate the wretched evil that looms
Cast out the demons with the sacred
Blood, emboldening the timid
Winged creatures praising His name.

For the Son of Man sacrificed all
To have the chosen; witness
Miracles, grace, and glory.
At last, hope springs eternal
Forever bounding darkness with light.

The Hell of Isolation

Isolation is damning when it's not self inflicted. – Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight

Become your character.

I sit in a field of barren land, marveling at a purple sky. A brisk breeze tantalizes me to the point I realize its evil attempt at hypnosis. I suddenly notice I must rise or face impending doom. So I do it, I get up ordering my legs to run, dumbfounded when pain rifles up my calves clawing deep in my knees. Examining my legs closer, I notice nothing out of the ordinary. I wonder if my failure to launch into a sprint a sign that old age is creeping up on me.

The breeze picks up its intensity, cutting my skin with a sleek dryness like razor sharp teeth. Lines of blood reveal themselves in my half covered arms. The environment’s hostile treatment of my presence, urges me once again to run. I get ten yards before the pain knocks me to the dirt laden road. On my knees, I cry out, “What’s happening?”

Instead of an echo, silence fills the now orange sky. A sense of dread fills my heart. I speak aloud, hoping the sounds of life can convince me that my isolation is only temporary. “Where is everyone?”

In fiction something or someone would respond to the character’s pleas, but in this reality, my words hang in the thickening air only to disappear as if never spoken. My breathing becomes erratic. For the first time I begin to wonder if my predicament is my entire fault when I realize, I don’t know my name.

My open display of weakness becomes complicated when tears roll down my cheeks followed by cries of pity. I pump my fists in the air, ashamed of what I have become. The wind lifts the barren dirt in a swirl as grains of sand lash at me from all angles. I cover my eyes, for the sting of the sun adds to my misery.

“How did I get here?” I yell knowing full well no one will respond.

I weep like a child in need of a loving mother’s touch. Instead of a soft caress, Mother Nature pounds more dirt on me. A cruel reality I wish upon no man. Somehow I muster the strength to rise again and through enormous pain, sprint towards a dark shade just below the hill. I think sure the god of circumstance will show mercy and shelter me from this dreaded sandstorm. When I reach the shade I hear running water. I go through the first sign of healthy foliage and find a renewed energy as a cold mist sprays its soothing pellets on my face. A cascading waterfall crashes over rocks unto a lagoon. Without thinking I dive in the pool of life, grateful for a second chance, grateful for the thirst quenching mercy bestowed upon me.

Laughter gets my attention. Two naked women laugh as they watch me from atop a boulder. They point and giggle.

At last, loneliness has lost its grip on me and a laugh, giddy like a child tickled by angels. I try to speak but my words come out muffled. In my second attempt at communication my voice sounds as if my voice box is used for the first time in years. “Hello ladies.”

Once again they laugh. They rise, clasp their hands together and jump into the water. A large splash hits high in the air before crashing down, soaking my head. I welcome the intrusion. I bask in the flapping sounds. I stretch my arms forward, hoping they’ll reach my hands when I notice a few seconds pass before a deafening silence reawakens my senses.

In lieu of standing in a pond, mud reaches my waist. What I saw as a cascade of water was instead rocks falling from a cliff. The laughter of females becomes the cries of a flock of vultures. One of them swoops down on me and pecks a piece of skin off my wounded arm.

The sun’s rays weigh on me like never before. A heavy burden of survival presses on my back. I wonder aloud, “Am I the last of my kind?”

What I thought to be water were pebbles. I reach my aching bloody face, weary of my surroundings. I attempt to move back through the mud, but the more I press on, the deeper I sink. Quicksand. Another vulture swoops by and my quick reaction surprises me. I grab its claws as the force of his flight steers me to more solid ground, stunning me. It pecks my chest causing me to cry out. “You’re not getting me, you bastards!”

I sniff the dense air, but instead of despair, I inhale a whiff of freedom. I continue to wade through the fast disappearing shadows, allowing hope to carry me to the promise land.

When writing horror I like to end things with hope. Especially if the narrator is first person, then I must assume he survives somehow. Unless of course; he’s providing the details as a ghost. I wanted to write something depressing so I played with setting and made the character react to his five senses. Notice I don’t know the character’s identity. I also wanted to write something psychological and I believe this fit the bill. Can you imagine being stuck in such a predicament? I hope this little blog entry served to inspire your muse.

See you on the dark side.

Nomar Knight

Villains Needed

Society cultivates its monsters. With its tongue it calls for equality but with its hands it shackles aspirations, condemning itself to a world where darkness rules. – The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight

What’s in a villain? One need not look far to create a suitable bad guy. I enjoy stories where the villain is created out of necessity. Opposing forces must collide in order to wreak havoc with the protagonist’s simplicity. Conflict when created as a natural result of the action is worth digging into. Take Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein. A man’s need to prolong life became warped when he decided to take the place of the Creator himself and create life from dead body parts. Man’s need to live forever cultivated the monster known as Victor Frankenstein. He in turn built a monster that has lived throughout literature.

Not all writers will be able to create such brilliant characters but if we search within society, magnificent characters await, itching for us to tell their tale. There are many things happening around us every day, some of it contributing to real horror. All we have to do is keep our eyes open and our minds receptive to uncovering the madness that sits within our reach.

Science has been advancing at an alarming rate and with its advancements come the promise of a new world. Well, imagine a new world laced with opposite characters that must naturally fight each other to succeed? Ask yourself, what scares you about society? Wouldn’t you want to change how people behave? For centuries madmen delved in unique ways to control mankind only to fall short of their insane aspirations.

Search your surroundings hard enough and eventually a hero will be born. Keep searching and be amazed as the hero’s opposite will emerge, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself sympathizing with the bad guy. Villains can be magnanimous and therefore alluring. Villains can take over a story and become more powerful than the protagonist. It happened to Batman as I sat and watched the Joker become bigger than life. More importantly as he forced society to rethink the delicate fabric it lived by. Now that’s a villain worth meeting, but only in fiction.

Nomar Knight

Book of the Damned

Thunder slammed against the night sky, echoing how Cindy Parker felt inside. She scratched her face with reckless abandon, attributing her loathing as a result of wishing she was never born. She cried for an opportunity to stop the madness. She envisioned the cause of her misery—her grandfather— held captive, for of all things, tax evasion.

“I hate you!” She screamed tearing out another chunk of skin; a bloody trail leaving behind a face only a place like the Circus of the Damned could appreciate.

She pictured his swollen cheekbones, sunken gray eyes and furry unibrow, detesting her own existence. Hereditary abnormalities plagued her reality. She inherited her mother’s looks except those dreaded eyebrows. Her mother dismissed the facial curse with statements like, you’re a girl, and you can groom it. No one has to know.

For years she thought her existence came as a result of a gross error in judgment. Her mother was only thirteen when she realized amorous relations with someone she called Johnnie; Cindy’s alleged father. A violation of her mother’s privacy revealed the truth. There was no Johnnie; it was all a ruse so people would think her grandfather was a victim of his daughter’s bad decisions. Her mother wrote about how she despised that the man responsible for her misery was pitied by the neighbors. She feared her mate. The monster she called daddy.

Cindy’s screams echoed throughout white walls. Her anxiety led to self mutilation. She stopped scratching her face and slammed her head against the floor. The first contact with the cold tiles produced a lump above her left eye. The second impact brought forth blood from her right nostril.

“I hate you!” She rolled on the floor, crashing from one wall to another.

Whispers haunted her all of the time. During the day she heard her mother’s voice ordering her to do something she could never do herself. Get your act together and move on with life. That’s when Cindy would burst into fits of laughter. Irony. Her whole life was an ironic anomaly of epic proportion. Fathered by her grandfather and never having access to an older woman took a heavy toll on her psyche. She felt another piece of her soul dying, withering away. She longed for a motherly type since her own mother acted more like a sister.

Laughter echoed inside the hollow room as cold chills ran through her spine. “You want me to get my act together?” She stopped rolling and sat up. Blood reached her mouth. “Mom, you crazy bitch! Why did you leave me alone with him?”

At night, images of her mother, lying in a pool of blood on the bathroom floor, haunted her. A razor covered with precious fluid lay next to slit wrists.

Something stirred inside her; something horrible fed off her blood. She glanced down and yelled, “I hate you!” She wanted to punch herself but a sharp pain electrified her womb as if in total defiance. When she calmed down the pain subsided. She wept.

Voices. She heard voices approaching in the dead of night. The room’s lights went from dim to full blown illumination.

“Holy shit! We need to restrain her!”

She felt herself lifted by unseen forces, praying for the moment escape became possible. She uttered, “When will I die?”

A hoarse feminine voice said, “Not tonight, sweetheart.” She felt shackles on her hands and she writhed screaming for release, begging for death as more stabbing pains served to counter her tantrum.

A deep male voice said, “Should we sedate her?”

“No, she’ll spit the baby out soon enough.”

All of a sudden, blind rage gave way to horrid fear as the light which at first blinded her began to reveal her surroundings. A couple wearing green medical attire stared at her with wide orbs. A portly female spoke first, “Cindy, don’t expect sympathy from us. You push when I tell you.”

Cindy yelled, “I need something for the pain!”

The man said, “You tell us what you did with your grandfather’s body and we’ll give you something for the pain.”

“What?” At last she suspected the world had gone mad. “Everyone knows he’s in jail for tax evasion.”

“Come now Cindy,” the man continued, “You know darn well he made bail. What did you do with the body? The police found blood in your trunk, on the kitchen floor, and a trail which led to your garage.”

The intense pain pounded inside her. She screamed! The female said, “The baby’s not going to wait any longer. He’s coming now!” The woman readied her hands, set to deliver the child.

“No! Don’t let him come out! He’s tainted.” Cindy wailed in agony. “He’s evil!”

“Push!” yelled the female.

“No!”

For three minutes Cindy’s screams added to a horrific tension. Upon reaching a fever pitch, a veil of silence hung loose in the humid air. Cindy felt relief, but wondered about the deafening silence. “Is he alive?” She saw how the woman cringed.

Cindy laughed. She was relieved to break the vicious cycle of inbreeding.
The man spoke, “He’s moving.”

A baby’s cries filled the room.

Tears rolled down Cindy’s face, “No, it can’t be.”

The female said, “He has strange eyebrows, but I guess under the circumstances, they’re appropriate.”

“What do you mean? Show me my baby!”

The man spoke, “Tell us where you hid the body.”

“It’s in the basement, inside the wall with the others.”

The man stuttered, “O, Others?”

“According to my mother’s diary,” Cindy paused to gather her breath, “every time one of us is born with one eye, the men would kill them and hide the babies in the walls.”

The man asked, “How many of them are there?”

Cindy gestured for the baby. The woman complied. When she held her child in her arms she said, “There are two hundred and thirty-four, one for each year since my ancestors fought for our independence.”

She stared at her baby, the result of years of sin. The child, with one eyebrow across the center of its tiny face, opened its evil gray eye and grinned.
She squeezed his neck ready to toss the baby across the room but the man stopped her, pulled the infant out of her tired arms and handed it to the woman. As she exited with the baby in hand she said, “Thank God, he’ll be alright.”

“We need to kill it.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that Cindy.” The man gripped her left knee.

“Why?”

“Well, we don’t do that anymore. Now we breed them to become soldiers. It turns out they're amazing killing machines. Besides, we have to keep the cycle alive. You killed dad, but you didn’t kill me, sis.” He smiled, “We’ll try again when you’re feeling stronger.”

He lifted his coat, pulling an old book out of his belt. “Our father had a diary too. We have many brothers and sisters, but you belong to me.”

-1, 163 words

Three Divas of Blogging

There are three talented ladies gracing the internet with their uniquely entertaining blogs.

Take the lovely Sessha Batto: her beautifully designed, user friendly web page has something for everyone. She writes fiction, fan fiction and erotica. Her gift goes beyond prose for her stories are compelling and usually teaches her readers lessons which are thought provocative.


Another blog of note is Koreen’s Writing Korner. Her play on words and insightful revelations of what it’s like to be a writer and a high school teacher will make the readers feel as though they were visiting with an old friend. Koreen’s use of unique graphic organizers lets the rest of us in on her works in progress. She is a kind soul.

Then there’s the amazing Poppet Author. Every day she posts something either outrageous or educational. Her penchant for darkness and her desire to share her knowledge with the rest of us makes this writer feel as if I’m no longer alone in the universe. We are kin who delve in the beauty of darkness.

They are three wonderful and talented writers, three great souls willing to share their experiences on the road to success. If you don’t believe me, visit their blogs and enjoy all they have to offer.

http://authorpoppet.wordpress.com/poppet/

http://koreenclemens.com/

http://sesshabattousai.com/index.html

Misguided Coward

He reached for
The razor
Smooth
Shiny
Sharp
Thinking why
He Didn't
Do it
Before
Just one
Slice

Eighteen with
zero friends
Fat
Awkward
Shy
Mustering
Courage to
Cut his
Thick wrist
Just one
Slice

One girl saw
Fear in his
Wide
Amber
Eyes
She whispered
Join us my
Friend for
Pizza
Just one
Slice

Her bright smile
Morphed into
Ice
Stoned grin
Shock
Smothered him
Gang members
Gashed his
Stunned face
Just one
Slice

Never dreamed
He'd be a
Fool
Naked
Hurt
Scared and pale
Face bleeding
Punctured
Throbbing
Just one
Slice

Made it home
Knowing no
One
Would be
There
He needed
Mother's love
She failed
Again
Just one
Slice

Locked in the
Cold bathroom
Sharp
Razor
Grip
Hand Trembling
Blood dripping
Thinking
Who cares
Just one
Slice

© Copyright 2010 Nomar Knight (Knight Chills). All rights reserved.

Beware of the Future

The future is an opaque mirror. Anyone who tries to look into it sees nothing but the dim outlines of an old and worried face. ~Jim Bishop

Sometimes we spend too much time in the past or get caught up with all the troubles in the present, therefore making the future look bleak. In times such as these we need to hold on to optimism. We must hold on to it for dear life or risk falling into an abyss where sunlight is extinguished by despair. Don’t fall into a cold, lonely place designed to consume positive energy and twist it into swirls of mortifying dread.

How can we be sure not to fall into a trap set by our desire to know what will happen next? The answer: by remembering we must take corrective measures within ourselves. If you find yourself at odds with others then perhaps it would be prudent to examine why they displease you. Are you merely projecting what you dislike about yourself? Take stock of what you have, where you are, and where you want to be, and research. Look at the people that have what you want and ask yourself: what did they have to sacrifice? Then ask yourself if you are truly willing to perhaps, give up more. Not all of us live parallel lives. Many different people must travel their unique roads in order to get to their promise land.

The future is an opaque mirror so take the time to live and enjoy the moment for in the end, if it is written in the stars that you will achieve your goals; then it will be so. Take it from me; life’s too short to sweat the small stuff. Make every moment count and things will fall into place.

Happy Writing!

Nomar Knight

Hate Breed

Racists still live among us. Unfortunately for Hank Garcia, he knew firsthand what it was like to be persecuted for being different. Ever since grade school, Max Winters found ways to hurt Hank. It started with name calling.

“Hey snowman, you’re ugly.”

Eventually the spewing of insults turned into beatings and chases. Not even attempts at reasoning could get through to Max. Hank thought Max would mature over the years. He could not believe someone hated him because he was an Albino.

He compared himself to Max and noted that Max had long blond hair and his was nappy and white. Max had baby blue eyes and his were red. Max had fair skin yet his was pale and burned easily.

By high school, Hank ran out of patience and got better grades than Max, played basketball better, and stole Max’s girlfriend.

So as Hank knelt on the snow in a secluded wooded area, stripped down to his underwear, he prayed for a miracle.

Max kicked him in his ribs, cocked a revolver and pointed it at the back of Hank’s head.

“Die snowman!”

Hank shut his eyes. With teeth chattering and body shivering, he listened to the sudden screams. The terrible sound of bones crunching made him wince. When at last he drew the courage to open his eyes, he saw a trail of blood on the snow that led to a crumpled up Max. Next to the broken cadaver stood a giant beast; its white hairy coat blended into the landscape. Its red eyes gleamed from the direct sunlight. The huge snow beast growled and ran away, leaving a trail of giant footprints behind.

276 words

Embrace Madness

Today I felt pass over me
A breath of wind from the wings of madness.
~Charles Baudelaire

Ah, what to write today? Most writers go through periods where the blank page haunts them. They dare to dream but when they awaken; they find their adventures fluttered away, drawn in by the thief of dreams. Dry spells turn into droughts, which in turn become neurotic fuel which causes the artists to question their talents. They examine their lives to see where they went wrong. They cry out, “Surely the gods are mistaken. Please don’t abandon your favorite child. Shine your light on me and let me be whole again!”

Well, I’m here to suggest you turn insanity into something manageable. Take the wings of madness and make them yours. Think outside yourself. Convince your psyche that although the thief of dreams stole your opportunity at creating amazing prose, you will not abandon your ability to see into the world of madness. Dream awake and discover the wonder that is nirvana. Spite the gods of boredom and complacency and search for the fountain of perfect prose, regardless of what your conscience tells you. Become the rebel and soon enough you will attract a world filled with imaginary characters begging to whisper their secrets.

Of course, if all else fails, while you drink a glass of alcohol before bedtime, think about what scares you most and tell yourself you will remember the nightly visions because you welcome fear. Yell at the gods and say, “Go ahead, scare me! I dare you!”

I wish you creepy dreams and days filled with terror filled prose.

Nomar Knight

Shadows and Dust

The land mimicked the crimson sky, bleeding with the sins of man. – The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight
Oh how much fun it is to be a horror writer! Real life atrocities serve to teach us humble folk what not to mimic and what not to put up with. They also make us aware of serious deficiencies in the fabric we call society. All throughout the globe man continues to not get it. Living to feed their egotistical desires, seeing others for their differences and finding fault with anyone who doesn’t do what they do, or see things their way, all contribute to a blind form of hate.

Throughout time, history has provided many examples of hate, much of it disguised as noble causes. From the crucifixion of Christ, to the persecution of Christians, to the Inquisition and beyond; up unto our modern versions of hate, man will always remain incapable of maturing. It would seem they trap themselves in halls laden with fantasies of a Utopia. The quest for a perfect society lives even when men like Adolf Hitler were publicly chastised for unspeakable and unforgivable crimes against humanity.

I wonder when mankind will understand to appreciate our differences and stop imposing individual ideals on society as a whole. I wonder if I will live to see the day when war is concentrated against those who continue to corrode this beautiful planet. I wonder if man is capable of throwing away their fears of losing their individual identities in realizing that we really are not different at all. When are they going to realize we all belong to the human race, a race bequeathed by either nature or God with the responsibility of maintaining that all creatures be given an opportunity to live in harmony?

Man will always flex their muscles against one another and their lands, for many of them live as though their actions would be erased upon their departure to another existence. Well, our actions do have consequences. We must change how we treat others and we must improve how we treat our environment. If we don’t, we may awaken to a crimson sky hovering over barren land, filled with shadows of lost promises and the sanguine dust of mortality.

I agree with John Lennon, we should give peace a chance, but it starts within each of us.


Nomar Knight

The Glorious Art of Payback

Vengeance is a double-edged sword which leaves the target skewered and its rider tainted forever.- The Book of Tortured Souls, Nomar Knight
Is it possible to get payback without dirtying your soul? When I’m upset about something I look for activities that would help me release the inner turmoil before it festers into something uncontrollable, something monstrous, something illegal. For instance, let’s say someone does something to get under my skin; my favorite outlet is to visit the gym. Work out harder, longer, and with more intensity. Another favorite outlet of mine is to go jogging. I guess we can assume I have mellowed in my years.

When I was a preteen, I had little command of words, whether written or vocal, but my fists, my feet and certain pieces of furniture were instruments I used to communicate. Perhaps this technique did not win me many friends, but at least the other children feared me, and making others scared had intrigued me. Over the years I transitioned to making others scared of possible situations and not frightened of me, per se. What brought about this amazing metamorphosis? My seventh grade teacher, Sister Brigitte, by demonstrating saintly patience (the list of victims— kids with bloody noses, bruises, and cries of pain grew steadily in my preteen years) and incredible strength (she caught a flying desk with one hand, propelled by my anger). Her superhuman display caught my attention. Instead of sending me to the principal’s office, she’d send me to the librarian where I began an affair with books.

So I guess my dearest Sister Brigitte set the foundation for me to be a lover of literature, a communicator with words. My weapon of choice is the pen which has changed to a computer with a word processor. Now, I’m more violent, in fact; lethal. I exact my vengeance through humiliating my foes in my stories. I don’t actually use their personalities, not always, but I do plenty of transference. Why this past Friday, I or more accurately, one of my characters got even against two types of personalities I and perhaps many in society dislike. Two more characters are dead and I’m left free to enjoy the spoils that otherwise would not exist.

What happens when you act out your aggression in real life? This brings me to the existence of real horror. Vengeance blinds one to the point disillusionment sets in. The scorned want to maim or humiliate the cause of their woes so they in turn lower themselves to a level so tasteless, so vile they become much like their target. Regardless of the level of execution whether payback is in the form of a practical joke, or a humiliating public ad, or bloodshed; the result is always the same, the angry victim becomes the unfortunate tyrant, therefore tainting their reputation, and quite possibly giving up their freedom for one brief moment of madness.

So the next time you find yourself screaming you want vengeance, make the right choice. Exact your revenge through fiction, and watch how your thirst for blood will be quenched. Not only will you benefit by getting even, but every time you read your tale you’ll be able to relive it as if it were the first time. You can’t do that if you act out your aggression in the real world. Plus, you can share your story with the rest of the world and maybe help someone else avoid falling in the trap skewering any chance they had at true happiness.

Nomar Knight

Odd Surprise

Six-year-old Mona Peterson watched a quartet of flies buzz in and out of a gap in the wooden planks on the living room floor. Her hazel eyes followed the pests as they flew in a circular pattern. Every few seconds one fly would break ranks and plunge into an opening. The others followed, disappeared for an instant, and then came out to begin the strange routine again.

After three minutes of witnessing this odd behavior, Mona peeked in the dark hole. Nothing was visible. Each time the flies exited the gap, she moved her head out of the way. When they flew in, she opened her right eye wide, hoping to discover the reason for the insects’ odd behavior.

“Honey, what are you doing?” Mona’s babysitter asked.

The little girl glanced towards the sofa but quickly returned her gaze to the floor.

“Mona, are you sad that your daddy was rushed to the hospital? Don’t worry, he’ll be alright.”

Mona continued to focus on the morbid aerial show.

“Mona?” The babysitter rose from the sofa and stood over the little girl. “What are you doing?”

Mona pointed at the flies and said, “They’re playing peek-a-boo.”

The sitter crouched next to Mona and with a key, jimmied the loose floorboard. All of a sudden, the four flies sprung out followed by ten more. Mona’s loud screams carried throughout the house. Inside the hole lay a bloody finger with her father’s gold wedding band still on it.


245 words

A Question of Destiny

Angels deliver Fate to our doorstep - and anywhere else it is needed. ~Jessi Lane Adams

Surely you don’t believe that everything is predetermined. The world must be governed by random chaos, just like many scientists claim. Of course, that’s it, random chaos. A woman enters a dark alley and spots an unsavory character. He swallows her with his eyes but doesn’t touch her. A few hours later she watches the news and discovers another woman got raped in that same alley just minutes after she had passed. Well, she goes to the precinct, describes the man she saw and a couple of hours later the police bring him in for questioning. When the lady takes a look at him, she positively identifies him. The rape victim also confirms his identity. A detective asks the man if he remembers the blonde, the lady he didn’t rape, and he says yes.

“Why didn’t you do anything to her?”

“Are you crazy? She had two huge dudes walking with her.”

The woman was alone. Does that mean her guardian angels protected her, only manifesting themselves to the rapist? Could it be that getting raped was not in her destiny? If you believe that to be the case, then you would agree the rape victim planned to be raped in this life. In other words, it was her fate because she wanted to experience what it was like. So perhaps we plan every detail of our lives before we’re born and God sends his angels to make sure we fulfill our destiny.

For many people, the above scenario is a perfect example of random chaos. Something caused the man to not rape the first woman, but he jumped on the second opportunity. But this is where random chaos is questionable, at least in this case because by the rapist’s own admission, he saw the first woman had protection. Was it fate or random chaos?

How about when you experience the feeling that you’ve done, or have been in a place before but in actuality, it’s your first time. Déjà vu is common and occurs at random points in our lives. I can only think of two reasons why this phenomenon occurs. The first reason is because you plan every detail before you were born. At the moment of birth we begin to forget, since the brain we use is new and therefore incapable of holding so much information. Through time we become preoccupied with learning and experiencing things that in essence are new to us, though if you subscribe to the predesigned theory, then you have seen the imagery of your actions prior to being born so, on rare instances, you can recognize what in essence you have seen in another dimension, making it appear as though you’ve experienced the same thing again. Confusing?

I hope you’re still with me. The second reason is because we have in fact been there or done that before, but here’s the catch, not in the same lifetime. Ha, we have ventured into yet another interesting category; the possibility of reincarnation. I’ll explore the question of having another shot at this earth, in a different body, at a later date.

In the end, the question of destiny or fate is one we may not be able to answer while living in this dimension. Which by the way leads to more questions like are there alternate universes or higher dimensions? I wonder from which dimension we originate from. If this is an example of the first dimension- a dot- visualized in between the parenthesis (.) and this line _____ represents the second dimension and a box the third dimension, and each one exists in the following dimension but must be present in multitudes to be recognized in the previous. Then it must be plausible to suggest that all three dimensions exist in every dimension after the fourth; thereby, making it possible that we may have the capability to violate the rules of this world’s laws of physics if we originate from a higher dimension.

Sorry, I couldn’t resist. Let’s leave the concept of dimensions for a later blog as well. Now, the theory of random chaos and its counterpart, organized chaos intrigues me since scientists have found a form of the latter in quantum physics. This is all fascinating stuff, some of which led me to write books.

My current novel in progress is titled Time’s Up. I’m currently rewriting it and I pray to see it in print by the end of this year or the beginning of next. Time’s Up is based solely on the concept of destiny and how something alters it, thereby creating a need for the keepers of fate which many call, angels. The fact the blond woman had invisible guardian angels making sure she didn’t get raped, points me in the direction of what I term, supervisors of destiny. My main character is Cole Mizer and he spends the better part of the book searching for who he really was before he got stuck in a most unglamorous role. My supervisors of destiny are immortals who can’t maneuver through time and space like angels. Could it be Cole was a human who because of special circumstances was chosen by God to make sure man’s destiny did not lose shape. In essence, could it be that random chaos is messing with organized chaos? Ha, I’ll leave the answers for the scientists to argue over. I’m just a simple writer having fun.

Follow your destiny my friends and enjoy the journey.

Nomar Knight