It figures, it just figures

the Trigger that aims the hand

that holds our world as hostage

to its own snaps of reason

proclaims Its innocence!

...Personifies the weapon:

"There, there, lies the One that did it!"

By tradition we are all

perpetually hunted,

hunted by our discomfort

yet figure ourselves Hunters

of the entire Dominion

...seen for us to rape, plunder

But not by Everyone, no,

just for a selected few

unjustified Successes;

for these now, or that there, or

say with hard-enough work

...or by one lottery-stroke: 

"some nobody just like you!"

Cause sorry there's not a lot

to be had for us at all;

it's no wonder some latch off 

uncontrolled at friend or foe

under overwhelming stress

...targeted and trapped like It

Plain folks in lines of fire

each of us a simile

as the ever loaded Gun,

one step closer, and closer,

to firing our bullets

...reactive Triggers that we are

#Challenge #GunsDontKillPeople #PeopleKillPeople #NoQuestionMark 

<font face="Helvetica" size="3" color="silver">02.18.2018</font>

  The vessel was neither pitching nor rolling but steadily sailing towards Adlivan  archipelago. The perfectly still weather, though, failed to becalm David Adler, who at long last abandoned his only desire to dive back into the dream after someone from the CSI unit had sighted out first ice and their agitated shouts sent the rest of the crew to the illuminators. The journey’s end was not far off. From then on for another hour the hustle in cabin was considerably louder, and combined with the constant drone of the engines made any attempt to start a dialog worthless. Finally he found comfort. After they had left the mainland It was more and more apparent that some sort of simple conversation with his new colleagues was inevitable,

whether he liked it or not. After all, he had forced himself to flung occasional words into the high-sounding platitudes.

David occupied a bunk in the most remote corner of the cabin. He pulled out a case file from a bit battered briefcase to give it a cursory glance, although he had already learned those terse line by heart:

“A group of ten students (eight men and two women) of Department of Geosciences at the UC, all experienced in long ski tours, organized an expedition across unnamed heights of Adlivun archipelago on January 27. One of the group members - George Jeugenes dropped out from the main part of the rout due to a sickness which caused a severe knee pain. He stayed at the village as the rest took a decision to continue the expedition in group of nine. Today It has been 12 days since they reported in. The hunters of the local Voguls tribe claimed they had found a dead body. George stated that according to the description the body could belong to Alex Cohleman. We started assembling a search party.”

It was altogether against his nature to feel sorry for anyone else and the job itself had taken toll on him, but this particular case almost reversed his sentiments and unearthed memories from his own childhood, - one of the hunting trips with his father to be precise, when he’d spent two days alone in the woods. He could hardly think of it without perturbation.

Going up on deck, Adler wished he had never accompanied the party. As soon as he got on top his exhausted consciousness treacherously responded to the bizarre view bursting upon him from behind the clouds of ice-dust and aroused dim ancestral and almost mystic fear unknown to a man of his profession. The vessel was piercing towards a desolate range of austerely aspiring white summits evilly framed by bleak obsidian sky and descending ridges of hoary granite wall that flexed itself against the ocean. Muffled moan of the wind wandering among centenary tree trunks occasionally reached the deck and the whole spectacle imposed an appalling impression that the vessel was carrying the crew further and further into grim white immensity haunted by an enigmatic omnipresent sinister essence.

My death wasn't supposed to happen the way it did. I had it all planned out, the where and the why's set on a map so carefully placed. No one would know, until it was far to late. 

I was to die on March 20th, 2017. In a forest just outside of town, alone like I wanted. 

My plan ended when my life did too. Abruptly and came as quite a surprise to us all if I do say. 

It was late March 19th that my life was taken from me. The bastard didn't let me do it myself and now in here to haunt him forever. 

His words to me before he shot me in the head were, "This is where we met, where we had our first kiss, where you broke my heart, and ruined my life. This is where it began and it shall end." 

I understood what was to come, so I looked him dead in the eye (no pun intended) and he shot me. 

This all happened in a local library.

Dreams of ours, I've silenced; fading into a pass towards past

I'm selling you off to 'Too loud of whispering'

Freeing false chimeras abroad to drive you out

Utopias I've over built up from fools gold crumble fast

Worms inheriting nothing, I'm burning this to ash

Waist to waist shackled; you sacrifice and sacrifice

Soul beautiful; I hate a room full of mirrors

You leave your fingerprints, deep down I believe

My emotions are set into motion by you

My fears roam unabated, you never waiver, you come right in

***Disclaimer: I've been working on this poem for days and feel stuck so much that I'm over thinking about it not finished***

The shoddy streetlight barely pierces the darkness as I stumble down the old sidewalk to the east side of the deserted warehouse.  It is nearly midnight, and I am still searching for the illuminated door. Beneath my shoes, I feel the sidewalk give way to loose gravel as I continue past more boarded up windows and shadowy interiors. As the darkness continues, I wonder if perhaps I am at the wrong rendezvous point. Or if perhaps Carmen came to her senses and abandoned our tryst before it could ever fully begin. And as these thoughts creep in, I feel a disappointment settling itself behind my rib cage as I continue on into the dark.

But, wait! What is that ahead? I feel my heartbeat skip as I quicken my pace, anticipation flooding my veins. A faint yellow glow is seeping behind a cracked door. I brace myself as I approach and inch the door open. As I peer down the corridor, I see a makeshift table with a lantern sitting atop it. And, leaning against the makeshift table, I set eyes on the most exquisite woman I have ever seen. Carmen is all legs in her strappy heels and short, clingy black dress. As I approach, I watch a slow smile splay across her painted red lips as her blond hair tumbles in waves over her bare shoulders. Her lips meet mine with insistence, sparking instant desire as her arms wrap around my neck. She deepens the kiss as she trails one bare leg down my side, my arousal fully evident between us. As her tongue forces its way into my mouth, I feel a slight pinch and a tingle at the side of my neck. I then feel Carmen slowly disengage herself from the kiss and step out of my arms. My confusion at her sudden halt is consuming my mind. Yet, my eyes are having trouble focusing on the smeared red lipstick on her face. As I try to read her expression, I feel my limbs become heavy, and the room begins to spin. Then my whole world goes black.

***12 hours earlier***

"This is such a nice little place. I can't believe we have never been here before. Jenny from my book club mentioned it the other day, saying we should definitely stop in sometime." My wife prattles on as we sit in a booth at Grandma's Cafe on the corner of 5th finishing our lunch. "The food and the coffee have both been excellent," she continues, still sipping from her mug. On a spur of the moment whim, my wife decided we should venture out for lunch. I'm finishing my turkey club and inserting the appropriate "Mhmm's" and "Yes, dear's" to keep the conversation flowing. Yet, I can hardly focus on any words leaving her mouth.

Across the room, Carmen is sitting alone, sipping coffee and flipping through a magazine. It's taking most of my willpower not to stare at her long legs stretched out under the table in those shorts. Our eyes met when my wife and I entered the cafe, and the ghost of a smile that graced Carmen's lips sent my pulse racing. Carmen and I have actually ate at this cafe before. Earlier this month, I met up with Carmen twice for dinner here while my wife believed me to be working late. We have never ventured beyond dinner, a few lingering kisses, and many inappropriate text messages, but I feel we are approaching a new transgression. Last night, Carmen sent me a message with a photo displaying her full cleavage. Attached to the photo was the one word text of "Soon."

My wife has finished her lunch and excuses herself to the restroom. After my wife disappears from sight, I watch Carmen slowly rise from her seat. As she saunters to the door, she swings by my booth with a smile and a wink as she slides a folded napkin across the table. My hungry eyes watch her leave the cafe before I open the napkin and read, "Tonight is the night. Meet me at the old warehouse on Lincoln, east side, at midnight. Look for the illuminated door. Love, C."

***In the warehouse***

My head is groggy and my neck aches. As my senses slowly drift back to me, I realize I am sitting in a upright position. I attempt to move my arms and legs to a more comfortable position only to find I cannot move them. My eyelids are heavy as I force them open to stare down at my hands, which are bound with rope to each side of a chair. I cannot see my ankles, but I think it's safe to assume that they are bound to the legs of the chair. The panic from my restraints forces me into a more wakeful state as I slowly take in my surroundings and attempt to remember what happened. As I gaze around the room, realizing I am in a warehouse, the pieces slowly fall into place. I was meeting Carmen. I was kissing Carmen. Then I passed out? I must have. But I am still in the warehouse, tied up and groggy. Why?? And where is Carmen?

The room I am restrained in is relatively well lit. And now that I remember where I am, I take slower stock of my surroundings. Across the room from me is another chair, empty, with a small black suitcase sitting next to it. A small bit of rope is coiled next to the chair, and next to the rope is an ash tray with several cigarette butts. The smell of cigarettes linger in the air as if one was recently smoked. To my left, I notice a large table with many photographs spread out across it. And in the far corner of the table, I notice long, wavy golden locks of hair, the exact color of Carmen's hair. The exquisite locks are piled at the corner as if they were a wig...

Yet, my eyes are drawn from the wavy locks to the photographs on the table as I glimpse what appears to be my face. My eyes then move slowly from one photograph to the next, realizing I am in each picture. And each photo depicts me locked in a damning embrace with a different woman. I recognize Miranda in one photograph, and Anna in another. They are my more recent affairs. I recognize Heather from a drunken one night stand around a month ago. I continue to peruse the photographs and recognize Amy, Diana, and Rachel from several months ago. And as I continue to scrutinize each photograph, I realize there are many women who's names I cannot remember. Where did all these photos come from? And who has been taking them?

"Well, hello Martin. So glad to finally see you're awake." I jump at the sound of Carmen's voice coming from the doorway to my right. "I was worried you many never wake from the tranquilizer dose I gave you. You went down a lot faster than the usual, but I believe I injected you straight into the jugular. Intravenous rather than intramuscular. It has a faster, yet more deadly effect."

I watch, dumbfounded, as Carmen steps into the room still in her black dress, yet with her feet bare as her heels dangle from one hand. Her smeared red lipstick has been wiped away. And her hair is clipped short and brown. I glace from her face back to the table with the golden locks.

"Ah, yes. Those golden tresses are a wig. Elizabeth told me you had a weak spot for blonds, as many of these photos on display for you would indicate." Carmen saunters into the room and takes a seat in the empty chair across from me, crossing her legs and lighting up a cigarette. "Now, where should we begin?" she asks, as a takes a slow drag from the cigarette.

A whole string of questions and curses fill my head as I sit bound across the room, but very few words make it past my lips. "Why are you doing this? I have done nothing to you! Let me go!"

"Oh, Martin. Don't you know?" Carmen asks, a glint in her eye. "Your wife Elizabeth asked me to do this. And she can be rather convincing. She actually hired me a couple years ago to follow you, confirming her suspicions about your affairs." Carmen lets this revelation sink in as she takes another slow drag from her cigarette before continuing. "After I confirmed her suspicions, I became her regular contact. Every time she believed you might be having a new affair, I got a call. You both have kept me very busy. She paid me extra to frighten away a few of your lovers that she believed you might be getting too serious with. But the straw that finally broke the camel's back, as they say, was your last affair. I believe her name was Miranda, yes?" In the following pause, Carmen takes my silence for confirmation. Miranda was my most recent affair...

"Yes. I thought so," Carmen continues. "Well, Miranda was a member of your wife's book club, and her seeing Miranda every week was the true breaking point. It was then I got a very different call from Elizabeth." A sinister smile stretches across Carmen's lips as her next words roll off her tongue with foreboding, "And here we are!"

As I stare at Carmen, I realize she hasn't divulged whatever my wife has hired her to do. But I think it's safe to assume I will not like it. "I will pay you!" I blurt desperately. "Whatever my wife has promised you, I will double it if you let me go. And no one has to know about this. Nothing has happened here that we can't take back."

"Martin, Martin..." Carmen muses as she finishes her cigarette and leans over to put it out in the ash tray beside her chair. She then rises from her chair, with the black suitcase in hand, and advances to the table with the photos. She sets the black suitcase upon the table as she gathers up the photographs into a neat pile. "This is a rather shady part of town for you to be out in so late at night, Martin. I believe you probably gave Elizabeth some lie about not being able to sleep and needing to take a drive to clear your head."

I watch with building fear as Carmen opens the suitcase and dons a pair of gloves before she again continues. "A lot of bad characters prowl these streets at this hour. And one of these bad characters has been selling some questionable drugs to kids around town. I have been hired to deal with him also."

My dread keeps building as I hear Carmen assembling something behind the opened lid of the suitcase. "I discretely lifted this from our drug dealer for tonight's special occasion," Carmen states matter-of-factly as she flashes a pistol in her right hand, silencer attached. "As it turns out, this gun can be directly linked to our neighborhood drug dealer through ballistics. And I happen to know he will be closing a deal approximately a block over very soon. Such a shame that you had to witness the deal on your evening drive. Your untimely demise will be quite the tragedy. And our sleazy dealer will find himself off the streets and behind bars for murder in the first degree." Carmen moves from behind the table and positions herself directly in front of me, a sly glint reflected in her eyes. "Two birds with one stone," she states, smiling.

"Please, please, please..." I beg. "Don't do this! I'll do anything! Please!" Yet, at my pleading, her smile only broadens.

"HELP! PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP ME!" I scream. "HELP!!!'

"Your screams are useless Martin. No one will hear you here. And even if they did, they would not dare venture into these shady streets at this hour." Even as the words leave her lips, I know this to be true.

"You won't get away with this! You will go to prison!" I yell, tears stinging the corners of my eyes in a mix of rage and terror as I struggle futilely with my bonds.

"Martin, darling, I have been getting away with this for years," Carmen purrs, her words sending shivers down my spine. I watch as she levels the gun at my forehead, terror fully seizing me as my bladder gives way, the acrid smell of urine filling my nostrils.

"Please..." I plead, tears spilling down my cheeks.

"It's nothing personal, Martin," Carmen states, gun in position. "But your wife has quite the impressive life insurance policy on you. And, as it turns out, you are worth more dead than alive."

I was pushing my dad's wheelchair down Main Street opposite the Riverside County Courthouse, which is a pretty quiet street and had just been freshly paved.  I shifted my grip on the handlebars and noticed the chair kept rolling without my push.  I held my hands off the grips and it kept rolling at about 2 miles per hour.  I stepped back from the chair and it kept moving forward.

So I walked off to the side and talked with Dad as he rolled gently downhill.

It took him about three minutes to realize nobody was holding his moving wheelchair.

It is the ninth and the rent is due. I have no way of paying it.  I lie on my couch and stare at the walls.  Maybe I will be told I have been approved and the mail will confirm it.  I wait for the mail.  This is not my apartment, my mind tells me.  Apartments are for people who can pay.

There is nobody left to turn to. I have exhausted all avenues of help. I have not worked in a year.  I have used up my state disability payments.  I am going to lose my home.  It is not my home anymore, I remind myself. Apartments are for people who can pay.

Last month the church paid my rent.  It is the last time, they told me.  I said I understood.  I was sure that any day now I'd be approved for federal disability.  It never came.  Now the rent is past due and I have nothing to say to the landlord.

Months ago before the church helped I tried to sleep under a tree to see how it felt.  It wasn't that bad, I think.  Of course it hadn't rained.  I could stand to be homeless if it didn't rain.

I come to a decision.  I call my landlord.  "I have no money coming in and no source of income, I might as well come by Monday and surrender the keys," I say.  I have a plan.  I plan to be homeless.

I gather together three days of clothes in a trash bag.  I throw out all my toiletries in the bathroom and save one roll of toilet paper.  I abandon all my pins, all my ties, all my books.  The books get to me.  I leave them boxed.  I cannot throw out my books.  

For the rest, I reflect that soldiers live out of a duffel bag and think nothing much of it.  Man up, I think.  I put my electronics in a gym bag and give it to a friend with my birth certificate.  I call a friend from church.  He will help me cart my stuffs to Goodwill.

My suits, my tuxedo I put in a suitcase for donation.  The massive L desk I was given by  a boss, I leave.  It takes two truckloads by itself.  I throw away everything in the desk.   I throw away the harddrives I was saving from my old computers.  I have no way to safeguard them.

I start stacking stuff outside for my neighbors to keep.  My mountain bike that I kept since 1995 is snatched up.  Some things I thought had real value are left.  Nobody wants the executive wooden office chair my boss gave me with the desk.  I resign it to Goodwill.

My friend comes to help my pack my donations.  He is shocked to hear I have nowhere to go.  He takes me to lunch and begs me to call my folks.  I do not want to call them.  By now I want to be homeless, where I belong.

I call my parents.  They say they can take me for a week.  My friend buys me a bus ticket.  He is relieved I will not live on the street.  I say I am too.  But I am thinking it is just for a week.  I think I belong in the gutter.

That was two months ago.  My parents say I can be a help to them.  I try to keep a low profile in their complex, because it is technically age restricted.  The management says I can stay because I am disabled and helping my father.  But everyone I meet and talk to gets around to asking how long I'm going to be here.  They want it restricted.

I have no income and no car, and when I check online there are no affordable apartments in California anymore.  I have been back to follow up on my disability.  I told everyone I wanted to move back, and I did, but not at those prices.  There are very cheap trailers for rent out here within 3 miles, so maybe I'll end my days in a desert lot in a trailer.

I swim everyday at least once, and write online, and let myself forget that I don't fit in anywhere.  I guess that is coping.