Strays

Walked through an alley before? Sometimes when walking through such a place as an alley can catch you off guard. It's a bit cold. A bit vacant. Never before seen world. How did you get there? And just before you enter, you glimpse to catch the floors, how unkempt it is as old newspapers fly, how the wind makes them circle; dusting the ground like they're playing, as the news of old swirl on the cold ground, cracky surfaces. Cold surfaces. Along the graffitti'd wall a garbage can sits filled with rubbage, old rubbage as well as new. Broken glass, chard bottles show there edges, teeth of glass; beer cans, empty leave a rusty look where rain has gotten to them. It's been a while since someone's come through and you're here.

Down the forlorn avenue, there slinking away, quickly to a forbidden part of the Alley, a furry body, a small lean creature, lurking away, svelte. It tries to find a place of hiding. The creaking of shoes makes it nervous. It knows you're here. You happen to find its hiding place. It's eyes glow of brightness; light has hit it, making it radiate white, growing larger with intense ferocity ferally wild. An intruder has found its home. She lurks further, pacing quickly to get away from you but you catch up.Why?

Get out intruder. Get out. Do you know where you are at? Only the throw aways come here. Those without a home; without security. The nitty-gritty's. The thieves, the outcast, the inhumane. Are you sure you want to press on?

Her purrs grow loudly, they play cynically to your audacity. Just alike, you play, I play too. Come on. Come on to my Alley, my Alley of Fear.

I love cats. And yes, the gaunt-ribbed, alley creepers as well. They're so precious. Cats come in all sorts of sizes and arrangements. So much variety to choose from. I love it especially if these little kitties come with extra abilities; the ones that can become human. The ones that can disappear, quantum leap through the future or the past whichever pleases your fancy. They can just do...

I have a story called Human Touch and this little cat can do and she does. Edited by my friend Jane Buckley, who did an excellent work on this by the way. I am very pleased. I hope you enjoy it as well as I have.http://docs.google.com/View?docID=dc8cwq2f_4fbctxdg6&revision=_latest

My Visitor 2

What manner of man is this, or what of creature is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible palce over powering me; I am in fear--in awful fear--and there is no escape for me; I am enompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of...

Bram Stoker, Dracula, 1897

A pin could drop of the eerie silence that permeated the small room when he told me he didn't believe in God; feeling the tensity of the moment I became afraid for the first time in my life.

From what I know, from what I hear when someone tells you they don't believe in God that automatically means they have no conscious.

He can do whatever is at will and not even blink doing it. In a much terrible scenario, he could chop me up in a million little pieces, quietly cutting away at night, while my sleeping neighbors slept; while the sound of cutting and breaking bones, piece by bloody piece, placing all of my remains in a black plastic bag, strong enough to carry meat and blood together, and scatter whats left of me throughout America and no one would be the wiser.

Blood can be easily cleaned in the sink, mopped from the floor, walls scrubbed with cleaner, some disinfectant in small corners hard to get to, and cleaned up as if no one ever lived there.

The alarm would go off, the faucet would drip, and my cats...my poor kitties.

Did I tell you I was afraid for my life during his stay.

I would hate for the worse. I had a strange feeling he's done this before. It felt he has overpowered someone where the victim was unsure of his intelligence. He has experience, definitely. Quickly, I had to gather my nerves; without any delay, I had to get this homeless man from out of my home. Before what could be said and done, and is the thing that really struck me was when this homeless man, has not only instilled in me fear but the audacity to say I couldn't write. "You can't write, " he said. "You have to be creative!" He shouted and barked; I could feel his hot breath mixed with his boldness upon my face.

I was stunned and shocked. Something didn't settle right. And what he was telling me was that I didn't have it in me to do it, such a feat as to write a book.

I never had a man, or any man to tell me I couldn't write a book. Never one come so bold as to say that to my face.

Ladies and gentlemen, lightning could intervene at that moment because I tell you what, that was the day I got my idea for my book. It was the first and very night "The Homeless Drifter's Night Tales," was born.

Luckily, I had escaped with my life and my cats lives too which I think I used some of theirs; from his abuse, he'd beaten my back, where he punched me repeatedly, and luckily it wasn't a knife thrust into me over and over; happily, I came out on top with a title, a subject, and a book. Phew!

Even though out of that misery, I still thank my homeless visitor when he left that is, he left with an empty black plastic bag, the Hefty kind, with the plastic holders, yellow; lifting it up as he walked out of my house: I guess to say "This would have been you. Where I would have put you, carrying you across America piece by bloody piece." I do believe he could do the job.

However, now I raise my hand in victory, because now I have a book that he gave me, personally, without his knowledge.

I now have a short story collection. Book one is finished and will be available this year( as observed on top). I hope you can pick up a copy. I like all my readers to enjoy a nice read in bed and at home, safely snugged; a home if you have one?

From book one I've written a short story called "Knock-Knock." It has a similar account, about a girl who also was looking for a roommate and there someone comes along just like my visitor did, however this visitor was caught, and in time before he did the ultimate. Mines wasn't. He's still alive somewhere. If you think it's a joke, I still have one of his paystubs from the place we worked together. So further adieu, please enjoy my story. http://docs.google.com/view?docID=dc8cwq2f_3cwmh9fn4&revision=_latest

My Homeless Visitor

Sometimes when we help someone we take in deep consideration thinking “It’s a good thing to help someone out because maybe down the road we too may also need that help one day.”

Fine and well, I believe in the concept of doing good for those in need. However, sometimes doing good for someone may not be so idealistic especially helping someone whose whole intention of being helped can come back to you like a curve ball spinning out of control. Inviting a homeless man, I experienced being nice may not be such a good idea. Read my story.

What took place happened a little over six years ago. Nothing spotaneous on my part I was looking for a room mate at that time. I needed someone to watch my cats, and my apartment while I was away on travel. Conventions were real big then as they are now, I wanted to write in the field of horror; so I thought conventions would be a good venture to take up. See the world in a whole instead of what's on television.

Besides that I just lost a loved one who believed in me more than I could ever believe in myself and I promise that person that I would make them proud as a writer; that they would be remembered through my work. However during that emotional rollercoaster I had no idea for a book. It's difficult to put something together without a subject. A book must have an idea, a platform to base your thoughts into, and I was without anything to base my ideas.

So with that, the idea of travel was heavy on my mind; the urge to find a roommate thickly hung in my conscious aware of the time of certain conventions I needed to act quickly due to time.

In a matter of days it didn't take long to finding this roommate. We happened to work together at a warehouse. Describing this individual will not be hard although I cannot disclose names or features. All I can say is that he was not what I pictured in anything that would match my description of his character. What lived with me for six months.

The way I class him would be, in my opinion, a nerd. Someone who was not quite with the crowd so to speak. A very aloof, timid, strongly to himself individual. His appearance told on himself: the nerd that is. He wore the thick glasses, the water pants that come up to the ankles,the awkward shoes (size fifteen), the kept neat hairdo, nothing out of place, not even his clothing. Everything was nice and neat. I took him to be the 'no harm' type of person. What could he do to me? There I thought he'd make the ideal roommate. No one to throw a party while I'm away or sleep in my bed or try to take over the place with his things. Another thing about this lonely guy nobody seems to want to talk to was that he was homeless. He had no place to go other than the shelters. And I'm thinking 'Wow, what a great catch?' A guy hungry for a home...?

It came to a frightening reality letting this ‘homeless man’ stay in my home. ‘I’m thinking why not’ and soon after those why not’s my plans of travel soon fizzled. I visited not one convention nor did I contact anyone who could help me in my endeavors of writing which I wanted to do so badly.

I invited hell to my home.

Without a book, a title and a sensibility of hope, what else was I to do?Courageously things soon changed after six months; I couldn't take anymore from this traveler. Yes, a traveler, he went from state to state, to different shelters, living there for a while and pick up to go somewhere else—a drifter of sorts.

The things I mostly remember about this one eye transient was that he was legally blind, he couldn’t see what was before him and yet, his stories curtailed told to me by him that he walked down long roads, winding highways in the dark, looking for a place to stay but couldn't find anything. I couldn't believe it. He took off his glasses like taking off a mask. He had two eyes but one bulged out farther than the one with the cataract, due to overuse of the one sick eye. It was impossible for him to see anything near or far and the stories he told me set my back hair standing on end. The roads that he spoke of. Nothing where it could light his path, but just dark and dreary roads of passage.

Traveling myself, riding on Greyhound buses, I too have seen roads like that, and to my knowledge they do exist. Roads that seem endless of night. Not even a twinkle of a star glittered the sky. No sign or post to which way. I’m thinking how in the world did he do that?

The most chilling part about this ladies and gentlemen, he didn't even believe in God. This is what he huffed to me so proudly. I'm thinking who helped you? Who helped you through those lonely roads, those lonely walks in the night along the highways? Who guided your hand, your feet, so you will not stumble ? No belief in a Higher Power someone had to help him. A mermidon of evil perhaps?

Can you tell me?


To be continued…