It's 104 degrees inside this M-1 Abram's tank sitting just outside the city of Phoenix, AZ, and my crew members are starting to smell. I don't worry that they will reanimate. I made sure of that when I cut off their heads. Of course, Sgt. Thompson wasn't completely dead when I took his head off, and he continued to scream all the way up to the very end. He always acted like a little bitch.

I strain my ears for the slightest sound; anything that would tell me the horrible, staggering dead have finally moved off into the desert, and no longer surround our tank. I cannot hear a whisper, yet the last time we thought they had left, Hendricks opened the hatch to recon, and the reanimated dead fell on him like rabid wolves. He was yanked from the bowels of the vehicle and torn apart in front of us. That's when one of them got in and attacked the others.

The zombie's body lay just to the front of the vehicle, its rotting corpse blocking the gunnery chair. It had bitten Talbots's face, and tore his jugular to shreds, spraying the cabin with a gallon of dark arterial blood. Then it battened on Thompson. He fought it off with his combat knife, but the weapon had little effect. The zombie struck Thompson along side his head, staggering him. Sensing Thompson's weakness, the zombie tore at his chest, and dug its horrible face into Thompson's armpit, tearing a large chunk of flesh from it.

I shook myself from the initial shock of the attack, and hammered at the zombie's head with one of the tanks' artillery shells. The rotted skull broke apart like a cantaloupe, brain mush smearing Thompson's fatigues when the thing fell forward onto him.

That was two hours ago. It's hard to believe that the end of the world started only three hours before that, but when you think about the end of the world, I mean really think about it, would you want it to happen over a period of a few days, or weeks, or just say fuck it, and get it over with?

That's what I've been thinking about for the last hour, or so. Do I want to sit here, cooking in my own soup, waiting for heatstroke to take me, or should I grab the M-14 over there in the rack, and take as many of these bastards with me that I can?

Something outside just slid down the front of the tank. I can hear a sloppy, wet sound, like my mom stirring macaroni and cheese in the pot. I guess they haven't left yet. I have taken the M-14 from its rack, and have chambered a round. I hope that whoever finds this note will take my head like I did with the others. I don't want to be a zombie...

Do it.

Throw them.

Tie me up and 

    stack 

         the 

              wood.

Burn me, blast me, 

    think you should?

Throw the torches, 

    set the blaze.

Go ahead, you've a 

    fire to raise!

Spit your ugly 

    in my face.

Stoke your anger, 

    lay 

       your 

             waste!

Cover me in your 

    pain and shame.

Show me that it's 

    not a game.

Stoke it, feed it, 

    bring the fire.

Don't hold back, get 

    those 

         flames 

               higher.

Burn me down, 

    lay on more wood.

Convince yourself I'm 

    gone for good.

When all that's left is 

    smoke and ash...

The Phoenix rises 

    with 

         a

           flash!

She's a jester,

    she's a clown

She's quite worthy 

    of the crown

Ideal sidekick, 

    sexy joke

Giggles and wiggles so 

    she 

        won't 

               choke

Effervescent ghostly squeal

Center stage, 

    no need to steal

Silly assumptions 

    based on fluff

Her own conclusions 

    were more than enough

Queen as innocent 

    as 

       her 

            King

Little clown thought 

    a play she'd bring

Mistress was 

    misunderstood

Master may be 

    gone 

         for 

             good

Laughing while she 

    sheds a tear

Gracefully bows to 

    the joker dear.

I don’t know how it all works, but I gotta tell you it’s the best puzzle ever; my mind is constantly moving around, discovering and discarding pieces all day, and night long. My thoughts and my environment seem to be completely intertwined, one flowing through and out of the other, designing beautiful potential pieces to put together.

I get lost on where my imagination starts and my reality begins. I hear voices which guide me, but aren’t really there, and aren’t really heard, but lead me nonetheless. I have numbers and colors assigned to those in my life, but I never assigned them. I can simply ponder on them for a second and their name or their meaning crosses my path. As if it wasn’t my thought to begin with. I wonder often, if I should write down a key; my grandmothers and mother and my sister all have their colors and/or numbers. My husband, children and even Jesus has a color.

My 4-year-old seems to speak to me, but the words and thoughts are not his, but my mothers', or my God’s, I can’t be sure. Maybe it’s the spiritual part of me, from another place and time guiding my human mind. My thoughts seem to be answered by my husband, children, the television, radio or anything in my communication path, so long as I carefully pay attention to my thoughts. As if the thoughts are given to me, as if something is ahead of my time, programming my ponderings, my environment, my everything. Or maybe I have been here before, maybe I have had this day, this moment, this life already come before me.

I will think something funny and my son, with perfect timing, will say, “That’s funny huh?” I was writing about my great-grandmother and her color red; her color has always been red and my son came home and immediately started dancing/singing while spelling “R E D, red, R E D spells red!” over and over. I will be worried about something and pondering a solution and my husband will say “It’s all gonna work out.” He'll be speaking to one of the kids about something else, but something in him responds to something in me. I will miss something about my mother and my sister will almost hear me and respond with something funny about the same topic.

It’s not that I’m any different than anyone else, I just think others don’t pay attention, or chose to talk about this reality. I swarm with spirits and fall into their realm when I write, they seem to be on this level between here and somewhere else. They seem to have a purpose with me, a purpose which I cannot fulfill, or even know. I can only keep quiet and learn as I go. I can only wake up each day to be the best parent, wife, sister, daughter and friend that I possibly can be. And of course I have to trust whatever

it is.

I just wanted to 

    live again

Allow my cold, dead 

    heart to mend

You refused to 

    just ascend

Instead you seal our 

    fate to end

Once you gave me 

    breath of life

Now you only 

    twist the knife

Jealous anger 

    you are rife

Misery becomes 

    your wife

Stepping through hell's 

    open door

Nothing will even 

    the score

I'm trying to 

    open the gate

Deathly afraid that 

    it's too late

Done everything I 

    know to do

But it's not good 

    enough for you

It all seems like 

    wasted time

Wasted love put 

    on the line

Nothing that I 

    do or say

With you seems 

    to hold sway

Now our life's 

    begun anew

Why do i feel it's 

    without 

           you?

We've always known where we came from because they always threatened to kick us out; “go back where you came from niggers”, they shout.

We've been called Niggers, Blacks, African Americans, and Slave Porch Monkeys for so long, that even WE have forgotten our own names.

We are the Alphas and Omegas; first to be beaten and begrudged, last to be recognized and honored.

Our forgotten name is royalty, our forgotten existence and heritage buried deep beneath the bumps and bruises of systematic racism and illusions of privilege; supremacy.

We reign in intellectual perception and subliminal superiority, uncontrollably.

Though we’re tattered and torn up inside and out, psychologically and emotionally; we rise to the occasion of oppression prevailing victoriously.

We laugh in the face of hatred and racism now, for its been the catalyst to our royal comeuppance.

The inevitable has now arrived in the form of deserved karma served, as life reciprocates.

On and on….

We have forgotten our names once.

Now, we shall take claim to our rightful names!

~Royalty Reigns~

Jnaha

“It’s hot in here,” I whined.

“Yeah, no shit,” Eric answered. My brother got it worse than me, but he was also tougher than me, so it evened out.

I rubbed my arm and noticed how dirty I was. It had been a week since I last bathed. I itched everywhere.

“You think he’s up yet?” I asked.

Eric nodded, his blue-grey eyes cast far away. The light shining through the slats in the barn door made him look older than sixteen.

I paced in circles, staring at the dirt floor. The block in the corner was stained rust. Flies buzzed his recent kills and the rotting smell grew as I approached.

I heard the screen door slam shut and my head snapped around. I hunched down to squint thru a gap. He was coming. I reacted quickly, grabbing the chicken head closest to me. Even now, I have no idea why. It was covered in maggots and flies lifted off when I ripped it from the floor, leaving feathers behind.

Slushy footsteps sounded outside. Suddenly Eric was on top of me, pulling my collar, shoving me behind him. Just as the bar slid open, he shoved my hand deep into his painter’s pocket. Squeezing hard, I let go, the head falling to the bottom with a wet thud.

Da stood in the barn door wearing his old gray bathrobe. Too short, it showed the scarred knees and wobbly legs of an old man. Only we knew better.

“Well, come on then,” he said quietly. He sounded reasonable, sober even.

Eric strode out, jaw set, eyes fixed straight ahead. I glanced up at Da and then ran, scampering on Eric’s heels.

Inside the light was dim and Da shuffled around the kitchen, limping in his usual pattern. When he was safely in front of the TV again, Eric and I drifted off to separate corners. 

But when I came out of the shower, Eric was sitting at the top of the stairs.

“What?” I whispered down to him.

He didn’t respond, so I gingerly stepped around to him, cautious of slipping in wet feet. 

“What?” I repeated, softer.

He silently held up his palm. It had a fresh cigarette welt in its center. Red and going on pussy already. Mild for Da, but still, I should make myself scarce. Eric shooed me upstairs and then cradled the hand in his lap. I tried to read his face, but he was a blank. I ran back up, latching our bedroom door in slow motion, trying not to breathe.

Eric was bristling, shaky, as we made dinner. He set Da’s plate in the usual spot, then laid the baked potato in the center instead of on the side. When I opened my mouth to ask why, Eric gave me a cold, tight smile.

On top of the potato, he carefully placed the chicken head, beak out. With one filmy eye staring, I thought it wore Eric’s expression. I panicked.

“Eric, he’ll be back any minute!” His beer runs never took more than twenty minutes and we were going on fifteen.

Like he had before, Eric pulled my collar. But this time he pushed me in front of him, toward the back door. Leaning into my face he said, “I’m gonna do it, Davey. Hide in Mrs. Peterson’s greenhouse. Don’t come back until you hear the sirens.”

“No! Eric! Don’t!” I begged. I don’t know whether I was worried about him or Da or both of them.

“I love you Davey. Now go!” He shoved me harder and I stumbled backwards slamming into the screen door. I heard the Chevy pull up and I took one last look at Eric. His hands, empty, were clasped behind his back. Even so, he looked ready. I ran out into the night.

I didn’t make it to Mrs. Peterson’s. I heard the car door slam, then a thunderous “Whad you do boy?” More shouting and a loud explosion. I saw in my minds eye what was happening. Them tussling and crashing thru the table. When Eric started screaming, I turned back and ran for the house. I knew that I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t let it happen again.

I banged back inside. Da was in the center of the crushed table on his knees, choking Eric. “Da!!! Stop it!” I jumped on his shoulders, trying to pull him off. “You’re gonna kill him! Stop!” Eric’s eyes were bulging, foamy spit spilling down his chin.  His feet were kicking up silverware and chunks of plate.

Neither of them looked at me. I felt myself dissolve in that moment. The sound zipped away from me all at once. I was suddenly alone and not quite real, like a ghost bearing witness to a decades old murder. Everything that was happening was beneath me. Just a stain under the floorboards. For a moment, I felt the concrete chill of my prison cell. And then with just a subtle twang in my eardrums, the world came rushing back in.

I could hear Eric gagging, could hear Da’s heavy panting from the sweaty exertion of murdering his eldest. Eric’s face was purple now except for white circles rising under his eyes and around his mouth and nose. I stooped down for the second time that day, my hands reacting automatically. One long screw, still clinging to splinters, protruded ninety degrees from the end of the table leg I now held.

I raised it up as high as I could and smashed it down on Da’s neck over and over, hitting close to his hairline each time. As he fell, he crashed down on top of Eric, mini volcanos of blood spurting from his back. He started to buck as if an electric current ran through him.

Nothing at first. And then Eric started to ooze out from the right side of the broken table. One ear appeared, and then a smashed nose. He managed to push a little and I pulled with everything I had left. Half hanging in my arms, we got him up in one of the chairs. 

We looked down at Da, who had ceased twitching. His pool of blood was so big he couldn’t have any left in him.

“Davey,” Eric started, then coughed up more blood.  His cough sounded squeaky. Something was broken inside of him I thought, picturing shards of glass. This was confirmed when Eric grabbed his lower ribs and groaned. He made a diarrhea face, before continuing. 

 “Sirens. They’re gonna come Davey, and…” Coughing blood out between his fingers, he stopped. He spat onto Da’s leg, then pulled in a big hackey breath and said “You gotta tell them about the barn, about Mom. You gotta…” Then Eric’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward into my lap. 

 All at once I was alone. That ghost feeling came back then and it hasn’t left me since.

The rest…well. Sherriff Mitchell was a friend of Da’s. He knew what went on at our place, both before and after. He knew or could easily guess where Mom was buried. He could’ve razed the barn and have her exhumed. Could have seen my way of things. But he didn’t. He made it seem like me and Eric had jumped Da.  I was convicted as an adult.

Sometimes I blame Eric for not running. But he wanted to take down the beast. For Mom. Maybe a little bit for me. He just couldn’t do it alone. So we managed it together like we had done everything before. 

I’m still watching it happen you know.  In that kitchen, in that barn, on those stairs. I’ve never left that place really. Just like I’m never leaving this one.

“Sit still,” I whisper. She can’t hear me of course. My leg is bleeding, dripping on the leaves beneath me. It should hide among the red and gold even come morning. I wish I could hold the brush. Touch her chestnut hair. One hundred strokes takes so little time. She’s already moving off her chair towards the lamp. I lean forward, tense my thighs and spring. My hands catch the next branch, but I swing too wide and slam my shoulder hard into the chimney. I freeze and take a deep breath, listening hard for a creak, a door. Nothing. Then I’m climbing.

Cherise’s eyes are closed, but she’s not asleep yet. My huge frame blocks the moonlight coming in from the window. I’m surprised she left it open. The autumn air is cold and the curtains are flapping behind me. Her face is mostly in shadow, but I know those peach lips so well. I could draw them with my eyes closed. And her legs…so thin and pale. A groan escapes my mouth as I think about it. I’ve touched her before, but only when she was definitely out. For now, it’s best to wait. I rub my dirty hands on my jeans. Then I sit back on my haunches, knees tucked in at the armpits and think about what comes next. I notice I’m bleeding on her pink carpet. Damn.

Her soft snores are the signal and I use the windowsill to pull myself all the way upright. Both knees pop as I rise. I’m 6’9” if I’m not hunching, but I’m always hunching. I’m too much of a loser to play basketball, my voice is too deep to sound normal and the guidance counselor seems to think I’m just shy of retarded. Cherise though, she’s always been perfect. Petite with delicate feet and hands, a button nose, large green eyes. I stare down at her now, leaning against the wall opposite the lamp, my fingers restless at my zipper. Wanting her. I make myself wait a minute longer just to be sure.

I can’t talk to her. Even though I grew up next door, I stopped being able to have a normal conversation with her around ten. Her mother invited me to her thirteenth birthday party (a pity invite for sure) and we played spin the bottle. I wanted to kiss her so much, but when it was my turn, she pulled me into the mudroom and put her finger up to her lips. “Shhh,” was all she said. I stood there an inch from her face, breathing her warm breath, looking at her new breasts and suddenly I had to try. She was looking down, a blush rising to the tips of her ears. I grabbed her around the waist, pushing her back against the dryer. I’m not sure what I was hoping for, but she screamed and I was tossed out on my ass. Thus began the hostile stares from her friends and hushed conversations between our parents.

Now that we’re 17, it hasn’t gotten any better and in fact, I think she might be afraid of me now. I’ve done some bad things. I know that. Her dad told my mom last month after the locker room incident that he was considering selling the house. But really, isn’t this normal stuff? Normal teenager stuff? I have a crush on her. That’s all. A crush and 140 pictures of her on my phone. Cherise eating, Cherise changing, Cherise playing soccer, Cherise touching herself (my personal favorite). They’re all good really.

I’ll never be able to leave her alone. I mean, she gets that I think. She understands. I wrote her a note about it during Spanish. So old school, but texting is impossible because of the restraining order.

She’s out for sure now, her breaths coming long and slow, mouth wide. I bend down close. I want to put my finger in her mouth or maybe lick her lip. I’m calculating which when her eyes snap open and her hand appears from nowhere gripping a huge gun.

“Whoa!” My hands fly up automatically and I stumble back, knocking my head against her ceiling fan. Cherise flings back her comforter and swings her legs out fast. I notice she’s fully dressed.

“You freak,” she says, her voice hushed. “You just won’t effing stop, will you?”

“Where’d you get a gun Cherise?” I knew every nook and cranny of her house and her dad doesn’t own one.

“I bought it. So that you. Would. Stop. Bothering me!” she hush-screamed.

“Are you gonna kill me?” I’m not worried. Cherise refused to dissect the frog. I highly doubt she’s gonna murder my ass in her bedroom.

She rolled her eyes, more annoyed than angry I think and then noticed the blood on my sneaker. “What the hell?”

“Wanna see it?” I’m ever hopeful…

“No, but you might as well show me.”

I lift my pant leg. CHERISE is carved deep into my calf. I’m not sure why it’s still bleeding so much. Maybe I should have burned it after or something.

“Goddamnit Eric!! Why are you doing this?” Her shoulders shake a little (with revulsion I think, bummed) and the gun, which sagged when she bent over my leg, is pointed at me again.

I try to explain, again, for the hundredth time. “I want you Cherise. I want us to be together. I want to…”

The gun went off mid-sentence and I stop talking to look down at my chest. A huge hole appears dead center of my Chewie T-shirt.

I fall forward onto my knees and look up at her. I can’t believe she shot me, but I’m also weirdly proud of her.

“You wanted to have me? Here you go! Have me forever!” She screams and throws the gun down on the bed. She starts stripping off her clothes fast, wild. I’m coughing up blood now, but still trying to watch her as she rips her legs out of those tight black pants and pulls her T over her head. My vision is blurry, but she’s just about to unhook her bra and…

An accident. That’s what I tell people when they ask. Boiling water or sometimes oil. I tripped, that’s all. An unfortunate spill with catastrophic results.

I wasn’t beautiful. My nose was too long, my face narrow, my cheekbones plagued by freckles. And my eyes were farther apart than they should be. The cumulative effect was a bit feline actually. But I wore my thick, auburn hair long, curled at the ends. And I knew about makeup, so boys looked my way. One boy in particular.

He had this desperation about him. When he presented in class, his balled hand would drip sweat. His hair fell in long greasy strings. When teased, his mouth twitched into a teeth-baring sneer, but he never fought back. He took the punishment, laid flat against the lockers, curled into a ball on the floor, all with that same sick look stamped on his face. I watched the whole thing go down once. It was eerie how silent he was while the kids pounded on him, kicking him in the neck, the chest. I didn’t step in though. How could I?

Just before the bell rang every day, he squirmed in his seat, slipping and sliding on the plastic like an eel, bolting so quickly that his desk rocked back when he left it. But his eyes were the thing. His eyes would sometimes spin as if possessed, as if trying to latch onto something to keep him in place. Spin and then refocus, always on me. Always on my face.

I knew he wanted to ask me. I could feel it coming in hot waves off of him. His shadow stood over me, wanting. He blocked the sunlight and stuttered the question, but I just couldn’t. Not even to be nice. When I said no, he pulled out a vial. He yanked my hair back and brought me to my feet with one hand and then ripped out the plug with the other.

The fire that fell from the tube ate away my flesh to the bone, pooled in my eye sockets, spread into my hair. I can still feel it burning even now. When I fell, screaming, at his feet, he dug into the raw flesh, ripping and pulling and muttering to himself. I felt my nose slip past my cheek. Felt my left ear slide to the tile floor. As I screamed, it ran into my mouth and down into my throat.

When a teacher lifted him off, he shouted “Now, you are something special. Not just another face.” And he laughed. Laughed at me as I lay quaking in blood and melting tissue.

Blind now, I’m not allowed to buy a gun. Knives however... I’ve taken my time, working my fingertips over the blades, feeling the weight in my hands. He gets out in 19 days and I will be waiting. Waiting to carve off that sneer. He will learn what it means to be not just another face.

You did it, baby,

Now you don't have to be afraid.

I gave you your life, but your debt is repaid.

I've known who you are,

Now you know it, too,

And I'm so proud of you!

Don't hide, and don't lie,

You don't know what'll happen if you never try.

Be the voice for the mute and the fearful,

Even if the result is ultimately tearful.

No matter what happens,

You can come to me,

And don't ever think that you have to run from me.

I may be your mother,

But I'm also your friend,

And whether in body or in spirit,

I'll be with you until the end.