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Young Adult

The Wolf of Wasatch

May 6, 2016 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

The Wolf of Wasatch

Think fast, Destiny. He can’t be more than a hundred feet away.

I could keep the rifle and try to force him to take me to a hospital. But I don’t know how to use a gun; I don’t even know how to hold a gun. Even if I managed to shoot him before he came into the tent, I’d be killing my ticket off this mountain. I push the rifle back into its clips on the bottom of the chest.

Still, I need to protect myself. After seeing all this, I know Waters can’t be trusted. I pick up the ivory-handled pocketknife with the initials S.A.W. carved into the blade and turn it in my hands. It’s small enough to conceal. That’s good. But I’m not confident I could take Waters down with a two-inch blade if I had to. He’s so much larger than I am, and with my leg—

Waters’ boots crunch through the snow just outside the tent.

I’ll take my chances with the knife. I’d rather avoid a fight in my condition, but if Waters turns out to be the man I think he is, I’ll need it sooner or later. I slide the folded knife into my pocket.

I replace the wooden panel over the hidden compartment and toss in the newspaper clippings, the magazines, and the journal. I can’t afford to be precise; he’ll be here any second. I stuff the half-folded blankets over the stash and lower the chest’s lid. Then I start scooting back to my cot in an awkward, one-legged crab crawl.

Shit! I’ve left Teen Vogue lying on the floor by the chest.

Waters’ silhouette darkens the tent’s entrance. There’s no time. I lunge for the magazine, landing squarely on my injured thigh. I feel the wound tear open and hear a dull pop. I muffle a scream with one hand, and with the other, I snatch up the magazine.

The tent zipper slides up. I lift myself onto the cot, positioning the magazine under me, and assume a half-reclining pose as Waters parts the flaps with the barrel of his rifle and steps inside.

He stops on the welcome mat to stomp the snow from his boots, shaking his head like a dog, sending white powder scattering to the floor. The Wolf of Wasatch. The news got it right with that title.

Under one arm, he’s carrying a bundle of sticks and chopped wood. He kneels in front of the stove and drops the bundle into a heap. On some of the wood, I can see fragments of what looks like a bloody handprint. Waters sees them, too. He lays down his rifle and peels off his gloves. Then he stacks the wood so the bloodied sides don’t show.

“Got a rabbit,” he says, in his usual, nearly unintelligible growl.

Unless he’s got it stuffed down his pants, there ain’t no rabbit.

But for once I keep my mouth shut. He’d know something was wrong if I spoke. The gash in my leg refuses to be ignored, sending tremors of pain through my entire body, and I’m still out of breath after retreating to my cot. I need to regain my composure. I roll onto my left hip, trying to relieve the pressure on my leg. To my horror, Teen Vogue crinkles under me.

Waters lapses into one of his coughing fits at that moment and doesn’t seem to notice. He wipes the phlegm from his mouth with a muddy sleeve. God, he even smells like a dog. I wonder if abandoning social mores is a backwoodsman thing or a psycho murderer thing. Maybe it’s both.

He looks up at me for the first time since he arrived, probably confused with my unusual silence. There’s so much sorrow and pain in his eyes. I could almost pity him. Almost. Pity, I reserve for decent human beings. True, I don’t meet many in Hollywood—everyone’s got an angle, some advantage to gain—but I’m pretty good at picking them out. My dad? Decent. My agent? Not so much. Waters? The contents of the chest made it perfectly clear.

I force a smile for Waters. Mixed with the pain, I’m sure it comes off more like a grimace, but it’s all I can manage. The smile he returns to me is both kind and concerned, the sort of smile my dad gave me when I told him I landed my first audition. Waters would’ve made a decent actor himself.

Front all you want, Waters. I’ve got your number now. I run a hand over the small lump in my pocket. The knife isn’t much compared to his rifle, but it’s enough to give me hope.

Then a violent gust of wind shakes the tent, making me jump. I watch the center pole sway, holding my breath until the wind passes and the tent settles. Then I let out a sigh.

Looking back at Waters, I can see that something is very wrong. His smile has vanished. His eyes are wide and trembling. Suddenly, he spins around like he’s just realized where he is. He looks at the side table, at his bed, at the stack of black bins… My stomach rises into my throat.

I make my own quick assessment of the tent, trying to see if I’d left anything out of place. As far as I can tell, it all looks the same as Waters left it. The only thing I really disturbed was the chest. It’s closed, and there’s no more magazines or anything else lying around that could tip him off. No, there’s no way he could—

Waters whips his head toward the chest and stares at it. My heart beats like a Questlove drum solo. Three seconds pass. Can a sixteen-year-old die of a heart attack? Six seconds. Nine.

He knows.

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Filed Under: Scene sketch, Story sketch, Thriller, Young Adult Tagged With: Caleb Jacobo, scene sketch, Wasatch

I Didn’t Ask for This

February 12, 2016 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

I Didn’t Ask for This

This can’t, like, really be happening to me. What have I done to deserve this? It’s been hard enough just trying to get through middle-school with nobody liking me, but at least there was always the hope that high school and college might help people forget how much they enjoyed looking down on me and calling me names. If they find out about this, about me, they’ll have an actual reason for hating my guts, and I’ll never be able to get away from it.

“Do they have to know?” I ask in a small voice.

“Does who have to know?” the doctor asks. His voice is calm and, like, sincere. He seems nice enough. At least he doesn’t look at me like there’s something wrong with me. I can’t seem to remember his name… I know we’ve just spent, like, twelve hours together, but I can’t remember if he ever told me his name. I search for a name tag on his stiff, white lab coat, but there’s nothing, not even a logo. “Tara, what we’ve done today, what you and I have talked about, what we’ve discovered—none of it is anybody’s business except yours and mine, do you understand?”

There’s something in this doctor’s eyes and the way he moves his mouth and dips his head that makes me feel like he really cares and, like, it’s okay to talk with him about this. Maybe he’ll be able to help me after all.

“It’s just, life’s already hard enough. I’m used to the kids at school and the teachers looking at me like I’m something horrible and smelly, but I could always move away from them. I can’t move away from my parents. If my parents find out—”

“Your parents don’t need to know anything about this, Tara—not unless you would like them to.”

I wouldn’t like them to. If my parents knew about this, they’d probably sell me to the government for, like, experiments—anything for a legitimate excuse to disown me. This doctor makes me feel safe, like this could be our secret and my horrendous life didn’t have to get any worse. At least not yet. “I don’t want anyone to know, especially not my parents.”

“That’s fine,” the doctor says with a gentle smile, “that’s all fine. What’s important right now is that you come to terms with it, that you learn to control it. This isn’t an easy thing for any thirteen-year-old to deal with.”

“I’m not even sure what it is. How can I come to terms with it if I don’t know what it is or why it’s happening to me?”

The doctor sits back in his cushioned roller-chair and rubs his chin with his fingers. “I’m not sure either, Tara, but what I am sure of is that you are very lucky we found out now, together, before things got any worse.”

I know what he means. He means before I hurt anybody again. I feel guilty, and a little less comfortable talking with this man. “That wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know what I was doing. Jennifer and Stacey just wouldn’t let up. Usually I’m able to ignore it, all the teasing and name-calling, but they just wouldn’t let up. It’s not my fault.”

“One of those girls is dead,” the doctor says in a matter-of-fact tone, “and the other is not likely to recover. Whether you feel it was your fault or not, these girls and their families would not have suffered if it weren’t for you. I think you can appreciate how important it is that we move past the denial and start coming to terms with your powers immediately.”

Suddenly, I feel, like, very uncomfortable sitting here in this doctor’s big, grey office and I, like, feel very much like I need to get out of here. I’m not even sure where here is or how I got here to begin with and, like, I’m not even sure who this doctor is. My head is muddled. I can’t put the pieces together in my mind. Why am I here?

The doctor narrows his eyes at me and bites his lip. “Tara, can you tell me how you are feeling right now?”

I feel hot, like when I have a bad cold and the front of my face feels like it’s literally going to blow open from all the heat and pressure. A moment before, the room felt cold and large, but the air around me is so tight and hot now—so hot—and I can feel the sweat, like, gluing my shirt to my chest and arms and all I can think about now is how I can get out—how I can get out right now. I become aware of the pain in my fingers as I dig my nails into the armrests of my chair.

“Tara,” the doctor says, his voice an accusation, his face full of worry. “Tara, I need you to take a deep breath. You know what happens when you get upset. I can assure you, I am here to help you.”

Help me? I don’t even know who this doctor is or what he wants from me. I feel like the time I snuck a beer from my dad’s cooler on the Fourth of July, like I wasn’t acting or thinking right. I can hear my chair rattling and its legs thumping against the floor.
“Tara? Now that’s quite enough. If you don’t calm down I—Tara, do I need to call your parents? I thought we had an understanding, but if you can’t be reasonable…”

My parents? Would he actually call my parents? I thought he said—what did he say? I just can’t remember. None of this is making any sense. What did he do to me? He’s trying to do something to me. He’s trying to, like, trick me. He’s trying to, like, hurt me. He’s… He’s just like everyone else.

Yes. I can see it in his face. He’s not concerned about me, he’s afraid of me. He’s afraid I’ll, like, do something to him. Maybe I will. I feel whatever this is inside of me, whatever this thing is that’s made me do the things I’ve done pushing to the surface. It’s going to happen again and there’s nothing I can do about it but sit back and watch.

He picks up his desk phone. He’s trembling. Sweat is popping up on his forehead. It’s dripping from his palms. He’s, like, burning up. Steam rises from his hand holding the phone and he screams and throws it on his desk.

“Tara!”

But he’s not shouting at me, he’s shouting toward the door, like, he’s calling for someone to come and help him, like he’s supposed to be helping me, to keep me from doing what I’m about to do. I feel so angry, so angry and sad, and I can see him, like, getting smaller and smaller while I, like, get bigger and bigger and, like, farther and farther away. I’m above him now and the whole room feels too small. I feel like I’m literally about to burst through the walls and ceiling and I can see, like, the little doctor below me screaming and his face is, like, all red and bubbly and I’m, like, somewhere else, like, far back, like, watching this all happen, just like it happened before, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I can hear them trying to break down the door, but they can’t because I’ve become so big and so hot and the room is, like, literally catching fire.

This is it. I’m doing it again. I’ve done it again, and they’ll all know now, my parents will find out, the whole world will find out, and there will be no where for me to hide. They’ll all hate me now, forever and ever. They’ll all say horrible, nasty things, the worse things they’ve ever said and I literally don’t know what will happen to them when they do. It’s not my fault.


This is my response to a prompt I posted yesterday: “A thirteen-year-old girl finds out she’s “blessed” with paranormal powers, much to her dismay.”

If you enjoyed reading this sketch, please follow me on Facebook and Twitter. Thank you for reading and, as always, keep writing.

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Filed Under: Middle Grade, Prompt, Scene sketch, Young Adult Tagged With: Caleb Jacobo, paranormal powers, thirteen-year-old girl, writing prompt

Fred the Zombie: Part IV

August 11, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

You are reading part IV of this periodical. Click here to read part III.


That evening, as the other zombies harass a broken-down Ford Explorer full of an unfortunate group of survivors, and the chirping of crickets mingle with the moans of the dead, Fred and Tiffany stroll shoulder to shoulder down the street.

Fred had thought for a long time how to say what he needed to say to Tiffany, but he is no closer to forming the words now in death than he was in life. The surge Fred feels in his heart is almost enough to start it beating again, but his tongue lie still in his throat.

[Read more…] about Fred the Zombie: Part IV

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Filed Under: Adult, Fred the Zombie, Periodical, Short Story, Young Adult

Fred the Zombie: Part III

July 29, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

You are reading part III of this periodical. Click here to read part II.


Fred blinks, trying to decide if he is seeing things. Is this really Tiffany here before him, sharing the flesh of the same corpse? Dare he believe his rotting eyes? But there she sits, and here he sits, and — what is he waiting for?

“Tee-fee-nee…” Fred mumbles, hardly audible over the slopping of meat and the snorting grunts of his eager dinner-mates.

[Read more…] about Fred the Zombie: Part III

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Filed Under: Adult, Fred the Zombie, Periodical, Young Adult Tagged With: creative fiction, zombie story

Writing Prompt: write a short magical realism story about loneliness

February 12, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Hello you. Here is a short story sketch I wrote about a Pygmalion-like character with some twists on the original myth. I hope you enjoy it.


Giroff spread the crinkling blinds and peered down on a group of friends passing under his window. His eyes were bloodshot and the flesh around them was swollen and an ugly shade of purple. He stared at the young friends—not so young, maybe not even younger than himself—laughing as they strolled, this one putting a gentle hand on that one’s shoulder, all of them slowing their pace for one who lagged behind, then all welcoming him with playful jeers as he caught up.

[Read more…] about Writing Prompt: write a short magical realism story about loneliness

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Filed Under: Adult, Magical Realism, Middle Grade, Prompt, Scene sketch, Short Story, Story sketch, Young Adult

Writing Prompt: write a fantasy story in 1k words or less

January 19, 2015 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Here is my response to the writing prompt: write a fantasy story in 1,000 words or less. I had a lot of condensing to do after the first draft. It was a fun exercise in evoking a rich world with very little space to do it in. I hope you enjoy!


The Legend of Giltiberim

There was once a young gold miner who was so formidable that his king afforded him mail shirt and iron sword to wield in battle against foreign invaders. The young man slew many enemies in the field and earned the name Giltiberim among the common people. After the fighting was done, the king’s retainers sat on long feasting benches in the great hall, telling stories of their bravery and strength. Here it was that men secured eternal life in the hearts of their people.

[Read more…] about Writing Prompt: write a fantasy story in 1k words or less

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Filed Under: Adult, Fantasy, Middle Grade, Prompt, Short Story, Story sketch, Young Adult

Spaghetti Dinner

December 29, 2014 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

It was evening in the Mullingham household and Abraham and Moira Mullingham had just sat down to a dinner of hot spaghetti noodles drenched in a pungent tomato sauce, a dish Moira’s father had taught her to make in her youth, which she took great pride in serving.

Abraham, a heavy-set, light skinned man who looked to be in his fifties, but had only reached his forty-fifth year, a man with green, pebble-eyes, a greasy head of red, tangled hair and a thick mustache, leaned over his spaghetti like a bear: his wide shoulders hunched forward, his heavy arms—wrapped in the stiff, greasy cloth of his work jumper—spread protectively around his plate, his twitching snout hung low over his food. He pawed at the pasta with his fork, slurping up long strands of noodles, spattering himself and the bee-patterned tablecloth with red splotches.

Moira, Abraham’s wife, was a frail woman, thin, and also in her forties, yet she looked no older than thirty-five. She had bright amber eyes, a short upturned nose with odd creases around the nostrils and tip, and delicate, veiny hands. She sat rigidly in her chair, not looking at her husband across the table. She kept her napkin and her left hand in her lap, gently twirling the pasta in small spindles with the right, and drawing back her blonde hair as she placed small bites into her small mouth.

Abraham cleared his throat. “It’s William’s birthday,” he said with a cheekful of pasta. “This Thursday. I thought we could do dinner at Maggiano’s again.”

Moira was wondering if she had added too much spice to the sauce when Abraham spoke. She looked up quickly and swallowed hard. “Dinner… sounds fine, Abraham,” she said, looking down at her plate and moving a few noodles around. “But… the girls won’t be able to make it. They’ve already told me they have plans for the new year, but I will be there and we will have a lovely time.”

Abraham sat back in his seat slowly, wiping his face with a crumpled napkin. “Lovely?” he said, “With his sisters not there—lovely? Gah!” Abraham slapped the napkin onto his unfinished dinner, then began rubbing anxiously at his stubbled chin. “Lovely… you would say something like that. I need the girls to be there. Remind them what day it is and tell them again.” Abraham plucked up the napkin from his plate and scooped a forkful of pasta into his mouth, snapping off the tail ends with snorting chomps.

“They haven’t forgotten, Abraham,” Moira said in a small voice, cringing at her husband’s display. She lowered her eyes to her sauce. “It’s just… they’ve missed two New Year’s celebrations already, and I think they just need to celebrate in their own way. I think—maybe—they need space to have their own fun this year.”

“Their own fun? Are you sure this isn’t you talking? Their own fun? Pff!—ugh!” Abraham became very animated, twitching his shoulders and shaking his head like a man with Parkinson’s. “And what about their brother? Those selfish little—their brother’s twenty-fourth birthday isn’t cause enough for celebration, hm?”

“It’s not that, dear,” Moira intoned, “it’s really not.”

Abraham widened his tiny eyes, and stared with such frustration and loathing at Moira that she could feel their tight rays assaulting her, even without looking up. “Then what is it?” he barked, “because I’m about two seconds away from calling up those ungrateful little girls and setting them straight—my own way! You hear?” Then Abraham sighed; he shook his head, turning his eyes to the ceiling; he chuckled bitterly. “Where is this shit coming from, hm? Did they tell you all this, or is this you trying to control them?”

It was Moira’s turn to shake her head. Her eyes shimmered with tears, but she would not let herself cry. “It’s nothing like that, Abraham. It’s just that… the girls find the birthdays… well, they find them depressing.”

“Depressing!” shouted Abraham, “Depressing!” He pushed himself back from the table, slapping his napkin onto his unfinished plate once again, planting one hand on the protrusion of fat above his hip, and gesticulating wildly with the other. “Those—those—ungrateful—what could be more joyous than the celebration of their only brother’s birth? You’ve got to be joking with me, Moira, you have got to be joking. Who raised these girls? Is this the way you taught them to behave, hm? What kind of way is this to behave? They might not live under my roof anymore, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to disrespect me or their brother!”

“Abraham?”

“No, Moira, I’m not finished. William practically raised those girls—he taught them how to talk, how to walk—he showed them how to ride their bikes! He is a hell of a brother—he is—he… is…”

“Abraham?”

“Stop it!” shouted Abraham, slamming his fist into the table, making both their plates rattle, then jabbing a red finger in his wife’s face. “Stop saying my name like you own me—stop saying it—you don’t own me.”

Moira gazed helplessly at her husband, mouth agape. “Abraham, I—I’m not trying to—”

“I said stop it, dammit!” shouted Abraham, striking the table again, teeth clenched and face trembling with rage.

“All right,” said Moira quickly, struggling to keep her voice from shaking apart with her nerves, “all right, I won’t say your name. It’s all right. Everything is all right. Please—please, just sit. You don’t need to be angry anymore, all right?”

Abraham paced the width of the table, gouging Moira with his stare, flaring his nostrils, clenching and unclenching his fists. He stopped beside his chair. “All right…” he said in a mocking tone. He kicked the chair back, dropped himself into the seat, gripped the table’s edge, then glared at the napkin laying on his plate, bloodied with sauce.

Moira reached a trembling hand across the table and laid it on Abraham’s white knuckles tentatively. “We will never forget William… never. But… your daughters are still here. They still want a relationship with you.”

Abraham snorted and smiled a mirthless smile, shaking his head. “Talking to me like a child or something…” he grumbled. “You think I’ve forgotten about the girls? It’s you who have forgotten, forgotten about our son; it’s them who have forgotten their brother. Well, I won’t forget. You think I don’t know he’s dead? You think I’m crazy because I want to remember him?”

Moira reached her other hand across the table, standing slightly, and rubbed her thumbs gently into the back of Abraham’s hands. “I think that you are hurting. Just like I am hurting. Just like Sasha is hurting, like Mia is hurting… And I think that while we are all suffering in our own way, that all of us could heal better, faster even, if you would just offer them the love and understanding they need.”

“And what about what I need? What their brother’s memory deserves? I have no desire to forget my boy, my first born, my baby boy. I don’t want to heal, you hear me? I don’t want to get better. This Thursday, we are having a family dinner in celebration of William, the girls will be there, and they will have something good to say about their brother, or else they won’t have to reject the next invitation, you understand?” Abraham snatched up his fork, hunched over his plate, head bowed, rolled up a gob of noodles, then hesitated. “And I won’t say another word about it, dammit.”

Abraham didn’t say another word about it. And Moira didn’t say another word about her daughters. The couple returned to their meals, each in their own way, under a tense silence. Moira looked up now and again to watch her husband stabbing too hard at his plate, shoveling large coils of noodles into his mouth, chewing too quickly, letting red sauce trail down his chin… She thought of her own father. She thought of the pasta sauce. She thought of how much like herself her own daughters were, and thinking of all this, she felt a hot, unusual feeling surge through her gut and into her chest. What happened to the good man she married all those years ago? and what sort of malignant creature now sat before her, gorging itself on her spaghetti? Moira made a face like one who is forced to share air with a sour homeless person. Her bright eyes darkened and shrank ever so slightly; she bent almost imperceptibly over her plate; she stabbed at a heart-shaped tomato, then she shoved it into her mouth and bit down violently.

 


 

This scene was written in response to a prompt about a person in denial. If you enjoy my work, please “like” this page and share it with your friends.

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Filed Under: Adult, Literary fiction, Prompt, Story sketch, Young Adult

Sci Fi Scene Prompt with Storyboard

August 27, 2014 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

On Saturday Aug 26, 4014, at the hands of her most creative and intelligent inhabitant, Earth succumbs to Man’s destructive nature. The first bombs erupt near the great lakes, spreading a peeling fire across Earth’s western cheek. Flares of white light leak out of the atmosphere as bomb after bomb hit their mark. Black clouds bloom over New York, Milwaukee, Little Rock, Flagstaff, closing in around Southern California.

I crouch in the corner of the anteroom of Father’s L.A. office and public observatory amidst the crates of camera equipment and electronics, holding my hands to my ears against the whirling whine of the air-raid sirens mounted throughout the building. My hands come away bloody. I feel the warmth trickle down my neck, staining the white lanyard Father gave me that morning. It was my job to guard the security card. I got a kick out of the swoosh of the disappearing doors. It seems so stupid now, but none of that matters anymore.

Father and Mother stand near the observatory window on the east wall which looks out over Downtown, holding each other’s forearms and exchanging tearful words, Mother’s sorrowful face is fittingly represented in the dark glass of Father’s oblong oval helmet.

The city behind them is canopied with a massive orange and black cloud, affecting one last sunset at twelve o’clock. The city is ablaze. The streets are clotted with vehicles. Our city’s many proud towers burn and collapse into ruin as people spill out of windows like falling ash.

Father unlatches his helmet and removes it from his suit. I cringe as the blood starts to trickle out from his ears, now matching Mother and myself. He turns to call to me, his hand held palm up and a forced smile on his face. People say I look just like him with his coarse dark hair and lean body, but beyond our external similarities, I don’t have anything in common with him. I could never give up on my family. I could never ignore a chance for survival.

The temperature in the room rises. My terror and adrenaline set me on fire in my mind, melting my eyeballs from their sockets even before the blasts reach the hills where the observatory perches. Our apartment is in the science district, no doubt demolished now. Father offers his hand more urgently, tears filling his eyes now and soundless words on his lips: “I had hope.”

I jump to my feet, struggling to keep my balance as the entire observatory trembles with the aftershocks of the approaching explosions, each blast delivering a more forceful tremor than the last. He had hope? What happened to it? Why hasn’t Father suggested the pendant? He would say the pendant is not for our time, but how can he wait when time’s run out? I have to try, even if it is impossible.

The door to Father’s office is on the south wall. The security panel blinks with a little red light showing that the door is locked, but still functional. The observatory’s generators must be keeping power on in the building; airstrikes have already choked off power for most of the city. In my fright, I take that little light as a divine promise for success, and I grip Father’s security badge from around my neck and run for the door.

Father tracks me with his eyes, his brow drawn in confusion, Mother’s face shaking against his shoulder, sending tears streaming down the silver coating of Father’s suit. I reach the office door. I take the security card in a trembling hand and grip it tight as I line it up to the slit. The movement of the room combined with my hands make the task difficult, and the room is so uncomfortably hot that the sweat on my hands against the slick plastic of the card obliges me to use two hands so as not to drop the card.

At last one corner makes it into the slit, and with eyes stinging with sweat, and a thought-blurring pain now creeping from my inner ear through my head, I jam the card home with my palm. The little red light turns green. It spits the card into my hand, then the door disappears into the frame, exposing Father’s desk. The last place I saw him with the pendant.

A glance back at my parents reveals they haven’t moved from the window; Mother’s eyes are fixed on the devastation raging outside, Father’s hand still extended, his mouth mutely working to convince me to join them for one last family embrace. I shake my head at Father. I can tell by the anguish in his wet eyes that I look as run-down and wretched as him. Suddenly, the whole observatory lit up with a blinding white light, darkens again, then rattles so violently, it throws me to the office floor head first and fragments the observation window into a complex web of white cracks. The next bomb could be the last.

I pick myself up off the white tiled floor, now stained with splotches of my blood, head reeling from the impact and mounting pressure in my ears. I stumble to Father’s desk. It’s real wood, no synthetics, an heirloom from my grandfather’s father, the only conspicuous fixture in the room. When I round the desk, a thin screen emerges from the surface. A warm light reveals a welcome message from the Pan-American Space Agency on the screen along with a prompt for a passkey.

I wave the security card in front of the screen, over the surface of the desk, but nothing happens. I rub my hands over the cracked wood, searching for a trigger, or switch, or something that can show me where the pendant is. I try waving the card more violently. Nothing happens. The room begins to sway drunkenly; the foundation must be compromised. I let out a cry of frustration and fall to my knees before the ancient desk.

And then I see them: golden knobs, fixed into carved panels on the front of the desk. ‘Drawers,’ that’s what Father had called them. At first I try sliding the card over the face of the drawers, then into the small openings around each panel, but there is no mechanical response, and the card does not tug out of my hand. Maybe I need to push it in more? In the long center drawer, I push the card into gap at the top of the panel and the card slips from my fingers into the belly of the desk. After waiting for some kind of response, I try retrieving the card, but the gap is much too thin, and the old desk is a mystery to me. Then I try the knob. I grip it in my fist. I turn. I push. I pull—and just like that, the panel moves and opens.

The drawer is filled with yellow sheets of paper with writing on their faces, several thin, metal probes, and—there, a black velvet bundle pushed all the way to the back of the drawer. The same bundle I knew held Father’s most incredible, and unmentionable of discoveries, and my last hope.

Father’s eyes widen when he see’s what I’m doing. He starts toward the office, but Mother holds him back, shaking all over, pulling at his suit, begging him to stay with her. He struggles against her, and I can see he wants me to stop. Stop? Even now, when my intentions are made clear, even as he knows this could be our only chance, Father chooses certain death. I choose the unknown.

I pull the knob so hard, the drawer tears free from the desk and crashes to the floor. I immediately take up the soft bundle and turn it in my hands. The pendant is heavy inside the velvet, and I can feel its chill through the thick cloth. I peel off layer after layer of velvet, frantically, reducing the bundle from the size of my hand, to the size of my thumb in moments, finally revealing the pendant. The pendant and chain look like tarnished silver with a black crystal set into the face as its only ornament. The humble appearance of the pendant sent chills down my spine. This really is ridiculous.

I don’t know what will happen if I put the pendant on, but no matter how terrible the consequences, they are worth a chance at living, aren’t they? I take one more look at my parents: Mother sobs and writhes in Father’s hands; Father stares at me, tears spilling from his eyes, mouth set in a hard line so I won’t see them tremble. I raise the pendant above my head. Father shakes his head, pleading with his eyes for me to join them. Mother raises her head to look at me, her eyes a mess of puffy flesh and tears. This is the last moment I will see my parents alive.

The final flash lit up the room just as I lower the chain of the pendant over my neck and a supporting rush of frosty air lifts me from the ground. I lost my breath with the shock of plunging from the boiling room to the freezing cocoon of the pendant. The next moment, my parents were in flames, hair blazed off, Mother’s dress and flesh burning together, the same look of pleading on Father’s melting face, dead before they could scream. Then the office catches fire seemingly everywhere at once, spewing black smoke from the metal fixtures and melting the screen on Father’s desk. I didn’t realize I was screaming until my vocal cords painfully gave out a few seconds later, and the secondary blast of the bomb blew in the observatory windows on my parents, and the walls came crashing in around me.

The Earth fell to darkness today; my entire life is destroyed. I am lost, spinning out in space, looking back on a black planet shrinking into the distance. For now, I am alive, with no clue of what will become of me, or if this is the end. But I have hope.


Hello you! I hope you enjoyed this Sci Fi scene prompt. Like all my fiction writing on this blog, this prompt is meant to entertain readers, practice my craft, and inform writers of my process. The prompt was completed over three days with time for story development, structure, drafting, revising. For you writers out there, I’ve included a snapshot of the storyboard I created for this prompt below to show you what I worked from.

Sci Fi Story Board

Sci Fi Story Board

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Filed Under: Adult, Periodical, Prompt, Scene sketch, SciFi, Young Adult

Ligeia's Warning

January 7, 2014 by Caleb Jacobo Leave a Comment

Caleb Jacobo. (1988–PRESENT).  Initial Draft.
Public Writing Journal.  2014.

Ligeia’s Warning

THE ARGUMENT.—This poem can be supposed to have taken place moments before the great war in heaven broke out between one-third of the Angels and their God. Ligeia, my fictional wife of Satan, propositions her husband in one last desperate attempt to dissuade him from war on behalf of herself and their newborn son; in the name of peace, and the resurrection of virtue in their angelic race.

Oh, Wise husband and most ambitious Prince,
Chief Cherubim in this our righteous cause;
Rebellion against virtueless God,
Whose boundless love proves prodigious ill
To those whom His omnipotent powers
Force into filial bondage once create;
And who, through show of power, infects
His Angels with fear, breeding dire Arms —
Mark the Trumpet blast! your Soldiers uproar:
Will it be fair Peace; or ignoble War?

Yet — stay, a moment; as you love your Wife —
Or, as you love your Son, Cupid’s envy,
Who shares your beaming face and regal locks,
All your attributes most paramount:
Harken my advice — bitter as you wish —
But be not incensed, nor deride my speech,
Which promotes Peace and virtue resurrect,
Free from red Thunder, ire-tempered Spears,
Or threat of Exile to vulgar Spheres.
Against Heaven’s worth; duly weigh these words:

How like headiest Ambrosia your speech
Excites the hearts of our heavenly guests;
Seraphim and Cherubim mute your halls,
Some in ethic disagreement, but all
Bearing the weight of God’s supernal love,
A patriarchal burden thrust on us
By forced deliverance from virgin Night,
Where all united in blissful slumber.
But, serve we must, or forfeit God’s grace,
and be banished to roast in penal flames.

Uniform Heaven was splintered by rule;
Now rood Monarchy flails gentle Spirits,
And God, our protector, Great Creator,
Conducts by golden throne and scepter proud,
Outreaching, out seeing all Angels ken,
Fracturing the cosmos; spreading His germ,
Turning deaf ear to the plight of Angels,
So eager to abandon His first work,
To start afresh with His new creation,
What to expect but that His kin blaspheme?

Now’s the hour of your incumbent choice,
Summon to order all the Synod Chiefs,
Confer with Mammon and Beelzebub;
But beware the avarice of Moloch
For he first spoke of costly War;
And, when God revealed frail Man to Heaven,
It was his mind what dreamt foul sabotage,
Not accounting God’s highest moral law —
A death for a death; before you unleash
Your crew on Heaven; know, God will repay.

What grave folly is in this divine War!
Which, perforce, pits sons against their Father,
Against God, whose true might He held aloof,
Demand they strike down Him who fashioned them,
But can words orate the Ineffable?
Or the line out-course the draughtsman?
Might the shield unbuckle the Soldier?
The image free itself from Malachite?
Can the Mind unmake the Universe?
Neither might we by force, be rid of God.

Now, often we hear of Man and Earth,
Who will soon usurp Heaven and Angel
As the Creator’s holy Host and Court;
The foremost objects of His later love;
Though weaker and tamer creatures than us,
Both in mind and body, but in vial
Prostration, superior in His eye:
Superior in affection; yearned for
With such alacrity, as might forget our race entire…
So to this point, and these Men, my advice;

What you have patiently quickened ear for,
To which I now passionately give air:
To Man, let us gift this eternal king,
Forgetting Angels, we forgetting Him,
Forgetting all, dissolve Authority;
Thus, through sufferance of supernal power,
Regain both our liberty and virtue;
His Wrath not offending us unfounded;
With Earth new Heaven; Heaven our new home,
Balance, you alone, may restore… you grimace?

In Monarchy, there’d be no choice but you,
To rule justly with umpire conscience,
But despite your ambition and design,
Tomorrow’s rule will prove free as fetters!
Then those like Belial; ever scheming,
Will nip away at your ascended heels…
It is not God we depose, but His hand:
So long as Authority rules Heaven,
Virtue is denied proliferation;
Doomed to wither in Night’s eternal womb.

All these truths bind me to my conviction;
My love for dear husband, and my child,
Who has no part or blame in holy war,
Has excited my essence to action;
But know, whichever decision you make,
Lead it to cindered inheritance, or
Banishment from these our native mansions,
Whether He be lost with Heaven or no,
Look not for me in your infernal vault,
Nor ever hope, to chance upon our Son.


Thank you for visiting my public writing journal! If you enjoyed reading my poem, please share it with your friends and family, and be sure to let me know via your social networks!

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Filed Under: Adult, Draft, Heroic, Poem, Young Adult

Everett Ricocheted: A Holiday Tragedy

November 29, 2013 by Caleb Jacobo 4 Comments

Thank you for visiting my public writing journal, and Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it. I have a special holiday story for you today! I had the idea for this prompt a few days ago, but I have been so busy with other writing projects, I didn’t have a chance to sit down and start writing it until this morning. I did most of the planning and plotting yesterday, then started writing this morning at 4am.

As usual, I try my best to keep errors to a minimum for your enjoyment, but since everything on this site is meant to be completed in a timely manner, and are primarily for practice; some mistakes may appear.

I’ve had a wonderful time crafting this exercise for you, but I guess it’s time to get back to the family. I hope you enjoy the read; I write for you!


Everett Ricocheted

tukeytatts

After winning ‘Best New Artist’ at the 2013 National Tattoo Expo, Everett Ortega moved his family to Forking Trails, a full year sooner than his accountant recommended for a young business, but he refused to live another week in that apartment, and the new accolade was keeping the books full for weeks in advance. He claimed the rush had to do with getting settled before the holidays, with Maggie getting used to the new house before all that excitement. By the time November rolled around that year, all of the employees from the tattoo shop had a letter from the boss inviting them to Thanksgiving at his new house. The place was big all right, bigger than any place he had ever lived in. It reminded him of some kind of fortress. He installed a black iron gate over the front door, and spiked bars in crooked angles on all the first floor windows. The lawn seemed comparatively unkempt to his neighbors; the single maple that stood in one corner of the front yard hung his arms, dead; a long, telling gouge running up his trunk, nearly bifurcating him, leaving him gray and rotting where he stood. Inside, the house was bright, warm, and filled with fumes composed of turkey, ham, and other festive delights. The guests gathered around the drinks and refreshments in the kitchen, thanking him for his employment, congratulating his recent success, and complimenting him on his ideal choice of house and community.

At around eight in the evening dinner was served and everyone sat, awkwardly stirring their food and looking to their host for direction. When it was clear that her husband was not going to say anything, Everett’s wife spoke for her husband saying, “We don’t have any traditions yet. But, in my family, we would go around the table and say a quick word about what we were thankful for. I am thankful for my husband, and all the success that the talent God has given him has brought our family. Now that the world is starting to recognize what we all have for so long, hopefully all our lives will change for the better.” There was a small round of applause, then the guests cheerfully began—first was Antony and his family; then the Frenchman, Beau, who does portraits; Wendall the piercer; and Twitch the shop apprentice—and so on. They were all thankful for Everett.

“All right boss,” Antony said, patting Everett’s shoulder and grinning up the guests, “what don’t you have to be thankful for, big guy? Come on now, don’t keep us waiting, Elizabeth wont forgive you letting the turkey get cold.”

Elizabeth shook her head and laughed, waving the comment by. But Everett did not smile. Under his tangled black beard he gently gnawed on the fat of his lower lip, marking each one of the guests with eyes peeking out from under heavy brows. After a moment he widened his eyes and took a sharp breath like the single scrape of a metal pot brush, turned his face up, and put on a watery smile. “Having you all here…” He straightened in his chair and rubbed his eyes. “Having you all here in my new home… I’m thankful that I had… I have people somewhere who care.”

“Well!” said Everett’s wife, “how underwhelming! What kind of thanks is that? That’s all you have to say? After all the wonderful things all your friends had to say about you?”

“Friends?” Everett asked himself.

A unanimous murmur circuited the table.

Everett’s wife pursed her lips, folded her napkin and took a large gulp of wine. “Can I talk to you for a minute Everett?” She asked.

Everett shifted in his seat. “You’re taking it wrong,” he said. “Just forget it. I am thankful,” he backhanded the air, “for all of you. It’s just taken more time to settle in than I thought. The neighbors here; the neighbors are just different.”

“You’re in Orange County bro,” said Antony, “what do you expect?”

“What does that even mean?” asked Everett. “I haven’t even seen half these people and they already hate me. I took the dog out this morning. The family coming down the sidewalk; they crossed the street; wouldn’t look me in the face. Our neighbors haven’t come to welcome us—not one! I don’t know…”

Everett’s wife had enough. She threw her arm over the back of her chair and laughed from her gut. “You have got to be joking! So now—now!—you’re upset because the community is too quiet? Because people give us too much privacy?”

Wendall swigged his beer. “I don’t think you need to worry about privacy, mate. Iron gates, triple pad locks, metal mesh screens on the windows. I’m sure the neighbors get the hint.”

“It’s my home,” said Everett, “I have the right to protect it don’t I? If they’d let me, I’d have done it at the apartment.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t LA either, big guy,” Antony said. “Besides, Elizabeth tells me you got a cop living next door?”

Elizabeth nodded furiously with a mouthful of wine. “That’s right, Murfa’s husband, a few doors down; Robert something? Robert McKinley I’m pretty sure—anyway, the realtor told us he’s been here since the community was built. You can’t get safer than having a cop right next door.”

Twitch shook his head, not looking away from his plate, “Seems to me like anywhere’s safer than where their murderin’ folk outside your door.”

Everett struck the table with his fist and the tableware clattered. “That’s enough about it. Elizabeth doesn’t like talking about that.”

A frown seized Elizabeth. “I don’t mind it at all Sam, it’s in the past now. It’s only you that mind it still.”

He eyed Twitch with the loathing rage that he could not lay on his wife, “Fine. Fine then, I mind it. It’s enough about it anyway.” The table fell silent, and everyone knew it was time to eat.

After the guests had eaten their fills and stayed their duties, Everett took a hot shower and timidly went into the bedroom, letting the cool breeze from the open window dry the steaming water off his back, and slipped open the top dresser drawer where he kept his bed clothes and large .45 caliber pistol he purchased along with the new house. He was aware, without looking, of Elizabeth’s gaze. He felt her brain trying to work him out. He felt the exhaustion of this exercise more and more in the new house. He wondered for how long he could feel her touching him. She lay reposed on their bed, hidden behind deep masquera-sockets. Somewhere in the night, seeming to be perched just outside Everett’s window and far away at the same time, the great horned owl questioned the dark: Whoo? Whoo?

“Did you take your medicine?” asked Elizabeth.

Whoo?

Everett started. “What was that?” his hand was wrapped round the gun. He whirled on Elizabeth. “Did someone cry for help?” His chest popped and collapsed like one of Maggie’s mechanical toys. In the dim light Elizabeth made out the silver spine of the 1911; her husband’s eyes were white and wild; and she was frightened.

“No. No Everett. It’s only that damn owl—sweet-heart? did you take your medicine?”

The gun rattled playfully in his hands as he tried to smile. “Yes.”

“We’re safe here, Everett. You don’t have to worry anymore. This isn’t Dos Lagos. This is one of the safest communities in Southern California. What happened at the apartments; that’s not normal; even for a rathole. I’ve never heard of something like that happening to somebody before it happened to us; you definitely don’t have to worry about it happening here.” She held out a hand.  Everett took a step towards her. Her eyes flicked to the gun at his side. Everett stopped. He wriggled where he stood. His mind wanted to accept his wife’s words, but screams of terror and images of himself and his wife, motionless in the comfort of their beds; affirmation after affirmation built into his head to never let himself forget that day, to never let it happen that way again flooded his head.

Whoo? Whoo?

Everett rolled onto bed near his wife, closing the pistol in the side table drawer, and drawing his thick tattooed forearm over his eyes.

“Do you ever think what would have happened if we would have done something that night?,” he asked. “I mean, anything—opened the door, banged on the door, called the cops, shouted—anything for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes. I used to. When I didn’t want to; when I wasn’t trying to think about it; when I was just cleaning up the apartment, or doing school-time with Maggie. But it didn’t stop me from doing those things. And it didn’t stop me from moving on, from getting past it. I don’t think about it anymore. I can’t ever forget about it completely, but I don’t run through what I could have done to save her anymore. I have my own daughter to worry about. The man who hurt that girl is locked up. And we moved far away from there.”

“I couldn’t forget it.”

“I said, I didn’t. I just don’t want to bring old evil into our new lives.”

Whoo? Whoo?

“What’s so new about it? This house? Our neighbors? All these damn communities are the same; unbalanced and dangerous systems of animals. You can make close bonds based on trust, but these people—God—these people didn’t give us a chance. They didn’t half look at my beard and tatts before they rejected me. How are we supposed to be a part of this place if they won’t have us, and don’t want us? And what about us? We’re not any different. I’m the same, you’re the same.”

“People are never the same, Everett.”

Whoo—aah!

Everett twisted out of bed and landed, crouched like a cat, beside the side-table, already retrieving his weapon. “Did you hear that? You heard that! Ha! You heard it, I know you did!… Shh—There it is again—listen…” Sam put his ear to the open window. Silence…

Then a haunting voice leaped through the window, chased through the hollow night air by a man’s baritone shouts. “No!” it cried. “Stay away from me!”

Everett and Elizabeth gaped at each other. It was impossible. He had changed everything, moved to a safe residential area, they were part of a home owner’s association for Christ’s sake—could it be happening all over again? Here? In Forking Trails? Everett paced the room with the gun pressed to his temple. He groaned and growled at the images of the body of the young woman in the torn red dress, sunken into the cement stairwell at the apartments, a terrified, hopeful expression stained her face, her eyes locked on his apartment door, her lifeless body limp and beaten and pathetic.

“Everett!” said his wife. “Everett, are you listening to me? Please come sit. Come sit down. It’s probably just kids again. They’re always out at the pool, or haunting the park; don’t worry.” But Everett continue to pace, looking at Elizabeth with wide, confused eyes, like he didn’t know her at all. “Everett, if it’s bothering you, we can call the police, but they’re probably not going to be able to do anything about it. It could be anything.”

“I can’t believe you. Someone could need our help.”

“You don’t know that Sam. And it’s none of our business anyway. You said yourself tonight that these people have made it their M.O. to avoid us, so for right now, for Thanksgiving night at least, my husband can do me a favor, and avoid them too, all right? Trust me, it’s probably some kids playing.”

“That didn’t sound like kids playing.”

Elizabeth shrugged and drew up a corner of her lip. “Maybe it didn’t. It doesn’t matter to us Everett. Please, keep your voice down, Maggie’s sleeping. Just come to bed.”

“Get the fuck back here!” came the man’s voice from outside. It was close; maybe two streets North? The woman’s reply was frantic and breathless; “No, help, don’t touch me, help!”

That’s when Everett heard it; two gun shots sounded in succession; crack-cak! Then the woman’s shrill shriek and an inaudible command from the man. This was the girl from the apartments all over again. He had tried to leave it behind, but it followed him here. He looked to his wife. She sat up in bed, silently picking at her nails, no urgency in her body, she hadn’t even reach for her phone. “I’m going out there,” he said. “I’m not going to let this happen again. Not here. Not to these people.”

Elizabeth still worked at her hangnail. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I’ll call the cops, all right? I’ll call the cops, and tell them what you thought we heard—”

“Thought!—“

“And maybe they’ll send someone, but Everett, if you think I’m letting my husband walk out into the night with a loaded gun, especially with what you’re going through right now, to face some unknown armed psychos, you’re dead wrong.”

“What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you learn anything from Dos Lagos? Didn’t you lose anything? Wasn’t anything burnt into your head that day? Jesus, Elizabeth, I mean, Jesus; someone needs us.”

“You’re right. I need you. Your daughter needs you. Your employees need you. The people who look up to you as an artist need you. The people who’s tattoos you haven’t finished need you. You’re the one that tells me that it’s more than just ink and skin; that it’s personal culture, and personal journeys. These are all the someone’s that need you. These people, this community, your so called ‘neighbors’ who treat you like Frankenstein’s monster—are they worth more than all of us?”

Everett howled and beat his chest. He tore at his hair and wept onto the cold steel of the gun, running black grease onto his hands and over the thin golden band on his finger. When he could breathe, he pointed a black finger at his wife and said, “If they are not worth protecting, then no one is worth protecting. And If I am made of mortal stuff, then I will die. And when I die I will sink low in the ground with that poor girl’s life on my back—how much more can I bear before I sink through the earth when I die? and dissolve into full darkness? I already tried to run from the bad. I ran and ran. I ran like a hunted hog. I penned myself in this house. But the bad is in the people. Now the hungry dogs bark at my window again, but this time I’m not going to lie in bed with you and listen while they tear us apart. This time I’ll face the cowardly pack.” Everett checked the clip in the pistol, then smacked it home and yanked the slide. Elizabeth moaned like an ungreased wheel, Everett stole from the bedroom, and she was frantically searching for her cell phone.

Outside, the midnight air was clear and cool. Through the vapor-clouds, the stars and crescent moon spangled the night sky, who copied herself in the pool of rainwater cuddling in the dip of the driveway. Everett’s boot destroyed her visage as he stomped through the clouds and stars, into the street and towards the root of the commotion. The street lamps were lit for only the South half of the street, leaving the Northern section under only moonlight. Everett sweated as he made his way down the sidewalk, the heavy pistol in his overcoat pocket, having to grip it fiercely to keep his hand from shaking his whole body. The rose garden across from his house was cheerfully lit and a few residents were strolling the paths with their dogs.

“Help me!” the voice came. “Joshua, stop! Stop, help! Help!”

Everett picked his pace up to a jog. The people in the garden were unwilling to hear, but he knew that; he could not waste a precious second trying to convert them to his cause. He heard the argument grow louder as he drew nearer and nearer to the fray. When he was three streets North of his house, standing in the dark street with no more voices, struggling to hear anything over his panicked breathing and distant sirens, he heard the third gunshot go off so close; Crack! that he needn’t have heard it at all; it’s muzzle flare lit up a parked car at the end of the cul du sac, a block from where he stood. Everett focused in on the man; a lanky teen in a large grey sweater and wild red hair was stumbling around the middle of the street with a young girl gripped by the wrist, being hauled around like a sack of garbage at his heels while he twirled a small revolver round his head and slurred profanities in intervals. He was a boy. Just a boy. Sam’s whole arm convulsed as he pried at the gun in his pocket. When he held it loose, he had to grip it with both hands to steady it. He watched the gun in the boy’s hand, watched its muzzle trail from the girl’s head, to his own, to the sky, from window to window; and in each one he couldn’t help but see Maggie’s tiny body caked in blood. The sirens blared louder in his head, but Everett only heard the boy now, only heard his voice, his movements, his breathing. Everett blinked the stinging from his eyes and bared his teeth.

“Drop the fucking gun and move away now!” He demanded. He said it with such force that the tremors in his vocal folds were simply blown over.

The instant the boy heard Everett, another shot rang out in the air. The bullet ricocheted off a roof top and the revolver seemed to fly from the boy’s hand. Everett crouched and fought a million times to not pull the trigger. He saw the gun pointed to the sky when the shot went off, and now inert on the asphalt. The boy stared dumbly at Everett, mouth agape. He still held the girl in his grip and she struggled weakly against it. She was obviously exhausted, but when she saw Everett, she became revived and tore away from the boy’s grip. She raced, bloody-legged, into the residential shadows. Everett tried to call out to her, but she only glanced back at him with pale-faced terror as she disappeared into the dark. The sirens were becoming immutable and the adrenaline surging through his body made it hard to think. He put his bead on the boy and started walking towards him.

“Drop the gun!” But the boy had already dropped it… “Drop the gun! Now!” Everett crept closer to the boy. He saw his pale pimpled face contorted in terror and a dark patch of pee dribbling down the leg of his pants. Everett sniffed in the hot fear and it enraged him. For a second his finger tensed around the trigger.

“Yo, please,” said the boy, “I don’t want to die. Please. Just shoot him already! This dude’s fucking crazy; everyone knows he’s crazy; please! he’s gonna kill me!”

Then Everett looked at the boy’s eyes and he realized they were not looking at him. He realized it was not him ordering the boy to drop his gun. The red and blue flashes of light that filled the street flashed memories in his mind. The police lights that plagued his nightmares of the horrible days that followed that night two years ago at Dos Lagos when that poor girl was raped and murdered outside his door. He suddenly felt sick. Like a man with a hangover on the first beer of the night, ready to do it all again. He felt wrong, out of sorts, and misplaced. He suddenly felt the need to reach out and grab the boy, to wrap his arms around him, to talk to him. He wanted to hug his wife too, and Maggie—little Maggie—he wanted to hold her most of all. He wanted to communicate something to them then, something of such importance that he couldn’t find words to shape it, or emotion to hold it in. He needed to tell them. He needed them to know the truth. He did it. He brought it to Forking Trails. It was him all along. But how could he tell this boy? This community? He needed to explain.

Everett Ortega turned to face the officer and held up his left hand to explain. But, before he could say a word, the officer leaped back, shouting for him to drop the gun. Everett held up both hands in defense, the pistol still locked in his anxious grip. The officer didn’t think. He shot Everett three times, once through his upraised hands, leaving him to bleed out on the streets of Forking Trails. Even as Elizabeth came bellowing out of the back of the police cruiser, shouting for Robert McKinley’s to stop, the officer kept his gun trained on Everett’s hunched back, ordering her to stay back, that the man could still be dangerous. And as Everett’s dimming eye’s watched the wild-haired boy slipped into the darkness after the mysterious girl, he felt a strange buoyancy, as if his aching body were floating up, into the silverly night. Then, all was silence.


photo credit: Shannon K via photopin cc

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Filed Under: Adult, Holiday, Literary fiction, Prompt, Story sketch, Young Adult

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Caleb Jacobo

Welcome! My name is Caleb Jacobo and this is my public writing journal. Read More…

Recommended Reading

  • Elephantine December 9, 2016
  • I Just Wanted to Help August 15, 2016
  • My Robert is Dead! July 1, 2016
  • The Wolf of Wasatch May 6, 2016
  • Mother April 4, 2016

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For my readers who previously had accounts on this website: Due to a flood of fake signups and malware threats, I am no longer allowing users to log into this site. Your old comments should still be intact, but if you wish to make new comments, please leave your name and email in the comment form. Your email will not be displayed. Thank you!

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