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