NAUGHTIE SCRIBE

Ain't No Niggar

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 21:20:09 GMT

This is an acrostic style poem, in which the first letter of each line spells out a word or phrase. In this case "Ain't No Niggar."

*********

A beast of burden you decreed
In shackles from cargo holds you retrieved
No better than chattel you believed
Then branded and sold you completed the deed

Niggar became our new label
One destiny, one race it did entangle

No amount of hate can deny me
Ignorance willful or not won’t define me
Generations of kings and slaves birthed me
Goodness and His will shall sustain me
America’s history wouldn’t be without me
Regardless of the stereo type, I will define me

Boneyard Behind The Door

Naughtie Scribe — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 03:26:03 GMT

This is an acrostic styled poem, in which the first letter of each line spells out a word. In this case "Skeletons." Enjoy.

********

Silky, Spiky, Strappy, Soiled

Keepsakes from erratic moments shared without you,

Electric, Elongated, Elegant, Exotic

Legacies of a lifetime before settling for you,

Evidence, Excuses, Explanations, Exposure

Tormented by lies so often inflicted upon you,

Oval, Onyx, Oversized, Oral

Nothing's worth the hurt from the loss of you,

Skeletons in the closet, Boneyard behind the door.

Dump Him

Naughtie Scribe — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 03:19:24 GMT

This was a flash fiction entry, with a word limit of 300-600 words. This Dump Him is 319 words. Mandatory words are in bold. Enjoy, Naughtie Scribe.

********

Sweat leaped off her brow and nose from the effort, four wheat germ smoothies and an enema helped, but not enough. Isolated from the zombie at the juice bar, pseudo ballers on the basketball court, and inane chatter from the showers, Jazz sat in the stall undeterred from her odorous task.

"Eight years", she grunted between pushes. After the last big fight Jazz swore to never waste an instant on Shaun. "If he were on fire from head to toe, I wouldn't waste the time to spit on him", she remarked to her close friends. And for the first six months of their separation, she meant it.

A few weeks later, evites to become a beta reader for Shaun's Pen began to arrive in her email. No matter how many times she deleted, blocked, or marked them as spam, the invites kept finding their way to her inbox. Ignoring them only escalated matters. Event notices, follows, and friend requests from Shaun's Pen pursed Jazz all over the Net. After eight weeks, frustration and curiosity won out over common sense. Jazz clicked the link, registered as a free member, and began reading Shaun's portfolio on FanStory.

Every essay, short story, and poem recounted the same theme - lost lovers reunited. All the hurt, regrets, and faint hope Shaun held scrolled across the monitor for Jazz to pronounce judgment with a simple review and rating. Several days later Jazz read the final entry in his portfolio "The Proposal." Her review consisted of a single repeated word, "Yes."

"Lies, nothing but lies", she grunted. Through tears Jazz focused on the pages from Shaun's manuscript, fanned out on the tiled floor awaiting their turn to serve. "Suga Mamma", "Tippin", and "Playa" were returned to the binder with her own special edits.

On the last expulsion Jazz smirked, the contract addressed to Sean Penn added the right amount of fiber she needed to finish revisions.

Pop Pop - 100 Word Flash Fiction

Naughtie Scribe — Sun, 08 Apr 2012 05:01:00 GMT

Dedicated to my father, Rosevelt Washington. May you know eternal peace.

**********

The respirator hose lashed at family photos like a blind snake, orange rubber caps bounced off boxes of adult diapers, as Betsy sprinted across the living room to stop her father, Pop-Pop, from ripping out the last of his tubing. Again.

Terminal illness and dementia slow ground body and mind like premium hamburger. The doctor's warned these episodes would become more frequent toward the end.

From the bookshelf loaded with enough pharmaceuticals to warrant a D.E.A. raid, Betsy snatched up his sedative, placed both hands on Pop-Pop's skeletal shoulders, and forced her father back onto the portable hospital bed. Again.

Author Notes:

This was written for a flash fiction contest. All entries must be 100 words and contain three words from the mandatory list: blind, orange, hamburger, and puppy. As always I look forward to your earnest comments.

Shooting Past Expectations

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 21:29:25 GMT

Together we illuminate, give guidance, and inspire.

A few shooting stars will launch themselves past expectations toward a galaxy of excellence.

May we all continue our endeavors toward this shared journey...

Dichotomy - Installment 01- He's No Lady

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 04:12:02 GMT

Jordaen dodged the second punch and countered with a side chop to the youth's Adam’s apple. With a sharp knee to the groin followed by a swift kick to the center of his chest, Jordaen drove one attacker into another, and watched as both rebounded off the rough concrete wall in a battered heap onto the ground. No time to think, nor hope for assistance from the crowd that gathered behind the gym, Jordaen relieved a hesitant youth of his lead pipe before returning to the embattled Were.

Fights between the races didn't happen anymore, at least not that anyone admitted. Nor, so public. Though the Tepes War ended over a century ago, many pursued old feuds, like a lost love returned home for the weekend. Even the unnerving hour dampened the gasps and laughter of those gathered. As a shared awareness of past atrocities, passed through the DNA, rose with the sun to flood the alley in pink rays of uncertainty.

A quick dash around the industrial sized dumpster, and Jordaen's own anxiety clicked up a notch. Three youths lay unconscious at the Were's feet, another cowered against a rear exit that refused to cooperate. Worse, four stories above an exhausted boy clung to the edge of a gutter, while an angry lycan in mid shift eagerly awaited his fall.

“It's over, wolf. Their beaten. If that boy falls the Council won't go easy on you.”

“You took out three, the smart one ran, and I've dealt with five more. By my count citizen, I'm two over the legal number for justifiable homicide.”

“Damn, if you shift into a lawyer, I really will piss my pants.”

Of course, the wolf was right. In spite of a handful of chuckles, genuine dread filled the wide alley. Everyone knew the magic number for self defense set by the Council was seven. In their eagerness to join in the fun, each boy placed himself at the mercy of their target.

Intent made Jordaen nauseous. Had the young wolf merely stated fact, or declared his rationale for the unspeakable. No way to know, too much at risk.

“When logic speaks, let mercy shout”, Jordaen challenged. “Is that not a cardinal law of the pack?”

“In case you missed it, we have a shortage of law abiding citizens at present.”

“I know of at least one, possibly two.”

“Your aid not withstanding, female. I'm within my rights.”

Out of his mouth came the opportunity Jordaen needed. Time, slim at best, remained on the side of the righteous. “You are only within your rights, if your reason is above reproach.”

“On what basis, ma'am, do you challenge my rationale?”

“On what basis, wolf, do you refer to me as female?”

“A slip of the tongue, citizen. It means nothing.”

Sheer will repressed the smirk that threatened Jordaen's composure. The wolf was trapped and they both knew it. Yet, caution remained the prudent path.

“Ah, twice you've called me citizen, wolf. Why is that?”

“Respect, something few humans value.”

“Does the pack not demand that before a kill your reasoning must be clear?'

“Hmph!”

“Aren't all wolves taught the true path to reasoning is through vigorous development of your senses?”

“You wanna wrap this up?”

“Cool. I'm human, I've fought by your side, and you don't know what I am. If your senses are jacked, your judgment is suspect. You may be on solid ground under Council law, but how sturdy is your footing under Pack's?”

No time for a response. Within a second the young wolf shifted to battle stance, the boy fell three stories, and Jordaen backed slowly through the gym's rear exit. Caution proved the prudent path, as the door closed to the roar of a frustrated young lycan, and the grateful cries of his would be attacker.

My Dad - Roosevelt Washington

Naughtie Scribe — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 17:25:01 GMT

Dear Reader:

It is with heavy heart that I announce the passing of my father, Roosevelt Washington. He went quietly this morning (7/15/11), surrounded by loved ones and pastor. I ask only that you continue to keep my family in your prayers.

Sincerely,

Liz Washington
aka
Naughtie Scribe

*********************

Dear Reader:

It's been a while since I last posted. A lot has been going on that has delayed my updating this site. Some reasons are really great, "Naughtie Notions" and "Pay the Piper", my first ebooks will be published in a few months.

Unfortunately, the more poignant delay involves my dad, Roosevelt Washington. To put it bluntly, he's dying of lung cancer.

I've just returned (2:00 a.m.) this morning from a second trip to Bamberg, South Carolina. My sister, brother, mother, and self were advised by his doctors to come see him this weekend, while he was still lucid enough to recognize us.

Over the last few days I've watched my father go from highly aware and active (as much as a bedridden patient can be), to increasing lapses of awareness and bouts of anxiety. I've had to follow behind the ambulance as he was returned to the same hospital that released him to home hospice care, in the hopes that his final moments could be in relative comfort.

At present, my father, Roosevelt Washington is not expected to live to the end of the week. Part of me has accepted what I must, the other part is falling apart.

I ask that you be patient a little longer. I'm working on a new writing schedule that I will post and keep faithfully. I do appreciate your support and constructive comments. I depend on them to help me realize my dream of becoming a full time writer.

Until next we chat, please view and share the below video. It can express more than I'm capable of saying.

Roosevelt Washington & Pastor

New Body, New Me - 9 Month Update

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 19:56:00 GMT

September 2009 - 359lbs

Take me for granted, you're proven unworthy

January 16, 2011 - 234lbs

Take me for stupid, you're proven clueless.

Birth of Strength

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 21:59:00 GMT

Clarity can be painful,
reality a necessity.
When the two collide heartbreak results,
and true strength is born.

Macabre Petite - Homecoming

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 05:00:00 GMT

My baby still loved me. I could see it in her eyes. Even through the tomato bisque and chunks of ham salad I spewed all over the window, she still loved me.

The date lived up to its reputation, Friday the 13th, and everything went wrong. The moving company fired the girl who initially booked our reservation for a 30-foot trailer and a six-man crew. Her temporary replacement, the owner's mother, instead sent two teenage boys with a pickup truck and a utility van. As if that weren't enough, the realtor misplaced the keys and security code to our new home on the opposite coast, and I had to wait four days before she could overnight another set.

My wife and I had argued all morning. When I saw the cruiser pull up in front of our house, I knew one of the neighbors had enough. I never expected to see my Rachel Elaine, “mercy help me”, I hoped never to see her again.

Over a year had passed since I last saw my daughter. In February on Friday the 13^th, her instability first became apparent. While at the dinner table, she confessed to pretend dissections of her little brother as he slept-- with a very real butcher knife. Of course, she was adamant that these were practice runs so she didn't need to open him up, yet. In June of the same year, again on Friday the 13th, Dr. Loomis an expert in child psychology agreed to examine my daughter. After only an hour interview, Dr. Loomis quit her case. He told us she reminded him too much of another patient he treated in Haddonfield. With that, he promptly rushed out the door, and to my knowledge, no one has heard from him again.

10 months later, on the same blasted Friday, my wife and I admitted our daughter to a facility for severely disturbed juveniles. I promised Rachel Elaine that if she were a good girl and did as she was told I'd make sure she'd be home for her ninth birthday. I knew for the sake of my family that I could never keep that promise. Not after the next door neighbor's missing pit bull, and countless cats were found behind a dumpster at the local park. All with jagged cuts made in the same pattern, just a few short feet from the monkey bars, our favorite spot.

Yet in spite of it all, I still loved my daughter and a part of me couldn’t leave her in such a sterile cold place without some hope. I should've known better. Rachel Elaine always managed to get around me when she really wanted something.

Today, bloody Friday the 13th, my daughter found her way home.

********

I stared into the grey mist eyes of my psychotic daughter, felt her overwhelming joy radiate off her petite frame like the sweltering heat from a midsummer sun. My Rachel Elaine sat so proud and straight in the passenger seat of the cruiser. And for a moment, I saw a phantom of the little lady I’d always thought her to be. That’s when I checked out.

Awareness seeped back into me one horrific frame at a time. Much like having watched the first half of a really awful B Movie. No matter how much it sucks, you kinda have to see it through to the end.

First came the soul piercing wail of my youngest child, Bobby. After that fateful dinner, I’d spent many restless nights reassuring him it was okay to sleep again. Then came the smell of gun oil, and a strong reassuring presence that held my head off the ground with roughened hands. My eyes were the last to breach my mental sanctuary. They flew open onto a sunny clear August day, with the promise of family picnics, trips to the beach, and endless chatter over Hollywood’s current slate of special effects. All of it lies. Never again could my family enjoy such ordinary pleasures without looking over our collective shoulders.

Damn consciousness and responsibility, I wanted to stay in la-la land.

“Sir, my name is Officer Matthews. Can you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

“Robert Edward Patterson.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Outside my home?”

“Can you tell me what today is?”

“Yes, the day my family slipped back into hell.”

“Sir, I believe you may have a concussion.”

“One can only hope.”

After a bit more back and forth, and several assurances I would make an appointment with my doctor, Officer Matthews assisted me to my feet. To my credit I managed to stay upright, and even walked the few steps from the curb to the mailbox at the end of my walkway. The further I got from the cruiser, the more steel returned to my spine. I had a wife and son to care for and protect. Another day, soon perhaps, I’d allow myself to indulge in a complete breakdown. At the moment, the only thing that mattered, was keeping the family I had left safe. Which meant making sure my little girl remained locked away for the rest of her unnatural life.

********

In the time it took me to recount the past nightmarish year for Officer Matthews, my wife had managed to swallow her own fears, calm our son, and hand me a bucket of soapy water with rags. “Clean the car first, then take care of the rest of this mess.”

I turned back toward the cruiser in time to see Officer Matthews placing plastic restraints on Rachel Elaine’s tiny wrists. With the practice of a seasoned lawman, he placed his large hand on top of her head, and aided my daughter into the backseat of his police car.

“What’s happened, Officer?”

“A report was called into my station.”

“The facility reported Rachelle Elaine’s disappearance?”

“No, they reported finding the body of one of their janitors.”

“I don’t understand, what has that to do with my daughter?”

“The man was last seen alive in the company of a juvenile fitting your daughter’s description.”

“It’s a mental facility for children. There have to be tons of little girls that look similar to my daughter.”

“Mr. Patterson, I asked Rachelle if she knew anything about what might have happened to the janitor.”

“And?!”

“She said he was a bad man, that did bad things with little girls. So it was okay to give him 13 licks with a hammer. It’s her birthday after all.“

My vision became spotted, but I refused to pass out, again. I simply refused. I had to focus on the bucket in my hand, had to keep the water from spilling. The handle felt firm and real in my grip. Nothing else mattered. I had to keep from dropping the bucket or spilling the water. “Please God, let me be able to do this much.“

“Mr. Patterson, I’ll have to take your daughter in for questioning. Considering her age you might want to ride along.”

“No, actually I don’t.”

“Sir, you do understand the seriousness of her situation?”

“Yes, I finally do.”

I turned toward my front door, as Officer Matthews slid back into the driver’s seat of his police car. I carefully placed the bucket on the front stoop, as I heard the siren blare to life. Without a backward glance I shut the door and threw the lock, while I pretended not to hear Rachelle Elaine’s pleadings as the cruiser drove off.

I found my wife in the dinning room and sat next her at the table. She handed me her leather bound date planner. My wife never felt comfortable allowing technology to keep track of her life. I noted all the dates she’d marked off over the past year. All the ones marked in red, Rachelle Elaine’s favorite color, fell on the 13^th of the month. She flipped the pages four years ahead and pointed to another date in August marked in red.

My heart finally broke under the significance of the date. Rachelle Elaine would be 13 years old on that day. I knew with the certainty of the condemned, that on another Friday the 13^th, my daughter would find her way home, again.

Macabre Petite

New Body, New Me? - 6 Month Update

Naughtie Scribe — Sun, 31 Oct 2010 08:00:00 GMT

            March 2010                                 October 2010
          357lbs                                           252 lbs
          Dress Size: 32W                       Dress Size 20W

                                             105 lbs Total Loss
                                      Stay tuned, more to come.

Between My Thighs

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 14:44:00 GMT

What lies between my thighs isn’t mere paradise,

Some vague reward for deeds unattainable

What lies between my thighs is more than creation,

Glorious nations were birthed from these loins

What lies between my thighs transcends common desire,

Nameless playmates consumed by abandon climaxing toward loneliness

What lies between my thighs is greater than a lover, husband, or friend,

It’s all I’ve ever wanted and will ever need

What lies between my thighs is you

Pajama Party @ Omega Room

Naughtie Scribe — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 02:51:56 GMT

In the DMV area? Come party with Naughtie (Naw-T)
Advance Tickets $20.00/More at the door
Ages 25 & Older
Suggested Attire: Sleepwear but not mandatory
Music by: DJ Ezzy, Pumpin Archie, DJ Frisco
Photos by Chauncey the CameraMan
Free Set-Ups, Free Buffet (while supplies last)
BYOB (bring your own bottle)
Prizes: Sexiest Sleepwear Contest, 50/50 Raffle
For tickets contact Naughtie_Ness@yahoo.com (subject tickets)

It's My Birthday

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 05:11:00 GMT

I'm 44 today. I look back and see many accomplishments, a few regrets, and so much more to look forward too. I'm truly blessed.

Preview Fellatio: Why Men Really Get Off When You Swallow - Part II of VI

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 21 Aug 2010 03:17:00 GMT

Four Sense Stimulation (FSS) - Sound, Sight, Smell, and Touch

Yes dear reader it has been a while, as some of you know I've recently gone through some major changes. However her naughtiness is back and ready to pick up where we left off. I hope this sounds good to you because sound is the first subject we take in hand.

Baum chika wa wa-in the late sixties and early seventies some genius associated this snippet with some of the most popular and high grossing porn films made in the United States. This snatch (pun not entirely intended) of music is so ingrained in the public psyche that over 30 years later it's used in an international commercial for men's body wash (Axe). What's the relevancy, that sound plays a major role in the enjoyment or lack thereof when it comes to intimacy.

Slurping, gasping, moaning are only a few audios every man plays on his inner soundtrack. It translates like this-she can't get enough of my taste (slurping). I'm almost too big for her to handle (gasping). She loves the way I feel in her mouth (moaning). These are but a sampling. I haven’t even broached humming, lip smacking, or gagging.

Oh, really. Yeah I heard that, and no smarty I don’t have one (unless you count the strap-on, subject for another article).

Fellatio: Why Men Really Get Off If You Swallow - Part I of VI

Preview - Macabre Petite Homecoming

Naughtie Scribe — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 00:57:00 GMT

My baby still loved me. I could see it in her eyes. Even through the tomato bisque and chunks of ham salad I spewed all over the window, she still loved me.

The date lived up to its reputation, Friday the 13th, and everything went wrong. The moving company fired the girl who booked our reservation for a 30-foot trailer and a six-man crew. Her temporary replacement, the owner's mother, sent two teenage boys with a pickup truck and utility van. As if that weren't enough, the realtor misplaced the keys and security code to our new home on the opposite coast, and I had to wait four days before she could overnight another set.

Today, bloody Friday the 13th, my daughter found her way home.

Macabre Petite 　

New Body, New Me? - May 2010

Naughtie Scribe — Sat, 07 Aug 2010 02:31:50 GMT

Have you ever shouted a request (“Bring me a glass of water, please.”) from the comfort of your bed/sofa to a child or partner? Have you ever kicked an article of clothing or snack wrapper under a piece of furniture while cleaning? Have you ever had to cancel a night out with friends because you didn’t do laundry? If you’ve answered yes to even one of these scenarios, you have an intimate relationship with laziness.

Yeah, I know. But I had surgery so I get a temporary pass. Besides, my kids love doing little favors for mommy. Really, they do.

My point (yes there is one) is that there’s nothing easy about gastric bypass, especially when you consider the post op mandates.

Multi Vitamin – one tablet three times a day – For Life
Calcium + Vitamin D – two tablets three times a day – For Life
Biotin – one pill everyday – For Life
Iron - one pill everyday – For Life
B-12 – one pill three times a week – For Life
Prevacid – one capsule daily – For Life

It usually takes me a few minutes to remember where I put the To-Do List of errands I’m supposed to run after work. Now I have to keep a schedule of pills I must take several times a day, or lose my hair and teeth, become hospitalized, or die. Yeah, that last one’s a hoot, and a definite possibility.

Needless to say after a month I found it extremely difficult to maintain this regimen. I also got tired of crushing pills into a nasty powder, and opted for a vitamin compound (also not covered by insurance). True I pay $20.oo more a month. However, I take fewer capsules, they are easier to swallow, and the schedule doesn’t require a degree in metaphysics (take three with every meal – yeah I can remember that).

It’s a compromise I can live with (literally), much like the demon Lovenox.

What’s Love-nox got to do with it? Not a damn thing. Lovenox is a blood thinner that I was required to administer to myself twice a day for thirty days.

Let me clarify:

Hatred of Needles = Me
Lovenox Administered Via Syringe = Like Hell
Giving Myself Sixty Injections for a Month = Two Prayers Short of a Miracle
Dying of a Possible Blood Clot = I’ll Take the Dang Shots (Coerced Practicality)

Funny what hang-ups you’ll get over when death goes from a theoretical possibility to a bad internet hookup. Yet not everything is gloom and doom. There are some amusing aspects to gastric bypass. Face-Farts are hilarious (to everyone but you).

Face-Farts, I’m coining a phrase here. It’s when air explodes out of your mouth in a series of rapid fire bursts. Face-farts should not be confused with burps (or the occasional vurp). Burps are commonly caused by a build up of gas due to a food item consumed. Face-farts are unexpected expulsions of air cased by your surgeon pumping your innards full of oxygen to make sure they plugged all the leaks.

Of course no one tells you that it takes days, or in my case two weeks, before all the air work it’s way out. And before you ask, the back door wasn’t fully operational at that time, which is why I was passing gas from the northern region of my anatomy to the delight of my family and friends.

Trust me; loved ones will roll on the floor laughing (rofl) at your discomfort. Especially when in the middle of a conversation you suddenly puff up like a bull frog and blow out invisible candles like a sub air-machine gun.

So as you can see “laziness” really isn’t a good adjective to describe a gastric bypass patient. “Stick-to-it-tiveness”, now that’s a word that has numerous applications, and the subject of my next post.

Pre Op Weight (March 4, 2010) - 357 lbs
Post Op Weight (May 13, 2010) - 312 lbs
Net Loss - 45 lbs

New Body, New Me? - April 2010

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #10

Naughtie Scribe — Mon, 05 Jul 2010 03:07:00 GMT

Who knew doing laps had such ball builder properties? It would explain a lot about the Olympic Swimmers from the West Block. Think about it. From birth, only children with great form, endurance, and aggression made the cut. Fast forward a few years, and the lucky few who’d survived multiple injuries, emotional overload, and immeasurable hours of physical conditioning are rewarded with a spot in the world‘s arena.

Why do it?

The layman would answer “for victory, bragging rights, or endorsements. “ True, though a very small part of it. An athlete with a lifetime of training behind him might answer, “To prove while loosing may be inevitable, defeat is never an option.”

Even money bet, Scotch did a lot of laps after hours.

For a moment it seemed the partly shifted Were had accepted his loss, and more grudgingly Ryland’s dominance. Except for his elongated canines, and the tawny peach fuzz that covered the decadence of his chestnut skin, Scotch appeared to focus the remainder of his strength on the simple task of breathing.

It’s all he should have been able to do, after the last blow Ryland delivered. Yet, with every heave of his broad chest, the level of primal energy ramped up, and charged the air around us with static electricity.

I didn’t know what to make of the sudden show of force, unlike my leopardess who envisioned several lascivious outcomes. For her nothing was ever too complicated. Defiance meant strength, strength meant a good mate, and a good mate meant lots of sex until little ones arrived. Startled at first, my inner alley cat became very aroused, and I knew if I weren‘t careful she‘d find a way to make a three-way a real possibility.

I summoned a bit of my own primal energy and prepared to douse the trifling pussy with a bucket of psychic cold water. Just then Scotch spoke, in a baritone that bottomed out to the undersides of his toes, and triggered a familiar throb south of my border.

"I swear Ry, if you did this, I'll fuck you up."

"Operative word is, IF, asshole. Now earn your damn paycheck and order a sweep of the entire facility.”

“Finally, for real this time, we’re back on track”, I thought. My relief unfortunately was short lived. For in a flash, my leopardess turned on me, with a smug snarl and psychic garden hose set to full blast.

To be continued...

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #9

No Mercy General - Intallment #10 Preview

Naughtie Scribe — Sun, 04 Jul 2010 05:34:00 GMT

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment #9

Naughtie Scribe — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 23:20:11 GMT

Sometimes a single moment reveals too much. Like an intimate touch between my fiancé and best friend at a dinner party. Or the glimpse of a gun butt in the waistband of a colleague I passed on the way to grab a Chia Latte. In the spans of a few seconds, I knew absolute clarity, and with it came an undeniable truth. Ryland Hynes was indeed a killer.

I no longer heard the water lap against the sides of the pool, nor the constant whir of jets from the four hot tubs. Only the thunder of my pulse, lodged in my throat, registered to my ears like a B-Movie soundtrack. Even my eyes soured at the seascape, so painstakingly hand brushed, in pale blues and corals onto the massive walls. This room constructed for gentle healing, forever tainted in my eyes, and the current insanity threatened to diminish it further.

Both men went unnervingly still, as if a breath would tip their fragile truce, a thing made up of slim hope and faint sensibility. One man lay partly sprawled across the floor, his massive biceps and well-honed forearms, trembled with the effort to keep upright. The other man, down on one knee in a predatory crouch, prepared to strike with the slightest provocation. At a distance, the two combatants resembled a piece of classical art. Each figure cold and unyielding, suspended between recklessness and reprieve. From a few feet away, cracks in their facade began to appear, as the atmosphere around them crackled with finality.

Ryland maintained the hydraulic grip on the downed hyena's throat. His left hand scored by purple veins, flexed with lethal intensity, while agitated fingers danced in Morse code over the jugular of a once good friend. Even his well-tailored suit shimmered with an energy Kenneth Cole never intended, as his six-foot frame debulked to its pre-battle form.

Maybe the loss of Eric Prentice, the wrongness of the fight, or a cramp developed in his hand as well as his conscience. It really did not matter; Ryland acted out of character, and offered a compromise of sorts. Though a wisp of uncertainty troubled his hardened features, Ryland’s eyes remained amber fury. After less than a heartbeat to reconsider, he retracted the talon, and eased his grip by a fraction.

It was enough for Scotch. He began to breathe deeply of air fragrant with chlorine and death. Labored at first, each exchange became easier, as his chest moved with rhythm and purpose.

“Finally”, I thought, “they’re done with this crap.” Until another spike of primal energy prickled my skin.

To be continued…(yes next week)

NO MERCY GENERAL: Installment 8