His mesmerizing eyes burned like fire; smoldering coals of orange and red flame heated his concentrated gaze. Dark rings encircled his weary eyes and tiny hairs sprouted from his slender face. I wasn’t quite sure what to think of him when I first caught a glimpse of his remarkable features, for his illusive charm tugged on my heart. Looking across the lively restaurant, I could feel inquisitive eyes staring a hole in the back of my head. As I looked at his irregular features, examining his black and red velvet tie, I saw him pull a cigarette from his jacket pocket. I found it impossible to blink. I didn’t want to overlook an unusual motion or gesture. A purple flame danced on the end of his Zippo lighter.

            “I didn’t believe you’d come,” he grinned. His dark hair curled around his small ears and he crossed his legs. “Most people are afraid of me.”

 I could feel my hands trembling uncontrollably. Although I found his darkened eyes to be quite terrifying and misleading, I could not pull my eyes away. His appealing wickedness was quite warm and welcoming. My clammy hands gripped my purse.

“You’ve come prepared, I assume,” he said.  “You can always take notes if you’d like, although I’m not going to tell you the story of my life. You’re already familiar with that song and dance. We’ve danced to it before.”
            “I’m sorry,” I whispered, taking a deep breath. Muffled whispers and clinking glasses excited my eardrums. “I’m nervous.”

“Just like your first time?” he said. “You’ll do fine. I promise.”

A shadow of disbelief crawled over my face. The shadow rested over my glassy eyes for several excruciating moments.

“I want the job,” I said. “I’m the perfect contender.”

“You’re a woman,” he said. “Does that concern you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Why did you agree to come and meet me here in this fine restaurant? Do you know how dangerous I am?”

An older gentleman, dressed unadventurously, approached our table. His clean-shaven face resembled a polished marble stone. I watched as his eyes stared at my Beelzebub.

“What can I get for you?” he asked. “Would you like to try our continental breakfast with coffee and milk? We’re also serving croissants with sweet jam, cream, and chocolate filling. Or do you prefer yogurt or cereal?”

The waiter was more than a little anxious. The black pen in his hand almost escaped from his twitching fingers. I noticed that he wouldn’t look my Beelzebub in the eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re going to eat,” he said. “You need to be fully energized before I give you a tour of the place. It’s very big. I want you to be prepared.”

“Just got hired,” the waiter inquired. “That’s great. I need a new job myself. They’re cutting people as we speak.”

“We’ll have your continental breakfast. Thank you.”

The waiter appeared to be overwhelmed by the intensity of my boss’s alarming voice. Scribbling on his green pad with his pen, the waiter twisted around and disappeared behind a door in the back of the restaurant. More people poured in through the doors. An aged lady, curved by the decay of time and consumed by some kind of uninvited suspicion, wandered over to the rectangular windows and stared at me for a few minutes. I assumed, although I wasn’t quite certain because she appeared to be content and composed, that she could hear every word Beelzebub was saying to me. Resting my hands on my knee and ignoring the gaze of the old woman near the windows, I cleared my throat, searched the room for our waiter, and listened to the stifled mutters of idle chatter. A flicker of exasperation illuminated the burning coals within Beelzebub’s eyes. Malformed shadows skipped along the ornamental walls of chipped plaster flowers and grapes. Questioning stares attacked my consciousness.

“I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into,” he said. “You’re so young and attractive. What kind of wickedness are you hiding beneath your angelic face and enchanting eyes? Are you afraid of me?”

“No,” I whispered. “I do not wish to expose my wickedness or my isolated wrath. I’m seduction. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

His laughter escaped from the most perfect mouth. Orange and red flames pushed through his pours and devoured the hairs on his arms. Raising his eyebrows and smirking, he reached out and placed his charming hand on my arm. I dropped my purse.

“What are you doing?”

He placed something in the palm of my hand.

“You’re hired,” he whispered. “Your poison is intoxicating to my acute senses. I’ve given you the key to Hell.”

I could feel the heavy thing in my hand; unpleasant images and deafening screams crawled up my hand and rested beneath the blanket of my troubled soul. The small skeleton key smoldered in the palm of my hand.

“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve chosen intelligently. But, you may wonder, why am I terrified of this place?”

He nodded his head.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to tame the demons and the damned,” I said. “Immoral lightening will illuminate the blood soaked clouds and the red sand will absorbed guiltless blood. Am I strong enough to guard Hell while you’re away? I’m mortal.”

The old lady disappeared into the glass. Beelzebub smiled.

“You’re going to see things that’ll tarnish your spirit and dampen your dehydrated passion. Hell will undoubtedly revitalize your lifeless ghost. I’d love to feel you from the inside. Although my fire may singe your brittle heart, it is a pleasure beyond pleasure. Would you like experience such a happiness?”

“Yes,” I said. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Our waiter pushed a golden trey across the vacuumed floor, organized the food, and poured coffee into our cups. The smell of ham and yogurt tickled my taste buds.

“Enjoy your meal,” the waiter said.

When the waiter vanished behind the doors, Beelzebub looked down at the food and scowled.

“Waste of time,” he said.

The food disappeared.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“It’s already in your stomach.”

“I see.”

“I thought I could save some precious time,” he said. “Time is a precious thing. I have watched time destroy men. I never imagined that the hands on a clock could have so much power over fragile souls. They’re so flimsy. I’ve grown so weary of mortals. I’ve been misquoted and ferociously antagonized by hypocritical fundamentalists. Hell, I don’t even think Dante painted an accurate picture of the things he witnessed.”

“I thought he was a poet,” I said.

“Indeed.”

“It’s all true?”

“Most of it.”

“What about Milton?”

“Yes.”

Pride punished him. He was far too intelligent and striking. He smelled like fire and I knew that he tasted even better. The scent of burning leaves floated in the air. Most of the mortals in the restaurant could not smell the fragrance of my Beelzebub. Harrowing whispers and childish screams drifted throughout the room. Mortal ears did not appreciate the melodious chorus of my Beelzebub’s Hell. Melancholy violins peeled away the joy from my heart and a soulful piano solo accompanied the mournful violins.

“The music of Hell is weeping at your beauty,” he said. “You have captured the heart of my demons. You’re worthy of commemoration. I will burn your heart and choke the hatred from your ghost. You’re my poet.”

“Perfect love,” I said. “I don’t know if such a love belongs to me.”

“While I’m away you shall sleep in my bed and smell my scent. Demonic choirs will attend to your broken heart. I don’t imagine that I could’ve discovered a better guardian. Poet’s speak things into existence and command the elements. I should be afraid of you.”

His teeth looked like bleached bone, pretty white and straight. All of his striking features moved with the shadows on the walls and ceiling.

“You used to watch me sleep,” I said. “When I was a little girl. You’d soothingly touch my face and whisper in my ear. I’ve always been in love with you. My parents thought it was taboo. I welcomed your presence like a familiar friend, like a fanatical lover born to shelter the sorrow from happiness. You’re my rain cloud. You create the spark to ignite my flaming poetry.”

He closed his eyes. Smelling the scent of burning sorrow and lost guilt, I watched as the walls crumbled and the tables melted into darkness. Clocks stopped. Floorboards moaned and iniquitous ghosts wandered into the decomposed restaurant. The skeleton of the restaurant appeared to be shaped by some imaginative demon. Ashes fell like snowflakes.

“I’ve walked with many poets,” he said. “I’ve shared words with many great men. It is exceptionally arduous to guard Hell. I need a break. I will return sooner than you think. Don’t get too comfortable. I will be watching you.”

“Where are you going?”

“On vacation,” he said. “I leave both my fractured heart and key with you. I’m certain you’ll find Hell beautiful.”

            The rotten floorboards and charred walls darkened. Warmth exploded from the fiery shadows and hapless figures quivered at the sight of my Beelzebub’s face. My fingers danced along his stomach and stopped at his belt buckle. I wanted to simply feel his undomesticated wrath from within my saturated cavity. Immoral thoughts did not restrain my wild passions.

            “Youthful and ancient,” I whispered. “Fires of manhood and poetic song.”

            We wrestled with the shadows and tumbled against the walls of Hell. Memorable explosions erupted from our joined bodies.

            “When all of this is over,” he said. “You will wake up in Hell.”

            The foundations of the universe cracked and shifted. Darkness raped my spirit and I enjoyed it. I watched as envious demons reached for my key and I pulled away. Poets smiled at my unwholesomeness. The old lady disturbed my playtime and promised to cradle me with light. I denied her. It was over.

            I looked around the restaurant and realized that my Beelzebub was gone. I could almost feel him inside me, temperate, adoring, and immortal.

            I saw the waiter standing in corner of the restaurant.

            “Check please,” I said.

            I held the key in my hands.

            Hell. The flames of trepidation and unwholesomeness consumed the uprooted trees of the land, and the corroded gates near the cemeteries of darkness wept at the beauty of darkness.  Demons galloped along the streets, screaming at those mortal souls who challenged the wicked laughter pouring out from the unhinged gates of my Beelzebub’s kingdom. Although I could not gather the audacity to look out the window of the restaurant, I heard the echo of pandemonium outside. Regrettably, however, I had accepted the key to hell without thinking about the penalty of chaos and disorder. Had I known that my own place of contentment, my own dwelling was hell?

            Malformed silhouettes crossed the closed windows. Their bent figures, mutilated by time and ravaged by the fires of hatred, slammed against the door and scratched at the walls. Without thinking about the demons wandering the streets or the untamable beasts running through the city, I watched as Hitler strolled along New Jersey Avenue, beckoning his throng of unthinking conformists. They marched down Broadway and disappeared beyond the colossal buildings on the horizon. Snakes, rats, and spiders covered the ceiling. As I pulled away from the door, I saw Caligula’s slender face staring back at me. The schizophrenic emperor of Rome had been freed from the dungeons of my Beelzebub. Whispers of discontent and mournfulness filled the room. Nero, the fifth emperor of Rome wandered into the restaurant and sat down near a naked woman.

            Nero gave his thumbs-down signal and clusters of snakes consumed the helpless woman at his feet. His authority satisfied him. I had always envisioned hell, the place of torment and misfortune, to be an endless labyrinth of serrated cliffs and shadowed by a darkening skyline. Rasputin and Josef Stalin entered the room, ignoring Nero. I fell back against the wall and shut my eyes. I did not wish to see the evil unleashed, for I was a careless soul and Pol Pot’s genocide did not leave my mind. The horrors of history, its genesis and aftermath, were forever marked on my soul. I was in hell.

            THE END.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A muted expression of indecision and dissatisfaction uncovered her remarkable facial features, illuminated by the iridescent blaze of the conflagration beneath a massive slab of marble and serrated cement carvings of imaginary heroes and deceiving cherub faces. Below the ornamental mantelpiece, with the golden candleholders and the splintered wooden picture frames, deceased family members peered out at her through cracked glass and dust from the books alongside the Baroque clock. Although she found it somewhat disheartening to gaze at the pictures for a considerable amount of time, Phaedra observed the monotonous stillness of her residence, the unending hush that fell throughout the rooms and the rectangle of brick and flowers outside the house. Because Phaedra sensed many things, especially moments of complete and unreserved anguish and hopelessness, she watched the slithering shadows along the walls and pressed her face against the cold stone beneath her unclothed body.

She’d understand things much better as time moved on. Her parents, doubtful about their daughter’s desire to live and have a family of her own, believed it to be both vital and essential to their daughter’s vitality to nourish her through times of disinterest and disappointment, although Phaedra had always been rather dissatisfied with her life and the schools she attended, she found it more comforting to study at home and read about the great poets who made more sense to her than her own father. Because Phaedra was quite unusual and preferred to remain locked in her room with the undying quietness within her sphere of tattered dolls, parched flower petals, and novels, she wanted to believe in her own strengths, she wanted them to flourish and electrify the disconnected threads of lethargy contained by the apathetic persona she symbolized and detested. Although she disliked the blazing apathetic behavior she displayed, she always wanted to find a way to obliterate the carelessness in her character.

            Her frail fingers twirled strands from her auburn hair against the heat of the dwindling flames. The shadows on the ceiling, slipping behind the cabinets and bookcases did not bring any comfort to Phaedra as she rested against the stone floor, waiting for her father to greet her at the steps before bed. A gentle wind pushed against the glass, creating a rather uneasy sound throughout the shadows of the old house. Her mother and father had purchased the house many years ago, and yet she could never find a room in the house without feeling inquisitive eyes watching her every move. Although she enjoyed the living room and its peculiar attributes, the room felt like a catacomb of memories. She could hear the voices of children running down the halls, their joyful and harmonious giggles embodying the essence of the old boarding house. Only in her dreams did Phaedra hear such things.

            The fire was dying. Shadows swallowed the outlines of the furniture in the living room. Deep whispers filled the hall. Her father stood against the banister; arms folded and legs crossed. Phaedra’s undressed figure did not perturb her father, for his eyes studied her pink flesh and her curvaceous figure. The diminishing flames in his eyes revealed a flicker of revulsion and nausea.

            “I suggest you put your clothes back on,” he said, stepping into the attractive living room with the patterned walls of cherry blossoms and cherub faces looming above the glowing embers.

            “What are you doing?” she asked, rolling over on the stone floor. Her breasts were almost perfect, like pale granite with a beautiful hue of pink. “I haven’t been interested in clothes. They’re annoying.”

            “You can’t walk around the house naked, Phaedra. I don’t have a problem with it. However, there are some who would find it disgusting.”

            “Disgusting?”

            “Precisely.”

            “Do you think I’m disgusting?”

            “No, I’ve been looking at your nude body for many years. I am used to it. Nevertheless, I am sure there are people who would find it tremendously awkward.”

            “Fuck them,” she growled, reaching for a flower covered gown on a chair. As she rapped the gown around her body and felt the softness of the fabric, she realized that her father would not tolerate her vulgar language. His face wrinkled with repugnance.

            “Watch your mouth,” he snapped. “You’re a young lady. There’s no reason why you should be using those kinds of offensive words. What have you been reading?”

            “Stephen King,” she replied, grinning. “He adores the word fuck. Why are you down here? I thought you and mom might want to spend time alone between the sheets. That’s how I was conceived, right?”

            “No,” her father chuckled. “You were conceived on top of the sheets. Why don’t you turn on the lamp?”

            A soft light filled the room. Her father walked across the room, pulled out a chair, and sat down. Phaedra lit a cigarette and watched as her father’s eyes filled up with tears. She did not wish her father death, for he was tolerable in her eyes. Her mother was far more intrusive and insensitive than her father. She imagined her mother resting against the satin sheets, waiting for her father to touch her hair and kiss her warm flesh. Perhaps he would whisper in her ear about the years they spent in Venice while they left Phaedra in the care of her wicked relatives. They were all dead. All of them had passed away in the midst of a violent pubescent tempest of mystification and quenched tears. Phaedra did not dismiss her father’s ability to discern her anger or fear. Although she wanted to respect her father and his professional career, she could not admire a man who had forced her to do awful things to him as a child. Bricks of hatred and confusion had been constructed before the darkness of those harrowing moments of grief. Misunderstanding consumed her sanity and good judgment. She did not reveal these things to her mother. Silence broke her audacity to speak about such unimaginable behaviors. Her mother would never have believed such things from Phaedra.

              “We’re deeply concerned, Phaedra,” her father explained. “You’ve got to fight this disease. It’s going to eat your soul.”

            “You’re so fucking dramatic,” she said. “I’m not going to die. You’re simply trying to make me feel bad about what I’m doing and I’m not.”

            “You have friends, Phaedra. I’m not stupid.”

            “I don’t have friends, I have acquaintances.”

            “What do you think about life, Phaedra? What about all the beauty in the world? Can you see it? You’ve got to recognize the reflection in the mirror before you can recognize anything else. All of these cognitive distortions are going to destroy your potentiality.”

            “Don’t analyze me,” she said. “I’m not the one wrestling with my inner child. My life should not concern you. You did terrible things to me when I was a young girl.”

            “Phaedra,” he shouted. “Do not open a new can of worms! You know that the past is buried. It’s over.”

            “It can be exhumed. I’ll never forget what you did to me. It’s too late to report you.”

            “Why would you want to do such a thing to your own father. I’ve done many wonderful things for you, Phaedra. I bought this lovely home for us to live in. I take you to the movies. I buy you everything.”

            “You can’t forget the past,” she said. “You’re going to have to wrestle with your own displeasures. I’ll survive.”

            “What do you want from me?”

            “How about a little silence?”

            “No!”

            “Jesus, calm down.”

            “You’re taking drugs. I know it.”

            “So.”

            “You’re not going to deny it.”

            “Why should I? I don’t have any reason to deny it. I’ve been taking pills for almost three years. Where’d you find the bottles?”

             “Across the street in a garbage bag. Hidden beneath a decaying log filled with beetles and worms.”

            “Dammit.”

            “Explains your constipation issues.”

            “Shut up. I love the feeling of not feeling. I’ve felt enough in my life. I’m going out to the garden. The moonlight is very kind to me.”

            Benevolently, like a goddess engulfed in a cloud of exquisiteness and delightful splendor, Phaedra opened the back doors, walked out along the edge of the stone path, and rested against the elaborately designed pillars running down the steps. Irises bloomed beneath a canopy of ivy and a lattice-covered porch, surrounded by drooping Lilies and dead grass made Phaedra feel like she was entering a secret place, a garden of life and death, a place of birth and a place of extinction. Her bare feet slapped against the slabs as she approached a marble statue of Orestes. Dark water dripped from his jaded eyes. Phaedra’s eyes circled around the garden and watched as lightening bugs winked against the shadows and the long branches of the trees. A cool breeze pushed through the high grass and the Lilies tussled with the wind. Phaedra had always adored the perfected beauty and the loyal comfort of the garden. It was a place to tell stories, a place to invent characters, and a place to make love beneath a blanket of stars and moonlight. A cloud of cigarette smoke drifted against her face and evaporated near the end of the yard. She listened to the thunder. A storm was coming. The wind pulled on her gown, exposing her breasts and flat stomach. Lifting her arms to pull the end of the gown around her body, she saw a young man standing outside the fence. His approachable eyes invoked the most disheartening emotions inside of her. She could, even though she doubted it, approach the young man and question him. She did not appreciate curious glares from aroused boys on the streets. New Orleans was a different kind of place. It was a quiet city, and yet it was violent and unmerciful, enraged by the still currents of vulnerability and history.

            Phaedra hated her name. Her father, who respected all of the gods and goddesses, decided to name her after Phaedra, the daughter of King Minos and Queen Pasiphae. The faceless stranger followed Phaedra as she climbed over a crumbling statue of Zeus and grinned at the man who could not take his eyes away from Phaedra Andrews. Feeling quite hesitant about approaching the blurred face near the fence, she pulled her hair back, licked her lips, and waited for the first raindrop to fall. Ominous clouds wandered over the top of the house and she watched the young man as he stared at her through a corroded barrier.

            “What are you doing?” whispered the stranger, frowning indignantly. His voice was not rough or aggressive, for it was pleasant and temperate.  

            “Waiting for the first raindrop to fall,” she whispered. “A few more moments.”

            A raindrop smacked against Orestes’ forehead and Phaedra strolled across the grass and stared the young man in the eyes.  She tossed her lit cigarette over the fence and smiled.

            “Are you a pervert?” she questioned, admiring his dark hair and imposing, placid eyes. Raindrops rolled down his face.

            “No,” he said. “I’m just a stranger looking for a beauty on a gloomy day. I believe I have found one.”

            “I’m not at all amused,” she said. “I was simply waiting for liberation. I do not imagine you can liberate me. Who are you?”

            “Matthew Davidson, I’m one of your father’s students. He’s a fantastic teacher. I love the way he gets into his characters.”

            “You’re referring to the gods and goddesses, the myths and legends of the ancient worlds.” She rolled her eyes.

            “You’re not a myth or a legend, Phaedra.”

            She did not know how to respond to his sensitive observation. She could see the honesty in his eyes, dancing against a crimson fire, a morose exchange of impassionate fury dampened her desire to walk around the fence and evaluate his knowledge regarding her father. Although she wanted to know more about her father and his professional career as a teacher, she did not wish, nor did she propose to understand all of her father’s problematic affairs. Phaedra did not know how to comfort her mother when she’d cry at the kitchen table for hours while her father wandered the streets and flirted with his deceitful female students. She saw most of them. They were always dressed inappropriately. Most of the young girls dressed in high skirts, exposing their freckled arms and tanned skins. As she moved along the edge of the garden, keeping her eyes on the young man through the fence, Phaedra felt her heart pounding like a heavy stone in her chest. Men were insects. They were mere flies buzzing around a room of troubled women. She felt like catching one. Within the deepness of the young man’s eyes, where his softly spoken words and placid humor erased his ability to exhibit his temperamental hostility, she saw weakness in his eyes, a glimmer of forged bravery. She wanted him.

            She crawled over a bundle of thickets with thorns and lifted her body over the barrier.

            She acknowledged the young man’s honesty.

            “I believe I saw you before,” she said. “You’re one of those quiet, secretive boys. Your eyes are your most terrible enemy. They disclose many things.” She grinned as she approached his lofty shape.

            “You don’t know anything about me,” he said. “I know more about you, Phaedra. Your father speaks about you quite often. You’re his pillar of support.”

            “Bullshit,” she groaned. “He’s wasting your time. I’d find another class to attend or another dim-witted coward to entertain me.”

            “I didn’t expect so much angst from such a beautiful girl. I think you’re sadly mistaken. You’re father is a great teacher. He loves you.”

            “He loves his ego,” she said. “It is rather improper to spy on half naked young ladies in their yard!” She could feel the apprehension retreating. Her mean spirited glare and explosive voice startled Matthew. As her eyes examined his unbuttoned shirt and faded jeans, she assumed that he was jobless and unclean. Her assumptions, though horrifically unpleasant, reflected her obvious magnetism.

            “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just going for a short walk. Walking cures the heavy heart.”

            “Often times,” she said. “How often do you walk?”

            “Not enough.”

            “That explains your heavy heart. Would you like to come into the garden with me and have a smoke? I do not typically invite strangers into my territory. However, you’re attractive. Come along.”

            Matthew, gaping at the pink flesh between Phaedra’s gown, accepted her invitation and followed her through a patch of uncut grass and twisted vines. She circled around Orestes and splashed water from the fountain at Matthew.

            “There’s no point,” he said. “It’s raining. I’m already wet.”

            “I’m not,” she responded, looking at his muscular outline through his saturated t-shirt. “I don’t trust boys like you, Matthew. Boys like you are dangerous.”

            “What do you mean?” He brushed the droplets of water from his hair and watched as Phaedra lit up a cigarette.

            “I mean,” she said, blowing smoke rings into the air, “that you’re dishonest.”

            She handed Matthew the cigarette.

            “It’s going to go out,” she said. “Smoke it.”

            “I don’t understand how I’m dishonest,” he said, choking on the smoke. “Are you psychic? Can you read my mind?”

            In the wetness of the grass, where droplets of rain rolled down bent branches, Phaedra paused and stared at Matthew. Her eyes filled up with a violent storm. A whirlwind of leaves and twigs skipped around the collapsed statue of Zeus and rattled the fence.

            “You have no idea, Matthew. Why do you think my parents keep me away from people? I’m dangerous. I’m like a black widow, but I’m more like Lucifer without an army. I could make you choke on your words or perhaps force you to gag on all your mistakes. I can read your heart like an open book. I don’t need to cut open your chest.”

            “You’re frightening me,” he uttered. “I don’t want this.” He handed Phaedra the damp cigarette. 

            “Toss it in the brush,” she said. “I’m sorry poor Matthew, I’ve already got a pussy, and I don’t need another one.”

            “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

            “Poor Matthew,” she said. “Do you seriously think I’m as gullible as your mother? I don’t ask blind fools for directions. You didn’t score high on your tests, big deal. You lied to her about your grade point average. What a pussy.”

            “Huh?”

            “I do believe you heard me,” she said. “Your father’s quite naive as well, right? He thought you wrote that paper on Joyce when you relied on your friend Adam to write it. Are you blind or just flat-out lazy?”

            Phaedra’s laughter chilled her bones. The water tasted salty on her tongue.

            “How do you know about all of this?”

            “Don’t play me like a cheap violin, Matthew. I know many things. I’ve lived long enough to find a great deal of answers. You’re a hopeless romantic, crawling on his hands and knees like an undomesticated dog. You write dreadful poetry to win the hearts of air headed cheerleaders. You might as well write your own obituary.”

            “Why?”

            She looked like a ghost in the rain, white and foggy. Lifting her arm over the stone foundation of Orestes, she smiled.

            “Because you’re going to die.”

            “Right.” He smiled.

            “Why would I lie? I don’t have anything to lose. I’ve been stripped of all concern and fear. You’re just another pitiful insect, walking around without a map.”

            “And you’re a drug addict,” he said, crossing his arms. “You buy painkillers from Ashley and Julie. You’re no better than I am.”

            “A liar and a drug addict, what a marvelous couple we are. Do you wish to dance in the rain or do you desire another activity? Wait. I shouldn’t ask you questions, you’ll just lie.”

            “You’re one sick bitch,” he said. “I’m getting out of here.”

            “You can’t leave the garden,” she said. “Once you’re in, you’re in forever.”

            “Shut the hell up,” he screamed. “You’re really starting to piss me off. I should smash your skull in.”

            “I’d smash yours in first, darling.”

            Phaedra watched as Matthew pushed through the weeds and dead vines and slipped in the mud. An overpowering blend of humidity and vapor rose from Matthew’s body. In the sticky grass, where horseflies buzzed and mosquitoes yearned for blood, Mathew struggled to free himself from tangled vines. Phaedra watched as his brawny shape weakened in the shadows.

             “Is this some kind of joke,” he said. “Seducing me.”

            Phaedra chuckled. “You’re weak. I am quite certain you’re aware of your weaknesses. It takes a man to recognize his limitations. You’re a fool. Also, I’d watch out for buses if I were you. Go on.”

            Matthew pulled himself up, ran over to the fence, and hurled a frustrated glare at Phaedra. She watched as his fearful eyes collapsed as a glimmer of lightening illuminated the garden. He disappeared behind the trees. The garden was filled with Phaedra’s laughter.

            Phaedra was not staggered to see her father sitting in one of the antique chairs in the living room. His long, hairless face was tilted away from the flashing lights in the rain clouds. Along the edge of the mantelpiece, somewhere within the aged portraits of ghastly faces and deceased ancestors, a whisper sealed up the walls. Phaedra’s father opened his mouth, grunted, and he examined the appalling deviousness in Phaedra’s eyes, for she could not conceal her outrageous behavior from her father.

            “I hear them whisper about you, your ancestors,” he said. “They’re always talking about you. You do not understand the powers you possess, and yet you continue to disobey my authority on a regular basis.”

“That’s untrue,” she said, sitting on her father’s rounded knee. “There are moments when I have to torture someone. He looked so lonely. You should have seen his face. It was pathetic.”

A warm, childish grimace brightened her face in the lamplight. An unusual silence fell over them as they sat together on the chair. They shared a separate harmony, an isolated understanding. She could feel the heat from her father’s flesh, and the scent of his skin made her nauseated. Although Phaedra found her father to be frightful and authoritative, she could not resist the warmth of his skin or his touch.

“Toying with Matthew’s mind is not funny,” her father said. “He’s a young man. You do not reserve the power to reveal his death to him or to burn his soul with insensitive words. I’ve always respected Matthew. He’s a brilliant student.”

“I feel like I’m participating in some kind of ass kissing contest,” she snapped. “I didn’t fuck with him that bad. I thought you enjoyed fucking your girl students, anyway.”

Phaedra’s father pushed her to the floor and walked over to the fireplace.

“You’re alarmingly deluded, Phaedra. You cannot continue to utilize your powers unless I am present. You have the power to destroy someone else’s life. Do you understand?”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

“Yup. I could give a fuck less.”

“Enough. You will remain in this house until you can control your tongue and your mind.”

“I’ll be locked in this house forever.”

“So be it.”

“You’re mother’s coming, get up.”

Phaedra stood up and waited for her mother’s shadow to come down. Her aged form soared down the stairs like an apparition and settled in one of the chairs near the fireplace. Phaedra’s mother was an unusually quiet woman. She did not speak unless she was spoken to. Her emerald eyes wandered along the ceiling and found Phaedra’s startled face and frowned.

“The winds are violent,” Phaedra’s father said. “I don’t imagine I’ll be able to sleep during the storm.”

“I heard laughter,” Phaedra’s mother said. “It was coming from the garden. Phaedra, what were you doing outside in the storm?”

“Thinking about how I’m going to kill myself if I am to remain locked in this house forever.”

“Don’t say such things,” her mother said. “You’ve become far too imprudent. You’ve left us with no other choice.”

Phaedra’s mother stroked her forehead and groaned. Phaedra realized that her mother was suffering from one her migraines. Because they were excruciatingly painful and shattered what little hope existed between Phaedra and her mother, Phaedra felt as if it were more proper for her to read her mother’s mind.

“Phaedra,” her father scorned. “You should go to your room. Your mother is not feeling well and it would be best if you left us in our split quietness. Go on!”

As she climbed the stairs, listening to the fading whispers of contempt and mistrust from both of her parents, Phaedra thought about opening her bedroom window and escaping. She was not quite certain how long she’d survive on the streets alone, without the aid of her father’s comforting words and knowledge. In the middle of her darkened room, Phaedra thought about her actions and pondered about her wicked nature. She did not trust the idea of recognizing good and evil, the ability to religiously identify right and wrong without hesitation or a hushed instant of indecision. Although Phaedra recognized her powers and enjoyed utilizing her psychic abilities, she felt the raw twinge guilt in her heart. She was beginning to feel again. It concerned her. Throughout the night, Phaedra gazed at the stars and her mind flushed away all of the reminiscences concerning her desire to take pharmaceutical drugs. A horrific scream pulled on the inside of her stomach lining.

Matthew’s face glistened in the puddles of water on the edge of the street. As cars passed, his face would ripple or disappear. She was frightened by her own flawed principles. She had inherited her psychic powers from her father and he did not wish for Phaedra to reveal these powers to any living soul. Only the dead acknowledged Phaedra’s deceptive charm and her inability to embrace empathy and love. Within the shadows of her own tormented heart, where the memories of abuse and confinement left her feeling hateful and unmerciful, Phaedra Andrews opened her bedroom window and crawled down the ivied-fence outside. As she walked down the street, holding her gown against her skin, she felt the moonlight push through the rain clouds and an overwhelmingly invigorating sentiment persuaded her apathy to die in the same place as the memories of her father. She could hear the ghosts in the houses as she strolled quietly down into a dark chasm of uncertainty. The ghosts were not at all excited. They were asking for favors. They always did. Phaedra, who did not have the energy to release ghosts from their private residences, moved on in the dark and left her mother and father alone in their isolated silence. 

Her mind went back to the time when her father almost killed her. Because Phaedra’s father wanted to accept her horrendous behavior and her emotionally lethargic idioms, he grew tired of her throwing boys off the swings and reaching into the minds of powerless souls who lingered beside self-pity. She knew that her father wanted her to die. In the back of her mind, she thought about how he’d kill her and bury her corpse in the garden where the flowers wilted and where the sun pushed through the branches. He’d never do such a thing to me, she thought. He’s apart of me. He needs me. Well, he might kill me. He might. She did not realize the danger of losing herself within a world of alcohol and drugs, and yet she deliberated with her own powers and sought to destroy them out of love for her father. Unfortunately, Phaedra could not gather the audacity to confront her abilities and chain them to a wall of control, for she loved to tinker with the minds of boys and make them feel like they were loved; only for a disguised moment. Phaedra, who did not like to reveal her true self to anyone, had already killed a handful of young boys without ever touching them. She’d unlock their minds with a flicker of mental fury and torture them with words of pain. Her words pierced like wintry steel, a brutal coldness infected her victim’s hearts.

She pondered about these things as she approached the end of the street. Her father would kill her. Her eyes gazed at the moon. A peculiar silence consumed the night. She would either give herself up to Vicodines or allow her father to put an end to her life. Lifting her arms above her head to feel the wind against her breasts, Phaedra waited for the hills to swallow the moon and she watched as the sun pulled itself over the hills and spilled light across the yards and the tops of the houses down the street. She was waiting for Matthew. She saw him through his bedroom window. His slanted figure peered out at the street and vanished. Moments later, when the sound of hurried feet and childish laughter echoed throughout the neighborhood, Matthew’s school bus pulled up against the curb and Phaedra waited. Her thoughts explored Matthew’s anxious mind as he snatched his book bag from his sofa and jumped down the steps. He was running a little late.

Phaedra knew it would be a bloody mess. She closed her eyes and listened as the sound of the bus accelerated and screams riddled the surrounding area. The bus driver didn’t see him. Phaedra walked away with a smile on her face. When she opened the front door, she saw her father standing in the hallway. He was holding a shovel in his hands.

Phaedra was not at all frightened by her father’s intentions.

“Where’s mom?” she asked.

“In bed.”

“It’s over,” she said. “I’m finished.”

“Yup,” he said. “You’re dangerous, Phaedra. You can’t be controlled. I don’t have any other choice.”

“I’m not going to run.”

“I know.”

“I wonder what it’s like,” she said, closing the front door. “I wonder if it’s going to hurt.”

“Only for a minute,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Let’s go.”

Together, they walked out into the morning sunlight and vanished within the twisted vines of memory. Phaedra stared at the thickets and waited for the shovel crush the back of her skull. She thought about many things, things that mattered, things that did not matter. She wanted death. She wanted her life to end. She felt like she was falling. Her father, staring up at the sky, wiped a tear from his eye and slammed the shovel on the back of Phaedra’s head. He would have to dig her grave. Although the sound of her death was quick, he knew that he could not allow his daughter to take another breath. She was dangerous. He spent the rest of the morning digging Phaedra’s grave.

My dear friend Jane, reading Brandy Schwan's wonderfully sinister poetry. They are both good friends of mine. I wanted to share.


"http://www.youtube.com/v/MPbvWh2QJA0&hl=en&fs=1

I do not believe it is destructive to anticipate rejection; it is a slow-moving current of action, which cannot be defined as rejection. One cannot merely crawl within one’s own shadow and shudder at the thought of a rejection slip, for it is necessary to collect rejection slips, to put them away, or to read them over and over again. The Necromancer of Clearwater’s Stone was rejected by F&SF, but the editor did underline the fact that there was nice writing in the novella. That is somewhat encouraging. Often times we feel compelled to reflect, to trap our own ideas in a box, to imprison our own techniques and personality (what did I do wrong?).  I have never been able to cuddle the concept of rejection when it comes to my own writing, but I have learned to take it, to utilize the rejection letters as stepping stones to a place where I can polish my work, restructure my story, add more realistic traits to my characters and just sit and talk to my story as if it were a living, breathing human being. There will be other rejection letters, there will be moments of doubt, there will be memories of failure, there will be shadows of regret strolling piercingly along the inner core of my heart. But, there will be moments of satisfaction. Those are the flashes of expectancy that we typically yearn to feel and when we find the fragments of our work scattered along the pavements of our infantile efforts, we must understand that writing and publishing are completely different beings. There is an obligatory marriage between the two. Writing is a personal journey, a passionately constructed tribute to the things most of us desire to create, love, or are inspired by.

 So, The Necromancer of Clearwater’s Stone did not reject me. I will continue to write, to pour my soul into everything that I do and I cannot imagine ending this adventure, this intimate affair with words, knowledge, people, and the concept of fortitude. I am thinking about reworking The Necromancer of Clearwater’s Stone, trimming it down and telling the story in 15,000 words. The story itself comes to an end around 24,000 words. I usually jump into my stories and I run with every detail, with every sentiment, with every act and I expand all of these things with a magnifying glass. Why do I have to always do that? My own methods have been my enemy. Conversely, I have learned that clarity is vital and telling a story with the least amount of words is essential as well. But, when a writer peels back the layer of onion (with watery eyes and a migraine) the writer wishes to compose in a way that will appeal to the writer. I have learned many things about the craft and the lively art of writing fiction. First, don’t talk about it, write it. Secondly, make sense (I am sure you would want people to understand your story just as much as you do). Thirdly, rewrite it and send it off. I make it appear so simple, right? There is a great deal more to it than that. But, I will not present a list of writing rules and shit like that.

So, the fate of The Necromancer of Clearwater’s Stone is now cut into the stone for all to read. But, I have another story, The tale of the Goetia Demon to send off soon. It is not the end of the world, I know. I wish all of you the best in your search for knowledge, truth, honesty, and collect the shards of wisdom along the way so you will know what to do with all of those great things when you reach the end of a new beginning of a new road.

                Blessed Be,

                Jeffrey

I have often pondered about how long one genuinely recognizes who they are and how one might shelter their own emotions, due to a rigorous stream of anxiety and discomfort, spoiled and sour, placed in the middle of society. I have always believed who we are, what we believe in and what we occasionally commit to, define all that we do. Within everything we do, everything we chase (dreams) influence our behavior and can frequently shatter relationships and ruin the potential to create. Now, I have noted that there are destroyers and creators. It is rather effortless to understand that it is far easier to create something (out of nothing, from the air, from our thoughts) as opposed to knocking down walls (this can be effective when confronting various emotions and self-constructed limitations) slashing one’s paintings, crinkling the pages to one’s beautifully written piece, or exhibiting unkind behavior, which is a mere flicker of one’s own discontent with life. Now, one should certainly be able to fix problems as they arise, or confront issues as they crawl up from the shadows.

But, I have observed, that some problems cannot subsist for long if one is truly aware of one’s complete impending desire to do that which is personally rewarding. Unfortunately, however, I have recognized a poisonous blossom, budding within many people I know. I am not sure where it came from; I do not know how long it will survive. In addition to these twisted thorns of melancholic weeds, I believe they shall endure for as long as people wish to water them with self-doubt, loathing, passiveness, laziness, and other vital fractures that continue to exist within one’s own psyche. Regrettably, some artists, freethinkers, writers, and idealists (dramatists) have utilized drugs to enhance their seemingly unchanging state of stagnant consciousness. Now, it is believed that drugs can stimulate one’s mind; they can alleviate distress, depression (amplification) and other difficulties that appear to plague those who either think far too much or are self-destructive. Most of what I wish to convey (all writers should have something important to say or they should stop writing, well, unless there is some kind of personal record of thoughts one wishes to express to their own mind) stems from my own personal battle with self-destructive behavior, substance abuse, depression (I believe that depression is a multifaceted gem, with many surfaces; some dark, others clear and promising) and anxiety.

It has been my objective for the last few years to understand the transgression of my own actions, my own adherence for things. What? I have learned that I do not have time to cuddle hatred; many nights detestation brought water to my bed and told me stories. I was somewhat interested in what hatred could do for me as I returned the water, the attention, and affection to hatred. Can one honestly adore the hatred inside? Yes. It is a laborious story and I will not explain. Through experience one can understand what I am attempting to express. I have fought all of these spikes of hatred, all of these indecisive jolts of muted hatred, all of these desires to hurt people for reasons unknown. At the core, within the pit of my aching nausea, where I wrestle with writing, thoughts, relationships, books, films, and everything else stuck between the teeth of existence, I am flooding with sorrow. It is not a sickening sorrow, not a disturbing sorrow, not an overpowering wave of distress that could possibly wilt the petals of my fruitful tree of desire and creative expression.

This sorrow comes from reflection. Now, I have smashed the rear view mirror, I have shattered the memories, I have gained a more profound understanding and insight into what I have to do as a writer, as a son, as a friend, as a barcode, as a conformist, as a liar, as a lover, as a seeker, as a giver, as a bitch, as a distant whore, as a tarnished antique, as an abuser of words and gratitude, as a sleeping tear, as a bleeding heart, as a thing wrapped in flesh, supported by bone, as a human being. I must be sincere in everything. I must remain honest in my work, with people, and within. But, it shall not be a simple task, the challenge will prove to be daunting. But, as I sit here on this Friday, on a mildly cold January day, I question everything at once. I question whether or not I have the ability to be that which I was born to be. If I were born to be a writer, then I am sure there is nothing to worry about, correct? I am not so sure. I question whether or not I should have left here long ago, left my town, family, and buried treasures in the dust with history. I question if I am able to exist outside in the world without falling (If I should fall, I would have to pick myself up, but would I? To surrender to your weaknesses is far easier, right?)or would the world consume me because I am sensitive, delicate, soft, and an observer of many things. I question where I should go or who I should follow. Inside, I hear an odd chain rattling my heart. I should not follow anyone. I should make my own footprints in the snow. Testing the water with both feet can be dangerous and I have done it far too many times.

I found myself submerged in guilt and abandonment. But, I found the shore; I strolled along the embankment of my own deserved misfortune and cried within. I do not weep. My heart cries, my chest fills up with pain, my heart shakes, my hands tremble, my eyes blur with a sense of loss and I go on. In this age, in this time, in this world, with all these people living their lives, reaching for dreams, loving, hating, watching, eating, sitting, killing and absorbing, how can one listen to one single whisper on the wind, one voice soaring from Illinois, one human being who sits at his desk and daydreams about his works being published, about meeting other writers and imaginative souls, other visionaries and humanists who are not as afraid to submit their tears to the world or to induce them. Who is this soul who wishes to pen these words without being cuffed to a cell of self-loathing and boredom? Who is this soul who continues to laugh at his own misfortune and cringe at the thought of going out into the world to be whatever it is that the world wishes this person to be at all times? This is me, and I am here.

Perhaps I have waited far too long to write these words, for they have been sleeping against my heart for ages and they are dusty words. I simply did not know how to push them out from my throat, or cut them from my flesh or remove them from my mind, or extract them like a bad tooth.

There is a great deal of knowledge waiting outside my door, visitors waiting for an open door, there are books to read, pages to turn, jokes to laugh at, people to look at, and songs to sing and play. There are stories to write and stories to forget. There is hope to cling to, even if it appears to be stupid or fucking foolish. There is a life waiting for me, but I am not sure if I will be able to recognize that I have been waiting for life.

Blessed Be,

Jeffrey

   


Recently, I completed my first piece for a series of tales concerning the Goetia demons, inspired by the many supernatural entities presented in The Lesser Key of Solomon. Although I have examined all of these demons and selected the most interesting ones to follow and create stories around, I feel like I am wandering through uncharted territory and the atmosphere of unpredictability is often necessary for a writer. I do not wish to outline these tales, for I believe they will crawl out and stroll quietly through a maze of uncertainty. That is how I wish for these tales to unfold. The first story, The Tale of the Goetia Demon follows Paimon, a demon from the ninth circle, one who is summoned by necromancers for knowledge related to the arts and sciences. However, Paimon falls deeply in love with an enchanting earth witch and a seed is planted within her. The story follows Alyssa’s journey through the woods, into ghostly crypts and trees to hide from Paimon’s slaves, Label and Abali, who wish to kill the child, for Lucifer does not find Paimon’s relationship with the witch, Alyssa appropriate.

So, The Tale of the Goetia Demon is complete. But, I will not open the story or look at it again until Monday. Then, after I take a few drinks of water and relax, I will review the story, search for loopholes, errors and such. However, I do not believe there are any. But, I will certainly follow the guidelines given to me by a special someone.

So, the stories surrounding the Goetia demons will be adventurous and I am looking forward to writing them. Although most of my time is undeniably weighed down my classes and nervousness, I look to find these stories as a place of comfort, exploration, and a lively act of innovation. Now, I must continue to work in the fields with the other slaves at work and survive the horrid facial contortions of people I do not wish to know at work. Well, I am sure there is a diamond in the rough somewhere. I hope to find it.

Oh! I saw a shooting star last night while I was on the phone. It was rather pleasant and surprising. I have not seen a star fall in ages. When I watched it, I was reminded of Gaiman’s Stardust. I do not imagine I could ever find the star. It fell somewhere over St. Louis.

Okay, I am off for now.

Cheers,

Jeffrey

                There is a great deal of apprehension in the air as I have settled down to complete my novella, The Necromancer of Clearwater’s Stone. Although I sincerely enjoyed writing the story and I admired the characters and their vigorously enchanting words, I felt insincere.  Most of my writing projects are left in the shadows, collecting dust, sleeping within cobwebs, or supporting my unleveled bookcases. Because I am moderately notorious for incompletion, I have decided to dedicate a large part of my time to my writing. But, I have to suffer the unmerciful winds of classes, relationships, and domestic chores. All of these things have proved to be imperative and the process of writing, the act of writing, is the most vital element. It is often amplified, enlarged by those who cannot observe the core of writing or the nucleus of its sincerity. I am often ambiguous. My words often perplex myself. It is awful. Nevertheless, I have decided to place a piece of myself in every sentence, to allow my own personality to blend into the story. Passion sleeps within the words. Now, read between the lines. That is a different story.

                I have received countless rejection letters over the years. I believe I have them in a square packet in my mother’s desk, where they often share laughter with my family members. Why do they all laugh together? I am an isolationist. It is undeniable. I work alone, usually in the morning hours or late at night. My family will attempt to distract me with anything. There is a great deal of work that must be done. Now, my academic aspirations must be dissected here. I am not at all interested in the idea of lectures, tests, quizzes, text-books, or dusty teachers with wool sweaters. But, I must endure. I am almost finished with my scholarly goals. Furthermore, I have managed to juggle classes, writing, and personal relationships. It is challenging, enlightening, disturbing, annoying, and overwhelming. I need to relax. Yes! It is appropriate to relax and admire the glimmers of optimism that are exposed through the fractures in one’s life.  I miss such glistening gemstones. Often times I simply ignore them because my perspective is clouded by my own self-loathing and hesitation. Occasionally, the clouds wither away and I can see clearly and I can recognize the subtle beauties of a lost dream, of a neglected hope, of a dying utterance of anticipation, breathing against one’s own concept of pleasure.

                So, it must be noted here that I am strangely irritable, uniquely temperamental, uncannily genuine, viciously straightforward, hopelessly theatrical, and marvelously witty. I am not going to blow my own horn. I shall end all of this self-worship.

                I sent my novella, The Necromancer of Clearwater’s Stone to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction last week.  The rejection slip should come soon. I expect rejection. I am lazy. I failed to review the work appropriately, the introduction is unquestionably verbose, the characters are weak, and the story is not passionate or truthful.  But, if I had placed a portion of my own compassion and soul into the work and shaped the characters with a sense of belief, the story would have worked. In addition to all of these horrendous cracks in my novella, I wrote too much. Hell, I could have simply written the narrative under 10,000 words. However, the novella runs over 24,000 words. I am horrifically appalled by my performance as a professional writer. Well, I have learned many things about the craft of writing and the structure of story-telling from a wonderfully talented author, Steve Berman, whose splendidly unforgettable tale Vintage enthralled my world for a few days and I gave the book to many friends to read. Steve, you are a brilliant teacher and a talented writer and a gifted treat for little critters like me. I am just a rodent, a mere stain on a rug, a crawling spider along the floor. Steve, you never had the audacity to squash me. I am not sure why you did not do so.  Thanks for keeping me alive. So, I will reveal the news about my novella when it comes back from The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction.  There shall be no nail biting over such things, for they have rejected a handful of my tales and I will continue to send my work to them. Currently, I am working on a novel and it is going well. Thanks to many individuals (Steve) it is coming along rather satisfyingly. I believe my heart is in its pages somewhere. I know. Updates related to stories and such will be coming shortly. I must tickle the keys on my piano to alleviate my growing migraine.

Cheers,

Jeffrey

Goodness, where do I start? I believe he will be deeply missed for his peculiar attempt at comedy and abusing the English language and starting unnecessary wars and sending our economy into a devastating pit filled with undomesticated wolves and neglected senior-citizens. Goodbye, Bush.

Unfortunately, however, I shall be quite honest. I am not very good at keeping journals or records or highlighting all of the many aspects of my life on a regular basis. Moreover, I am quite certain I shall find it rewarding (when I am interacting with others who share similar interests) and I shall unearth the desire to pen all of the thoughts that haunt my cluttered mind or when that unexpected jolt of enthusiasm ignites a fire beneath my fading shadow of optimism. In addition to all of the wonderful advantages to keeping a record of one's thoughts, ideas, interactions, nightmares, and dreams, I will record my own adventures concerning all of my stories and published articles. But, one must keep in mind that the publishing industry is just like any other business, its primary function is not at all dissimilar to those ominous, creepy industries of liberation and artistic expression, it is a battle. However, it is a battle worthy of examination. Furthermore, I believe it would be appropriate to underline the significance of examining the industry, composing reviews on contemporary authors and their published works, and the pitfalls of writing.

So, I have a journal. I am quite hopeful, for I feel that many creative spiders will spin their webs through my dark labyrinth of secrets and stories and provide a formal introduction. Alas, I will pen more when I am finished with all of the other inconsequential things that plague my life. I am kidding. Actually, I hope that I will converse with other authors and imaginative individuals and somehow connect on a profound level. Here, I will update my stories, post sections of my work ( I will not post full-length stories on here for the most obvious reasons) and I will be more than overjoyed to reveal my artwork to those who are interested in art. Hey, Giger, Bell, Vallejo, and Dore' are the finest.

I shall return, if not, send out a search party.

Yours,