See Dennis Siluk's new book: "The Jumping Serpents of Bosnia" out November, 2008

“Along the coast of the Adriatic Sea lives what now is called the “poskok,’ better known as the ‘Jumping Serpent’. These creatures are some five-feet long and…can jump some three feet in the air and leap some five-feet in any direction …, simply by aiming…. But this didn’t happen by chance….” (See Intro page)

“The Tale of the Jumping Serpents of Bosnia,” was written in 12/18/02 at the Barnes and Noble, bookstore, in Roseville, Minnesota, in the deli; around, 8/2003 the tale was picked up and used by the Croatian Education System in Europe, what now is considered the short version. Next, it was picked up by several internet sites between 2004 and 2006. This is the first time in print, and with its longer version. In 2006, the author reedited, the story, and in July of 2008, revised parts of it, adding only slightly to the description, details, and explanatory elements of the tale. The back picture is of Garrison Keillor, and the author (both poets and storytellers).

Also in back of the book (interview from the Magazine :) “Lost Sanctum,” No: 2 (Wild Cat Books) Ron Hanna, Editor October, 2006 Interview with Dennis L. Siluk by Benjamin Szumskyj

Dennis L. Siluk, Ed.D., is the author of 37-books, several in English and Spanish, eleven in Poetry. This is his seventh book on myths, tales, and the supernatural. He lives with his wife Rosa, in Minnesota and Peru; he presently is working on, “Old Josh…” and “Cradled by the Devil.”

545 in the Universe
(Poetic Prose)


And I heard, the voice say, “I created a long time ago creation, the living beyond me, other than me, when I did so, I said to me myself, there would be no wiping out of creation, its existence, the living things that know of me, for better or worse, and it started long before man, and the universe has its own life, as does man, and all that I have put around man, whom is really the grasshopper in the Universe. Although I have created all this and there has been many beginnings, there will only be one end, and that will be the Great Last Judgment Day, and those who fight by my side, those who go ahead of me, my scouts, your faith will be your strength, should you need it or use it, be wise enough to know what you have, court the cost. He with little strength, when the adversary comes—stand aside for he who has much. He who doesn’t know listen for my voice, I am everywhere, all the time, in every place, ever crack, nook. Those in hell I do not hear, I only see them when and if they come out of that abyss; the ghosts of the earth, tremble when they hear my voice, or hear my name, they halt their footsteps and return to their hidden places, so do not worry, lest I put them under my heel, and they would refer to be left alone within the dark places of the earth, and elsewhere, so I do not give them much attention. They are the residue of the lost. Go and live, it is my gift to you, I never promised eternal life on earth, that is your second gift, and that as you should know, comes later: for life on earth, as you know it, is but an once, in a big ocean you’ve yet to understand, but this ounce I have given you now, treat it like a treasure, for without it as a stepping stone, there would be nothing for you, no hope, no anything, you wouldn’t even be a grasshopper. And when the final days come remember, a day in one part of the universe does not measure out to be the same in another part, it is no different than when you look in the sky, and see one star brighter than another, things are bigger and smaller for reasons, that same reason applies to earth: time belongs to earth, as does air and water and dirt, and my time belongs to me, and the universe’s time belongs to it, you see, I have put balance in all, so when you count, know what you are counting before you calculate the sum. These are my thoughts, things you already know, but have thought little of. Some times he who has a lot to lose, has no time to think of such things, who has few things has time to listen. And there are few, but they do exist, those who have much, and push it aside for my words, not sunken into their own shadow world. If you build a fire, build a firewall, or the outside world will consume you, it is the same thing things.”

8-12-2008

The Weakening of America
(America in Prophecy, a poem)


Twice put high (WWI & “WWII)
Twice put low (Dec 7, and 9/11)
What is happening to you, America?
The Orient is weakening you!
You have conflicts everywhere,
And when the time of need comes
You’ll have no fruit to bear…”
Yes, of yes, Alas! But you will fail
At the time of real need—your
Adversary will make you wail.
Long wars, seldom fun, never won
Those you now call friend,
Will end, a short marriage at best,
And evil has an iron breast
It will double in your time, with
Death and dissention; rulers
Incapable will rise, ride the tide
Chased by the sea, out of the
Pacific, looking for peace—the
Adversary watche; there
In the Middle East, in
Palestine, in old Yugoslavia too…
Terror, and trembles, with
Huge fires and blood—ambition,
Pestilence, and all their kings,
Condemn in secret, America!
But it will all be soon, she
America comes too late, to save
The day, and so the land becomes
Desolate and divided, and the
Unwise, kings bring death
To the Great Nations..:!


No: 4350/8-15-2008

Note: Here is what I see on the horizon, between Russia, China, Iran Egypt, North Korea, America, the EU, Cuba, Syria, Iraq, Venezuela, the club of nations that seem to be at odds with America, to mention just a few, and a few not mentioned nations, the fate or man’s destiny rides just in front of it. I do believe, living through the 1980s, God gave may a reprieve, in that it pardoned its sins because some nations bent their knees, and thus, allowed the ones tht didn’t along with them more life to fixes thing up. And it did for a spell, now it has becomes whose than ever. So you see wea re back on first base, again.

The Weakening of America
(America in Prophecy, a poem)


Twice put high (WWI & “WWII)
Twice put low (Dec 7, and 9/11)
What is happening to you, America?
The Orient is weakening you!
You have conflicts everywhere,
And when the time of need comes
You’ll have no fruit to bear…”
Yes, of yes, Alas! But you will fail
At the time of real need—your
Adversary will make you wail.
Long wars, seldom fun, never won
Those you now call friend,
Will end, a short marriage at best,
And evil has an iron breast
It will double in your time, with
Death and dissention; rulers
Incapable will rise, ride the tide
Chased by the sea, out of the
Pacific, looking for peace—the
Adversary watche; there
In the Middle East, in
Palestine, in old Yugoslavia too…
Terror, and trembles, with
Huge fires and blood—ambition,
Pestilence, and all their kings,
Condemn in secret, America!
But it will all be soon, she
America comes too late, to save
The day, and so the land becomes
Desolate and divided, and the
Unwise, kings bring death
To the Great Nations..:!


No: 4350/8-15-2008

Note: Here is what I see on the horizon, between Russia, China, Iran Egypt, North Korea, America, the EU, Cuba, Syria, Iraq, Venezuela, the club of nations that seem to be at odds with America, to mention just a few, and a few not mentioned nations, the fate or man’s destiny rides just in front of it. I do believe, living through the 1980s, God gave may a reprieve, in that it pardoned its sins because some nations bent their knees, and thus, allowed the ones tht didn’t along with them more life to fixes thing up. And it did for a spell, now it has becomes whose than ever. So you see wea re back on first base, again.

Mount of the Moon (The Gypsy from Czechoslovakia)



Palmist) (Czech)

It was told her at a young age, by her gypsy mother, she had the strongest looking mount of the moon near her wrist any psychic ever had, meaning in terms of a palmist hand, her abilities could be quite developed, and at an early age, she could read hands and faces, and fingers, in an instant,

One dollar and five cents; that was all they had. All of it was in pennies. Pennies saved after paying the heat bill, the gas invoice, it sucked all the money up, that implied he was next to broke, he was going to go buy hotdogs with it; he had a wife and two kids, stuck in Erie, Pennsylvania after visiting his sister, and then he and his family thrown out of his sister’s house because they were tired of their company, yet they had invited the foursome from Minnesota to Pennsylvania to live with them, so Monica would have company. Roman had to find a job quick, and did, but this week’s check only left one-dollar and five cents, and tomorrow was Thanks Giving.

There was clearly not a thing he could do but lay back in his living room chair and wallow silently over his misery. So his wife, Delia got involved; which might tell the reader women when they are wronged seem to get their revenge in a subtle way, and often in the process can be deadly, in the world of human hearts, that is.
Her plan did not exactly beg for an elaborate description, but it certainly had that finger of doom attached to it.
Joy Li, was the landlady, who had in the summer told Roman and his wife, to pay an extra $20-dollars a month (it was 1972, twenty-dollars was a lot), so when the winter months come, the heat would be paid, and so they did willingly without signing an addendum to the rental agreement. And now winter was present, and Roman got his first heat bill, inexpediently, and after the rent, there was only that one-dollar and five cents left.
Roman now had finished his cry, and blew his nose thru a hanky, threw it at the cat, who ran out into the back kitchen, and out the door, which was slightly opened, he didn’t care for cats they were too sneaky, but his wife did so he put up with them, all fifteen of them.
Tomorrow was the holiday, ‘Thanks Giving,’ and Delia knew they had to pay the invoice today—their gas, or heat would have been turned off (in 1972, they were not required back then to provide heat, if indeed, the bill was not paid), and therefore, this left her family with only hotdog money for one day, and she knew this should have been a happy day preparing for tomorrow: and usually they had plans, but none were arranged this season.
In a nutshell, had Roman known this in advance, the gas bill was forth coming; he could have cumulated this into the expenses. Although I must add to his, he did his fair share of drinking, and smoking cigarettes that might have helped save some money, but again I emphasize, that would have been needed to have been carved out in advance, Joy had surprised them with the additional bill, and like many people, Roman and his family lived from pay check to pay check.
Oh yes, Joy was sterling with her cleverness, a little near worthy of being outright shrewd, especially at another’s expense. But by and by Delia who was of East European origins, from old Czechoslovakia (from a township called Visegrad), a palmist Gypsy, had married Roman in 1971, he was twenty-seven years old, she only nineteen, they had two boys, twins, now were a year and a half old moved from Minnesota to Erie, Delia had been visiting Minnesota and when they first met, they got acquainted, married and now were here. She had met Joy, outside her apartment, a redbrick building with four apartments in it. She insisted she should read her, palm Joy’s palm: Joy feeling, Delia already knew something was there, allowed it, for she was reading not only the palm, but the shape of her hands, fingers and nails, mounts, other formations in the palms, she had read within a moments glass, her enemies, her strong sex drive, her clear thinking ability, and that she liked to work alone, perhaps that is why she had apartments, and she had small hands, indicating she did things on big levels, or tried, and it was hard for her to forgive injustices, a high vitality, and energy level, and told her to call immediately a certain number, she had an inheritance waiting.
Joy feeling this gypsy had her peculiarities, but it would do no harm in investigating, and when she did, it was at a bank, and she had a large sum of money coming. So cheerful, and thankful, was Joy, she called Delia up on the phone, telling her of her good fortune, and asked if her and her family would come over for Thank’s Giving Dinner. Exactly what Delia was hoping for.


“Here is my humble home,” said Joy Li, with on Thank’s Giving Day smile, opening up the door to her home, as the Delia’s family entered one by one, she gave way and greeted each one with a kiss, and the greatest of hospitality and immediately gave out reasonable refreshment. The sum of her inheritance was so great, she had intentions later on to see if she could persuade Delia into giving her another reading to see what other riches were in store for her, and perhaps even a Tarot readings .
And so the dinner was set, and they were served with the greatest of care by Joy’s cook, and often time’s, comforter. She saw the Negress waving her hands as she walked by her side, she had two fate lines, two careers; from her mount of Jupiter, she was not generous, her thumb told her she had courage, and fighting spirit. Joy saw Delia reading her hands almost in detail, big hands, that done intricate things, that is what Delia thought, and she knew what they were up to. Here was a person who liked to lead, but was being lead, who could not, an injustice she would not forgive. Who had a heavy sex drive, like Joy, like to like; two lesbians, whispered Delia, two strong sex drives, two unforgiving persons—and now she knew, what her intuition told her before she even entered the house, she something, but not the whole of it, and now she put two and two together.

And so the dinner went forward, refreshments and some hosted ham, a bottle of wine.
“Eat, drink and be merry, I am indebted to you,” she told her guest, having inherited a fortune. One that she would not have known about had not Delia not told her, but Joy was wondering also if there was anything else, more money laying about that is.
Delia knew every foreign woman living in another country needed to be shrewder if they wanted to compete with those in their environment, and so not to spoil the dinner she did not tell Joy everything.

She had taken the future of Joy, in her hands—her personality was embedded into those fingers and palm, and she knew what was to happen should she respond a certain way, saw the money stored away in a bank vault, and had created a long conversation in-between, called a diversion to get her senses correct, and now the invitation, a bazaar situation, that she got a free meal out of.
The earth, solar system, even the universe seemed to flow through her palms, always feeding her, and now she and her family were finished at the dinner table, and she wanted to leave quickly. And Joy was a bit surprised, not quite putting two and two together, but sensing something was wrong.
And so Delia and her family left, and Joy sat back at the long dinner table doing a manicure on herself, her hands.


Now before I go on with this story, it is worth a sentence or two to say that, this incident about to take place this scene could not have been witnessed and perhaps for the better of the reader, and the characters, only Delia could see it, and it is best left that way, but it is not insolvable, I will piece this part together for you.


As I have said, the family, Delia’s family had left, and she, Joy started to give herself a manicure, her long dark hair glowed and reflected in the chandelier, lights duplicating it a hundred times over, she must had been thinking I would guess, of the great sum of money she had gotten, or would get, it was already verified it belonged to her, it was just a simply task now to go pick it up. She was, as we often all do—starting to spend the money inside her head before she got it within her grips. Her feet were even tapping a joyful tune on the floor nervously, automatically. And as she looked out the widow beyond the table, she noticed night had fallen upon the house in a deep dark hush.
Now everything quiet in the house—her maid cleaning up the kitchen, her thoughts started wandering into a different arena, not once did her maid come out after Delia had looked her in the eyes, read her swaying palms. She picked up the phone, her maid, whom she did not see, was watching from the crack of the door. Delia answered the phone, surprised to hear Joy’s voice,
“You left so quickly,” she began, “thought I’d give you a call, I never did get to ask you if there might be some bad news in my life, near or far?”
“Why yes, there was, but everybody has bad news, I try to avoid that area, people get so panicky, and don’t enjoy the moment,” said Delia.
“Oh, but you must tell me dear, it is most important to me, I will make it worth your while,” she commented.
Said Delia, with an apprehensive voice, “I’m not sure if that is possible.”
“Why, of course my dear that is,” said Joy, almost with a chuckle as if it was silly.
“Well, if you insist, please take a piece of paper now, and write down, you owe me $2000-dollars, and put it underneath the doily of the table, so no one can find it.”
“Oh, how silly that is, it must be great news, good or bad” commented Joy, but she did it, and then said, “ok, it is done,” and somehow, Delia knew it had been done, said, “Now sit back and listen and do not get too excited: between the red cabbage and the stuffed green peppers was the item, odorless and tasteless poison was injection into those foods, that is why your cook only brought out enough for you, and of course that is your favorite dish, and the cabbage that was left, I told the kids and my husband not to eat it before we came to the table, I told them it was too spicy for them, and they’d get sick stomachs.”
“Oh my gosh,” she screamed, “What can I do! Who did this?”
“Look in the crack of the kitchen door, you will see your maid’s eyeballs watching you (and she turned to see, and she was watching, and staring right at her), oh yes, yes she is…!”
“I see you dead in the next five or six minutes, she killed you, you know, and she is hoping the poison takes effect quick, so you can not retaliate, you have willed her everything you know. So I’m sorry to tell you the bad news, you will not be inheriting that money, but your maid will.”
“But why did you not tell me this before?” asked Joy.
“Simple things to some folks are major things to others, had you not billed the heat bill to us, we would not have needed your dinner, we would have had enough money to buy our own turkey. And you would have been poisoned anyhow, and I would not have known it, to tell you because I would not have found the need to read your palm, and feed my family…” and Delia went on explaining to her how she felt, but Joy never heard the all of it, she was already dead.

It was a week later, Delia received a phone call from the police, saying there was an IOU, under the doily, and that the maid, would be paying her the sum on the note, as soon as she collected the money from Joy’s will.

8-4-2008

Iron Vampire Bates of Haiti (Or, the Ape men’s Bludgeons)

(A Science-fiction short story on—mutations)


The Haitian Citadel, in Haiti

Vampire Bates:

The so called Revered Master Gordon, who lived in the Citadel (1986) in the hill country of Haiti, some three-thousand feet on top of a mountain was gone, it was an the usual hour, and George Huntington was deep into the bowels of the fortress, the night tingling with eldritch shadows, movements in quest all around me, like bats, and stretched out arms, I hid around one of the many pillars surrounding me, stared at the beasts, thinking how I might handle these ape like men, with their iron bludgeons in hand, they saw me hiding, they must had seen my shadow from the brightness of the torches within their iron sheathes and metal clasps nailed into the walls. They looked wild as they swung those clubs recklessly about, coming towards me, I looked for an exit, then a gate, then I saw those bat shadows again, but this time they were not shadows, they were bats, and they came in swarms, and bit me here and there all over my body, as I tried to beckon them off (vampire bats, and my body started to pain me, a tingling sensation in the feet followed, and the beginning of paralysis, and I felt a few drips of water on me leaking from the roof, and it seemed to draw a fear into my cerebrum, and my body was starting to get rigid, I knew this was the preliminary diagnosis for rabies, but what could I do, they had iron like teeth and jaws, when they bit, like a piranha, pulling out flesh.

Anything would do I felt at this juncture, and so I rushed forward at them, those ape brutes, I knew there was an entrance behind them, if only I could get to it before these symptoms killed me, thus, I ran through the twenty apemen—and they snagged me like a bug in a web, that was the last avenue I had to my liberation.
I did tell myself silently, we simply don’t listen to our little voices inside our head, it’s there warns you, like a second part of your soul, or perhaps an element of residue inside the soul, it warns you, and my warning was do not go into the fortress at all, the monetary as it was being called while the Master Gordon of this scientist cult, ended his stay, he was working on a mutation experiment, and I was interested what it was, I worked for a small newspaper out of Minnesota, and I had been in Haiti before, to this very location, and in Port of Prince, and Cap Haitian, and Rankette, a village up and deeper into the mountains.
This fortress was built in the time of Napoleon, a time of stress for Haiti, built in fear his navy would try to enslave Haiti, and this fortress high on the mountain top was ideal, yet it took 20,000-slaves to build it, and something like four-years, and thousands of deaths. Some have called it the 8th Wonder of the World, but Master Gordon has called it his experiential lavatory, and has paid a good sum for privacy of the fortress, for several months. This is where I come into all this.

And as I was saying, instantly I was snagged like a fly caught in a web, I suppose I was surprised of the wild scene I never would have expected of myself, that before my own eyes as I sized up a moment ago, and in shock I did the insane act; next, the largest of the apemen, grabbed my shroud, the cloths that covered me now covered with blood and bite holes from the Vampire Bates, they were naked and as hairy as any ape in the Congo, might be, but here I was in the deep dungeons of the Haitian Fortress, next to the Caribbean Sea, it was blistering hot outside, but cool in these dungeons.
And the large apemen named Maraud, I had heard his followers call him that in their grunts and groans, I dimly stood my ground in front of him, as he looked at me restored to some kind of happy ignorance, and wound his hand up like a baseball pitcher, and whapped me in the face with that iron club, and bashed it again against my thigh, back and I caught it the fourth time with my first, then figured I had to reply disjunctively to him, that without a doubt, I was comparatively more knowing than he.

He itch his head as if trying to figure out my unusual smile, after he astoundingly pounded on me like a kid might with a toy he wanted to wreck out of anger it wouldn’t work properly, and I ran to the Monastery garden. I was dying I knew, from the bate bites, and the severe blows of the apemen; it was just a matter of time.
Then the so called Master came in, a high priest of some sort, and scientist of another nature, “Thank God you’re alive,” he commented, adding “these apemen are really unworthy to be among us, they are confused half the time trying to figure out if we are a man-seraph, or a man-god, or just a weak man in general, and perhaps a man-bat. I keep them fooled.” And he laughed.
The man called Master Gordon was carrying an embryo, an animal organism in the early stages of growth, looked related to the apemen.
“Come with me he said!” and I followed him to a cell in the dungeon, the apemen watching carefully, nearby.
“Trust me,” said the Master, “they will no longer harm you. This embryo is the fruit of my long enduring work, I am trying to create a dispensation, a miracle you might say, and plant it into those apemen, this conquest with enable or bestow upon man and ape alike, one of higher intelligence, the other with higher in strength. Thus making one new human being with two intertwined matures.
“It all comes under unthought-of new faculties for the new human race. This will neither be the first, or neither second, nor even the third hypothesis in this case, for man is really an experiment, individually, abstractedly and more potent than he knows.”
The Master now was unavailing to my mind, he was not convincing me of his good intentions for mankind, or the universe, then behind me an iron club hit my head, and I passed out.


(Three days later) When I woke the mysterious providence of who I was, was told to me, that being, the Masters quest, was part of it, I looked in the mirror, and I was inside of Maraud (the ape-man), we were a team now, connected for life, I remodeled, in my thoughts, and I was flooded with Maraud’s thoughts, I had to learn how to decipher between his and mine, and tell him to shut up, and let me try to form words, since his mind did not have the capability. I found out I could dominate him, at times, and when his brute team came into play, when they were guarding at their posts inside the fortress, he would approach them, hit them in the head, and start a fight, that is when I went silent, I did not know how to handle such tides of anger, he went like a rocket in high gear, and my strength was (or his strength, now part of mine) twenty-fold from what it used to be. He took a lot of blows and so I taught him (which was part of me now) to duck, and kick, and jump away, in this process of fighting, he became even more dangerous because of that.

I had walked back into the operating room, I paced the room, I noticed there was a fire in a heath, my body was in it, burning up, thus, there was no future escape, if I did, it would be in my new body and that was too monstrous to walk freely on any streets in the world without finding someone’s bullet to put me back into some zoo cage. The Master had his triumph.

Written: 8-8-2008, modified 8-9-2008

The Ghost Stalkers (Part two to"The Hermit's Ghostly Dilemma")

I stayed there that night, in Josh O’Hara’s hut, in the Minnesota wild (Hibbing), thinking perhaps I could come to some conclusion what took place, and I felt as the uncanny night went on, death stalked it, I mean the ghosts that he so readily feared stalked it, so, he had a good reason to fear, I was not believing in his story at first, I am no detective, nor need I be, but they were out there, in the darkness breeding as I was breathing, and pacing within his timber hut, such insights, come too late too often. And then I heard footsteps, especially with the light footsteps outside, my ears trained to hear such things from war, I could hear the grass being bent, as if trampled through, reminding me they were there, they the stalking ghosts, and maybe they were even dragging Josh’s residue spirit through it, for I heard his voice in agony, him being dead meant nothing at this moment to me, I was shivering in the over heated hut, my veins like ice, step by step, I heard the stalkers laughing, like spies, trapping a mouse, that is how I felt, I being the mouse, they heard my breathing it seemed, I walked to the right side of the hut, the footsteps outside the hut walked around the hut to my side, a vicious network of intrigue for them, for me a desperate, and dangerous game I wanted to get out of. Why they simply did not come into the hut, was beyond me, perhaps they were forbidden to desecrate, or violated with their malicious hearts, the place of the dead, code perhaps among them, because they didn’t want their death beds dishonored, like to like I always say.
The burring logs in the house the dead feet, I simply wanted it all to end this terror that came loose on this cabin, getting on out of it, out of this night, this never to be forgotten night, it all was trying on my system, it was as if my immune system could no longer hold itself in place, it was cascading from the inside out, my mind blank, then I passed out.

(Twenty-years later) Suddenly at 2:00 AM, it happened again, like it happens every night, has happened every night, since that long night in the cabin in the woods in Hibbing Minnesota, at different times of course, since I spent that evening in Josh O’Hara’s hut, those voices in the woods came back to me, come back to me, out like wild boors through my head, it was an eerie gripping horror again, I cannot tell you the full story of this supernatural happening, no more than what you already know, fantastic as it is, but I lost my hearing that night, I think the ghosts, slowly, very slowly during that evening murdered something inside of me. It is as I said, 2:00 AM, and I hear those eerie gripping voices, and that was twenty-years ago, I was in O’Hara’s hut, but I must stop writing down these notes, I’m tired, I need to sleep—; it’s 3:00 AM now… yes, it starts all over again!...


Part one of the two part story (The Hermit) was written 4-18-2007; part two, was written (The Ghost Stalkers) on August 8, 2008.

A Virulent Death in Buenos Aires (a short eldritch story)


(December, 2007) “All right,” he said his eyes slanted towards the floor, emotions zigzagging across his chest, bowed head, neck out of alignment, arms crossed, and so he took one less sight of her—“All right!” Then the frustrating dialogue stopped, the dusty chatter ended, her eyes crystal clear, her protest to him had been sterling, authentic, but meaningless, only words that shot through him like bullets, pellets from a muzzle an inch from his brain, knocking down doors inside his cerebellum, he wasn’t coherent, he wasn’t anything, not human, not sensible, stagnant thinking, and even as it was, instead of walking away, he came out with a burst—like a guerilla, it was as if somebody, or thing inside his brain had beaten it to pulp, pounded it to mush, his brain was under a meat cleaver, ready to be chopped up, and hung on a hook, like a dead hog ready to be cut up on an assemble line. He held his head, then a second burst came out of his mouth, he stood up, tried to balance himself, he felt like falling, the studio apartment was but one room, and a bathroom, that was it, but he didn’t fall, he rested his two hands on a wooden chair. Out the window he noticed the obelisk he saw it many times but today it had different shapes, the tall famous obelisk on the widest street in the world, in Buenos Aires, was like a rocket to him, then he turned to his girlfriend from North America, some New England state, he a resident of Argentina. They were having a week long drug fiesta, in his apartment.
He looked at her, loved her deep blue eyes, milky white skin, and she had been attracted to his bronze skin, and dark hair, some mysticism in it, one from the North the other from the South, but now his looks would have stopped a police dog in its tracks, had he been outside walking with her, his bitterness on his face reeked all the way to kingdom come, and with a sudden undefined malice to it—
‘Wallop! Clout…! Whack!... thump …thump, thwack-thwack!” … a fully eight-inch German grade carbon stainless steel carving knife, extremely sharp, perfectly balanced, wide blade, full tang—sunk into her chest—out came a virulent smell of burning death.
“Get it out,” she shouted, “you can’t kill me!”
He looked at her, pulled the knife out slowly, ripping the knife sideways so he could puncture all he might inside of her, trying to find the heart, in particular.

He had taken drugs, smoldering, stinking with them, she had her share also, but not to the point she didn’t know what was happening, or free from pain.
“No thanks I want you to die,” he said, and he wanted to watch himself do it, “it’s alright he told her,” as if to comfort her on his second plunge into her chest with the knife.
By one leg, he pulled her into the bathroom, grabbed her by her hair, stretched out her thin neck, across her shoulder he put the knife, rested it, and with a thrust and whack, beheaded her.

“Wait,” he told himself, “I better take her down to the incinerator,” looking now at the head, he placed it on the toilet seat, as he pulled the body over the bath tub, like a sack of potatoes, with two hands and two legs, and his German made knife, laying on the side of the bathtub.
“Alright,” he said, “the incinerator” knowing now he’d have to chop up the body, its limbs and all, find a suitcase and bring it down to the cellar, and toss it into the incinerator.
“Of course,” he said, he had to undress the rest of her body, and he did. Then after cutting it all up, suitcase nearby, he put the head back onto the torso, to see how it looked, fit, as he had placed it on the toilet seat for that purpose.
“Perfectly balanced,” he said, “hurry up,” he told himself, “I’m hungry, I want breakfast.”
He grabbed the heavy suitcase, rushed down to the basement with it, the door was locked, he looked through the peephole, there was a fire in the furnace, it was December, and it had snowed, it was cold.
Now he was on the sidewalk that paralleled the ‘9th of July Street,’ claimed to be the widest street in the world, he was pulling the suitcase now, his arms, the muscles were getting knotted up. He knew the police wouldn’t bother him, they never did, they were too busy taking bribes from those they handed out tickets to, or looking the other way if a crime was happening so they didn’t have to do all that paperwork, or getting paid off for looking the other way by teenage thrives. And so he dragged the suitcase down the street unhampered, past several buildings and several policemen, and a few restaurants, in which he wanted to eat, but it was time for brunch, no longer breakfast. And so he stopped, left the suitcase outside, sat in the restaurant, had ham and eggs, coffee, and a young thief came up to the suitcase, paced a bit to see if anyone was looking, saw that it was clear, grabbed it, ran with it, but it was so heavy he fell, and it opened, and everything unraveled, everything inside rolled out, and the police did stop for once, and for once they chased him down the street, he, himself still in shock, this young thief, and lo and behold, he was caught the robber caught and accused of the crime; oh he swore up and down it was not his crime, but whose then, asked he police? And the real assailant finished his breakfast, went back to the Casa Rosada, where tourist often came, found himself a new gringo girl from England this time, and they started dating. He told himself it was the drugs that made him do that horrific crime, and thus, he’d never use them again, but he lied, as all drug addicts and alcoholics do.


Written 8-5-2008

A Stranger in Augsburg (A short paranormal story)


It was 1970 now, I was lost in the beautiful city of Augsburg, the streets I was not familiar with yet; I was assigned to Reese Compound, US Military stock, the 1/36 Artillery, to a Battery unit, of some forty-four men, I was twenty-two years old then, a Private First Class, and it was a weekend, and I was moseying about.
Being lost in this city, was not a big thing to me back then; I could simply jump in a taxi and be back at my unit in fifteen to twenty minutes at any location in Augsburg.
Accordingly, it was early afternoon, on a Saturday, and I was standing nearby this shanty of sorts, which was in-between two stores, and a small park, not sure exactly where I was as far as identifying the streets, but there in front of me come into view a small creek, in a park close by, with a bridge that crossed it, perhaps it was more on the order of a canal that found its way throughout the city and park system. In any case, I wanted, or intended to anyways—to cross it, but got interested in a view of an old man however, so I ventured closer to the old man’s shanty, nearer the park and onto the bridge, elbows on the bridge’s wooded railing, looking over towards the old man again, the old German war veteran I presupposed, or so I invented he was. He appeared to be doing something intimate when I looked his way I just did not concentrate on what, but had intentions to.
The old shanty had but three walls to it—if you looked through the front window, to its back you could see there was no back, the only reason I could figure he had the back tore off was because he had intentions of rebuilding the whole place, the front door being opened. In any case, I didn’t venture across the bridge, I walked to the edge of the park, his shanty across the street, sat on a tree stump, and pondered his business, like a peeping tom, I suppose you could say. I watched him doing whatever he was doing; I simply could not get a clear picture of what he was doing. He mumbled to himself in some language, it didn’t sound like German to me, and it wasn’t English for sure, or any kind of Spanish I was familiar with, and I knew all three languages quite well, and I reconfirmed, he was not speaking them—period.
He looked as if he had lived a long life, a hard lived life, and now, in a word, an awaken drunk, so I thought because of his behavior, he was clumsy, awkward—slow moving. He had a haggard look to his bone structure, kind of droopy, as if he was inside another person’s body trying to stretch it out because he was too huge to be in it, in the first place.
He had charcoal and olive colored skin, some sore like blotches here and there, huge shoulders, and tall, perhaps close to seven feet; an unsavory look, a villainous composure, eyes hard—steel hard. Curiosity to him—so it appeared—was a thing of the past, he paid little to no attention to me, or the people walking by, or standing about waiting for buses, taxis and so forth: ‘…an old warrior,’ I said to myself, indeed he must be; WWI, yes, what else.
As I had now gotten closer to the shanty, and the old man, his cloths was like a scarecrows; he must had been all of ninety-years old, or at least that is my guess, not sure why I say ninety, but that is what came to mind, him being wrinkled up like a cooked tomato and so forth, but he was agile, and strong looking, he could have been younger or older I assume.
He then pulled these old looking rags out from behind a stove, from a hole in the wall it looked to be, where he kept them evidently, and then he chopped them up, and I got a better look by taking a few more steps towards him, gazing over the edge of the sidewalk, I was in the street, and he nailed them to the wall as if to dry, and he had some already drying, and now the rages, that I thought were rages, were not rags at all, but some kind of substance, bird, wings, that is what I saw, funny I thought, I was now more curious.
Fine, I told myself, then looking sternly at his operation and now on the sidewalk, I noticed he was boiling something, it was that substance, the wings, the birds, whatever, because he pulled some of them out of his pot, a cooking pot, those chopped up, whatever things he hand, and a few he swallowed whole.
After about thirty more minutes of stretching my neck, it got to me, and I was as close to him now as any neighbor could be, what he was boiling on that small gas stove still remained a mystery. My instinct or sentries said they were something eatable that was not supposed to be eatable, and therefore, somewhere in all of this, resides a mystery, so I took a few more steps closer, looked closer and began to bethink —this was none of my business, or was it? I was no perchance, ten-feet from him.
Anyhow, my observations quickened as I approached, the old man’s eyes, five feet from him, had a yellowish crust look to them, one I had never came into observing before, not at at least in any human.
There seemed to be no danger as I now stood in front of the shanty. Accordingly I began to look at the wall, what was in the boiling pan, the hole behind the table that held the little gas stove on top of it, in the corner, and on the table where he was doing the chopping, where there were droppings of blood. He really paid no attention to me, as if I was not even there. Then seizing the moment, I asked the old man if he knew what he was doing? Not sure why I asked it in such a blunt and rude manner, but I seemed to have taken charge of the moment, and somehow expected him to adhere to my request, and somehow I figured he would.
“Yes,” he echoed, as if the sound came from his feet, not his head, adding, “cooking leftover meat from the butcher shop across from my place.” I think in essence, he meant, he had friends like him, anyhow, I looked closer, into the boiling water, then on the wall, on the table, and what was hidden behind his coffee cup, perhaps not hidden, but laying there.
I held my mouth, as if to vomit, for a moment closed my eyes hoping when I opened them I’d not confirm what I had just validated to be, indeed I was seeing right. An unholy sense came upon me, and I said as nonchalantly as I could,
“Sir, I hate to tell you, but you are cooking some species of bat.” (a species I had never seen before, a thick head like a rat, and long wings, the whole bat perhaps being a few pounds.)
He looked deep into my eyes, as if holding me in a trance,
“I’m eating my food from my planet, it’s traditional, ice-bats…!” so he said, his eyes deep dark as the bats wings—the center yellow like a wolf’s. I next took a moments rest, there on the floor behind him was a heap of bats, reeking with a foulness of death, I mean to say, a pile, twenty or thirty.
“Take a look around if you wish,” he said, as if he was harmless and so was his abode and way of life. And I did, I took a quick scanty view, of the small shack.
The bed, his bed, the only bed I saw, was of rags and straw. Other than that, it was a pig’s haven, messy and stunk to high heaven.

I had been to Bali, and other places where there is bats galore, and seemingly sacred to certain groups, even stood under a bat temple, which was an open large cave, with over a hundred thousand bats above my head, but never, ever have I seen them boiled as to be used for a stew, or so huge.

—One thing never left my mind those ten months I spent in Augsburg, Germany, which was the name of the butcher shop next to the old man’s shanty, it was called, “The Moiromma Special Cuts.”
I would later on in life put two and two together, it was discovered (yet untold to the general public at the time) the adjacent solar system to Earth’s, that there was a peculiar planet, among the so called ‘Cadaverous Planets,’ which formed this new solar system, called Moiromma, a strange planet indeed. And perhaps I should add, I was fortunate enough to have met a visitor from another local such as Moiromma.


Written: 4-19-2007 ((Part two, not provided here, “No Eyes to Weep With”) (there are 26-stories to the Cadaverous Plants series, along with three long novelettes.))

Phantasmal ((or, ‘The Bulbous Peril’)(a short Eldritch Story))



‘Dangerous illusions within a sphere,’ they called it!

It was 1997, Sulla had fragments coming into his mind, disjointed fragments, in dream and illusionary form, and so he conjectured, presupposed, he was losing his mind, he was living at the time in Roseville, Minnesota, on Larpenteur Street, in a two bedroom apartment, or at least that is what he would have told anyone had they asked him, because it is what he believed. He lived there with his mother. He had talked to a psychologist about this, and they simply told him, in time it would all pass, thus, he took a different approach, he sought within his dream world, to talk to a psychological seer, to get to his problem.

“I wasn’t motivated at first to figure out my situation until the frequency of this illness of mine, mental illness in this case vastly increased to the point I seemed to float like a ghost within my dreams, or visions or nightmares, whatever they are. My mother didn’t either know what to call them, she said very little about it. But I needed to have some control over both worlds, and I was losing that.
“How strange—so I thought at the time Henry, for me to try to cling onto these so called acquired wandering ghostly imaginings, the ones I am in now; I mean to say, it is by far another whole world here, that appears so real, and I must have tried, because I am still living within it. But let me go on, I sought you out within this dream because the human psychologists all classifying me as a psychological fruitcake; was too much.
“During the day I remain in our apartment quite a lot, a building apartment, which I live on the third floor in, there I remain almost fearful of leaving, even if I wanted to go, I couldn’t simply get up and go because my legs will not allow, as for now I am talking to you in my dream world because you seem to understand more than the doctors in the real world, and my neurological disease confines me in a wheelchair. So you see Henry, it is nothing but an ongoing nightmare. I prefer this dream world to reality.
“I tried to exercise when I first acquired this disarming illusionary disease, of drifting back and forth into this dream world without any control, but it didn’t go away, my nervous system broke down even more, and my legs gave into the disease leaving me a vegetable, and so I was even hoping I’d stay in the dream world longer. In the process I somehow created mental barriers between the real world and this marginal outline of a world, and you, you even seem real to me but I know you are a ghost in this imaginary world. This new world, the one I fall halfway asleep into, and fall out of, but like because there are less restrictions, limits.
“And so you see Henry, circumstances tell me the real horror is coming back to this wheelchair in the real world. I’d rather stay in my dreams, floating about, in this unworldly world with folks like you who listen.”

Said Henry the ghostly seer, in his own paranormal ecstatic voice and mannerisms,
“When did the real horror begin?”
“A few months ago,” said Sulla, “I beheld great masses of vapor as it seeped through my body as if I was all residue and not flesh, steadily I became less and less solid, less distinct until at last I somehow could project myself into this new flexible world, without that wheelchair, does that make sense Henry?”
“What world are we talking about, Sulla?” asked Henry, staring into his unblinking eyes.
“The worlds I live in, and the world I dream in, those two worlds are what we are talking about, are we not Henry?” said Sulla.
Henry’s eyes lit up big as headlights on a car, to a yellowish thick mist, “I think,” remarked Henry, “your residue, substance has expanded to create inside your psyche an intrusion, a virus given to you by another source, another alien,”
“In simple laymen terms, what does that mean, Henry?” asked Sulla.
“Well it depends. In the world of the so called living, it would mean you are having nightmares, but in the ghostly world, or your world, because I think you have forgotten you are a ghoul, it means you’ve escaped through a nightmare—that there wheelchair you are talking about, is the nightmare, your reality is in the here and now, the so called free floating world, here with me.”
Sulla looked about, said with almost fright, “How can this be?”
“There is,” said Henry, “an individual difference here, that you have not looked at, a primal corridor, all ghosts live in, it is natural, and like anyone else we ghosts have a code, a genetic code built within our residue, and this code looks—when you draw it on paper—like a primal corridor, with rooms here and there: in essence, someone planted a plague in you, more on the order of a virus in one of those rooms, found within your corridor, sort of speaking, this disembarrass the mind, to make it think whatever the code of the virus is programmed for, in your case it would seem to have made you think you are human, when in essence you are who you are, a ghoul, like me, you have for sure went down a bizarre avenue, purely abstract.”
“So I am not human?” responded Sulla.
“What a hideous question,” said Henry, “if you were, you’d be in that wheelchair now.”
“Who gave me the virus?” asked Sulla.
“I can take a wild guess, and if I did, it would be those monstrous trouble makers from the Planet Moiromma, outside of Earth’s solar system, it is a planet they transfer such virus from: an orderable peril of a game, of the mind, to see if they can control it from afar. They call it, ‘Dangerous illusions within a sphere,’”

Written at Starbucks in Surco, in Lima, Peru, 8-3-2008

The Black Zone Horror (In Four Parts)






Part One

(to ‘The Black Zone Horror’)


The Seatmate

(September, 2007) Juan Carlos Perez left Huancayo, Peru, high up in the Andes, in the Mantaro Valley, after spending several days at a booth (stall) which his aunt had set up at the San Jeronimo festival of the Avelinos. The twenty-two year old boy caught a bus, with some forty-passengers, heading down the Andes, a seven hour night ride to Lima. He put his head phones on, found a window seat in the front of the bus, and fell to sleep.
In La Oroya (about one third of the way to Lima, the bus’ destination), a miner’s town, Manuel Pablo Silva, had purchased a ticket to Lima, and became a passenger; he sat in the back of the bus, put his baggage under the seat, and sat back. Ricardo Vila and his wife Maria, sat by him, he was calm, but his reactions seemed somewhat robotic.
The bus’ journey had started at 1:00 PM, and got to La Oroya, at around 3:15 PM, where it had stopped for ten-minutes, and now was at Casapalca, a small village of miners high up in the Andes, almost at the highest point in the region. There the bus stopped to pick up more passengers, and most everyone got off the bus to stretch, buy bread and other things for the long trip. Matter of fact, Manuel had departed the bus, and was talking to one of the young woman he had seen on the bus, Ricardo and Maria nearby watching, but not assuming anything was awkward, or going to be awkward. Juan Carlos remained on the bus, tired from his long days of making and selling trout at the fiesta, one of the areas renowned foods. For the most part, the young man remained, or continued to remain obvious to his surroundings, and made no noise, consequently most of the passengers figured he was sleeping, and he was to the best of Manuel’s knowledge.
From outside, leaning against an adobe (mud brick) building, waiting for the driver to give the ok to board, Silva noticed the calm reserved lad, peacefully in slumber, and upon embarking onto the bus, he, Silva, went back to his original seat, and pulled out his sack—looking as if it was filled with cloths and travel items, and went to sit in the seat by the young man, put the sack this time above in the overhead luggage area: and waited for the bus to go.
Someone had taken Ricardo’s seat, and so he and his wife found one across from Manuel Pablo, thinking nothing of it, that it was just a seat change. In front of Perez and Silva, was a young woman, in her early twenties, she turned about looked at the two, smiled, she had talked to Silva a moment before, as they waited outside the bus, her name being, Ana Maria Zevallos, she had actually taken a liking for the so called minor.

((Interlude)(There was some kind of force that took over Silva, even his body seemed to shape change, acting more like a robot than a human, like something from outer space; nothing nature made on earth anyhow, he was made into a devil at that moment, at this juncture, a precocious monster, about to give out a terrible sight, in a way he was going to drag all those folks passengers, nameless passengers on the bus to his purpose, to inflict his doings, his gore, into their memories forever, they to him were the outsiders.))

Silva got up from his seat, no one really took notice, but then he opened up his bag, and pulled out a large butcher’s knife, one used often for cutting up lambs and pigs and so forth, especial at festivals. Ricardo Vila, saw something metallic from his peripheral vision, and as he went to turn his head to get a better view, Manuel Pablo Silva, had stabbed Juan Carlos in the chest, he moved back hard in his seat, put his arm across his wife, woke her up, then Manuel stabbed the young man again, and again, rapidly (and swiftly Ricardo jumped up, pulled his wife out of harms way), as the man continued to stab Juan Carlos Perez.
Ana Maria, heard a bloodcurdling sound behind her; from the assailant came a hissing like sound as if from a snake or rat, from Juan Carlos, a shallow and thin cry, like a whimpering, and dying cat; then louder sounds came from the young man, sounds like a child’s cry to the agony of a howling dog (the boy never knowing what really had happened, what was taking place, his murder in essence, at hand, at its most raw form; Ana Maria had turned about, choked on the scene and had made her back steps a noticeable distance from the assailant, toward the bus’ driver.

The bus stopped, people started moving rapidly off the bus, not really knowing where they were, someplace between where they were and their previous last stop, about an hour from Lima, someone said Morococha, a small village close by; it was 7: 00 PM, and dark, and as one person after the other calmly disembarked the bus, Manuel dug his knife deeper into and around the neck, the collarbone, cutting through flesh and spine that linked to the neck and brain, cutting through its nervous system, and soft tissue, decapitating the young man right there and then.
The bus driver tried to get close to the assailant, but he swung swiftly the knife his way, he was now a madman looking for an escape route.

((Interlude)(We don’t know what is in the brain of the one person next to us, the stranger that is; is it filled with superstitions perhaps, transcripts of some eternal evil spirit, who at a time and place will hum to the brain to wake it up and inflict pain at its will, these terrors are of an older standing, they date beyond ones own remains, the soul is covered up in these individuals, it can’t even peep out to see the shadow’s pre-existence, before it enters the core of the brain, hidden in some vault not even he can enter. And so it would seem this was the case here, as strange and misguided as it seemed, and senseless.))

Now everyone was outside of the bus, everyone but the corpse and Manuel, who was pacing back and forth on the bus, while a truck driver gave the passengers wrenches and crowbars, to protect themselves, as well as to keep the killer at bay, and on the bus. Within the hour, several police cars were at the scene, and the media came in by helicopter. Manuel tried an attempt at escaping out of a broken window he broke, which was to his dismay, for then he was subdued by several police officers.


((Afterward)(He, Manuel, paused exhausted before he tried to make his escape, breaking the bus window; fatigued, he saw the whole group of cars, and familiar passengers outside of the bus, the media, almost in bewilderment: he knew what he did, what he had done, he was holding the young man’s head in his hands, then placed it back onto the open cavity called once a neck, onto its torso, it was actually pre meditated, he planned it, found the weakest link in the chain, Juan Carlos, and crystallized his mission with the exact moment, with no hesitation, by anointing him to be the sacrifice, he would produce fresh terror, he did do that, he who had been silent heretofore, spoke only in painful cries, while the murderer rambled on, hissed like a snake, interrupted the whole bus. There was no twin brother here to say ‘I did it, not him.’ That face, now with red eyes, that half face, the other half belonged to someone else, not man. Strange gestures, incantation culminated in his pacing back and forth on the bus, in obscure consciousness, he was in an ultimate frenzy. No one dared get too close to him. But that was all, except, not a syllable could anyone understand that he said, it was as if he was uttering another language, not Spanish, nor English, and those deafening hisses, a shattering ringing seemed to be in his head, he held it several times.))



Part Two

(to ‘The Black Zone Horror’)

The Court Case of:
Manuel Pablo Silva



Manuel is acting as his own lawyer, spokesman, and addressing the Jury, on a retrial of his case.


(Two years later) “It is true, I put six stab wounds into my seatmate’s chest on the bus, and beheaded Him, yet I wish to show you in the following statements I am not the murderer. You have called me a madman, but the jury never looked at the whole picture two years ago, now I hope they will. You need to look at the horror that was inside of me, the one Father Bruni has now expelled out of me, and this is the murderer.
“Of the two years I spent at the sanitarium, weekly the priest, Father Bruni saw me, and worked with me on ridding me of this ghastly creature whom I was servant to, and now I am freed of his infinity or credible doom.
“Therefore I plead to you, during this retrial, not to look so much at Juan Carlos Perez, who was the victim, he has been revenged, twice over, because I have served two years in jail, and now this demonic force that was in me, cannot enslave me again.
The priest has in actuality, expelled, this demonic force, and sentenced him to go back into a black zone, where he came from. I repeat, I personally was the tool for the murder of Juan Carlos, but the force in me was the murderer. In so saying, I purged myself of this horror that used me to avenge mankind.
“You must understand there are black zones and shadows, close to all our daily activities, where evil spirits lurk and seep into, searching for bodies to operate in, thus the evil spirit has now a passage once he enters his victim, and through man, he operates in the physical. In such cases man becomes possessed and has little to do with the reckoning, or consequence thereafter. He must follow and strike like a robot, lest he himself becomes consumed by the diabolical phenomenal within him.
“Yes, it is morbid, but this evil spirit that is reclusive within a person, produces an ongoing weakness within him, which creates, in time, a secret life between him and you. At times you dismiss him as simply your imagination, because of your noticeable bizarre behavior and thoughts, despite the greater sense of right and wrong, you fall victim to him again, and march to his tune, the one who came out of the black zone, I am talking about, found an opening for him to enter and he did, namely me. He may at this point, even call you kindred, and think that he actually is. But he really is just an ancient subduer, who crumbled eons ago with his kind.
“His breath, goes into the deepest and darkest zones within your mind, spirit and soul, deceptive he is, and has in essence homesteaded your body, half-yours and half his, and he takes your half when aroused. He has become retarded from his long existence in an uncoddled world, in the black zones, which parallel ours.
“He knows the veritable code that you are made up of, and he has used it to his advantage with me: to the people of the Jury, I say with this dubious conduct he used on me, place guilt where it belongs, Judge me not for this murder, and give it to him, for you have punished me, because you cannot capture him.”

The Juries deliberated for eleven hours, in as much as they wanted to keep Manuel incarcerated, they believed his story, and Father Bruni backed it up. As a result, his case was somewhat dismissed, he was left in the care of Father Bruni, and the probation department for the following five-years, and should any criminal charges be filed against him in the meantime, he would be subject to a third trial, and most likely, be subject to the full crime of murder and its consequences, but this time with no insanity plea.




Part Three

(to ‘The Black Zone Horror’)

Poetic Justice or the Dirge


Manuel Pablo Silva, firmly believed he was dealing with an individual that had once inhabited the world long before mankind, a race you might say, of another era, who in having pseudomemories (and secrets given him from a supernatural race, even more powerful than his), who at one time inhabited the earth, and lost it, by being ostracized from it, and cast into this so called black zone.
With this entity within Manuel, it is obvious he wanted control, a priority that shows power, as all demonic imps or devils, evil spirits, want; but during the interim, they go searching window to window, creeping to see who is the most vulnerable, the weakest ling in the chain, this was how they discovered Manuel.

It is often funny I think but for every man alive, there seems to be an available woman, no matter how strange, ugly or bloodthirsty the man may be. And Manuel found this lovely Argentine girl to keep him company, down in Miraflores, a section in Lima. And they saw a lot of each other for several months. But something did take place, she got pregnant, and she got scared Manuel might go tell her parents. Not a real good reason to do what she was going to do, but often times our selections are like to like, meaning, you don’t necessary pick out a mate that would be good for you, but one to suite your fancy, and that is what Manual did, picked one to his fancy, like two peas in pod. And when he was sleeping, he was stabbed to death by his new girlfriend, she cut up his body, put the parts into a suitcase, and went downtown Lima, to the Rimac River, and left the suitcase there, until it stunk to the high heavens.



Part Four

(to ‘The Black Zone Horror’)

The Priest and the Entity


He, Manual had told the priest during one of their sessions, before he was killed, told him, Bruni, of his weird dreams, more on the order of pseudomemories of his entity. These dreams were extracted by the entity within him, who told him, he had come from the Paleozoic Age, and had hid in the underground chambers throughout the world, for 125,000-years; here he lived amongst the cyclopean masonry, and megalithic walls that had sunken with the many earthquakes throughout history.
Through his dreams, the entity, explored his path with Manual, he was taken into the same objective reality, deeper and deeper into the crust of the earth.
Around this time, the entity got curious, and Manual’s sleeplessness prevailed, inflicted by the demon, and next came impulses in his brain, the entity knew how to shut it down, almost like having a renter vacating the premises, and the black zone, with its horrors took over.


Part One: The Seatmate
Part Two: The Court Case
Part Three: The Dirge (Or poetic Justice)
Part Four: The Priest and Entity

Written August 1, 2008© Dlsiluk