“I have wondered if thee will marry,” his father said.

Elnathan looked up from his rabbit stew.

“It is a part of life,” Samuel Holm said, and he ate another bite.

They had built this house together. They had mortared the stones for the foundation, hewn the floor joists, notched the logs they stacked and chinked with rocks and straw and clay. They shared one bed. Through all of it, they had never spoken of marriage, love, or any future beyond tasks to perform. They had left their first farm five years ago, and in that time, Elnathan had heard six directives from his father for every word of conversation.

He studied the older man in the fading dusk, debating whether his father meant to test him. “The Friend says men should live in the Spirit, not in the flesh,” Elnathan said.

Samuel Holm lifted his bowl to his lips. Elnathan noticed his father’s hands trembling again, as they had since his illness the preceding year; Samuel Holm had spent less time carving or whittling since. He wiped his arm across his graying beard to erase the tell-tale drops of broth. He folded his hands on the table and watched them, as though guarding their stillness. “Thee is nineteen. If thee did not shave it, thy beard would be full by this time.”

“Men shave their beards. Thee is the only man I see to wear one.”

“Thee would think of little else beside marriage, if thee lived in any other place,” Samuel Holm continued. He lifted his eyes. “There are things important to a young man.”

Elnathan laughed. “Thee think me a young boy indeed, if thee think to explain such things.”

Samuel Holm returned his eyes to his hands. One of their cows lowed nearby.

“Thee was not so old when my mother left time,” Elnathan said, “and thee never thought to remarry.”

“That I did not discuss the matter with my son does not mean I did not of think it.”

Elnathan watched his father, awaiting further words, some sign. Samuel Holm sat quietly with hands folded on the table he had made.

I had my last sip of coffee today. The fresh taste of the bitter beans coated in ungodly amounts of syrup pumps and spoonfuls of sugar tasted like ash in my mouth. It was surprising really. I had started everything just like normal, getting up and getting ready for work, letting my dog out of the bedroom to get some water before the morning walk, and then making myself a cup of coffee with my tiny little single-cup coffee machine that pumped out burnt coffee like nobody's business.

It was... like usual, or- almost so, until the fucking drink hit my lips.

I blinked, my nose burning from the taste of it going up it because I couldn't choke it back down. My eyes burned, sugar in my nose didn't help, and the raw heat from throwing up the rest of it crumbled my hopes of a good morning along with the spill of the drink all across my tiled kitchen floor and into my shitty spent carpet, which was now a deeper shade of tan in some places.

"Fuck!"

I gave myself a little rouse to try to jostle back to my senses, smearing my lips with the open palm of my hand before shoving my mouth against arm as I began licking it as if it would rub off the taste. "Fuck!" I screamed again, running my hand over my tongue. "Fuck!" It was awful! The acidic burn of the coffee lingered in ways that I'd never experienced before and I started to panic, trying to get rid of it.

I didn't know what was wrong, but the moment my head swiveled around, I met my father's eyes and he leaned against the cabinet casually.

"What are you doing?"

"I-" I started, trying to give out an excuse. "I was just doing my usual morning!" I stammered out.

"Julian, relax. It's not an interrogation," Dean remarked smoothly. He bent down to pick up the cup, inspecting the situation. "You're just making a lot of noise, and I came out to investigate."

"I wasn't trying to wake you up! I just was drinking and suddenly my coffee tasted like shit! I didn't mean to fucking throw it. It was-"

Dean's shoulders fell as he relaxed. "That's because you can't do that anymore."

"What?" I asked in disbelief. "What? No. It- That fast?" When my dad didn't answer, my hands fell to my sides in defeat. "Well- Well, what am I supposed to do now?"

"Call in for work," Dean said calmly.

"No."

"Julian," Dean said, looking up at him steadily.

He stared at me with that calmness he had that mom and I did not. It unnerved me because I knew he was saying so out of some rationale beyond me.

My gaze flicked away briefly from him, but when I looked back at him, he rose up to his feet. "Don't argue, just call in for work." he said firmly, though his tone held little to no aggression to it. My dad wasn't the aggressive type. "We can figure something out, but you're not going to do it today. You're just going to end up getting in an accident or worse."

I could see the decisiveness in my father's eyes. The kind that I didn't have enough gusto to muscle up against. I wished I did, but he always won out on being more stubborn than me in ways that baffled me. "Dammit, this sucks," I grumbled under my breath.

"It just means we have to talk a little. Go back over how this works," Dean said. He put the cup in the sink before grabbing a few paper towels. "Why don't you go grab the mop, and after we clean this up you can sit down. Maybe give your dog some attention."

I begrudgingly complied, shifting my gaze away from him. This wasn't where I wanted to be, but it was where I was. My hands grappled for the dispenser, ripping the roll until it spat out probably more than my mom would have thought was necessary to throw it down on the floor. "I still think it's stupid," I breathed. When my dad didn't answer, I sighed. Tonight, I was going to be going over the ground rules that I wasn't sure I wanted to take on.

One, no more day-walking.

Two, no more regular foods. The idea that it would take time to build a tolerance into blood-infused foods sucked, but I was adamant to have my way. Even if my mom said that the blood packs were going to taste a lot shittier than than the real deal.

I was going to get my coffee one way or the other. Or, at least, I hoped I would. It was the closest thing to the energy drinks I was allowed anymore since I had binged those until I got cut off.

My head turned the side, my eyes closing as I shook my head slowly. Man, today was going to really suck.

A small town in Idaho, on the outskirts, lives an...artist...of sorts, and meets a reporter who gets more than he bargained for, and the end might come, or will it? MUAH HAHAHAHAHA!!!! From the mind of one of our talents, comes this irresistible Halloween romp. Here's the link to the narration of said romp on Prose. Radio, narrated by Jeff Stewart, who is whereabouts unkown in the States, in a room where he was able to send in the audio of this story by our own WilkinsonRiling.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqIX7_Ddllg

Also, he asked us to mention this: Another talent here on the site, has a book set for release on 11/22, so go here and pre-order your copy, and give this Appalachian poet some love. He's fantastic!

https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/in-the-throes-of-beauty-by-kevin-d-lemaster/

Piece feaured in the video:

https://www.theprose.com/post/780635/the-halloween-legend-of-jack-mccarver

To keep the tradition in closing traditional:

And.

As always...

Thank you for being here.

-The Prose, team

The sign for Lucky’s Pub squeaked above him in the night wind. Its hanging plastic had green letters, a foaming mug, and the head of a buck with many points.

Jameson could not see Sadie anywhere. He had barely seen her in the bar, but she had spoken in a low voice, her voice, distinct among the chatter and Kenny Chesney. “I want to see you,” she said, and the heat in his groin burned through his tether to reason. He had closed his tab and rushed to this empty curb.

Twenty-four years ago he failed out of college and came to see Sadie. Two days later he left a note, her, his uncle’s house and Francisville. He got to a restaurant on the West Coast and traded charm for gratuities until a regular asked if he’d considered selling real estate. That was 1998, in Seattle.

He had thought little of Sadie since. Jameson had money to burn in a hot town and he married one of the girls. He did not think of her during the flings that preceded and followed the divorce.

He had sent his RSVP for the reunion on a whim. When the reminder came and he no longer had a plus-one, he tried to find Sadie on Facebook, but then she appeared in Lucky’s and said, “I want to see you.” She had turned to the door almost as soon as she spoke, but she was Sadie. He remembered her voice and the smell of her, and Jameson looked down the road outside the pub and knew where she was.

The Route 66 Diner was a house beside a vacant lot; in some distant decade Sadie’s grandparents had knocked down interior walls in favor of tables, on which they served blueberry pancakes and home fries to loggers. Jameson and Sadie had fucked atop one of those tables on a night when their houses weren’t free and Sadie slipped the key from her mother’s purse. He had poured syrup across her torso and fucked her and she had loved it, and he had masturbated to the memory until he found other girls in his semester at Penn State.

The gutter had pulled away from the porch roof. Faded block letters still read “Route 66 Diner” with “Truckers Welcome” in cursive below, but time or blunt force had torqued the posts and sign into bent ruin. A Coldwell Banker sign on a smaller post offered showings by appointment; it was old, too. When Jameson turned the doorknob it rattled in his hand.

The air smelled stale and he could make out little in the dim light from the street, but peering to the far wall he saw an outline seated on a table, their table. “It’s been a long time, Sadie,” he said.

The fluorescent lights burned his eyes when she flicked them on, and his vision adjusted gradually. “It has, Jameson,” she said. There was no ambient noise here, and she spoke with a smoker’s sandpaper voice. She had patchy gray hair, gray and mottled skin, and a body too thin to look well.

Jameson sat on the next table. He ran his finger through its coat of dust for an excuse to look away. “How long’s it been closed?”

“A few months after Mom died. I hurt my back and gave up.”

“When was that?”

“You got me pregnant, Jameson.”

She lit a cigarette in the silence. As she exhaled he found his tongue. “What?”

“That time right before you left. You got me pregnant.”

“You never told me.”

Her laugh merged into a cough. “You never cared.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Named him Jameson.”

His gurgling nausea thickened, and to suppress it he yelled, “Why would you do that? Why didn’t you find me?”

“I pictured the way you’d cry when you came home and met our son. Then I wised up, and his name was to remind everybody of what you did.”

“Where is he?”

Sadie’s hand trembled as she raised the cigarette. She breathed it deeply before answering. “The cemetery off Belmont Road. Electrical fire. He was six.”

The fluorescents’ hum grew loud while Sadie smoked and Jameson bent his head toward his knees and a carpet stain. It took him a long time to perform the calculation, but the answer was 22.

He asked, “Where were you when it happened?”

“A few thousand miles closer than you were.”

That angered him. He met her glare; she blew smoke toward him. “I don’t believe you,” he said.

She snorted. “Ask around.”

“What do you want?”

“You owe me, Jameson.”

“Bullshit.”

“Yeah, bullshit. A mountain of it. You’re king of the mountain now, aren’t you, Jameson? Go off twenty-four years, buy some drinks at Lucky’s, make sure everybody sees your wallet and fancy watch?” She leaned forward and pointed her cigarette at him. “You owe me, Jameson.” She put out the butt on the table.

Unanswerable questions drifted through the stagnant air. He had to leave; he stood and opened his wallet. He counted and placed the bills on Sadie’s table. “I have $132.”

He waited for release. She watched him with her hollowed eyes and made no move toward the cash.

“There still an ATM outside the station?” he asked. She nodded. “I’ll be back.”

“Sure,” she said. Sadie pulled another cigarette from her pack. “I’ll be right here. Waiting.”

A traffic light hung over the four-way. It wavered in the wind and blinked red onto the gas station and the dollar store across the road. Jameson inserted his card. His finger hovered over the withdrawal button but pushed “Check Balance.” He turned back toward the sidewalk. There was a pet and garden store, a lot with U-Hauls, Lucky’s, a few houses, secondhand and hardware stores with apartments above. The diner waited in the dark beyond. A church needing paint stood just past the intersection; its sign advertised Sunday’s sermon, “The Meek Shall Inherit the Earth.”

He ripped his card from the machine and strode away. Jameson pictured Sadie, moaning with syrup on her young breasts and Sadie, gaunt, cackling smoke from the end of the table as he thrust, and he put down his foot and his rented car sped down Route 66.

Kooky King Kong kapellmeister

just jabbering gibberish (A - K)

Again, another awkward ambitious

arduous attempt at alphabetically

arranging atrociously ambiguously

absolutely asinine avoidable alliteration.

Because...? Basically bonafide belching,

bobbing, bumbling, bohemian beastie boy,

bereft bummer, bleeds blasé blues, begetting

bloviated boilerplate bildungsroman,

boasting bougainvillea background.

Civil, clever clover chomping, cheap

chipper cool cutthroat clueless clodhopper,

chafed centenary, codifies communication

cryptically, challenging capable, certifiably

cheerful college coed.

Divine dapper daredevil, deft, destitute,

doddering, dorky dude, dummkopf Dagwood

descendent, dagnabbit, demands daring

dedicated doodling, dubious, dynamite,

deaf dwarf, diehard doppelganger, Doctor

Demento double, declaring depraved

daffy dis(pense)able dufus Donald Duck

derailed democracy devastatingly defunct.

Eccentric, edified English exile,

effervescent, elementary, echinoderm

eating egghead, Earthling, excretes,

etches, ejaculates, effortless exceptional

emphatic effluvium enraging eminent,

eschatologically entranced, elongated

elasmobranchii, emerald eyed Ebenezer,

effectively experiments, emulates epochal

eczema epidemic, elevating, escalating,

exaggerating enmity, enduring exhausting

emphysema.

Freed fentanyl fueled, fickle figurative

flippant fiddler, fiendishly filmy, fishy,

fluke, flamboyantly frivolous, fictitious,

felonious, fallacious, fabulously fatalistic,

flabbergasted, fettered, flustered, facile,

faceless, feckless, financially forked,

foregone, forlorn futile fulsome, freckled

feverish, foo fighting, faulty, freezing,

fleeting famously failing forecaster, flubs

"FAKE" fundamental fibber fiat, fabricating

fiery fissile fractured fios faculties.

Gamesomeness goads gawky, gingerly,

goofily graceful, grandiloquent gent, gallant,

genteel, geico, guppy gecko, gabbling gaffes,

gagging, gamboling, gestating, gesticulating,

garlic, gnashing, gobbling, gyrating,

gruesomely grinning, grappling, gnomadic

giggly, grubby, gastrointestinally grumpy

gewgaw gazing gesticulating guy,

geographically generically germane,

gungho, grave gremlin, grumbling, guiding,

guaranteeing, guerilla gripped gatling guns

ginning gumpshun.

Hello! Herewith halfway harmless hazmat,

haphazard haggard, hectored, hastily,

hurriedly, harriedly hammered, handsomely

hackneyed, heathen, hellbent hillbilly, hirsute,

hidden hippie, huffy humanoid, hexed, heady,

Hellenistic, holistic, hermetic, hedonistic

heterosexual Homo sapiens historical heirloom,

homeless, hopeful, holy, hee haw heretical hobo.

Indefatigable, iconographic, iconic, idealistic,

idyllic, inimitable, idiosyncratic, ineffable,

irreverently issuing idiotic, indifferent, inert,

ineffectual, ingeniously iniquitous, immaterial,

insignificant, indubitable, inexplicable, ignoble

itches, ineffectually illustriously illuminating

immovable infused ichthyosaurus implanted

inside igneous intrusions immensely

imperturbable improbable.

Jovial jabbering jinxed January jokester

just jimmying jabberwocky

justifying jangling jarring juvenile jibberish

jubilantly jousting jittering

jazzy jawbreaking jumble

justifying, jostling, Jesus;

junior jowly janissary joyful Jekyll

joined jumbo Jewess jolly Jane;

jammed jello junket jiggled

jeopardized jingled jugs.

Kooky knucklehead klutz

knowingly kneaded, kicked, killed

knobby kneed kleptomanic.

In a town that lay somewhere between the world of waking and the realm of forgotten dreams, there was a man who sold sunsets. His shop perched on the edge of a jagged cliff, where the sea sighed against the rocks far below, and the sky burned with the fading hues of day. The shop had no sign, no lights, and yet every evening, just as the first stars dared to shimmer in the twilight, people would arrive, drawn by a longing they couldn’t quite name.

Aurelius, the shopkeeper, moved like a whisper through his dimly lit shop, his silver hair glowing faintly in the dusk. He was not just a merchant but a craftsman of moments, an alchemist of light and shadow. Each bottle on his shelves held a piece of the sky—amber glass shimmering with the fire of a desert sunset, midnight-blue vials deep as the endless ocean, and rose-gold flasks that captured the tender blush of dawn just as it kissed the night away. To gaze into one of his bottles was to lose oneself in a beauty that felt almost familiar, like a half-remembered dream.

But those who came did not merely seek pretty things. They were drawn by a deeper need—an ache to capture a moment that had slipped through their fingers, a hope to relive something beautiful that had once seemed eternal. For a price, Aurelius would take the dying light of the day and weave it into something tangible. But the cost was not measured in gold or silver. His sunsets came at a price more precious than money—a memory, an emotion, a piece of the soul.

The exchange was always the same: a fading recollection in return for a fragment of the sky. An old woman surrendered the memory of her first kiss, long forgotten but still sweet; a young man traded the laughter of a friend lost to time. They would hold the bottles in trembling hands, a light that flickered just out of reach, and walk away with a glimmer in their eyes, never quite aware of what had been taken from them.

For Aurelius knew that nothing was truly free, and the heart’s deepest desires always came with a cost. He himself had once paid dearly, though he no longer remembered what it was he had given away.

One evening, as the sky bled into shades of crimson and violet, a woman entered his shop. Her steps were hesitant, and her gaze wandered, as though she was not entirely sure where she was. She wore sorrow like a second skin, and her eyes held the weight of untold stories and dreams that had slipped through her fingers. She approached the counter with a slow, quiet grace, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

“I’d like to buy a sunset,” she murmured, her voice as soft as the evening breeze. “But I have nothing left to give.”

Aurelius looked at her, truly looked, as though for the first time in ages he was seeing beyond the surface of the world. Her eyes, though weary, still flickered with the faintest ember of hope—a light so fragile it could have been mistaken for a shadow. His hand faltered as he reached for a bottle, and he felt a pang of something he had long since forgotten—compassion, or perhaps it was recognition.

“You have already given more than enough,” he replied, his voice trembling like the last notes of a lullaby. Without another word, he selected a bottle of the clearest crystal, a vessel that held not a hint of color. He carried it to the edge of the cliff, where the sky seemed to dissolve into the sea, and uncorked the bottle with a reverence reserved for lost things.

The sunset spilled forth, not as light but as something more—an indescribable warmth that seeped into the very fabric of her being. It filled the hollows within her, the spaces carved out by grief and longing, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she breathed. The air tasted like stardust and saltwater, like a lullaby sung in a language she almost remembered.

As the light faded from the sky, leaving only the indigo embrace of night, the woman turned to Aurelius with tears glistening like dew. “Thank you,” she whispered, though the words seemed impossibly small for the enormity of the gift she had received.

Aurelius only nodded, his gaze lingering on the horizon as though searching for something beyond it. He watched as she walked away, her silhouette melting into the night, and felt a quiet emptiness where the light had once been. For as long as he could remember, he had traded beauty for memories, moments for the pieces of people's lives they could not bear to keep. But this time, he had given away more than a sunset; he had given a part of himself.

That night, Aurelius closed the shop earlier than usual. As the stars began to glow above the darkened sea, he took down a bottle that had gathered dust on the highest shelf—a bottle that held a sunset long forgotten, wrapped in a memory he could not name. He uncorked it slowly, letting the light fill the shop one last time.

And as he watched the sunset dance within the glass, Aurelius wondered if, perhaps, there was a way to mend what was lost—to find again the beauty in simply watching the day slip into night, without needing to hold on to it.

In the end, what would you trade for a piece of the sky?

© 2024 A.M. Roberts. All rights reserved.

The rain fell in heavy sheets, pounding the cobblestone streets with a relentless fury. I stood at the edge of the city square, hidden in the shadows cast by the towering buildings. My eyes locked onto the figure standing in the centre—the so-called hero of this tale, bathed in the soft glow of a streetlight. His armour gleamed with the promise of justice, and his sword hung at his side, waiting for the moment he would draw it against me. He didn’t know it yet, but this was the endgame.

For both of us.

People always speak of heroes and villains as if they are roles assigned at birth, as if some are born with the light inside them while others are forever consumed by the dark. But that’s not the truth. It never has been. You see, I was once the hero of this story, too. I fought for what was right, stood for justice, saved lives. But somewhere along the way, I made a choice. I chose to become the villain.

And I did so willingly.

I stepped forward into the light, my boots splashing in the puddles below, each step echoing in the silence of the night. The hero's gaze snapped toward me, his hand hovering near his sword, but he didn’t move. Not yet.

“Why?” His voice was steady, but I could hear the confusion, the disbelief. He still couldn’t understand why I had turned my back on everything we once stood for.

I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. “Because I had to.”

He frowned, taking a step toward me. “Had to? You didn’t have to do anything! You chose this! You betrayed us!”

Ah, betrayal. It always comes down to betrayal in stories like this, doesn’t it? But there was no betrayal. Not really.

“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I did choose this. But not for the reasons you think.”

His hand gripped the hilt of his sword now, but still he hesitated, as if waiting for an explanation that would make sense of it all. I suppose I owed him that much.

“I was once like you,” I began, my voice low and measured. “I believed in justice, in fighting for the greater good. I believed that we were saving the world. But then I saw it—what we were really doing. We weren’t saving anyone. We were keeping the balance, yes, but only by making sure the cycle of suffering never ended.”

The hero’s brow furrowed, his confusion deepening. “What are you talking about?”

I let out a soft laugh, but it was filled with bitterness. “Don’t you see? Every time we saved the day, we only prolonged the suffering of the people we were trying to protect. The enemies we defeated—new ones would always rise in their place. The people we saved—they would suffer again, whether from famine, war, or sickness. And we, the so-called heroes, were nothing but tools to maintain this broken world. We kept the system alive.”

His sword was out now, gleaming in the pale light. “So what? You think you’re better than the system? You think you can change it by becoming a monster?”

“I think I can end it,” I said coldly.

That was the truth of it. I had realized that the only way to truly break the cycle was to destroy everything. To burn it all down and let something new rise from the ashes. Yes, I had made myself the villain—because only a villain could destroy the world. Only a villain could do what needed to be done.

“I didn’t want this,” I continued, taking another step forward. “But you and I both know that heroes can’t change the world. They can only preserve it.”

His face was pale now, the weight of my words sinking in. He didn’t want to believe it. Of course, he didn’t. That was the curse of heroes—they always believed there was a better way, even when the world showed them over and over again that there wasn’t.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered, shaking his head. “There’s always another way.”

“No,” I said softly, “there isn’t.”

I moved faster than he expected. My blade was in my hand before he could react, and it was over in seconds. His sword clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees, blood pooling around him. His eyes were wide with shock, staring up at me as if he still couldn’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and for a moment, I meant it. “But this is the only way.”

As he collapsed, the rain washing away the blood, I stood there, alone in the dark, my heart heavy but resolute.

I was the villain.

Because I had made myself one.

And I would end the world, even if it meant damning myself in the process.

Hey thank you all for reading! I want to apologies for not posting more of my writing but I assure you I have a lot more I intend to release, just going to measure it out so I don't run out if my motivation hits a dry spell. But as always, any feedback is more then welcome!

PROLOGUE

PLAZA MEXICO

The crowd had not yet been coaxed into frenzy, but the volume in

the largest bullring in Mexico was like a rising tide and the hum

pushed an electric buzz into the air throughout the arena.

The lancing third or the tercio de varas had begun. The bull

charged at the picador, the man atop a white and brown horse, as he

galloped by and tossed his lance into the creature’s back.

The sharp end pierced the thick hide, the bull bucked and let out

a huff of air and a moan. The man on horseback circled the bull, the

blood dripping down its side barely visible against the dark black

fur. The bull swung its head from side to side at its attacker and

then charged, its large horns grazing the peto, the protective

covering that shielded the horse from harm. The strike had been

purpose filled and if it had not been for the peto, the horse would

have been gored.

The matador stood at a safe distance continuing to watch the bull. Drawing from the animal’s movements which side the bull would favor, thus allowing him to approximate his own future attacks and defenses.

A second picador rushed in and planted a secondary lance into the

hump of muscle just beyond the bull’s neck. These stabs were not to

kill the beast, but their goal was to weaken the hard, dense muscle.

Eventually the strength of the muscles would fade and it would give the bull a considerable struggle to hold his own head high. In the

end, it would be how the animal would die, as if it purposefully

offered the neck to the matador for the killing stroke.

The matador flashed his red cape and the eyes of the bull caught

the movement and lunged after it. The matador gracefully swept the

cape aside and spun his body avoiding contact for the third time

during the bout. And the crowd roared in unison: OLE!

After a few more feints of the cape and his deft maneuvers the

second stage of the battle began: tercio de banderillas.

Three banderillas began to gain the animal’s fury as they stuck and moved and dodged the bull’s attacks. Each attempting to stab two

of their sharp barbed sticks into the shoulder muscles. Again, this is

not to kill, but to slow the beast further.

The red cape fluttered from the breeze and hand movements of the

matador and the bull engaged him again. This time the matador twisted to the opposite direction, the one that was the animal’s stronger side. A true show of courage and pierced the bull with his own stick.

The crowd thundered in their approval.

The time had come for the final part of the duel between bull and

man: tercio de muerte. The third of death. This would be the final

stand for the bull. This would be where the matador lived to see a new day and the bull did not.

Victor Calavera, the matador, entered the ring alone for what

would be the final time of the day. He was hot and perspiring greatly

from the sun above and the exertion of the contest of superiority. The

crowd cheered and he could feel the rhythmic pulse in his feet, both

from the vibrations from the crowd surrounding him and from the hoof

beats of El Rebelde. He thought to himself; the bull had been aptly

named and had put on quite a show today, but as Victor could tell the

animal had grown tired. Now was almost his time to bask in the glory

once again. He still needed to run El Rebelde down perhaps a small

fraction more, but not too much. The crowd would not be pleased if he killed a near defenseless animal, he was to show his victory over a

worthy adversary.

Another charge came and he stabbed at El Rebelde with his wooden sword. This too was for show, to indicate his prowess and to

antagonize the bull further. Rebelde ran at him again, followed by a

second and third. Now, it was time he thought. He exchanged the wooden sword for the real one, the estoque de veridad and readied himself. He initiated Rebelde, almost forcing the bull to attack and the bull complied. Victor Calavera twisted with near effortlessness and struck true as he felt the blade slide into his opponent, knowing well from experience it had entered the heart.

El Rebelde had been bested and slumped to the dirt releasing his

final breath into the earth below.

The arena had come alive. The cheers so loud and blending

together that Victor could only register a distinct whistle here and

there. He bowed to the crowd and the roar intensified. He turned and

bowed again, and then the crowd became silent. He was confused. Had he not entertained them. He opened his eyes and gazed upon the crowd. But it was evident that all eyes were fixed on one thing, and it was not him. He turned slowly and what he saw threw his mind into discord. El Rebelde was standing again. But something was different in the animal this time. He looked fresh. He looked strong. He head was held high, and his fierce eyes were glaring directly at Victor.

Gathering himself quickly, he grabbed his cape and flaunted it

about. He began thinking, perhaps his kill stroke had been slightly

off. The bull continued to stare, and then walked closer to him as if

the mere thought of charging the farthest from El Rebelde’s mind.

Victor continued to feint with the cape, Rebelde’s focus still upon

only him, the cape an afterthought. The distance had been closed to

the point where he could almost taste Rebelde’s breath and smell the

blood in the air.

The bull charged, and tilted its head down and to the left in an attempt to stab him with his horns as it would bring his head up and

to the right. Victor spun left to avoid the collision, but something

changed. But then something remarkable occurred, El Rebelde faked his movements, if that were even possible, just when his head began moving to the right the bull shifted its footing and struck to the left. The horn tore through soft flesh and Victor felt the innards of his belly shift. The horn continued rip through tissue, disemboweling him.

He felt the ground rush up towards him. He was near to the point

of passing out but managed to look up and see the giant frame of the

black bull hovering over him. He heard screaming in the distance but

it seemed so far away. He could hear voices yelling at each other. It

was the picadors and banderillas. They were coming to his aid.

It was then that he looked into the bull’s eyes, and saw something. Something that was there, and perhaps something that shouldn’t be. The eyes. They were dead eyes, as if deep inside they held, nothing. He seemed to be watching him. Watching him die. Victor had never envisioned the tables turning like this.

The bull reared up and brought the full weight of its body upon

him, crushing his chest cavity. His bones snapped like twings under

the assault.

The audience in the arena had never seen ferociousness like this. The previous frenzy had turned into hysteria as the bull continued to

trample the matador into the ground. The display didn’t stop even as the picadors and the banderillas attempted to draw his focus, El

Rebelde's attention on Victor Calavera was unfaltering. The matador’s screams had long since stopped and finally so did El Rebelde. The black beast stood unmoving in the dust cloud that had formed around him and the decimated body of Victor Calavera. Behind the brown cloudthe hollow mask of El Rebelde glared at the crowd and then as if passing through the eye of a storm; all was quiet and the bull dropped dead, for the second time that day.

This is from my current work in progress. Hopefully I can finish and publish this novel in the upcoming future.

My mind is a lunatic's attic, filled with the rusty, dusty, moldy, moth-eaten, cracked, and bent brick-a-brac of foolishness, folly, and general fuckery. It needs to be cleaned out, but who knows, I might need that list of synonyms for, the word, "Penis" that I've carefully curated and committed to memory someday.