Peak Inside The Macabre Mind of Lori R. Lopez: Thirteen Tormentous Tales

Helly my friends, today's feature author is Lori R. Lopez. The first story I read from her was published in the Masters of Horror Damned if You Don't anthology. Her story, "Backlash" was a sheer joy to read. Lori works her magic not only in the horror genre but also poetry. So imagine my delight when I came across this gem, The Macabre Mind of Lori R. Lopez Thirteen Tormentous Tales. Lori provides some insights into some of her best work and includes some fine poetry as well. Her writing style will appeal to any fan of horror for she's quite skilled crafting tales that will leave you on the edge of your seat. Or if you're like me, I tend to read my horror at night while in bed. I caught myself checking to see if a wraith or ghost roamed my apartment while I fought off the impending chills of doom. 

You may purchase The Macabre Mind of Lori R. Lopez Thirteen Tormentous Tales at incredible bargain prices. At Amazon U.S. stop by here  If you prefer Amazon U.K. you can visit here

For those of you who own a Nook, you may purchase the book at Barnes and Noble here

All other eBook formats, Smaswords is the place to go, here. 

And now for a sneak peak at the story that introduced me to Lori R. Lopez, "Backlash" here's an excerpt. It happens to be in this great collection. 

Excerpt from the story "Backlash" (first published in the MASTERS OF HORROR:  DAMNED IF YOU'D DON'T anthology, along with works by fine horror authors including Nomar Knight):

A CLOAK OF FOG and pallor surrounded the patient as he stepped inside a doctor’s office.  There was no reception desk, no waiting area.  Just a vacant spot before a second closed door, a modest pedestal offering a glass water pitcher and stacked paper cups the sole decor.  The man nervously unbuttoned his dark overcoat and removed a gray wool scarf, which he crammed into a coat pocket.  The unbalanced bulge made him self-conscious so he extracted the muffler and looped it around his neck.  He fidgeted by the entrance, face still in shadow, then ventured a step forward into the light.

The guy was average in height and gangly, morose features and slouched posture well-suited for his brooding attitude.  Nothing about him seemed quite normal, yet he managed to appear unremarkable.  Possessing a wan innocuous manner, he was scarcely more animated than a corpse.  If he weren’t standing, he might almost be presumed dead.

The inner portal swung open sharply to the fellow’s surprise.  He uttered a shriek, his body jolting, and fell back a stride.  Again his visage was obscured, but he was definitely alive.

“Sorry to startle you.  I’m Doctor Winnow.  Mister Chiaroscuro is it?  Please come in.”

“My first name’s Arthur.  And it’s Chiaroscoro with an O,” he amended.  “A lot of folks make that mistake.”  The man shuffled through the doorway.

“Have a seat, Arthur.”  The doctor led him to a sitting area — two padded chairs arranged in opposite directions for an intimate conversation.  “I was going home when you called.  It’s lucky you caught me.  You said on the phone it was an emergency.  That if I didn’t help you tonight, you would do something regrettable because you couldn’t control yourself.  Might I ask the nature of your compulsion?”  Settling on the chair next to a small table bearing a lamp and a recording device, the psychiatrist softly pressed a crimson button.

Arthur hovered timidly beside the empty seat and stared at the floor.  “It’s rather personal,” he hedged, visibly squirming.  “I’ve never discussed this with anyone.”

“Well, you can discuss it with me, Arthur.  It won’t leave the room.”

The patient tensely appraised the counselor.  She was a short woman.  Tufted ash-blonde hair.  Oversized circular lenses that gave her an owlish aspect.  Somewhat pretty.  Probably someone’s wife, he mulled.  “Are you?” he abruptly questioned, as if expecting her to read his thoughts.  She’s a shrink not a psychic! he reminded himself and cleared his throat.  “A wife?”

“You seem agitated,” she skillfully redirected.  The session, after all, was about him.  “Is there something you need to tell me?  You can say anything here.  I won’t judge you.”  She leaned toward him with a smile, elbows on her thighs, hands clasped.

“Promise?”  The word was spoken as if it held tremendous import.

“I do,” she nodded.  “I promise.”

“And this is confidential?”

“Absolutely.”

The man slid the scarf off his neck, twisted it between his fists.  “I’ve done terrible things, Doctor,” he admitted.
“Mildred.  Doctor is much too stuffy.”  His confessor waited for him to continue, her torso upright, braced for the unknown.

He posed awkwardly, waiting for her to react.

The doctor gently enticed, “What things have you done, Arthur?”

“I can’t tell you,” he whispered, shoulders hunched miserably.

“Why not?” she prodded.

A harsh gasp:  “You’ll despise me!”

“I promised, Arthur.  No judging, remember?”

“Yes.  You promised.”

© Copyright Lori R. Lopez 2012. All rights reserved.

Lori R. Lopez has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

© Copyright Nomar Knight 2012. All rights reserved.

A Knight Chills Book Promotion

A Feast Of Horror: Meet J.G. Williams

Have you ever wondered what it's like to watch your nightmares unfold while you're still awake?  Author J.G. Williams has penned horror stories that promise to make your blood run cold.  The book is titled, A Feast of Horror and it's a horror connoisseur's delight.  Experience firsthand how J.G. Williams' tales of fright will have you delaying your bedtime.  Here's an excerpt from her website:  

Flavored with horror, blood and a dash of humor, the plot twists will have you squirming on the edge of your seat. A Feast of Horror offers an eerie compilation of lust, revenge, evil children, craziness and more, written as short horror stories and poetry. Each entry presents a different nightmare brought to life.

In one story, Emelia is a beautiful child who is a model, but she has some secrets, including her joy for killing animals.  Then there’s Sophie, who loves to cook, especially something explosive.  And beware Maniac Clown, who could be attending your child’s birthday party.  Ask for your very own ghostly chaperone when you read these eerie tales. 

   So don't delay friends and get your copy now! You can order A Feast of Horror here. 

This has been a Knight Chills Book Promotion. 

Sneak Peak 6: Master's of Horror Damned If You Don't

 

Here's a small taste of my story in this fabulous anthology. The book will be available in e-book, paperback and hardcover by May 1, 2011. Enjoy!

This tale by Nomar Knight reminded me of the SAW films, and brought to mind one of the other evils of addiction: when some people have their vice taken away, they’ll do anything to get it back.

ANYTHING.

Sins of the Flesh

By Nomar Knight

A loud screeching sound woke me.  At first, I thought my dreams still held my consciousness…

Until a tightening pain around my wrists heightened.  I moved my arms and chains rattled.

 My heart pounded when I saw a man’s button eyes peering at me through a curtain of hair.  His crooked smile did nothing to reassure me of my safety.  With his hands restrained behind his back, I recognized the contraption that held him in place.  I blinked in disbelief.  His neck was trapped in a guillotine.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”  His familiar, nasal voice irked me.

I scanned the well lit chamber, noting our captor’s taste for ancient torture toys.  A wooden table used for stretching body limbs lay empty to my right. 

“Tell me, lady.  Can you see what’s above me?”

 “I’m not sure, but it looks like a blade.”  I broke out in a cold sweat.  Then I realized I hadn’t gotten high in a couple of days.  “What is this place?” 

A scream overtook the rattling of chains.  The terrible shrill seemed to originate beyond a closed bronze door.  I fought to move my limbs.  Metal bracelets latched my thin wrists in place.  Another pair of shackles held my ankles at bay as I hung on a cinder block wall.

Helpless prey.

Caught in an alien spider’s metal webbing.

The man said, “We’re in hell.”

Again, someone screamed.  The wail of agony jolted my eardrums like the sudden crack of thunder.  I shut my eyes, hoping that when I reopened them the dreaded nightmare would be over.  But when I did, the burden brought forth by reality heightened my hunger for crack.  Shaking my head I said, “I need to get out of here, now!”

The trapped man struggled to move his head until enough hair brushed out of his eyes.  From my vantage point, I noticed he had a pot belly and unusually long arms.  “I know you.” He sounded as if we were at the supermarket and he was pleased to see me.  “Christine?”

“You sound familiar, but I can’t place the face,” I said, probably because his hair kept falling on it.

“I’m Hadley.  We went to high school together.”

I recalled the long arms almost reaching the ground as he walked.  The kids teased him.  They called him ‘Magilla Gorilla’, after a cartoon character. 

“You do remember me.  You’re smiling.”

I wiped the grin off my face and jumped when the unseen man screamed again.  “Who is that?”

“That’s Potts.  Mr. Riverton is doing…God knows what to him…in the other room.”

My stomach churned upon hearing the name of our captor.  There was no way the town’s most prominent citizen would stoop to torture tactics.  “No…you’re wrong.  Mr. Riverton would never hurt anyone.”

Hadley mocked me with his laugh.  “Think about it, Christine.  What was the last thing you remember before waking up here?”

I recalled visiting the Riverton Estate unannounced.  I was surprised when the butler let me in.  He guided me to the study where I saw my last source of income and my only chance to get a fix: Peter Riverton.

I had lost everything. I’d sold everything I owned to buy crack, then robbed whatever I could from my husband, until he’d thrown me out. Then I robbed whatever I could from my parents, until they’d thrown me out. I’d been the Prom Queen of 2002, and I was a scrape away from turning tricks out of the back seat of my beat-to-hell station wagon. 

The scream reached a new decibel.  A rancid odor permeated our prison.  I said, “I was in Mr. Riverton’s study.”

Hadley grinned, “What a coincidence!  I was in his office at the casino.  You’d think to a man like him two thousand dollars would be a drop in the bucket.”

Mr. Riverton owned the only casino in town as well as most of its ‘legitimate’ businesses. Everything I knew about Peter Riverton made my current reality impossible to grasp.  Hadley was right.  Our incarceration didn’t make sense.

Hadley sighed, “How much are you in for?”  He grimaced while trying to remove his shackles.  


Check out the new Masters of Horror: Damned If You Don't Anthology website here

© Copyright Triskaideka Books 2011. All rights reserved. 

Triskaideka Books has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Sneak Peak 5: Masters of Horror Damned If You Don't

Time for another sneak peak into Masters of Horror: Damned If You Don't
Be WARNED: STRONG LANGUAGE in excerpts. 

Sex, as we all know, is the mechanism that puts us all on the planet, it’s proof positive that God wants us to feel something pleasant while we’re here. Having said that…it CAN be a ‘slippery slope’ leading some individuals to a Pandora’s Box of perversions that can destroy any hope for a healthy relationship.

There were two shocking, cult-classic horror tales in a genre all their own: one is “Love Doll” by Joe R. Lansdale, another is “Somebody to Love” by Robert Bloch.

And now, courtesy of Mr. Joseph Pinto, there are three…

Plastic

By Joseph Pinto

He’d only fuck his type.

In actuality, he became quite the fusspot. He desired athletic women. They didn’t have to be sculpted from stone, but they did have to have lean arms, and they did have to have long legs. Pretty feet, too. That was important. Very important. He didn’t think it would be at first, but his tastes had matured. He joked with friends at work (they must’ve believed him to be a real hoot for they laughed an awful lot when he was around; odd he should still be waiting on an invitation to lunch or even happy hour, for that matter) that he was like a fine wine, better with age, blah blah blah, but when asked what he meant, he offered something ambiguous.

He couldn’t tell them the truth. They’d never understand.

Pretty feet. An odd thing. A breathtaking body scored points for sure, but appalling or misshapen feet would kill the deal. Long toes. Crooked toes. Fat toes. Callused toes or even callused heels. Pretty feet. It was important. He was a harsh judge. Now toenail polish he wasn’t such a stickler about, as long as the polish wasn’t flaking off. That skeeved him. Yep, a real deal killer.

He enjoyed tits; all applicants were welcome. Perky tits. Saggy tits. Booty mama go go tits. Whatever. He didn’t do much to them anyway. Sometimes he sucked on them. Occasionally he’d stick his dick between them. Mostly he liked to look at them. Tits were never the deal-killer bad feet could be.

The ass he preferred a bit bubbly but tight. An ironic thing, because his own ass was a pockmarked, lumpy thing. Just a mess. He never worked out. He was the complete opposite of the very women he preferred. He ignored the man in the mirror; the only thing he focused on was the whole fine wine thing, blah blah blah. Back to the ass. Tight. Yes. He usually took his women from behind and needed something to hold onto - a small waist, a wide firm ass. Lovely.

Smooth skin soothed him. Smooth and cool. Cooler the better. He liked to rub the length of his own body against theirs before fucking.

But there was one thing his women couldn’t have.

A head.

Fairly simple. He didn’t need to look at them. He was fucking them, after all. No head. Clean, cut and dry.

He looked his girls over. Monica, Jasmine, Katelyn, Sarah and Bunny all in a row. He knew Bunny wasn’t her name. It was a stage name, but he never questioned her real identity, never pressed the issue. He chose five girls every night from the many that shared the house. How many were there now - fifty, sixty maybe? First floor, second floor. Attic. Basement. Every closet. The girls were there. He’d always find them. They couldn’t leave. Why would they? He took good care of them. Besides, he was a good fuck, if he said so himself.

He took his time. Choosing five girls from the lot was a difficult task. His tastes changed all the time, sometimes several swings over the course of a given day. Choosing one girl from the five was even thornier. Nerve-wracking. He certainly didn’t want to offend anyone. He didn’t want to offend any of the girls, ever. It wasn’t a matter of picking the best, he’d tell them. Just picking the best to accentuate my taste for the day, he’d explain. They knew he had specific tastes anyway. They understood he was like a fine wine.

One of the advantages of living in this period in history is if you don’t like some particular feature about your body, you’re not necessarily ‘stuck with it’. Is your nose too long? Chop it. Are your breasts too small? Shove some silicone in there. Don’t like your eye color? Stick in some colored contacts. Build that ‘Perfect Beast’, baby.

Just try not to get carried away. Because both beauty and ugliness—as Carson Buckingham explains—are only…

SKIN DEEP

By Carson Buckingham

It all began innocently enough, with the removal of a single, unsightly wart.

Lucinda Parker had been begging her mother for years to take her to someone who could get rid of “the immense-by-any-standards” growth next to her nose. 

“Mother, it looks like I have three nostrils,” she would wail, and her long suffering parent would then give her the same, half-listening broken record response, “When you’re older.”

To which Lucinda’s broken record rejoinder was. “I’ll never be ‘older’ because I’ll kill myself before then!”  This was invariably followed by stomping down the hallway and slamming her bedroom door—often more than once.

“The difficult years have arrived,” Mrs. Parker could be heard to mutter as she dried another dish.

The difficult years.  Lucinda was twelve.  She had had exactly one menstrual cycle, thirty-two (she counted them) pubic hairs, and one training bra which she wore night and day.  She was already shaving her underarms and legs, though not out of necessity, and was experimenting with make-up.  Her best effort to date made her look, if you squinted, like Lady GaGa; her biggest failure, a cross between Alice Cooper and Tammy Faye Bakker.

The hairstyles are not to be mentioned, much less discussed.

In short, Lucinda felt that she was now a Grade-A, one hundred percent woman, and she wanted the perks that went with it; but before they could even begin to kick in, she had to do something about her face.

Everything would be perfect if I could only get rid of this tumor next to my nose.  It dwarfs the Empire State Building , for cryin’ out loud!

Mr. and Mrs. Parker remained unconcerned for most of that year, chalking their daughter’s antics up to number one, a phase and number two, hormones.

However, as Lucinda’s thirteenth birthday neared, things shifted dramatically.

“Lucinda, it’s Saturday night.  Why don’t you go out to the movies with your friends?” Mrs. Parker asked.

Her daughter looked up from her copy of “Marie Claire” and rolled her eyes.  “I don’t have any friends.”

“Oh nonsense.  Of course you do! Call one and go out—my treat.”

Lucinda sighed and picked up the phone.

Ten minutes later, there was a soft knock at the front door.

“Must be Lu’s friend,” Mr. Parker muttered behind his newspaper.

Mrs. Parker, ever cautious, glanced into the peephole.  “There’s nobody there, George.”

“Damned kids.  You’d better see if they left a bag full of dog crap on the stoop, hoping that you’ll step on it.”

“George Parker, really!”

“We did it when I was a kid.  Doubt things have changed all that much.”

“Haven’t,” Lucinda said, walking in.  “Except now they set fire to it to make sure you step on it.”

“How charming,” Mrs. Parker said.  The word ‘disgust’ could have actually appeared across her forehead and no one would have been surprised.

“Aren’t you going to open the door?” Lucinda asked.

“There’s no one there.”

“Sure there is.”  She swung open the door and there stood six-year-old Charlie Foley from next door.  He was so small that he didn’t show up in the peephole.

“Oh, I’m sorry to keep you waiting out there, Charlie,” Mrs. Parker said.  “Does your mother need something?  Eggs?  Sugar?”

“No, m’am.  I’m here fer Lucinda.  We’re goin’ on a …uh…what was it again?” he asked Lucinda.

“A ‘date,’ Charlie.”

“Thassit!  A date.  Whassa ‘date,’ Mrs. Parker?”

       As it happens, there are addictions that are somewhat positive…at least when compared to most others. Even though obsession almost radiates from this particular protagonist, this one made me want to jump back into a gym…and get…

Shredded

By Blaze McRob

       It is time. The iron calls me.

       The digital clock next to my bed spells out 1:59 in bright red letters. Perfect. Once again, I wake before the alarm goes off.

       I can’t remember the last time it sounded. Probably, there would be no need to set it, but the fear of oversleeping, of missing my encounter with the destiny of the day, forces me to continue with the ritual.

       Except for the alarm clock numbers, my bedroom is completely dark: just the way I like it. This is my house. I live alone and don’t have to cater to anyone else’s  needs or wants. My sense of purpose, compulsion, and desires, preclude me from allowing anyone else to venture into my world. It is mine and mine alone.

       I dress in the dark, pulling my clothing from its allotted space on top of the ottoman adjacent to the lone chair in the room, a weathered, brown Lazy Boy. There is no need for unnecessary furniture to clutter up my existence. Books and magazines go on bookshelves and my furniture sits in a neat, orderly fashion against the walls, allowing an open expansiveness to my environment.  

       As usual, I made coffee last night and I plop it into the microwave to heat it up as I finish my preparations. From the refrigerator, I withdraw two bottles of a thirty-two gram protein drink; thirty-two grams is the maximum amount of protein the body can absorb at a time. Fully dressed, my thick drink in hand, I walk out my front door into the quiet morning, enjoying the bite in the air. It helps to prepare me for what’s coming, and I smile in anticipation of what lies ahead.

       It doesn’t take long to walk the four blocks to the gym. I stare at the unique design of the building: the right side roof, extending forty feet into the sky, has a steep pitch before blending into the flattened design of the remainder of the structure.

       No one else is here: the parking lot is empty. The place is all mine.

I slide my access card into the slot and enter, allowing me time to soak up the ambiance and bask in the glow of my surroundings. This is my gym: I own it and I’m proud of it. My 24 hour-access piece of heaven.

       The treadmills, steppers, and bikes, are all up front by the big windows. I walk past them. My warm-up is a little different: 400 bent knee sit ups at a moderate pace. Why 400? No reason. That’s the number I’ve been doing for years. This way, I get well developed abs without the bulk. I slide my toes under one of the benches and go to town.

       My waist might be trim, but the rest...the rest is not. Thirty years of pushing the iron around has made me huge. If you slammed an oak plank across my back, said plank would break…and I’d just think it was raining.

       Today is my big day: the day of my total body workout. Every muscle in my body, worked as hard as is possible to push a muscle to the very brink, to the precipice of maximum potential usage versus the possibility of exceeding what should be attainable. Go too far, and danger reaches out to grab you, snapping your tendons as if they are overstretched rubber bands, tearing away muscle fibers like stringy pieces of over cooked corned beef removing themselves from the main brisket, and destroying cartilage around the knees, perhaps for life. And every so often, there is the specter of bone pushing through the skin, the popping sound echoing throughout the gym, followed by cries of agony.

       The gym talks to me, daring me to reach my ultimate maximum.

       Are you man enough today?  Do you dare touch the heavy iron? 

© Copyright Triskaideka Books 2011. All rights reserved. 

Triskaideka Books has granted Knight Chills non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Sneak Peak 4: Masters of Horror Damned If You Don't

Time for another sneak peak into Masters of Horror: Damned If You Don't

The phenomenon of “cutting” is more prevalent than you’d expect. Princess Diana was rumored to be a ‘cutter’, although I cannot confirm or deny this.

In the book THE ALCOHOLISM AND ADDICTION CURE, Author Chris Prentiss explains how ‘cutters’ think, as he cured one. “You feel bad before you cut yourself; you feel better AFTER you cut yourself. You’re cutting yourself to feel GOOD,” he told a woman…and that particular vice was revealed and subsequently defeated.

As New Zealand’s Master of Horror Lee Pletzers describes, it’s not always defeated…

The Seal

By Lee Pletzers

       It came out of his skin, ripping and tearing.

       Claws gripped the flayed skin, a black head the shape of a panther with a long snout and a jutted jaw, slid from the opening, surveying its surrounds. It lunged forward, forcing its thick muscular body forward, struggling, wriggling its way through, and ripping the man’s torso apart in the process. There was no pain. He watched the creature strode to and fro, claws clacked on the vinyl covered floor. Malevolent eyes, green and deep, stared at the man. Its lip curled up exposing a row of jagged teeth, tips gleamed in the fluorescent lights. Water dripped off its slick coat creating a puddle on the floor.

       The lights flickered. The creature was invisible in the darkness. With each flash of light it had moved closer like stop motion photography. Suddenly it was on the bed, growling, hungry and eyeing his destroyed chest. It eyed his exposed heart.

       “Wake up,” came a female voice with a very stern tone. “Warwick, wake up.”

      The creature eyed the woman, licked it lips, and poised on the bed.

       “Don’t make me restrain you.”

       Warwick’s eyes snapped open, momentarily startling the woman.

       “That’s better,” she said, absentmindedly brushing down her nurse apron. She grabbed his wrist and looked at her watch. “You must calm down,” she scolded. “All the machines went into alarm.”

        “Leave, now! It’s watching you!” His voice was a harsh whisper full of urgency and concern.

       “Mister James, there’s nothing there.” The nurse stared at her watch. She shook her head. “I’m going to have to give you something. Your pulse is racing.”

       The creature growled. Raising a paw, its claws snapped out like tiny curved daggers. It swung at the nurse, aiming at the face. The nurse was unaffected. The claws passed through her as if she were a ghost and nothing more. Frustrated, a roar ripped from its throat.

       Warwick laughed. The seal was cracked but not broken. All was good for now, but he knew he needed to enhance the seal, strengthen it. He smiled at the nurse. He knew how the game was played. “I think I’m fine now,” he said. “It was just a dream that seemed so real.”

       The nurse filled a hypodermic syringe.

       “Seriously--I don’t need that.”

       The nurse tapped air out of the syringe.

       “Betty, please.”

       “It’s for your own good.” She turned to face him. “Just settle down, now.”

       Warwick tried to move, but the creature had pinned his arms at his sides. Its snout was inches from his nose, its hind legs on his thighs. “She injects me, you die.”

       He stared into the creatures’ deep green eyes. He flinched at the sting of the needle. “Goodbye,” he said to the creature as it faded and its weight lifted. Looking down at his chest moments before the drug took him, he smiled. Everything was as it should be. He had 72 more hours before the creature tried to return. He worried that it was not enough time to strengthen the seal. All he could do was hope it was.

       Take a small but decent-sized American city and slaughter its entire population, over the course of a year. (Well, don’t, actually.) If a hostile country did that to one of our cities, we’d probably give them the Hiroshima treatment.

       Yet, that’s how many people alcohol kills in different methods—cirrhosis, other diseases, drunk drivers (62 victims a day from that alone!), accidents, fights, mayhem—every year. It out-kills every other drug we’ve come up with, except possibly for tobacco, while we lock up nonviolent marijuana users by the thousands. And as a society, we let it slide. The legality, prevalence and perceived ‘normality’ of alcohol—and its enormous lobby and tax income--makes it seem ‘not so bad’.

       In fact, if you were to give alcohol a human voice, it might just say so.

SHOWDOWN WITH DEACON BLUES

By K.K.

       At 11:40 AM, Deacon Blues was almost finished redecorating the room. The framed EASY DOES IT and DON’T SWEAT THE SMALL STUFF placards were still there, along with the huge posters describing the Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, but he’d added some real eye-catchers.

A Corona poster had been added. A hot model in a bikini posed with a bottle of the beer, but her beautiful face had been cut out of the picture. Other poster-girls for Coors Light and Smirnoff Ice posed on other walls, equally headless. Magazine ads for Captain Morgan’s Rum, Southern Comfort and Jack Daniels were taped up at eye level here and there as well. They were all very commonplace images, but very incongruous for a chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. And if Rick didn’t arrive soon, Deacon Blues would have to take down all his work before the next meeting started. “Where are you, Tusgrin?” He growled under his breath to the empty room.

       At 11:45 AM, Rick Tusgrin rolled his battle-scarred Impala to a halt next to Deacon Blues’ ancient Triumph motorcycle outside the West Side Group, and got out. As the door crunched shut with a pained metallic groan, he noticed all the damage he’d done to it over the last two years. Dented door, dented quarter-panel, dented fender, dented grille…it went on and on. Now that he was sober, he could connect each dent to a different bar or party. Funny how he hadn’t noticed before. He walked towards the building’s door, then groaned at his own malfunctioning memory and stalked back to the car to get the photos Matt had requested.

       Inside, Deacon Blues raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, Rick. Did you bring ‘em?”

       Rick nodded, holding out a manila envelope. “Right here, Mr. Bluzinski.”

       “Call me Matt, for the thirtieth time…and thanks. These are all Jane Does, right?” he asked.

       Rick nodded. “Of course. If they weren’t, you wouldn’t be able to look at ‘em.

What the hell did you want these for, anyw—” His sentence trailed off as he saw the new      décor.             

       “Awwww, no…”

       Matthew “Deacon Blues” Bluzinski raised an eyebrow. “What?” Instead of waiting for a reply, he taped an eight-by-ten photo of a female corpse’s face where the bikini model’s face should have been. “Hmmm, probably ought to cut these down to size…ah, I’ll do it later.” He repeated the process on another headless model.

       “That is freakin’ sick.” Rick grumbled.

       “That is the exact point.” Deacon Blues kept taping as he spoke. “Advertising in reverse. Haven’t you seen those TV ads for ‘The Truth’? They’re freakin’ sick, but they get their point across because they’re sick. And that’s for tobacco. Nobody stands up to alcohol, no matter how many people die. People leave these meetings, they’re right back on the street, and every billboard shows people livin’ the wild nightlife. No wonder so many people relapse.” He touched up the Captain Morgan ad with a black and white photo of a crashed car. “Yeah, these are shock tactics. I think we need shock tactics. But if anyone tells me they’re disgusted, I’ll take them down. I bet you nobody does.”

       It would probably be better for the society at large if our various vices only impacted US, and not affect our friends and families. As we all know, that usually isn’t the case. As seen on HBO’s “Intervention” series, a huge number of addicts would self-destruct if it weren’t for their friends and families.

       But perversely, often our friends or families can be hard-partying “Enablers” that can either ‘jump-start’ our addictions, and/or cheerfully match us shot-for-shot down the left-hand path. Harry Mora now poses the question: which of you will reach the end of the road first?

THE TURNING

By Harry Louis Mora

       “I WON’T WAIT FOREVER!” he screamed after her, though he was sure the sound of the engine as Jessica drove away drowned out the pathetic threat. “I will not wait forever,” he whispered again—to himself—as the first pangs of pain began their convulsive trek from his heart to his brain. He slammed the door shut as the tears reached his eyes. Better to lock himself away then let the world know he had been torn apart—for the hundredth time—after having promised himself to never let that part of him need again.

       The winter had brought self-loathing, betrayal and ultimately, guilty love. The spring had been magical, a storybook romance. The summer brought squabble, a breach in the idyllic life he had led for one blissful season. It was the first hint of an underlying sickness in their relationship. It was the first hint that it would all end in tears, as it had time and time before.

       However, this time he would not wait forever for her to return. He had promised himself that; just as he had promised not to let himself be dragged along, clinging to the shreds of his heart when it started to go wrong. He would end his own suffering long before the world offered to end it for him this time—and he did. So why did this unbearable pain cleave his heart and close its fist around his throat?

       He cried, long, drawn-out peals of sorrow and an endless river of snot and tears. He cried until he seemed to be incapable of producing any more liquids. He cried until the sounds of his anguish would no longer come. Only then, when his ragged breath only came in stuttering gasps did he stop.

       He looked at himself in the mirror—where tears, snot and heartbreak plastered his face. He let the water run—

       I won’t…

       —washed up—

       WAIT…

       —and looked at his reflection again as he smiled.

       Forever!

       Watching himself smile—a smile of victory, not of warmth or compassion--he felt something was different now. He’d turned, somehow, either toward something, or into something.

       Wearing this mask of happy contentment, he returned to his friends. He returned to the life of hard work and harder play. “Memento” memories; that was what he and his friends had termed those drunken nights when you lost minutes, sometimes hours of your life with no memory, regret or shame.

       After a while, the mask he wore for the world changed him. He grew as dark, cold, smooth and slick as the front he displayed for everyone. He smiled his mischievous grin into the mirror and patted himself on the back. How many girls had that smile bedded? How many had that look sent away crawling into the same little hell he had become master of?

       He took a broken, lonely soul and remade it in crimson and black, leather and tattoos.  He created a villain to resurrect the naive white knight that had fallen. He knew many women; but never fell in love with any. He would not allow himself to be hurt again. He would not allow himself to be loved again.                

       Without realizing it, he had become something he never would have imagined. 

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