Just Leave (Poem)

Just Leave<——-Click for formatted PDF of Poem

 

Un-formatted version:

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Just Leave

 

          Please,

Because I can’t bear the memories,

Of what we used to be,

                          Cold,

That’s me,

          Alone and reckless,

You deserve better than me.

                          I know you could fly,

          Shine outside my shadow and cross your own sea.

                                          Instead you cry,

                    A broken she,

                                     Subjugating the beautiful potential,

                                                                                          Of what you will be.

So; I plea,

          Shed the shackles of your broken half,

                                                            Learn to love another,

                                                          Learn to laugh,

                                          I’ll still call you a brother.

Wish… (Poem)

Wish——>Click for PDF version. (Has preferred formatting.)

________________

Given a choice,
Anything I want,
I’d choose my voice.
That’d be the start,
Of reclaiming my broken heart.
I do understand.
You’ll never believe,
All I needed was for you to hold my hand.
That could have been the start,
Of saving my most important part.
What he took,
I didn’t seek.
Glorified crook,
Now broken and meek,
Because you let them take away my voice,
Let him steal away my choice,

My vain protector,
How could you,
Twisted Defector,
Now I rue,
Vitreous infector,
The day we were two.

Daily Blog 9/5/17

This short chapter formally introduces one of the main protagonists of the story, Nessa. She’s definitely a supporting character for the first two acts, but is largely the focus of act three. She’s a fiery, determined, and intelligent character who was dealt an awful and unfair lot in life. She doesn’t like to play the victim, even when she is, however.

In other news, Chemistry has been going a lot better. Got over the initial hump I had in the first experiment. Cleaned it up before completing the entire second experiment in one go today! Additionally, the first project scores came back, and I got 100% which felt nice with a 70% class mean. Made up for my initial fumble in the course. The key, I think, is preparation. I ended up preparing my spreadsheets outside of lab, giving myself the entire period for data entry and experimental procedures. I have a class screening that’ll last a few hours in about 17 minutes, so I rushed a little bit on the edits today. Luckily the chapter is short, and only had a few mechanical issues (I used “women” three times when referring to a singular woman haha). It’s always the little stuff!

I’m planning on getting a lot of art out this weekend. Many of these chapters are meant to have specific covers, like a pseudo-graphic novel written in long-form. A lot of those drawings are really difficult and require planning (for instance if you read the 1st chapter, the shower hallucination where Silgan see’s his diseased wife in a parallel shower).

Enjoy the story!

Start at the beginning: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/27/daily-blog-82717/

 

VIII

October 30th, 2021-Nessa

 

Nessa laughed, excitedly, as a tall, blonde woman tickled her belly and under-arms. “St..stop!” Nessa exclaimed.

Pausing momentarily, the woman raised her eyebrows, and asked, “I suppose that depends on what you’re going to do if I don’t? I mean, will I still get some cake?”

Quickly, Nessa shouted, “No cake for you! It’s my choco, all of it’s mine!”

“Well, if I don’t get cake either way, I guess I’ll have to take it from you by force!” responded the woman, tickling Nessa even more aggressively. Screaming, Nessa rolled forward, crawling between the woman’s legs, making a break for the cake. As Nessa ran, she looked over her left shoulder to see if the woman had followed. Nessa’s smile faded, the woman was gone. Slowing to a stop, Nessa turned, and called out, “Nanah! Where’d you go?”

The room grew darker, as a loud siren began blaring. The comforting wooden floor of her childhood home morphed into a stony, obsidian colored, surface. A sinister voice called from her left, “The rougher kids are waiting.” The walls broke with a crash and the siren grew louder. A hand, thrice Nessa’s size, crawled into the room from behind the broken wall to her left. Its movements were foreign, unpredictable, almost spiderlike. Nessa turned to run, screaming, except no air broke her lips. She was trapped, suffocating, alone. Again. The walls closed in around her as the thing crawled towards her. The hand was green, with reptilian scales lining the fingers, acting as inhuman joints. It twitched, convulsing, preparing to kill its prey, as the siren grew deafening. Then; darkness.

Nessa woke to the alarm with a start, breathing fast. She’d soaked her beddings in sweat again. Rolling to her left, she slammed the off switch with the bottom of her fist. Time to get to work. The room was dark, illuminated slightly by the blue Digitex on her night-sill that read 5:12 AM. She had a little under an hour before the rooms lights would be activated.

She’d grown accustom to moving quietly and effectively in the dark. If she made too much noise, she’d be punished. She’d learned this lesson the hard way, accidentally knocking her teapot off the center table one morning. Through trial and error, she’d internalized the relative locations of landmarks in the dark room. Sweeping aside the wet bed sheets, she swung her legs off the bed, getting up. They’d been mad, but Nessa knew if she was caught again, the punishment would significantly more severe. If they find it, they’ll kill me, or worse. They’d come close on a few occasions, beating her within an inch of life, and for much less than manufacturing a weapon.

Moving around the twin-sized bed to its foot, she kneeled, lifting the mattress. She grabbed the serrated chunk of metal she’d been working into a hook. Fashioned with care, from a large iron bolt she’d painstakingly wiggled free from the back of her night stand. Nessa felt the makeshift knives edges and grooves, sensed their malice, and grinned. The outside curve of the hook needed to be sharp enough to stab into a man’s abdomen. Then, all you had to do was twist until the inner hook dug into the surrounding tissue and pull. It’s almost done.

Standing, Nessa carefully tiptoed to her right. Five more steps. Blind, Nessa reached her left hand out, feeling for the small round table. Upon sensing the tables familiar texture, Nessa crouched, crawling under the table. Following the worn ridge, she felt the table-stand, slowly moving her hand down its length. The tattered wood suddenly became cold, unforgiving. The metal brace. She forced the rough hook against the damaged metal brace, sharpening the outer-edge, making sure to keep the blade even. It’s my turn to punish them.

Nessa fully understood that by using the blade on a customer, she’d be killed. I’m ready to die, if it means saving another woman from these cruel, twisted men.

________________

Thanks for reading!

Next chapter: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/09/08/daily-blog-9617/

Writer’s response Saturday

Picture note: Took this in Amsterdam over the winter break.

________________________

Why do you write? What drives you, motivates you, and inspires you to do it? As many of you know, it’s not an easy thing to do. You pour countless hours into something, that is essentially the summation of you as a person. For what? 

Feel free to respond in the comments, in a DM, or whatever you find easiest. Maybe just think about it. No real structure here. I’ve found my answer to the question usually reaffirms my belief in what I’m doing:

I’ve found myself thinking about this a lot recently, especially with the new school and volunteer load. For those who I don’t personally know, I work a lot with big brothers/big sisters and a hospice/palliative program through the Mercy hospital systems. I’d being lying if I said those experiences didn’t influence my writing.

I think more than anything, though, I write for myself. It helps me create a different world, a different body, that I can escape to. This is weird, too, because I’m generally a horror writer. You wouldn’t generally consider my characters escapist, because terrible things happen to them! I think it’s a cathartic release though, it helps me return once I’m done. If it were all sunshine, I think when I returned to being me, it would be too hard. It’d make some of my issues more salient, make the anxiety/depression/whatever-it-may-be hit harder.

I think as authors, writers, and artists, we create to escape. By doing so, we often provide others with a way to escape, but there’s a difference in the level of escape. I hope a person reading my work would find entertainment and be able to relate in some way to my characters, but for me, I become the character in the scene. I very deliberately put myself in that situation, I feel what they feel, emotionally if not physically. A lot of times this has been painful. After particularly disturbing scenes, I’ve myself hating what I’ve just done as a certain character. A good example of this would be Ben from chapter 10 in the novel I’m writing, he is a disgusting piece of human refuse. But I still had to put myself in his shoes. I felt tainted for days, disgusted with what I did. Thank god that chapter was from the point of view of the victim, so I inherently related to her feelings more than Ben’s, but it’s also a strange thing to be literally hate yourself. It’s like there are more than one you, and the other you is just terrible, so you murder the other you. Writing characters can be weird like that, they cause emotions that seem unnatural upon reflection.

But I digress, the reason I write is to become something more than myself. To create something that might last, even if nobody reads it, even if nobody likes it, even if people think it’s sick. It’s me, and that matters, no matter what anyone else might think.

Poetry Friday! (9/1/17)

Yeah, I do have poetry Monday. What’s wrong with two poetry days a week? Sounds like double the good idea to me. Seriously this week has been way to stressful to not have a poetry Friday.

This poem is called “Mirror”. It’s about some stuff I struggled a lot with earlier in my life. Due to the borderline obnoxious formatting I apply to my poetry, the PDF is necessary. Enjoy!

Mirror<————-Click this fancy link to open the poem in a PDF

 

 

 

*Art-work disclaimer: I did draw this cover image, but it was for a school project in which we had to interpret an image from one medium to another. Thus, the composition is not original. I tried really hard to find the original, but was unable. It was similar to this, except with less wing, very different shading and black/light balance, no rain, and it was done in pencil. This one was done free-hand in black ink using the original as a reference/inspiration.

If the original artist ever sees this, please let me know if you’d rather me take this image down, as I understand it is relatively similar to your piece and not entirely my own. It is used here for entertainment purposes alone, and will never be used for financial gain or be unlawfully copyrighted.

Daily Blog 8/30/17

School loads been tough. Haven’t had a lot of time to edit, write, or draw anything, which makes me sad. I spent about six hours making excel spreadsheets for chemistry lab today. But it’s Hump Day, weekends in sight, so hang in there!

 

Start at the beginning: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/27/daily-blog-82717/

Chapter 2: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/29/daily-blog-82917/

Next Post (8/31/17): https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/31/daily-blog-83117/

Chapter 3 through 5 were intended to be a calm before the storm. Lot of characterization and exposition mixed in with details that will become relevant later on. It introduces Alex Parker, a major character who will reoccur frequently in present scenes, as well as past in act 3 (no reason to get ahead of myself though).

*No trigger warnings, just explicit language. 

Enjoy!

 

III

Present Day

                Silgan lived on the thirteenth floor of a twelve-floor apartment owned by an old business associate, Gerald Minum. His was one of two rooms located above the twelfth floor. The other, and much larger, belonging to Minum’s younger brother, Harold, who had been in and out of prison for the past thirty years. Creep. Silgan had moved in two years ago, after a police raid on his much larger, more comfortable arrangement.

The reason Silgan wasn’t in prison already, was due to the excellent plugs his current proprietor had in both the DEA and Homicide groups one through eight–known to lend the DEA some extra firepower now and again. Silgan had known a week prior to the raid, and was able to clear out incriminating and illegal materials long before they’d arrived. Unfortunately, he’d had to burn that apartment afterwards, as to better justify moving on the official records.

The elevator ding brought Silgan out of his reverie. Stepping into the cramped excuse of a pulley, he quickly pressed the lobby icon. It was an old, non-public elevator that rested on the thirteenth floor. It’s inspection certificate was dated 2011, and had expired in 2021, a year and two months ago.

A small, male, child’s voice rang clearly “Well it is your private elevator.” Silgan recognized the voice, but couldn’t quite place it.

He thought in response, “I suppose I can’t complain then.”

We really can’t, can we?” The voice chuckled in response.

Smiling, Silgan responded aloud “Fair enough, we can’t. But if you try to tell me that this thing can actually support 3,000 pounds…”

Silgan did recognize the voice now. He hadn’t heard it in months and voice recognition fades far faster than facial and motor. No, I suppose I needn’t blame myself. Glancing up, the elevator read fourth floor. Silgan steeled himself by visualizing the next few moments. He would exit the elevator–floor 3–say good morning to the clerk–floor 2–he’d walk outside–floor 1–but not too quickly or slowly–ding.

The lobby was bright, not overwhelmingly so, but it was also 4:45 in the morning. Artificial light had a way of sapping his energy. The opposite effect natural light seems to secure. The worst part was the glaring and pure white light. No soothing blue or yellow lights for you, no, not this early. Passing the clerk–who’s demeanor indicated a similar disposition towards the fluorescent nightmare–Silgan asked “How are you, Ms. Caldwell?”.

“Don’t tell me you’re up this early by choice Mr. Sheffield?” the young women replied. Her was voice rye, as a small and suggestive smile crossed her lips. She always makes me uncomfortable.

“Oh, you know I’m not Ms. Caldwell, but duty calls! The ER patients won’t stitch themselves back together.” Silgan responded, smiling wide. Like she’s looking straight through me.

Raising her eyebrows, she responded “No rest for the heroes either, eh?” I wish I was the hero, I really do. 

“You know there isn’t.” said Silgan, calling over his shoulder as the automatic glass doors began to open. The cold morning air stung his face, as he walked out the door.

He was early, but the Sedan was already pulled up on the curb. It really was a nice car, it had official plates too. This way the tinted windows wouldn’t draw suspicion. The driver got out, swung around the front of the Sedan and opened the door, nodding at Silgan. My old, silent friend. Silgan nodded back at the old driver as he stepped into the back seat. The driver was always the same, but Silgan had never spoken a word to him. He had a tired face, a crinkled perma-grimace, and an average number of suspicious sunspots for a man in his early seventies.

The sedan was spacious, with more room in the back than front by design. The seats were a blood red leather with a black pearlescent finish. It contrasted beautifully with the doors interior red-olive wooden paneling. The side windows tints were two-way, any lighter and certain equipment could be used to see through the tint. A divider separated the back seats from the chauffeur. Silgan’s employers were thorough, if not paranoid. Silgan nestled his briefcase safely in the middle seat as the door closed, before fastening his seat belt.  Without looking at the man to his left, in his coldest and most distant manner, Silgan asked “Who’s the mark.”

The man, sighed deeply, not in exasperation, but with the weight of something looming over his head. Great, he always gets like this when he has bad news. He turned slowly towards Silgan, removing his dark sunglasses to expose sharp blue eyes with a slight cataract fade. After a moment, Silgan turned towards the man, Alex Parker. His face looks different. Heavier, which is saying something, considering that nasty chain-smoking habit and the five or so chins. He sported a worn, sea-green, tweed suit coat with a black turtle neck sweater, and midnight-purple pants. Alex always was the old-school type.

Annoyed, Silgan asked “Well?”

Alex replied “Remember Donovan Sullie’s Toronto operation that went to shit?”

Intrigued, Silgan responded “Of course I do, it took us three straight days to crack Sullie’s man. Did they finally manage to pin him down?”

Alex smiled slightly. “Not quite. Nearly. Caleb managed to track him to a small house in upstate New York, in the boonies between Watertown and Ogdensburg. We done caught him by surprise but, you know him, he had a small army stationed around the 300-acre perimeter. He got out but we got his…” Hesitating for a moment, Alex continued “…we got his daughter.” I said no more fucking kids!

Taken aback, Silgan asked “You’re kidding, right? How old is she.”

“She’s young, later teens, Sheffield.” Said Alex in a defeated tone, averting his gaze.

Silgan sighed, leaning back against the seat as the Sedan started to move. He thought back to earlier this morning as he’d packed “Part 2”. I brought the inhibitor, right? Christ, I was so distracted with the blood…can’t remember. An old, forgotten blaze ignited his stomach. Feeling sick, he whispered “Alex, I thought I told the boss no more kids. Not after last time.”

In an apologetic tone, Alex responded “I know, I told the boss that. The boss say if they old enough to traffic, he don’t see a problem.” Makes it even worse. Haskell, you sick fuck.

Silgan felt his hands start to shake, tasting stomach acid. He wanted to tell Alex to pull over, but he knew it was too late. Already been paid. Tardiness is as good as treason in this line of work. Silgan undid his belt and leaned his head against the front seat. Mournfully, he asked “You got a drink?”

Without a word, Alex pulled a small metal canteen out of his suit jacket and handed it to Silgan. Sitting back up, Silgan turned the canteen and opened it. The front of the metal surfaced was engraved AP in black, matte, acrylic. He drank about half the canister in a gulp, stopping to cough as the burning overwhelmed his sinus. Looking back to Alex, embarrassed, Silgan muttered a quick thanks. Alex gave an understanding nod, accepting the canteen. I don’t know if I can do this.

“Look, Sheffield, I don’t like it either. But we can’t hold back, you know that. And I’m gonna need you in your right mind today too, that way we get this done as quick as we can. I don’t wanna see you popping pills man.” Alex said, as the Sedan made a right.

Guiltily, Silgan responded, “Yeah, well I might need something to keep me from being sick.”

Smiling Alex noted “Yeah? They handing out oxy for upset tummies now?”

“They aren’t handing out anything anymore. Turns out too many self-prescriptions starts to look a little fucked in the ledgers. I’ve had to pay a nurse to steal from commissary, via proxy of course.” Silgan mused, somewhat reluctantly.

“I hope you’re kidding man, if the boss finds out you’re under suspicion, again, you know what happens, to both of us.” Alex laughed, warily.

As of last week, Dr. Sheffield was under board review for a number of reasons. Primarily a host of self-prescriptions that generally contradicted each other or contained excessive overlap in function. Having been a tenured tech-ER lecturer with several, successful fellows, had bought him time. But the eight dead patients within the past three and a half months who’d been deemed survivable cases hadn’t helped. Never did like that damned pathologist, she’s out to get me. He’d be fine though, one member of the board was in the direct employ of Alex and Silgan’s mutual benefactor. Haskell. Furthermore, he’d personally mentored a separate board member, who Silgan had pushed through the system. She won’t fuck with me, bit of a vested interest there. Finally, he’d anonymously blackmailed two of the five board members, leveraging their large families. As long as one of two kept quiet, he’d easily obtain the desired three to two ratio that meant freedom, and more self-prescription. For now, unfortunately, I’ll need to utilize more creative methods to obtain a wholesome mood.

Annoyed Alex barked “You’re kidding, right man?”

“Of course I am. Everything is under control, Parker.” replied Silgan, half-smiling and looking sideways.

Silgan wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, but he was glad to have Alex around. Alex generally favored mechanical means of extraction. Crude, yes. Ineffective, definitely. But the old good-guy, bad-guy dichotomy was effective. Alex would generally open, peeling nails or something. If it didn’t work, Silgan would get going, and once he got going, the mark would proclaim love for Alex, pleading to bring him back. Hamlet’s skull would be jealous. Alex was also the closest thing to a real friend Silgan had anymore. He knew more about Silgan than anyone else could, and accepted him for it.

The front seat’s divider caught both men off guard as it descended. The driver chimed in his heavy German accent, “Almost there boys.”

Besides the obvious optical advantage the two way tinted windows presented; the boss operated on a need to know basis. Silgan rarely if ever knew where they were headed before they got there. He liked it that way, it helped him psychologically distance himself from the act. As the car pulled to a stop, Alex said “All Right, I guess it’s game time.”

Daily Blog 8/29/17

Start at the beginning: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/27/daily-blog-82717/

Chapter 1: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/28/daily-blog-82817/

Next Chapter: https://bluebeard-art.com/2017/08/30/daily-blog-83017/

This brief chapter introduces Hadley’s perspective, for the first time. It’s also the first time she’s appeared since the introduction. It serves to introduce future conflicts while fleshing out Simon and Hadley’s current dynamic, as well as Hadley’s own demons.

*Explicit language, semi-graphic allusions to intravenous drug-use. If this type of content offends you, for any reason, please don’t continue. 

II

July 8th, 2015

                Hadley’s head screamed and her stomach churned violently, as if it was trying to crawl up her throat. But, the hangover was nothing, not compared to the guilt. She’d fallen off the wagon in spectacular form. Like I never missed a step. Glancing to the old Digitex on her night-stand, Hadley sighed in disappointment at the flashing 11:31 AM. Not only had she slept through her morning shift, she’d made it all the way to lunch. Fuck. At least she still had time before Simon would arrive. He couldn’t know, no one could know she’d done it again. Not if I want Adam back. 

Groaning at the volatile mix of pain and nausea, Hadley sat up. Looking around the room, her throat tightened and tears welled in her eyes. She pulled herself off the sweat and vomit soaked queen-size bed, wiping her eyes. The room was large, the master of the house. She didn’t have to worry about Simon coming up though, she’d clean it later.

As Hadley struggled to the bathroom adjacent to the bed she tried to remember what she’d taken. I was just going to have three or four whiskies at that club, maybe meet someone. Shannon gave me a hit of E. Why do I feel so shitty?Reaching the door, Hadley pushed it open and set the lights to dim. Vertigo is the worst. The bathroom was almost as large as her room. It had two separate baths, one was closer to a hot tub than a bath, the other containing a combined shower-head. The floor was marble, and the walls were bamboo paneled heartwood, as was the sauna entrance directly to her left. She knew this, because she’d redone the bathroom herself. This home had been her and Simons honeymoon, just four years ago. She’d been so excited, as it overlapped with her twenty first birthday. Reaching the sink, her spirits dropped even further. What did you do this for, Hadley? Don’t you care about Adam?

A silver teaspoon sat on the rim of the sink, it had a stained red-black tourniquet draped over the hilt. A syringe with dried blood on the tip rested near the drain. Scrambling, Hadley pulled off her sweatshirt examining her inner elbows. My right is clear, nothing on my left either.  Pulling down her pants, Hadley’s heart dropped to her stomach. At least I’d had the good sense to try and hide the marks. Her left inner thigh had exactly seven track marks, two appeared to be over arteries, thank god, she hadn’t injected into those. Simon won’t know if I just put some makeup on and keep him from feeling the area. I just need to act normal, cover this shit up, and clean that mess.

Her eyes wouldn’t stop watering as she looked at herself in the mirror. She felt older than she was. Her face was sharp, angular. Her high cheekbones, which she’d always been proud of, now made her feel gaunt and vulnerable. Her cheeks had sunken in as she’d lost weight. Down to one-hundred, again. She had acne from drug use along her left cheekbone. It had faded since she’d quit four months ago, but it looked inflamed now. Her eyes were the same-old piercing green and her hair was a long, disheveled, midnight black. At least I still have my eyes. A long scar crossed her flat, pale, lower abdomen from her cesarean section. She hated the scar, it reminded her of what she’d done to earn it. It’s funny how guilty feelings about drug use always seemed to lead to more drug use. Calm down Hadley, you can do this. Turning, she walked quickly to the shower. She wiped her eyes, removing sleep and tears, before removing the rest of her clothing. She turned the nozzle six tenths of the way to full. It’s a sensitive shower.

Hadley stepped into the shower after testing the warm water. Immediately, she reached for the soap, and started to scrub vigorously. After thirty seconds, she took a break to apply a liberal amount of shampoo. Soaking it into her long hair, she looked to the stainless-steel nozzle and whispered “I just need to clean last night off of me, and everything will be fine.” Hadley let the shampoo fall over her watering eyes, punishing herself with the sting. Every part of me must be cleansed.

Author (Poetry Monday)

I plan to release a poem (or two) each Monday. The genre, style, and length will depend on the given week and how I’m feeling in general.

The formatting restrictions in this editor ruin some of the formatting and artistic decisions I made with the poem, so I’ve included a link to the PDF version. If you’d like a specific file-format for any reason, I’ll be happy to convert it for you!

Author (Click this for the PDF version of the poem)

Thoughts:

This is a poem about the escapism inherent to story-writing. It laments my inability to ever be part of an ideal/interesting world I’ve created. This issue is especially salient when I relate to a specific character.

PS

The picture is a shot I took while visiting Stonehenge in England. Have an Awesome Monday, as hard as they may be!

-Bluebeard