I AM TEK: Diary (600 words)

My emotions strike as if they've been waiting. Like, behind my eyes, is an old reel to reel that switches on in the silence. Memories vie for attention with teeth and claws – evil eyes.

Demons.

My demons.

Ghosts of my past that mark grave mistakes or difficult choices with haunting consequences that I can't avoid. I've seen eyes and watched life drain from them. I've seen the point when the body releases the soul into the deep dark. I've felt final effort, a desperate surge of strength before there's no more left. I've seen bodies with holes in their eyes, chest, or anywhere – most of them from my weapon. I've slit throats, I've snapped necks, I've poisoned, shot, even beaten with bare fits. It depends on the required message. They send me to send them. And I gladly go.

To my lady, I'm perfect. I cook for her, rub her back – I even write her poems and tell her not to speak of it. Now, I advise her on outfits and she listens. She says I'm the perfect boyfriend. She wants to be my wife soon. I've told her what I do. She seems okay with it. She doesn't see the monster. 

It's like there's a switch I flip. The top setting is family. I'm a good partner. I might even make a good husband and father.  I'm loving and supportive. I'm chivalrous, my father taught me women are sacred. I treat her like a queen. 

The other setting…is the beast. There have been  few times when I've had to let him loose. 

Chance sent me last night to a competitor's compound to make a point. I went alone as always. I was to make a big enough spectacle to strike fear into the rest of their organization. When I got there, five guards patrolled or stood guard. They weren't as adept as they likely should have been. Three slit throats and a couple silenced shots. One of them had keys. There were butlers and maids; they died. There were some guards on the second floor that tried to scream when I knifed them in the back.

My target was in his office with his wife; she was to die, too. She was sitting on his lap facing behind him, in my direction, as he faced away from his desk. Her eyes widened with a shriek before my bullet struck her forehead. I was to kill her swiftly. All she did was choose the wrong mate. When he turned, I was on top of him with my brass knuckles. I beat him to the point of a death rattle. I shot him twice in the stomach. It would be a slow death. There was something I didn't expect. A boy.

A young boy stood in the doorway, mouth gaping but no sound. My first thought should have been to kill him. I'd need time to get away. Instead, I said:

“Hey, Kiddo. This looks bad. Slowly walk over to the wall there and sit down.”

He did so.

“Ok, I'm going to go down the hall. When I get to the end of the hall, press this button under the paperweight. Do you see this button?”

He nodded.

“Count to twelve, buddy. Then push the button.”

I stood to walk out.

“If you want to come for me in the future, I'll understand.”

His eyes burned into my memory. His face haunts me. In the night. In the silence. 

My demons.

They're my demons.

Then, come the emotions. The fear, sadness, love, anger, the shame…they attack like they've been waiting. 

Gamble for Freedom (1200 words)

 All,

This is a very long flash fiction story, but I had this story floating around in my head. Enjoy!

Grand Master Julius sipped his meade, sitting on a throne overlooking the stage from the balcony. His robe was lion fur dyed died purple. He held a platinum scepter with a green stone, shiny and carved into the shape of the same animal. His platinum chalice was large and adorned with skulls carved with the same stone. Turquoise of blue-green, heavy on the green. It was a valuable stone. In times before, this was a stone sold in truck stations and novelty stores. Now, it was a coveted gem, scarce after the Overlords robbed the planet of gold, diamonds, and pearls. It was illegal for the citizens to gather or mine those materials without permission or supervision to ensure delivery to the Overlords. Turquoise, lapis, quartz, and other pretty rocks were now coveted. Metals such as titanium, platinum, copper, and iron were hard to come by and many were not able to afford them. The stone on his scepter, however, held more of a green hue due to the copper content – it increased its value. But it wasn't his.

A man, a slave, stood in the middle of a circular stage, bound with iron shackles on his ankles, wrists, and neck. Risers lined the round room, full with the Overlord's senators. The walls were dark tan with no windows, rather pictures of the government officials. The people in the pictures were dressed similarly to the senators in the room. The governors wore white robes similar to the old friars. The congressmen wore the same robe, but colored red. The senators, blue. They were silent, staring at the slave with no emotion, no movement, almost as if there was no breathing. 

Behind the slave stood his headmaster holding the slave's chains in one hand and a large stick in the other. There was a chain around his neck with a pendant with the insignia of a serpent. The same insignia was branded into the slave's shoulder blade and a number burned into his neck, 0578S. He was the five-hundred-seventy-eighth slave of the serpent house brought before the Grand Master to be rewarded for good behavior. He saved five guards in a prison riot. Ten men recently released from solitary confinement attacked them, the slave fought them off, killing two with his bare hands. 

“Rafe.” said the Grand Master.

“Here, my Lord,” answered the man holding the chains.

“You say this man saved your men.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Get him ready to address me.”

“Post!” shouted Rafe.

The slave dropped to his knees, “Here, My Lord.”

“What is your number, slave?”

“Zero-five-seven-eight-S, My Lord,” answered the slave. Sweat poured from his brow, his tightly curled black hair glistening with his brown skin. He was thin and muscular with little fat and his red eyes burned with determination. 

“Serpent house. You and your brethren are impressive. Always working hard, eh Rafe?”

“Yes, My Lord,” answered Rafe.

“You may gamble for privileges, five-seve-eight. Choose your game.”

“What are my choices, My Lord?” he asked.

“You don't already know? Rafe, why doesn't he know this information?”

“He's dedicated to his work, My Lord. He's never asked about privileges. When I asked him why, he said he'd get them when he deserves them.”

“Very Impressive, Slave.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“Your first choice is to play ‘Dash,’ a card game we play in royal circles. If you win five hands, you get better living quarters and better treatment. Status. Authority. Second, an arm wrestling match for better meals on top of the previous privileges. Third, wrestle a soldier for a week of freedom. Fourth, a fight to death with a soldier for a year of freedom. How choose you?”

“I choose to fight for a year of freedom, My Lord.”

“Fight to death? Slave, we don't pick the weakest soldiers for this game. You'd be better to play cards or armwrestle.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “with all due respect, My Lord, I have made my choice.”

The Grand Master paused. “I applaud your tenacity, son,” he looked to his left, “Stray!.”

A soldier sitting in the wings stood and walked down the stairs. The slave took a deep breath when Stray stepped on the stage.

Stray smiled, “you sure about this, five-eight-seven?”

“I am.”

The slave was released and the combatants took their places. 

“Begin!” shouted the Grand Master.

The soldier charged and swung his sword. Five-eight-seven dodged and ran to the side. The guard swung again and, again, the slave fled.

“Stop.” said the ruler,” Why aren't you fighting?”

“I'm scared.”

“Fight. Or be tortured.”

“Yes, My Lord.”

The guard swung again. The slave dodged and swung and ran to the side to avoid a strike. He did this again and again

“Stop!” shouted the ruler, “What is wrong with you, Slave?”

“I'm very afraid, My Lord.”

“Fight or you and your wife die,” his voice was cold and calm.

“My Lord, you speak of my wife flippantly while you hold the stone I gave her on her birthday atop your scepter.”

“Ah. You.”

“My Lord, what would it take for freedom?”

“Complete freedom? You must kill my best guard.”

“If I want to take my wife?”

“Your wife? Are you serious?” He scoffed.

“Yes, My Lord.”

“Kill my best captain. He is the best officer. You will lose.”

“I'd like to try, My Lord.”

The Grand Master snapped. A 6’7” mountain of a man stepped onto the stage. His neck was thick and his shoulders broad. His arms were full of veins as if his blood were pure oil. 

“Slave, your wife will soon be widowed,” said the giant.

“My Lord, you are a man of your word. Once you make a ruling, it is done.”

“Yes, Slave,” he chuckled, “You have my word.”

The guard swung his sword, the slave dodged and rolled to the side. He kicked the guard’s thigh with his shin. The giant buckled. Five-seven-eight jumped and his fist connected to the giant's jaw. The soldier stumbled.

The Grand Master sat forward in his seat and the senators murmured. 

The soldier charged the slave and was kicked in the stomach as he swung his sword. The slave kicked his other thigh three times rapidly. The guard stumbled to the side but punched the slave in the jaw. Five-seven-eight fell to the floor and rolled to dodge a downward strike. He lifted himself on his hands and kicked the guards legs again.

The giant's steps were labored. He drug his feet. He swung again and the slave dodged, kicked him in the side and took his sword. He sliced the back of the guards knees and the giant dropped. Five-seven-eight kicked him in the neck and punched him in the jaw. In one quick swing, the guard's head was severed from his body.

Breathing heavily, the slave faced the ruler, dropped his sword and fell to his knees, “I am the victor, My Lord.”

“I feel you tricked me, Slave.”

“I may have, My Lord. You gave your word. You are a man of your word.”

“Yes. I gave my word. Rage,” he said looking over his shoulder. His advisor sat forward, “Yes, My Lord?”

“Retreive his wife.”

I am Dera (500 words) (Possible story idea that I'm working on)

The darkness always falls with the rain, day or night. Any perfect day with a light breeze and no clouds, any night sky plastered with faraway suns, could be dismantled by the chaos of the storm. And the darkness, the black, thick air, moist with what we call “tears of the realm” that fall when the sacrifice isn’t sufficient. A storm comes every tenth sunrise, whether or not the bi-nightly sacrifice is accepted. A reminder of who they are – the great ones. The beings from which all life began and…will end…in due time. The rain is falling this night. And tonight marks my twentieth winter, marked by the solstice. My mother said I was special. I hope she’s right.

Right now, Mother rests in her grave behind my domicile. It’s marked by a stone bench that sits where her feet lay where I can sit as I did as a child, while she told me stories and taught me my lessons. I was born on a night like tonight. Acid rain, no moon or stars. Dense air. This is when the creatures come out. The winter solstice is in a special lunar cycle for my people. This is when we hunt for treasure.

My child is in the cottage. He is four summers old, born during the hottest lunar month of the year. His father stays with the boy’s grandmother, and the boy for protection. My husband's mother helps with the farm and little Farthey. My husband is one of the most powerful brutes on our side of the forest. Even the creatures fear him and hiss his name. He has slain so many of them that their kids sing songs about him. “The big bearded bald human with tattoos and an axe.” That’s what one told me they called him.

Yes, the creatures have a mind. Their own language, even. They build their own shelters and have their own families. They teach their kids like we do, but about whatever devilish civilization they have, I’d imagine. I captured one adult male, one of their kind, that has blue scales and yellow teeth. Before he died, he told me he learned about us in his childhood studies. He was my first kill. I was thirteen. 

I am a Rogue. My husband, Torith, is a Brute and a commander in the high army. He wields an axe with as much precision as I wield my machete, and, with the strength of five strong men, his blade would cut down a bear. He and the army guard police the village. The creatures, Night-scars, won’t attack our army without some apprehension, if at all. 

Rogues are the army’s spies, scavengers, assassins, and thieves. We do the things that the soldiers aren’t allowed to do – they have to maintain a perfect appearance. Rogues, however, we’re expected to and respected for doing the “secret things.” We’re revered. I dispatched a band of five on my mission tonight. The creatures know me, too. I am Dera.

He was German SS (700 words)

An old man laid on the chaise lounge chair with a cool towel on his forehead. That was the only way he’d open up to the therapist. When he was little, his mother would lay him down in the same manner during tantrums. She said the cool of the towel silenced the demons. 

He’d removed his tweed cap and laid it on his chest atop a matching tweed sportcoat, white shirt, and beige tie. He was in his 80s and it showed. He was, however, lucky enough to keep his hair. 

“Good morning, Mr. Krause,” the therapist sat in his chair.

“Good morning, Mr. Schwartz,” he said.

“This is our second meeting. Have you done as I instructed?”

“Yes. I’ve written something putting myself in the place I was.”

“Good. Read it to me.”

Krause began. 

“I wear the uniform of the German SS. Our leader says these people are an abomination. Many have died at the end of my bayonet and more by my rounds from the attached rifle. I listened to my leaders and hated them, as well. At the beginning, I was faithful to the cause. At the beginning, I believed. At the beginning…

I watched as they brought train after train, boxcar after boxcar. I must have seen thousands pass by me to never come out again – many to be turned to ash. Frail and weak. Worthless, I thought. But, their eyes…

Eyes of fear and hopelessness daily burn into my brain. I see them behind my closed lids and I feel…something. Maybe it’s sympathy, perhaps not – maybe it’s a form of it. However, the more eyes I see, more are implanted into my memory. I don’t know if I want to do this anymore. I don't know. I doubt…

I doubt the leader. As I deal more with these people, the more I see that they’re not vermin at all. They have valid fears and needs. Some I spoke to had prominent occupations. They’re intelligent and loving, hard-working and passionate. One man smiled at me, almost to forgive me. How can that be?

I befriended a man named Black. Before his capture, he was a psychologist at a mental hospital. His voice, even in his state, was soothing. We grew to like each other. I told him my thoughts and fears and he listened intently, more than any German friend I'd had. ‘You are better than these fences and gates,’ he’d tell me. 

The commander of the camp called me into his office after taking note of our relationship. He said I’d gotten soft and was to rectify the problem. ‘How,’ I asked.

‘Kill Black,’ he said, ‘In front of me.’

He had the man brought in, my confidant. My friend. He ordered me to draw my pistol. I looked my Jewish friend in the eyes. ‘It’s ok, my friend,” he said. ‘Remember. More than these fences.’ he closed his eyes to accept his fate.

‘Fire.” Said my commander.

My heart sank, then leapt into my throat. My stomach turned, cramped. The Furher was absolutely wrong. This man was my friend. This man…

‘Fire, Krause,’ he shouted.

And I did so into my commander’s chest. I looked to Black’s eyes and he smiled before another officer came in and shot him, taking me into custody. I was to be taken out behind the camp and shot, but my killer’s released me – they were friends of mine. They told me to run and I did, as far and as fast as my legs would carry me.”

“And now, after all these years,” he continued, “I’m being counseled by another Jewish man.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“I need you to forgive me,” he said.

“Forgive you?”

“I’m showing signs of dementia. I want to know that I’m forgiven before I lose my wits”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Krause,” he said, “I can’t forgive you. I’m not Mr. Black, nor am I even related to him.”

“I suppose not,” he said.

“Sir, Mr. Black would be proud of you for what you did and where you ended up. He’d be proud of you for today.”

“You believe that?”

“I do. Do you?”

“Yes. Forgive me Stephen Black.”

I AM TEK: Hostage (500 Words)

 The air was damp as my blood-soaked shirt. The tie I was wearing was wrapped around this asshole’s neck, his eyes popping out. His friend lay next to him limp. He was the first. He was the closest.

They surrounded me. I was led at gunpoint to this car service station, left abandoned during the recession. These guys have been known to use it as a location for enemy disposal, with chains for hanging and a large tub for dismemberment.

They knocked me around. All seven of them took their turns, but one guy did most. Small guy. Angry that I told him he looked like a garden gnome with his potbelly and rosy cheeks. He took most offense to the latter. The man in charge laughed. He kept calling the gnome “Puke” and condescendingly speaking to him. It fueled his strikes.

When they were done, they sat me in a rickety chair and tied my wrists. 

“Do you know who I am?” asked a suited man.

“Yes,” I spit blood, “Remy.”

“Yes…you are Terrance Kane.”

Our eyes met.

“Yes…Terrance. I’ve checked you out. A musician. Puke saw you play at the lounge. He used to play, before his injury. He wasn’t talented, but it gave him joy.”

“The piano is a hard instrument,” I smiled at the gnome.

“Do you know why you’re here, Terrance?”

“No, I do not.”

“You’ve been asking questions. Some, you shouldn’t be asking. Some, dangerous to be asking,” said Remy. He stood, “How do you know about my casino job?”

“I heard someone robbed The Bulge, I wanted to meet.”

“Well, now you have. What do you want?”

I whispered something.

“I can’t hear him. Make him speak up.”

The gnome walked over and hit me, “Speak up!”

My razor blade slid from my watch to my palm, “I have to be quiet.”

“What? Why?” Asked Remy.

“In case they hear.”

Puke struck me again. Remy quelled him by raising a palm. “Get him up.”

Puke came over to me.

“Do you mind if I call you Terrance?” Asked Remy.

“Some call me that,” I spit more blood.

“What else are you called?”

He didn’t know my moniker. He didn’t know I was there on purpose.

“Oh, shi-” started the gnome. I slit his wrist open and snapped his neck. His gun was tucked into his back. I took it, shot three more of the others. The other three pulled their guns, I was already moving. I punched the man on the left in the throat and kicked him to the one in the middle. As they tumbled, I shot the third’s eye. One of them tackled me. The other ran to help. We all struggled and fought. I killed them both.

Remy stayed seated, smoking his cigar. “What else are you called?” He asked.

“I am Tek.”

“Ah. You’re not what I thought you’d look like.”

“So I hear,” I put my gun to his head. “Chance says hello.” 

I pulled the trigger.

I AM TEK: Pitter Patter (500 words)

Pitter patter of feet on wet pavement – hurried and incoherent. Quickened breathing and sweat dripping. My bullet struck the back of his knee and he crumpled. I applauded him when he rose to run again…and felt for him when he couldn’t. The blood from the knife wound in his shoulder dripped into the puddle under him and his rain-soaked hair tried its best to mop it up. His tears joined the fray and I smiled.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked.

“No…” he said, breathing heavy.

“I am Tek.”

“Fuck…” he whispered. He knew my name. “I’m sorry, okay? Tell Chance I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for ‘sorry’, my friend.” I sat next to him, removed a flask from my pocket. I brought three. Rick, was his name – a faithful soldier at one time. For a while, he was an enforcer for Crispy – the head of one of The Organization’s gambling rings. Rick was effective and profitable. But his sister was an addict who got hooked on meth acquired from a dealer for one of our enemies. Drugs were not our thing. She got her brother to give up information to his friends to help her get out of their debt. I’d already killed her the day before.

“What are you doing?” He asked as I handed him the flask.

“You're a loyal man, Rick. You’ve served us well.”

“Then, don't kill me!”

“I’m afraid that’s not my call, my friend. Drink.” 

He took a sip.

“You can take bigger sips if you want.”

He began to guzzle. I took out my own flask, “tell you what.  You hold on to that one.”

He took another sip, “thanks.”

“What is one thing you are happy about in your life?”

“What?”

“Drink. Then answer.”

He took another sip.

“One thing.”

“I’m happy that I raised my nephew for my sister. She was strung out. He was struggling. I gave him a good life and got him into college.”

“Yes, Tommy. He will be taken care of. He will get your inheritance from the org. As your only living child, of sorts.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“Drink. What’s one thing you regret?”

He sipped and thought for a moment, taking two deep breaths. Then, “not marrying Cindy.”

My eyebrow raised, “I’ve not heard of her.”

“I haven’t talked to her since I was nineteen. I wasn’t with The Org yet. She was my highschool sweetheart.”

“Drink. What happened to her?”

He took a large gulp. “She married my best friend. She made me choose between her and The Org. She married my friend the next week.”

“Do you want me to kill them?”

“No,” he chuckled, “they're innocent enough. It would be a waste of your time.”

I chuckled in turn, “Well, you're very thoughtful, Friend. Drink.”

He finished the flask, a little tipsy by then. “I think I'm ready.”

“Good. Thank you for your years of service.” I pointed my gun to his head.

“Anytime.”

I pulled the trigger.