Green eyes, like the light of springtime days,

In them the world drowns, like drops of morning dew,

And her gaze — like a gentle stream,

Whispering of the mysteries in the quiet hue.

Green eyes that shine in twilight’s shade,

Like emeralds filled with a fiery glow,

And every moment spent with her,

Feels like eternity, endless and slow.

You see in them the forest and the distant seas,

And the rustling leaves on a golden afternoon,

Green eyes — a mystery of days,

That brings light to your soul, soft as a tune.

Victoria Lunar

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.

The rain poured down in torrents, drumming against the windows as if trying to break through, while inside, I sat motionless, staring at the flickering candle that seemed to hold the last shred of warmth in the cold, silent room. Every drop felt like a heartbeat, a reminder that the world outside was still alive, even if everything inside felt like it had stopped.

Toasted Marshmallow Day

Frankenstein Day

National Grief Awareness Day

Three opposites. Oh well. I’m on it.

Toasted Marshmallow Day

During eleven out of the twelve months of the year, we enjoy a wide range of interesting, if not strange holidays. When we get to August, there is a major shortage of big holidays to celebrate. Perhaps that is why many Europeans take the month of August off for vacation.

Perhaps it as just as well that there are no big holidays to compete with National Marshmallow Toasting Day. After all, how could any holiday compare with this day.

Enjoy today or tonight by a campfire or bonfire, toasting a big, soft, sticky, and sweet marshmallow, or two, or three, or however many you can eat. Summer would not be the same without a campfire and this great campfire treat. Summer is short. Summer is good. Let's enjoy it while it is still here. Toast a marshmallow and forget about everything else.

And don't forget to make a few S'mores.

"I can resist everything except temptation."—Oscar Wilde

Frankenstein Day

Doctor Frankenstein created a living monster from body parts of the dead. In his laboratory, he made the monster come to life. Frankenstein is the name given to the monster, named after his creator. There are three known Frankenstein "days". As a result, a there's more than a little confusion. We have Frankenstein Friday, National Frankenstein Day, and Frankenstein Day. Each one of them is a monster of a day. Let's clarify these three days for you.

Frankenstein Day is on August 30. This day is in honor of author Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley who was born on August 30,1797. She wrote the book "Frankenstein "in 1818. This day in in honor of her birth.

Frankenstein Friday is the last Friday in October. Originally, we traced some references back to a website on Franken berry cereal, which suggests a commercial origin.

Frankenstein Friday celebrates the birth of Frankenstein and its creator. Frankenstein is one of the best known horror characters, dating back to the 1800's. We can't imagine the Halloween season without the presence of Frankenstein, lurking somewhere in the darkness.

Frankenstein was born in 1818 when Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, at the age of 21, wrote the story "Frankenstein".

Frankenstein's Mother: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Frankenstein's Father: Boris Karloff

To celebrate this day, I suggest you read the novel, or see a Frankenstein movie.

This day was created by Ron McCluskey from Westfield, New Jersey in 1997. Ron's hometown of Westfield, NJ. is also the hometown of Charles Addams, the New York Times magazine cartoonist who created The Addams Family. So, Ron's interest in Frankenstein comes as no surprise.

Ron picked Friday to celebrate this day for the "FR" connection, and because more people can party on Friday than on other night of the week.

Dr. Frankenstein just placed an order on Amazon.

It wasn’t expensive, but I imagine the shipping cost him an arm and a leg.

National Grief Awareness Day

Today recognizes the time it takes to heal from loss doesn’t have a prescribed course and is a reminder closure comes in many forms. When a loved one dies, the void they leave affects everyone differently.

Throughout the day, take stock of those in your life who have been affected by a form of loss. The death of a loved one, a close friend or enduring an extreme change in their lifestyle can trigger grief. When we lose the stability of shelter, a job or a routine we have known for years, we suffer a type of loss that requires closure. Some adjust to these changes easily, and others take time to become familiar with new routines.

Offer to listen to a friend or ask them to join you for a coffee or tea. Send a message letting them know they are never far from your mind. Then, set a date for another visit. If you find you are suffering from grief, know that it’s natural. You’re not alone, and it’s okay to ask for help if you feel your grief is overwhelming.

“Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?”—Terry Pratchett

More Strange Holidays Coming!

216 Blake Way

The Roof Top – 5:11 p.m.

Walking around, he took a glimpse over the edge of the roof and spotted Michael Collins Porsche, as Michael parked it about sixty feet from the building’s entrance. He watched as Michael got out of his car, hit the remote key lock and two whoop=whoops could be heard. He watched, until Michael was out of sight and mentally took it all in.

Unlock the front door. Check mail. Sort mail as he walks to the elevator. Presses elevator door. Waits. Elevator door opens. He enters. Presses his floor. Door closes. Eight seconds later the elevator stops, door opens. Gets off and with key in hand walks to his apartment door. Unlocks it. He’s inside.

Time to pay him a visit.

Apartment 12-A – 5:14 p.m.

He pressed the buzzer and this time he heard activity and footsteps. Even though there is a spy-hole in the door, Michael never chose to use it. The door flew open.

There stood Cliff with the biggest gun Michael ever saw in his life.

“Back up, Michael. I’ll just invite myself in.”

Once inside, Cliff kicked the door closed behind him. Michael could feel a sheen of perspiration clinging to hi shirt, giving him a cold, clammy feeling.

“You can’t be serious, Cliff. If you shoot me, you are facing at least ten years in prison. You would be ruined.”

“I’m already ruined; you self-serving, egotistical cocksucker. And you weren’t too good at that come to think about it.

“What do I get for murder? Life, isn’t it?”

”Cliff, IK know you and I have had our differences, but think about what you are doing. If you pull that trigger\, you will never be a free man, and being gay, you would be used so many times in prison, it would drive you insane.”

“Maybe, maybe not, but you won’t be around to interfere in my life any longer.”

Cliff pulled the hammer back.

“Don’t! Please, don’t, Cliff! “DON’T!”

Michael had mere seconds and they dwindled fast. He had one chance to stop Cliff.

Cliff’s arm straightened, the large .357 Mag lifted and centered on Michael’s chest.

“Never again will I have to put with your interference, your slutty comments about me! Goodbye, Michael!”

Michael made his move as Cliff squeezed the trigger.

Neither man made contact.

Apartment 12-A – 6:31 p.m.

Huey Marx and his F-Team were on site with Officer’s Lucky and Jeremy Sadowski. San ambulance was called to the scene and was later replaced with the meat wagon to take both bodies to the county morgue.

“It’s the oddest thing I have seen in a long time. It appears there was a brief scuffle. Mr. Collins may have been pushed backward or tried to dodge a bullet, and when he fell, the back of his head hit the floor so hard he died as a result of either when his neck broke, or because his right hand was clenched tightly to his shirt, indicating a possible heart attack,” Huey explained to both officers.

“As to the other vic, I would say the gun might have been too much for him to handle. He fired and the recoil pushed him back. Apparently, he lost his footing and fell back against the bar railing, definitely breaking his neck.

“It’s also apparent that our first vic,” looking at his notes, then looked at Lucky and Sadowski, “Collins, had suffered an attack or fell, he would have been fatally wounded or dead if the bullet had penetrated him instead of the wall.

“The bodies are enroute to the County ME. I’ll notify them to have copies of the autopsy reports sent over to you guys as soon as we can.

“This whole thing looks like a bad idea that only got worse in my opinion.”

Baker-Manning Home

111 Homestead – 7:12 p.m.

“Damn. All right, Satchell. Thanks for the heads up.

“Yeah, I imagine the press will be all over this tonight and in the morning. I’ll brief everyone in the meeting tomorrow. Okay. Git it. See you then.”

“I can tell from your end of the conversation things are not so good. Who died?”

Baker looked at him somewhat tired, somewhat depressed.

“The good news is none of my guys. The bad news; a man named Clifford James Potter and our former ADA, Michael Jeffery Collins, were both found dead in Collins apartment less than an hour ago. I’ll have the report on my desk along with the coroner’s workup as well.”

“Collins! My God, that’s going to leave a hole in the state. Why would someone want to kill him?”

“Other than a few dozen men he’s helped put away who are still in prison? I can’t think of anyone, least of all Potter. Satchell did say Potter was recently fired for indiscriminate behavior as he put it. Officers Lucky and Sadowski have clearance to go to Potter’s apartment and look around. Huey’s at the scene and will follow them over to Potter’s for any other possible evidence they can find that might tie this thing together.”

Stevie walked inside the house.

“Hi Mom, hi Ed. You guys need to turn on the TV. Up the street from the Pit-Stop, there is a whole bunch of police cars and ambulances and that. Channel 08 is there, too.”

Ed hit the remote, then pressed 14 for Channel 08.

“As I said, we are live at what is currently being called a twin accidental death. Police aren’t releasing any names at this time, but Channel 08 has learned that the Assistant District Attorney, Michael Collins, lives in this building. We will try to get an interview with him to see what he may be able to tell us.

“As it has been reported, two males were found dead in an upstairs apartment.”

Jennifer Ralston turned her head as she pointed toward the upper floor of the building when she spotted someone she felt she could interview.

“Here comes Huey Marx from the Forensic Crime-Scene Investigation Unit.

“Mr. Marx, is there anything you can tell us, or add to these so-called accidental deaths?”

“Jennifer, from all outward appearances, that is exactly what it appears to be. My office will have more tomorrow morning once we hear from the ME.”

“Were you able to speak with any of the other tenants? Who was it who called the police to the scene?”

“No comment and no comment. We will release a statement after we look at some other information and the ME’s final report. That’s all I can tell you right now.”

“Seems like everyone is rather quiet on this one, Larry.”

As Huey walked away, Larry Miller, inside Channel 08 studios said, “Jennifer, is it true this strange turn of events happened on the second floor?”

“No Larry, it was on the third floor, and once police leave, I will try to get a few statements from the residents, and possibly Mr. Collins, to shed some light as to what happened here.

“I’ll have those interviews and much more at eleven tonight. Back to you, Larry.”

Ed clicked the TV off.

“You know she’ll never get that interview with Collins, but she’ll have it on the news tonight that he was one of the vic’s.”

“No way,” blurted Stevie. “Mr. Collins was killed today?”

“Yes, Bub, and please, don’t say anything to Ellie or your other friends until we get an official confirmation and the investigation under wraps.”

“So who is going to call Blackstone and give him the news?” asked Ed.

“Satchell called the Mayor before me and said she would handle it. I suspect by tomorrow morning we’ll have some sort of press conference and statements will be made then.”

Baker got on her cell and called Channel 08.

“Larry Miller, please. This is Lieutenant Baker calling.”

Fourteen seconds clicked by like an eternity for her.

“Yes, Lieutenant Baker, what can I do for you?”

“As quickly as you can, call Jennifer Ralston and have her back away from the crime scene and—”

“I will not!”

“Yes you will. And you will tell her if she steps one foot near that crime scene, I will consider that tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice and will have her remanded into custody. Have I made myself clear?”

“Quite, Lieutenant. I don’t understand but I will relay your message.”

“Once you have, instruct her to have her come to my office immediately.”

Closing her phone down, she slipped into a pair of loafers and said, “Hopefully, I’ll be back in an hour. I want to diffuse a situation before it happens.”

The Twenty-Second Precinct

Baker’s Office – 7:39 p.m.

“You have never ordered the press away before, Lieutenant. Why now?”

“Answer my questions first, Miss Ralston, and don’t lie to me.

“How many people inside the building did you interview before your boss called you off?”

Very few people when I got the call from the station. You do know this is harassment. You have also violated the first amendment. Our station could sue this department.”

“Just stop and listen to me. If you had stepped out of that elevator onto the third floor, if would be my right to have you arrested. The entire third floor is sealed off and is considered a crime scene. If you had moved five feet in any direction, I would have had you arrested.

“With that said, I am going to give you a piece of information I want you to sit on until the noon news tomorrow. Before then, anything else I can piece together, I will give you as well. We just don’t want certain names revealed tonight. Fair enough?”

“Well, you certainly didn’t have to threaten me or the station; you could have just asked.”

“Sure. Right. Do you want the information or not.”

Jennifer nodded, then broke out a small note pad and pen from her purse.

“The two victims are Clifford James Potter, 41, single. The other is also single, 43 and that is Michael Jeffery Collins.”

Jennifer stopped writing.

“Unreal. Damn! Okay, I get it, now. But you promise to give me all the details tomorrow for the noon news?”

“I said I would, and I will.”

Jennifer left Baker’s office and during the 11 O’clock news she reported, “At this time, there is nothing further to add to my reporting earlier of the accidental death of two males. Two residents I spoke with didn’t have any idea what occurred until after police and rescue services arrived. However, I have it on good authority from an undisclosed source, that I will have copies to all police and autopsy reports; which at that time, I will be able to give you in greater detail the events that did occur, pending notification of their nearest relatives.”

they never tell you how a heart breaks,

the way the blood starts dripping down.

because if I’d have known the pain,

i would never had stayed around. 

I see the parts of you too often,

in someone’s smile or the way they talk,

and my thoughts come back to you,

like hands on a midnight clock.

you see, I think I hear your voice,

behind every corner that I turn, 

so you can imagine the shattering pieces,

when it’s your laugh i beg to unlearn.

they never tell you how a heart breaks,

the way my heart starts beating blue

suffocated by my swollen fingers,

which held on so tight to you. 

I ran to distant corners,

to forget our fantazised dreams,

but now I see them in hollow mirrors,

and hear your whispers as ehoing screams.

it brought me to my knees,

when I passed a stranger along the way,

who smelled of your faint whiskey,

putting our favorite songs on replay.

they never tell you how a heart breaks,

or how its dies alone,

forgotten by past heartaches,

with no one to call it’s own.

So i guess that was a lie, 

because if I got to chose once more,

I’d choose you a hundred times,

to fix the heart you tore.

But here I am now,

in this strange and unknown land,

and I wish on the stars for you,

for one last adventure to go unplanned. 

so I hope you think of me,

and see me in everything you do

I think we’re stuck in a twisted mirror

because everywhere I look, there’s you.

#prose #poetry #poet