Drain.

In this cold undistinctive winter, I had grown unsettled inside the solace of my home. Boredom had become a monotonous dredge of daily life. The cold was I knew of my environment. I carry an illness that prohibits my ventures into the cold. So when the claws of frigid air released their grasp on this town, I could only urge for one thing: adventure. I decided to hike into the nearby woods. Despite the setting sun, I decided that my chance to walk was too great for me to repel.

There was a small set of woods, followed by an open field that ran along a drainage ditch. The moonlight made the woods easily visible by the radiant, clear sky above. The trees were barren; the ground was devoid of color. Typical of winter. The field was devoid of live grass and visibility was well in the silver light. I could see above the ditch and across as though it was day. The brisk air was comforting on my senses, causing a state of euphoria throughout my mind and body. I rested along the incline dipping into the drainage ditch, allowing myself a few moments of clarity to exalt the solitude of the shimmering radiance through the darkness encompassing me.

I heard a sloshing sound at the ditch that snapped my thoughts back to focus. I assumed it was simply a rat, or possibly a beaver, splashing in the water. I looked down into the ditch to see the crevice to be completely dry. I could see the fractured concrete with dead foliage seeping through from underneath. I was puzzled from the sound that I swore I heard. Then I heard it again, a splash of something wet, but with an echo. I was able to locate the sound to a storm drain nearby. But the entrance to the drain was dry, not even the slightest amount of moisture was seen in the light of the moon.

My adventurous nature got the better of me; I hiked closer to the drain pipe. The was another splashing sound echoing within the pipe's great depth. It was a good three foot in diameter pipe. The moonlight barely lit the entrance and first few feet in. I pulled out an LED flashlight from my jacket and pointed it into the cavernous pipe. The white light filled a great distance, showing nothing but dry concrete as far as the eye can see. "Just my imagination" I whispered into the void. That's when I received a reply.

"Help me please", it was a little girl's reply. "I crawled in here and now I'm stuck." I was stunned. "Stay calm, Kid", I shouted. "Can you see my light?" I kept it on, waiting for a response. "I'm stuck, Please!" The girl cried. I could not refuse her cries.

The pipe was too small to walk in; on my elbows and knees I crawled into the drain. The cold concrete chilled my hands as I wriggled deeper into the pipe. The small flashlight bobbed the light in a natural sway. My breath carried an echo, my boots caused a boom as I crept. The air was stagnant, but moving like a breeze. The air was an assault to my nose, making each breath a struggle. The girl's whimpers sounded near. I looked back only to see a small circle that seemed miniature. I must have been writhing forward in this pipe for well over an hour. Distracted by my heroics and fueled by adrenaline, I found the end of the pipe.

The pipe opened up into a cavernous walkway underground. It was a large concrete hallway of sorts. The whimpering was still audible. "I'm coming, kiddo, just don't stay quiet okay?" I spoke onto the darkness calmly. "Help me please", the whimpers continued.  As I walked along to see a small drainage pipe at my feet, concrete started to transform to mud. It was boarded up, about two feet in diameter. The cries and whimper came from the other end. I quickly started to pull apart the boards. "I'm coming!" I shouted.

My stomach was on the cold mud as my arms pulled me into the chamber. I noticed I could stand in this chamber; I staggered up covered in filth and lit the chamber with my flashlight. My eyes scanned every inch of the mud crusted walls with vines and stalactites drooping overhead.

There was no whimpering. No sound outside of a dripping sound echoing and my own heavy breathing. My eyes tried to find a figure of the little girl. "HEY!" I shouted, "where are you!?" Panic rose as my fears of the little girl being harmed, or worse, filled my thoughts. "Here..." was barely audible, but recognizable. I stepped a little closer to the sound and pointed my flashlight in the direction I heard it. I never should have come.

There was no girl, no girl at all. My flashlight shone onto a creature of horrible features. A tangled face of tentacles and teeth in an unrecognizable, grotesque fashion. It wore something like leather, oily black, in a gown form. Two long arms with fingers like talons reached out. It smelled of sewage and something sickly sweet, with something like copper hanging in the air. It's skin was not of a flesh tone I had ever seen. I began to panic. I made a mad scramble for the drain at the floor.

My torso was already into the pipe, clawing the earth to quickly pull myself out of that chamber. My leg pushed me forward. The panic refused to leave me, my body pushed me further to just survive this nefarious trap set by that thing. I felt that my other leg was being grabbed, followed by a sharp pain, then released. I kicked out and scrambled for the drain leading to the ditch. On all fours I dragged myself through that pipe at a pace I could never even attempt to replicate. I saw the moonlit exit and barreled out, landing on my side. My eyes were heavy and I was exhausted. Pain was coursing through my leg and my horror and frenzy had not left me. I was too weak, blackness overcame my senses.

I awoke in the field; it was daylight. I felt sore but decided to walk home. It all seemed like a dream, with the only evidence being the odor I needed to wash off and this odd wound on my left calf proving anything happened. I took a bath, and nursed the perfectly circular wound. I found myself tired, so I curled into bed. It felt safe to sleep. and my body needed it.

I awoke in my room that night to hearing something outside. "Help me", a little girl cried.   

The Damned Kid

As an old man I can at least tell that what I saw I'll never see again. These aging eyes just lose more in sight every day, and my memory isn't so good for the recent events. Days go by in a blurring whirlwind that melds everything into a bunch of incoherent events. I am lucky to remember my lunch after I've eaten it. These days I can't remember much, but the days in the past are seared into me. Leaving scars of things I cannot forget no matter what I wish for. Of these is the kid; the god damned child that nobody should have hurt. and the hell he brought to us all. It's hard to sleep at night without thinking of the kid, without dreaming of the kid, without fear of the kid.

It must have been 45 or so years ago when I met the kid. Everybody called him the kid. Jeffery Kidd, the quietest teenager to do some of the craziest things anyone saw in town. He was an A student, but would steal booze to drink at the drainage ditch without second thought. He never said a word unless it was important to say it. He'd get into fights, but fight for a woman's honor, fight to defend a helpless kid. His fists would stay down if it was his honor, he'd just walk away. "I'm worthless." was a saying he had, although it was rarely said. Jeff was a good guy, a crazy, quiet, honorable guy. The kid was practically a quiet hero of high school.

We were all around 15 or 16 when shit started going south. Jeff pretty much stopped talking for over a month. He refused to hang out and refused to get booze. His strong demeanor seemed gone. his stern face was filled with sunken features and a pale complexion. He stopped talking with girls, stopped defending the bullied kids, and quit being seen outside of class. Rumors were that he stabbed a kid and was almost sent to jail. I got worried so I visited his house.

The cheerful looking home almost seemed as a mockery of how the kid looked. He was home alone when I stopped by. "Is it alright if I chat, man?" was all I could say when I saw his gaunt features. He was nearly half a foot taller than I at the time, but he looked like hadn't eaten in days. I must have had 30 pounds on the kid. He looked like the geeks that he defended in the tank top he had on. His black hair was a mess; he looked like James Dean met Edgar Allan Poe. All I got was a nod indicating a yes.

Inside I asked about the sudden change and if the rumors about the stabbing were true. He nodded a a slow yes. I stood up out of my chair and asked what caused it. "He called me a faggot." Jeff said in a soft, stern tone. I yelled at him, upset that Jeff would do so much harm over petty words. "Why do that man!? I thought you said were worthless! You always defended others! why start now!" I shouted. The kid, the crazy tough guy, the defender of the weak, was crying in front of me. "Coach Ryan...", he sobbed into his hands, "...fucked me." He sunk into his chair , face into his palms and wept.

Jeffery Kidd never liked gym class. He never liked showering with the other kids, and we understood that. Coach Ryan never understood anything past attempting to make football players out of every young man he taught. Jeff never liked him.

Jeff told me that after class he was held back to talk with coach, thinking it was coach about to make him do 20 push ups for not showering after class, he went into his office. He told me about the gun Coach Ryan had, a revolver, and how it was pointed at him. How the coach forced him into the shower and strip; how Coach raped him. In the five years I knew the kid, he never talked so much as he did in that chair.

I was speechless at the shock of it all. Tears were running down his face, his pale features were a bright red, his eyes a pinkish hue. I'll never forget those eyes. I tried to assure him we'd make it right, we'd get coach for it.

Telling Jeffery's parents did more harm than good. His father called him a faggot, his mother merely wept. The coach was still teaching after a month when I got the news. The kid killed himself.

I found out the details from the circle of friends. It was a small town so cops kids were bound to tell what they in turn heard. The kid, Jeffery Kidd, slit his wrists in the bathtub. On the wall was the words written in his own blood:

I AM WORTHLESS

I felt terrible. I let my friend down; I let him die. We all had school off for three days to lets us kids grieve. We'd return to a memorial at school for him. I wept for three days for what happened. He fought so hard for kids like me, and had no one to run to when he needed it. I caused more pain by telling his parent, and now my friends was gone, because of me.

Those three long days went. The memorial was at the auditorium. Flowers were hung up around a picture of Jeff was there, front and center. First his parents talked about him. Some bullshit about how a troubled youth needs someone to turn to and they wished Jeff would've gone to them. I felt sincere anger towards that lie. My fists clenched from hearing all this.

What happened next I could never forget. Even today, at my old age, I'll never lose this memory. Coach Ryan walked to the podium and was about to talk, when he made this guttural choking sound. Almost like a gag. He started grabbing his throat violently and coughing the word "no". It was then his head separated from his body. It made a terrible ripping sound, almost like tearing denim, but with a wet sloshing sound going with it. Blood spurted everywhere. All of us started running and screaming in blind panic. Mr. Kidd, Jeffery's father, was next. A cracking sound was heard just before he hunched over to expel a lot of blood and what appeared to be his heart before falling over dead. I was in shock. I couldn't look away in sheer terror of what I was seeing. Some unknown force was killing Jeff's tormentors. His mother was last. A loud screech belched from her lungs as her dress was stained with her own blood. I couldn't see what was done to her in the panic, but she lurched over dead in seconds.

There was the kid's photo, surrounded by flowers. I saw in blood one word was written:

WORTHLESS

The incident was written off as an accident. During summer break the school burned down. The fire started in the gym. I still think that the kid did it.

I still fear that the kid, the damned kid, is after me. I feel guilt for what happened. Even at my old age, I fear death. Maybe the kid is there, waiting for me.

Cold (A Poem)

It's difficult to breathe at this moment. A sharp pain fills my side with each shallow inhale I take to preserve these precious moments.

My thinking is cloudy, fractured thoughts race through my head grasping at my conscious like a claw of dread in a veil of sleep. It's difficult to focus but I must, if only to preserve these precious moments.

These hands are numb and slick with vitae that held me up for so long. The cuts feel like a tingle now. It feels like ages since the screaming stopped. These legs must find purchase on this soft earth. I must stand to preserve these precious moments.

Knees are weak, eyesight is covered with red hue, but I refuse to stop now. My hearing muddled as though I am in the water, I can't make out the words, nor do I have time to hear them. For I must preserve these precious moments.

Warmth has left me, willpower is all I've got left to use. I must climb! The pain is not enough to bear is a lie I must tell myself as I reach out. The agony is a tool to hold on. The torment sharpens me through the cold. I must keep climbing to hold on to these precious moments.

An eternity of hellfire is holding my failing body together. Each impulse is to stop fighting; each step is in defiance of my own instinct. I am shivering in this cold. Pushing farther is all this will has got left to keep making these precious moments.

I finally lose this fight. I embrace the cold. The pain fades. The euphoria is unlike anything before. It's okay to be cold in these last precious moments.

Quick Stop to the Gas Station(rough draft)

The second round of snow storms was on the cusp of beginning to ruin this small town. Streets were empty, muggers and kids wanting to cause a stir were staying in. Only the occasional car was spotted on the main roads; even at three AM, it was more quiet than usual. The little town looked abandoned, nobody was out in this.

Nobody, but Frank.

Frank was a little messed up as a kid. His parents were ritualistically murdered when he was 10, in front of him. He was a very violent teenager, and a more violent young man. He was always put in the nuthouse because he never killed anybody, and was pretty much looked upon as having a few broken bulbs in the house.

Frank decided he wanted blood at the ripe age of 34. It was time for a trip to the gas stop. The lanky fellow grabbed a hammer, slipped it into his jacket, grabbed his keys and locked up his apartment by the high school. You can never be too careful with kids these days. Frank always hated kids. They looked like cockroaches leaving the high school. It was that amusement that kept him from trying to burn the school down. People were roaches, plain and simple.

The brisk air chilled his bones through his jacket, almost making him want to return home. "It's only two blocks", he stated to the emptiness of the streets. Two blocks of cold wind between him and destiny. Frank the soon-to-be-killer made a strut out of it. Headphones in, music on, and the coldness might not be so bitter after all.

There was the gas stop, right across the main road in town. Practically the only way out of town. A white mercury drove right on by as he entered the parking lot. More roaches, thought the man. Hammer at the ready for this messy task; Frank was giddy. A grin crept upon his face. A grin he hadn't had since his parents were killed and he was covered in their blood.

The clerk was some young buck. Little pasty white boy sitting at the counter, reading some college textbooks. The lad looked up at Frank with a warm smile and greeted him. "Getting something last minute before we get the worst of it?" "Sure thing!", Frank said warmly. He walked up to the counter and snickered out "need something for these damn roaches!" as the hammer swung across the boy's face.

CRACK! The blow to the cheek did some damage knocking the kid down onto the floor into a pooling puddle of dark red blood. A quick hop over the counter and Frank was back on top of the kid. A resounding THUD followed by a few more echoed over the gas station. College boy was gone. "Roach with a caved in skull", Frank chuckled in the empty station.

In the 20 minutes it took to bring the kid to the dumpster, Frank got worked into a sweat. He decided to take a shit and get ready for the walk home. Maybe grab a free coke and hot dog. I'm sure the clerk would be okay with that! The thought made him laugh a bit.

On the can with the door closed, Frank the Killer was taking a shit when Officer Dewitt walked in. Blood was pooled over, but the red painted concrete hid it well. He shouted out "Anybody in?", In an authoritative tone, "This is Officer Dewitt of the GCPD". Frank had to snicker before saying anything. "On the can, Sorry. Bad case of runs. Do you need Gas?" Dewitt felt bad for the guy. Hell, Freezing cold and having the runs right before a snowstorm. Shitty luck. Dewitt just needed some java. "Got any Coffee?" He spoke to the bathroom door. Frank's grin was ear to ear. With a groan he grunted "What's in the pot is yours man. On the house! It's gonna be rough out there." Dewitt liked this guy. "Thanks pal!" Dewitt grabbed his cup and left. Ignorant of anything that had just happened.

Frank heard the door chime and had a giggle. Then the door to the toilet swung open. What he saw was worse than a ghost.

College boy was standing in front of him. Gore and brains coming out of the hole in his head. One eye dangling out of the socket, and a sagging jaw were what was left of his facial features. It gargled out two words, "Hi Frank", before advancing.

Officer Dewitt came back a few hours later to find a corpse of a young man with a caved in skull holding a dead man by the neck in the bathroom. Blood was slick all over the floor, and a stench filled the room.

But there was a fresh pot of coffee for the road.