Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Reader comments on current direction of The Blog.

                          Reader Comments: Stories of BPD.





                          Sarah’s Story is the same as my sister. I have no clue how she keeps trying and never gives up on hope. She has blown off all family over the years and never listens to sound advice.

                     Your posting of this gives hope to all of us that see this in ones we love.

                    Hope never ending, trying day to day.


                   Thank you,

                    Emily, Frankfort Germany.




                 Frankly, Sarah should just kill herself and save the lot of us from her expense and economical burden.

                -Peter, Ontario Canada.




                   Samir’s a human that should just be put down. C’mon, look at what he told his sister, “ sorry, again.” Some deserve little else and should be mercy killed.

              Think about it.

               -Clive, UK


                On your Never Learning.

                Hammer to the head of the nail.

                Massive sense of being there.

                Frantic sense of an ER in full gear presence.

                You are either a nurse or have been their fully conscious. On the table?

                 I don’t care which.

                 You see and hear areas of desperation.

                 God alone knows how you do this repeatedly.

               -Moya, one of Ireland.



              Sofia’s story made me sob fully. Going for lira and getting gunned down.

               It happens. Still mad me cry.

               -Arietta, Italy



              I feel you have no sense of traditional faith within you. I believe you to be both godless and lacking spirituality.

             I have to say this. You did well with the Catholic Church on your entry about Anthony on July 8.

             Not all priests molest and defile youth. Most of them go for the worst of humanity and strive to save them. You stated this righteously with your words.

            You have some place in being what you are.

            Thank you for showing the more often than not upside to my church.

           I constantly pray for you,

            -Anelie, Bulgaria



              You are so totally fucked up! You spek of drugs and magdness and behmoths stretching of harpies for guds kids to falls to. Yur wholl blod is bad.

          Bich, mour wizkee. Takk bak is pnch uu’s in face.

           U suk cokcsukcer,

            - Jeffrey, Clackamas County, Oregon.




             I’ve read you on Facebook time and time again. I found you around April. I have no clue why you do this. Getting more feeling with each post. Yeah, I know what you say about warnings and shit, but you don’t stop and shift gears toward other areas to hold an audience.

           I followed you thru P:AL but find myself enchanted by what you post in its second part.

            I have to state this: Tommy: one to four, your best writing ever. Vivid to horrid senses of sight, sound and smell. Light splashing, sounds of thumping, smells of sweat and iron from fresh blood.

          Having read words you shared with the world, I do believe you hit as many Countries as you’ve said, I can state this. You are intelligent, having shallow emotions, objective in stance and meaning to what you write. I believe you are what you say you are: How could you write what you write without this knowledge of yourself?

         To me, you are nothing special. No more than Clive Barker, Edgar Allen Poe, Mary Shelley, Kuntz or King. That is not bad, they drew from others too.

          What makes you different is this. You give some sense of empathy in your words drawing readers in, wanting more.

         In all honesty. I want to read more about those like Tommy. By the way, loved the Quadraphenia Tommy song as the end of it occured. It was this that made me scream YES! This exclamation woke my husband abruptly. He soon looked less stunned as I read to him your words and its ending.

         I Loved the ending of this saga. “touch me…” nurse says. Tommy responding, ‘feel me,” Their Embrace and area of those you told us in words of those seeing it happening. What can I say but this, you are a romantic writer in heart and soul most worthy of some bastard new form of a Harlequin romance novels. Visually making as many heave popcorn and Pepsi to floor as married with those screaming‘ yeah, show me more shit, bro!”

           You’ve got talent. You really do need to know this.

            Mark, don’t you ever doubt what you write.

              Post my real name, but before you do, confirm it.

                               AN: having done so.

                   -Isabelle, Trinidad and Tobago.






                        Authors Note: Thank you to all who shared their criticism. It is your words both plus and minus that keep me writing.

                 There is more to publish here from email content huge and drowning in size. I’ll get to them in due time.

             My thanks,

               Names changed unless otherwise asked for and confirmed.

                         Mark William Darus.  07312012

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Tommy: Part 4: Listening to you... Finale

Tommy: Game of Hangman: IV.


From last:

He begins to suck on her vagina, sweat crossing brow. She watches the colours of Hell paint pretty pictures across him.

“I ask but one thing, Master.”

Left his bloody face from her snatch: And what’s that?

“ Please. Oh please,” reaching orgasm. “Please don’t take me back there.”

I won’t. Just do as I say.

Heaving hips, knees upward, pelvis thrusting madly, Judas Priest thumping beats loudly, Eyelids explode open. Her pointed focus causes her to look Tommy squarely, eye to eye.

Fuck! No! Tommy’s mind hit’s a guardrail from the impact of her eyes connecting with his. Her eyes in perfect focus. His soul, open and exposed.

Feverishly pounding into her again and again to the beat of JP’s Out In the Cold.

Her moaning with every guitar riff KK Downing threw down, legs spread, heels digging into Tommys back.

Either by being wasted, in an odd place or just submitting to an absolute strangers dick entering her repeatedly, frantically, she tries to focus.

Looking up: Contorted face, black ceiling spastically flashed with a rainbow of colours. Lasers beaming blues and reds, sometimes making Spirograph logical shapes.

Ears, her ears, picking up screams not born of ecstasy so much as pain.

Focusing on him, her him, this him, with both hands, she draws him to her face.

Bolts of pain cut through the absinthe and coke as his hair wants to leaves him in expedient fashion, stopping joyous pelvic pumps. Stopping him dead in his tracks.

WHAT! What the fuck do you want, Bitch.

Gasping, reaching for air whole heatedly, pushing words with each exhale: “ W-w-w-we n-need t get th=th=thuu-the fuck outta HERE!”

Reading her, sensing urgency from the look in her eyes, he backs solid penis from her as he lifts further above and out of her.

Bent over, Tommy extends right hand to her.

Yeah, let’s get the fuck out of here!

Taking his hand, muscles still twitching in mechanical movements, she stands on legs uncertain.

Standing, they square off to one another. Nude as birth, covered with many a road map given over years of use, seeing each other as their buzzes quickly fade.

Embracing, violently yanking each other closer, smashing flesh to flesh without sexual penetration. Heads drawing back, they share a kiss. Some insane kiss of innocents of knowing they do not belong here.

Smiling, embraced, they turn to leave. They begin to walk in unison, timing to a new song blaring from the JBL’s by JP: Locked In.

After several steps, Tommy stops and plants his hands firmly on her shoulders: STOP!

Doing as told, she halts soundly and turns toward him.

“what would you have of me?” she asks, sudden saddened fear hitting her face.

What? What would you do if I said we should stay here? Voice solid, steady, loud and aimed at her.

Without hesitation, she takes her opened right hand from her slender and shaking right hip and places it momentarily on the left cheek of her ass.

Taken by the strobe-lighted motion of her nice breasts, slow motion, lazy, intoxicating, brain slowing down. Mind movies taking shape.

Off guard, Tommy stands there, defenseless.



“WE NEED, HAVE, TO GET THE MOTHERFUCK OUTTA HERE BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE FOR THE BOTH OF US!” Hand stinging from the blow to his left jaw, wincing slightly, gaining ground of herself.

Yeahhhhh. YeAH, YEAH, WE DO!. Getting the reaction he had prayed for many a decade from any of women he’d known, responded with the speed of a bullet leaving the tip of a barrel.

Taking her hand left hand in his right, fingers mating between each other, he tugged her toward The Door that brought them here.

Walking across blood flooded floor, at places reaching 2 inches deep, thick smell of iron and sweat and a disco-ball tossing beams of light haphazardly, they made slow progress.

‘SHIT!’ Irina yelled. A hand clamped on her ankle. Looking down quickly, eyes going from the hand that stopped her, wrist to forearm, elbow the shoulder, to the face of something that had half it flesh removed, muscled bloodied half carrying a maddening eyeball fluttering about madly occasionally meeting her.

THWUNK! Tommy kicks it in the head causing it to release its grasp from Irina.

“uhhhhhUHHHHHHH!” Half-face whipping quickly in a 180, neck snapping.

“Thankyou, “ said as if a single word, she speaks.

50 feet for The Door.

Judas Priest stop abruptly. All lights die suddenly. Blackness to all but the cat-people that possess extreme night vision. Non present in human form except to military visitors with proper equipment, usually dressed in Goth.

Tommy and Irina stop. Damn, he mutters to her softly, wishing not to draw attention.

“AAAAWWWWWWW! A ONE! ----------TWO! ----------A THREE! ----------FOUR!” a voice yells with the tone of a man speaking through some 1940’s steel mouth horn.

Flashpots blast like that of a KISS concert intro, high-lighting the dead and dieing. Still-motion pictures, a frame at a time, imprinting negatives to the mind with eyes closed.


Over amplified JBL’s begin a beat. “Ah-Ah-ah AH! Ah-Ah-ah, Ah-uhhhh!”

Debbie Gibson’s Only In my Dreams takes the room, fitting with the flashing images of this place like that of a size ten foot attempting to fill itself in a size two shoe.

This is not good, Tommy thought, drugs fading, clarity enveloping around him.


They ran to be stopped by a green haired chick in overalls and high heeled shoes. “No.” her husky voice spoke. “not so fast, Lovers.” She raised a machete and pulled back.

Irina left Tommy’s hand, ducked and rolled forward. Standing fast, right hand thrusting upward, nailed this bitch with a massive uppercut, sending her reeling back, machete flying off, slicing those that stood in its way.

She, coiling back, grabbed Tommy.


“only in muhhhhhhh dreeeeeaaaaaaams“: Debbie sang on.


25 feet from The Door,

Spoiled pork, dank and rotten, humid eve of a back alley.

Tommy about took Irina’s arm from his socket as her veered suddenly to this right.

This way! We gotta go this way!

“But the door is this way….”

That door is that way, but the way out is this way! Trust me!.

He kept her behind him, protecting her, as we waded in the shoulder high dancing blood covered throngs before him.

“SLAM ME! FUCKER, SLAM ME!” a zombie cried.

Hadn’t he killed this asshole once tonight? Mind rambling backward, snapping abruptly to the here and now. Shaking head and stray marbles, going toward the worst of stench.

15 from the smell.

“Where do you th-” a guardian of Hell tried and failed to complete as Irina’s foot kicked him to the nuts causing him to fall into a pit of spikes. “LOVING THIS! CUNT, LOVING THIS!” as his body was pierced through.

Sweating, the scent of the prey drenching Tommy and Irina’s nude bodies as they cautiously pressed on.

Mirror balls casting multicolored light everywhere, softening tones of Debbie coming to a halt.

10 feet.

“Whoa, Sir!” the brunette that took him stated in a calm voice. “Do you have a request of the DJ?”

Still walking. Tommy looked at Irina. There’s something to her. Something…

Okay. You got Boston’s Something About You?

“Why yes, Sir. Of course we do!” smiling she said. “Maestro, Jam it!”

Less than two seconds, a beckoning, single voice mixed with quiet guitars slammed into the loud signature sound of Boston.

Frenzied light splashing fluorescent vibrancy's surrounding all in Hell.

“….There’s was something about you---- brought a changer over me… It isn’t easy…. IIIIIIIII knooooooow… to believe in a man like me…….”

They broke into a run, passing the brunette, for some reason thanking her.

3 feet…

Closer and closer, each step like that in a B-movie where the bad guys just walk as you run and they still catch up.

Boston’s three and half minute tune, while playing fully, fading fast.

“Attempt to go no further!” a quartet with scratchy, hideous harmony like that of the Oak Ridge Boys of the damned proclaimed.

Four men dressed like decaying Mafia enforcers stand before them. Black suits, once expensive but no longer grand with maggots, worms and rats covering them. Gnawing, holding, tearing about the last of the fabric, chomping on what is left of their human flesh.

“Did you really think you’d leave here alive? Your guilt and your sins brought you here, didn’t they?”

Stopping again, blocked, final steps covered by something not undead but soon would be so. Tommy and Irina looked to their right and left. Irina turned toward Tommy, looking for something in his eyes and finding none. Futility setting in as he stared at the four.

“Aren’t you going to ask for our last request?” Irina said the four men, who now seemed mounted on horses. One carried a trumpet, leaning back to blow on it.

“Yes, Madame. We’re always happy to grant that. What is your wish?”

Fierce low voice, growling, but not screaming. Her body loosening, resigning, willing.

“Missing Persons: Windows, please,”

All light is gone, thickest of dark takes hold.

Hells DJ seeks, smallest of blue surrounds it. Probing.

Tommy hears her steady breathing as she pulls him close. They hug fast, death descending around them like a well deserved vacation.

Music and light begin to prance about. Synthesizers, guitars and an eventually squeaky voice rise in both volume and blinding flares of colours.

“something feels so strange tonight” Missing Persons sing.

Remembering her brothers love for some stupid thing the so richly believed in.

She yells.


Snapping to, following her lead, the two hunker down as one and charge the four riders of someones apocalypse. Some willing to give up at the final gate before them and peace after a lifetime of pain, desperation and self made hells.

Slowest of motion with each step and action taking minutes more than seconds. Tommy remembering of a car accident he’d had years before. Impact, time slowing down to slightly less than a halt: painful memory, each grind of crunching metal, screeching tires and screams in voices warped tonal qualities down, to take hold of him.

“All I need is a window to look through. All I want is a window to look through…”

One of the death-riders, that holding the trumpet, meeting lips slightly. It made the try of the most valiant of first graders in their debut Xmas concert plays: “VRUuuuu’’’’mptptptptssssssppppppppppp!”

Horses freaked, tossing riders to crimson soaked floor.

Three of the four stand with horse between them.

Dead don’t fear the living. Dead don’t care.

What is the worst the dead can suffer?

There already fucking dead.

Siamese twins joined at the hip, Irina and Tommy slam them head on with power unknown to them.

Impact. Living souls smashing for the last dire sense of life.

Not quite enough. Staggering back, stunned. Regrouping.

Collective mind reeling for a solution. Flank? Not end around? A Joshua Chamberlain’s day=two charge at Gettysburg? What? Fucking what?

“it’s the only thing that I-Kk c’n do Annnnkneee wayh!” blasting out the loud speakers.

Got it! Tommy tells Irina as he reaches down, her hand tightly, nearing crushing fingers between his.

I GOT THE BALL, COCKSUCKERS! Tommy screams, lifting back to throw.

HAIL MARY! He cries, tossing a severed head to the left of the three.

Instinct of males prevailing once again, the near dead guys dive for it like a football, clearing a path for them to sprint that through.


8 inches.

Panel wall before them. Freedom, sanity, escape just a spit away.

Irina stops Tommy cold in his tracks.

“Look at me, asshole!”

Forlorn, sad, feeling every ounce of life a fading with a loss of her betraying him in final moments.

“Do you come here often?” Smiling, she shoves him through the panel that takes him to the stinky alley he’d aimed them toward.

Falling to uneven red brick road, nose first hitting piss-mixed water finally snapping and braking.

Stars. All he saw was stars in his eyes regardless of where he looked. Tossing his head viciously he began to scream: IRINA! IRINA! Irina! Irrrrrrrina, voice turning to sobs as he cried.

Finding his sobbing, limp body a day later, with weak stats, paramedics took him to Mercy General Hospital. Dehydrated, high tox screen, suspicious moles on his body. Unresponsive to family and friends.

Two days later, family and friends by his side, a nurse came into the room to change his IV and evacuate his urine bag.

Saying hi to his family, introducing herself to them. They greeted her with tired smiles.

Switching that which sustained Tommy, she whispered in the sweetest of tones.
“hut hut hike. You need a window, tommy?”

Pulse rate climbing, breath increasing, limbs tensing.

Eyes slowly opening. Brightest of white light without focus, blinding intensity.

The nurse watches the monitor and Tommy equally. Hope growing further as his stats come back.

Family watching him looking less like death to become and more like the living.

Whoa… Why can’t I see right? Okay, not as bad… Getting better and better…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! Faster and faster the chimes ring for those coming back from the near dead, guiding them back for another round in the ring.

A silhouetted face, black against white tiled ceiling greets him with eyes not yet focusing completely.

“You’re back!” he hears, but cannot place its owner.

“Thank god!. I knew you weren’t done!” Ditto to him.

“Good! You ain’t dead. You can still pay be back….” This getting greeted with sour looks and a few gasps by those surrounding Tommy’s sterile hospital bed.

In the softest of voices, the nurse speaks to Tommy: “can you hear me?”

Shuddering about, fighting a world of illusion and pleasure in this limbo-land he’d come to embrace. Muscles cramping, body beginning to arch from heel to back of head.



Go the voice, you dumbfuck!

“Tommy, can you feel me?” kindest of wanting, she sends to him.

Going past blurry images of unicorns, nude babe-twins, free wheeling sexual pleasures.

Steadily walking faster past weak experiences \of a life he no longer wishing for if living.

Running now: passing booze and drugs giving no regard for them….

A voice. Voice…


Single thing guiding Tommy, One song.

Her Voice.

Listening to you, I get the music.

Following you, I’ll climb the mountains

I get excitement at your feet….


His hands come to life, ripping out IV’s, pulling tubes from his throat. This causes a shock to pass through all but his attending nurse.

Staring at blank grey wall, mouth dry and threatening dry heaves from stomach.

Seeing the words: PUSH OUT IN CASE OF FIRE in white letters backgrounder by fire engine red.

He turns his head toward his left. Gaining more of his senses every second.

“from you, I get the story” Irina says looking down at Tommy as she begins to cry.

Meeting her eyes, coming back to another reality, arms going for her as hers plunge toward him.

I. I I. Throat far too dry to speak, frustrated, hurting, trying.

Taking a Dixie Cup of water, leaning toward him, eyes never leaving his. She first takes a sterile cloth, dampens it and places it to his dry lips.

Wanting her lips, her, against him, and for the first time in his life understanding patience, he just goes with the flow.

Gentle hands tipping cup to place a few drips of water to him. Smile coursing her face sublime.

Back of throat feeling less parched, coming back to life, taking time.

Thank god, I’m not dead yet….

“Touch me,” Irina sobbed looking at the only man that made a difference in her miserable life.

Feel me, Tommy said. This is the only that gave me any area of worth. Mind running back to the terminator that made a difference to him, “Just don’t take me back there, Please.”

Amazed by some of family and friends, flabbergasted by others at what happened next.

Tommy’s hands grabbed Irina by her shoulders as she jumped on him, thrusting hands around him against the bed.

Simultaneously embracing. Loving. Intertwining once again.

You pushed me through the panel…

“Of course I did. I love you, Tommy.”

But you didn’t come after me.

“I did, just after I saw you pass out.”


“Had I picked you up from the pavement, would you really have appreciated the simple sound of a voice?”

No. I wouldn’t have.

“I’m not going anywhere from you. Ever. But you are totally fucking rude. Your family and friends are here.”

Tommy’s life changed.

The End: MWD 07292012.



AUTHORS NOTE: Hardest thing I have ever finished: period. Longest project by me.

I had no clue part four would write as it did. I could not have predicted this at all.


I can give the deepest of thanks to those that helped me write this:

Play this song for these credits as those that helped me deserve a parade.

Garbage: Parade <play it on you-tube>

Dave and Cindi Rose, Jesse and Danielle: You are family to me in the sincerest sense of the word. You have always been there for me. I hope I have done the same.

Dave Torres: Constant companion of my writing going back to the Drunken Emails with stories that were never completed. You always showed interest…

My sisters Holly and Heidi. You don’t like where my blog went and its subject matter, and I am most surely thinking you hate this multple entry of Tommy. I know you support me though, means much to me. Kind of like watching a sibling you know could be a college scholar and his not doing such.

I hold you both most high.

Angie: Thanks for keeping touch me and all the Opie incarnations. Girl, you are most special in all respects! You keep runnin’ in your pink shoes!

Maria: Through FaceBook, pictures and such we have shared. This means a great deal to me. MOOOOO! Cows are good! Keep smiling, always. Mexico rocks for having you!

Audrey: Damn, the photos you have shared with me blow me away! My friend from Malta. Nice chatting with you! I hope I can return with my photos with what you have bestowed on me.

I personally like you asking me about going to sleep when it was like 8am your time and it was like 1 am my time. How cool is that.

Vidhi: India. Thank you. Our chat was very nice and live a million hours apart.

Jonathon: Though you were silent on this series, you have given me much to post about. Thanks, bro!

Alinia: Ukraine. Pressing words and challenges by you. Most grand. Thank you!

Sara: Sarah, sassrah: Australia; Been around, reading and sending me emails. Thank you so much for your thoughts on Tommy.

Lisa: UK. You have the driest of wit and I so love it! I will always raise a glass to you, fair lady across the pond!

Thermo Nuclear Warrior: Ukraine. Love what you think and what you express.

Bnttopnr: Ukraine: Your words and pics inspire me.

Crystal: USA. Thank you.

Katerina: Greece. Optomist. Upside in all situations. Sharing unabashed, thank you.

Aja: Singapore. You told me you where a whore. We’re all whores. We’re also the stars in our own movies! Hang fast, Aja.

Ingrid: Norway; Thank you for your inspiring emails.

Helle: Germany. So grateful I wrote something that pissed you off. After a shitload of time we did meet an understanding. Much hope.

Tabitha: Oslo Norway. You think so much as me. I am so glad to talk to you and bounce madness between you and I. Comrades in Arms, you and I. Thank you for being my friend.

Irina S. Ukraine Your support, words and emotions expressed are huge. The calming sound of your voice comforts me endlessly. I wish for you to be my pillow.

Abigail: USA. The first responder to the Blog. Fuck, woman! Did you ever think we’d go this far? I didn’t. You are so the cutthroat bitch and I so embrace this about you. You are so everything where you are. I am so fucking glad I met you in the flesh. I still can’t believe you sang to me an Abba song: Knowing me Knowing You…

I know you are right.

Holding close, dancing to Bryan Ferry Slave to Love. We sang.

Sea of flames…

Slave to Love,

Thanks, Abbey.


-Mark William Darus.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Forty Hours: 12.5 Countdown

                       Forty some hours: T-minus 12.5 and Counting.


                                 Continued from previous entry.



               Teddy heads home at 3:30 pm on July twenty-fifth, 1962.


            Approaching Scranton and Meyers avenue, pausing for a moment, heart thudding about, he turns onto Meyers. Less than a tenth of a mile he hangs a sharp left toward his alley. Stopping diagonally from his garage, stepping out, he gazes down the alley. He sees children playing about, their laughter, pausing a moment to take deep breath into lungs without mill dust.

          Opening gate to garages right, opening gate, walking. Cornering left, saying hi to Heidi, who happily says: “daddy! Love you!.” Smiling fully, opening the garage door, he walks.

         He pulls, parks his car to the garage. Killing engine as he exits it, smelling exhaust, so happy to be home again. He locks the back doors which cover his vehicle.

          He greets his wife and she embraces him.

          Good to be home.

          They ate dinner. Much later than planned on as Ted made meatloaf.

            As he prepared his specialty, he took off his work-shoes. This event was most spectacular. Flies would fall from the sky, dogs would heave guts and children would run to escape that which held in leather work shoes became unleashed. Foul!

        Going to sleep after tucking daughters to bed.

         Smoking L&M’s together privately, black and white TV to the beds right side, showing ‘snow‘. Fully swollen belly, arms extended, hands on his shoulders, pulling him closer to her.

         The orange glow from cigarette inhaled cast images of smiles and frustration.

         “I love you, “ Ted says to Mari, taking her closer and she grasps him to her.

         “I love you, too!” Mari, feeling about to burst, exhausted in every respect, wishing for peaceful sleep in her mans arms. Drifting off slowly, certainly, descending into dreamland.

        RING RING RING! Goes the alarm clock, its clackers rebounding quickly from left to right, nailing 2 inch bells, awakening the dead to rise.

         Teddy awakens, kills the clock, listening to sound of Mari’s snoring.

        Standing, pulling on fresh pants, reaching towards yesterdays trousers, placing right hand into pocket taking change and dollars from it. Left hand taking fresh undershirt, covering it with a white button-down, staring blankly at a mirror, he slowly turns and heads toward the hallway. Three quarters down the hall, as he has walked over a thousand times, he firmly plants his right small toe into the chimney jog: Shiiit, he mutters, loud at first, much softer at its end.

         Reaching the bathroom, flipping a switch, he takes razor into hand. Shaving.

        Mari is dreaming: Standing in a field of industrial waste, looking toward vivid sunrise of ever changing hues of blues and greens. Longest of dark hair blowing in light breeze as her forehead begins to sweat. Looking left over Clark Field, alone, lighting an L&M, taking in the tobacco and morning air. Nostrils paying no mind to the heavy smell of the Coke Plants odor of rotting eggs and burning hair.

        Soundly into Dreamland, she walks into the oddest of sights greet rational memory.

       Colours change, smells take on new meaning, sounds seem so distant….

         This day goes on as they have so many years before.

         Mari does for her children and parents.

         Teddy works his job, though somewhat absentmindedly now.

         Blue hat man approaches Ted: “you got a call. You need to take it,”

         “Whu, what do you mean?”

          “ what the fuck do I know, I’ a driver from Dworkin. I was asked to tell you you have a call.”

        “Thank you, “ Ted says, excited, handing this man a five to spend in the canteen.

        It is 1:50 pm, July 26 1962.



            Authors Note: As this gets closer to the heart I can only say this: I am thankful for the opportunity to express things once again.

                   Sorry this entry is so short.

            Mark William Darus: 07262012

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Forty some hours: Vaginal expanding: Countdown.

                        Forty some hours before: Countdown.


                    She so wished to have this one thing in her life.


          Impatiently sitting, smoking cigarettes exhaling large plumes casting white clouds hovering before her. Long dark hair waterfall-like tumbling over slender shoulders, strong determination displayed on facial expression holding high cheekbones.

        Drinking her black coffee, staring blankly into familiar space of her kitchen, eyes meeting that of her moms.

       “Damn it, mom! When?”

        Taking a lazy swig of vodka, her mother firmly says: “When it’s time, Mari.”

        This July was very hot, indeed, much hotter than most.

         Picture a time before Air Conditioning made all things as equal as gas heat in a Northern winter. Think of this simple fact of life: In the winter, you can always add more clothing, more barriers to protect from the cold. In high summer, in Northern climbs known then, you could only take off so much without shedding flesh. During this time, AC was not so expended in average life in the USA: new technology that only went toward the rich.

       9AM in the morning, Mari’s older children rushed the kitchen, hair flowing madly about, eyes wide and happy. “Is it time, mom?” they asked in the sweetest sound of a duet.

       “No! Nothing yet. What do you want for breakfast?” Mari asked, resigned to a simple belief that ran her life.

           Holly and Heidi spoke in unison, excited: “Eggs and bacon, Mom!” The younger asked for French toast as an afterthought, her older sister giving her a shove with left elbow. “well, pancakes would be good, “ she said, correctly her stance at her sisters nudge.

      Laughing, her mom having had several three-shot glass of vodka, asked: “can I help?” Grey, poorly died hair over scrawny bones turning inebriated glance toward the Frigidaire.

       Standing, Mari, shifting body with the weakest of equilibrium to correct imbalance continuing each day with much annoyance, “I’ll give you the eggs to scramble, mom.” Aiming bulging, pulsating, frame to the right as it involuntarily goes toward the left, she meets the fridge.

     Daughters in the pantry, scuffling about, clanking plates and silverware. Smiles on the faces of daughters ages 3 and 8. Dog barking in background from a small yard where grass would never grow.

      Outside: Sunny warm morning threatening toward the hot. Thick air smashing down, long before there was a thing called the ‘pollution standard index’ or the EPA. Graphite married with industrial waste would fall in the tiniest of particles. So much so like nuclear fall out fell on Prypiat without the immediate urgency to leave. Being ignorant at this time, theirs was no disgrace as they simply did not know. No one did to be truthful.

        Handing her bombed mom a whisk, nine eggs and stainless mixing bowl, “have at it,”Mari spoke, sounding less aggravated than before.

       Taking a deep inhale, pulling a pound of sliced smoked bacon from the fridge, she aimed herself toward the cutting board in the pantry. Sharpest of kicks nailing her, left jabs, faltering, countering to her right.

      “Whoa, mom! I got you!” her eldest daughter corrects her with steadfast arm.
“Thanks, Holly, “ she said, more like a tone of afterthought at her own lack of control than of one in sincerest thanks.
Hastily grabbing another mixing bowl with her left hand, sending right hand to the upper shelf to take the Bisquick mix and slamming it down on white-pearled counter top.

Water, some milk, an egg, stir with fork for ….
Dutifully doing this, forgetting and not caring how many strokes she had either gone too far or not enough. Bowl in hand, angry, defiant face, she pushes toward the stove.

Pulling ironware from the bottom broiler area, it being heavy and her mentally telling its heavy weight: Fuck You! Damn you! I can still make breakfast.

“Would someone get me a slab of butter from the fridge, please?” Taking control of her ever-changing faculties, Mari’s voice, always holding an even tone and cadence with each word spoken.

“Okay, Mom! I will!” Holly’s voice and eyes matching tonal excitement did as asked. Her long hair bouncing about wildly with her determined movement pushed her.

“Thanks, Holly.”

Butter melting slowly on 14 inch iron skillet to the forward right burner and thickly sliced bacon meet.


Glorious smell, when smoked pork entreats a morning.

Sighing, Mari heads toward the pantry.

Holly stands quickly, seeing, sighting, knowing.

“ I’m okay, Holly,” her back to Holly, knowing her eldest most well, smiling with pride. Pulling a bigger mixing bowl from the shelf to her left.

“Here you go, mom!” an 8 year old Holly hands her mother a roll of paper towels.

“Thank you, “


Body shifting, correcting, maintaining. Frustration, aggravation and an utter look of: Fuck It shines on Mari’s face.
Pulling several hunks of paper towels and placing them in the mixing bowl, she looks at the popping, sizzling bacon.

Mari, doing as she has for so many a summer morn since she got married, wonders, what is her steadfast husband, Theodore, doing right now.

Bad, heavily laden air. Metal dust, contaminated steam and the worst man could create for production and living. Filling nostrils with the worst and deadliest before medical science and the EPA took over, decades far too late for most.

Teddy, as he was called by his men in the mill with profound respect, did as he told them.
Teddy bowled with some of them and would buy them rounds yet seldom drank with them.

“Ted! She there yet?” his friend, Frank Gartner asked him, passing through thick steel dust, beaming fondly toward Ted.
“Haven’t gotten a call yet. Getting long though.” Ted looked concerned. Looking a sheets of paper from the mornings run, not happy.

“What, Ted?” Frank inquired, smirk on face knowing where his friend was at this time in his life.

“Falling behind on production, Frank. I shou-”

“Ted!” he said, cutting him off. “We’re going to put you on Fire-Watch for a bit. Just cover the night shift and make sure nothing, no one, gets fried to a cinder. Company orders, nothing personal.”

“Yes, sir, “ Ted said, a sense of relief flowing through him. Mind not being on his game, concern toward the greatest love of his life, wanting nothing but to be with her, yet feeling he would fail her and his daughters by not working. Mixed directions, coming to a busy crossroad where green lights shined on all sides. Confusion.
Being one of the Company, a Marine, following orders. He went to Fire=Watch.

Finishing his shift, back-slapping his crew, his men, them wishing him luck as time reached critical mass. He left the mill, his other home, and drove to her.

Being without the amazing Fast food places of the here and now, mind wondering what he could do, he decided to cook tonight's meal.

Crossing over the Clark Avenue Bridge, the proud iron stance it held for over a mile in length going over the Cuyahoga and both J&L and Republic Steel plants. His Oldsmobile humming in 8 cylinder bliss with a four barreled carburetor saying “floor me to the firewall”, holding a steady 45 MPH. Crossing West Fourteenth street, single word, food thought, nails him: Meatloaf!

Heading to the West 14 Drugstore to get his Blood pressure meds, turning left at the first major intersection after crossing the bridge, he powered the Olds. After pulling into a parking lot that decades would become a Lawsons dairy, <anyone remember the commercials: Roll on, Big O! Nonstop Run for that nonstop Lawsons run! > Big O, being Orange Juice. Do you remember?

He parks. Steps from the car and walks to a drugstore so far gone from what we know today. Opening door, smell of mildew and various medications, sweets of candy, seeing huge blue, orange and green liquids shrouded in glass. Walking to the Pharmacist he’d known for ages, being greeted by him as Ted wasn’t a quarter way up the main isle.

“I got your medication, Teddy. Always glad to see you!”
“Thank you!”
“How’s the little woman?” truly excited voice states over high counter as the Pharmacists face cascades toward Teddy.
“Not yet,” Ted says in a voice somewhat unsteady. “not like the others.”
 “She’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about a thing. God watches and protects.”
“You got any roses today?”
“For you and your good wife? Just a minute,” the Pharmacist disappears.
Looking idly over the three isles of various items ranging from Carters Little Liver Pills to Hershey Bars, unacceptable to mention female specific items (Period pads and such) to Coke and Pepsi beverages, Ted stands there, thinking of his loving wife and what he helped create in her.
Pharmacist, seeing his fondest of his patrons looking away, calls him, snapping Teds body in a 180 turn.
“My gift to your wife! And here’s your medication.”
Stunned, Ted looks and sees his friend not only holding him his bag but also handing him a bouquet of roses.
Looking, astonishment grasping face, “thank you! She will love these!”
"No charge on the Roses, Teddy."
Paying, turning , walking happily, walking to his car parked across the street.

` Teddy heads home at 3:30 pm on July twenty-fifth, 1962.

Authors Note: This is the first part of a serious time frame entry to the BLOG I started on March three of 2012. It has a sound, not to mention profound sense of timing as the inspiration of its sender gave me a specific set of circumstances to follow to do it justice.
I so hope I can do this well.

God willing and strength granted me: I will, SO HELP ME, GOD!

  Massive thanks to Dave Torres and his words, thoughts given, not to forget the Sender, for placing me these words that I could not vision and describe without divine inspiration.

                Mark William Darus. Three Thirteen AM, July 25, 2012.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

Colorado Theatre Killings: Let's goto the movies.

                          Let’s go the movies: Colorado, USA.

            First showing of Newest Batman incarnation ends in death.

             Fire door alarm opened, never notifying anyone of its breach.

                                        Serious FLAW!

                   Sitting back, new movie spinning from reels.

            Cola being drank, Raisonettes, Goobers and SnowCaps munched.

               Heavy butter applied to low grade popcorn smells fill this theatre.

              As such things have done millions of times before across our shrinking planet.


                Let’s look at what we know:

              James Holmes, 24 years old, college graduate rising toward a PHD in Neuroscience. College Prof’s call him the ’top of the top’. He studied Psychology and was writing a paper on a theory of ‘What we Are?’ <<< I ‘ll get to possible meanings of that later.>>>

            He started buying firearms perhaps two to three months before this. These purchases were passed by United States checks, therefore approved.

            He did everything legally in his endeavor, going about the proper steps. Taking time with patience and knowledge of how things work.

          Knowing his end and getting caught, setting booby traps in his apartment on huge scale. Dressing in Joker garb, car parked near an exit, ticket in hand. He enters this Colorado cinema.


         Fully armed, tossing smoke grenades to an audience soon to descend to real chaos, fully armored.

         Smoke blanketing, images of the movie on cloudy display obscured. Opening fire.

        Crowds first stiffen, shocked, inhaling deeply whiffs of butter and smoke.

           Through screams matching the fire of his semi-automatic weapon rise above. Second thing happening, the shocked drop to the floor for cover. Hearts running amok, blood pressure nailing levels of personal unknown capabilities.

        Stage three, Run for your life! Fight of flight in the greatest of experience.

          The mass of viewers head down the four isles seeking EXIT. Smashing against, colliding with, trampling over anyone between them and their salvation.

                         Perfect line of fire.

             Aiming down a single isle, semiautomatic loaded, humans clamoring for safety.

          Leveling, releasing a fifty round burst.

           Bone, skin, shoulders and life itself colliding with hunks of iron, smashing, last air passing through lungs.

                 Panic in the most electric of moments.

            Firing weapon. Killing and maiming. Killing and Maiming.

              To quietly leave and wait for the Police to grab him.

            And to the tell the officers that he booby trapped his apartment.



                So many questions and the sincerest of answerer's will never be granted.

            He wasn’t bullied by any account. Had one speeding ticket and a stellar educational background.

           Yet he somewhere down the road, acquired weapons, ammo and body-shield protection. The United States FBI labeled him as brilliant. I would argue this. If he were truly brilliant wouldn’t he have had a perfect exit strategy? He acquired his weapons legally.

             The sincerest of insane don’t willing give themselves up. They also don’t Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid romp out to a Bolivian type army to get gunned down. The truly insane simple eat one of their last bullets.

           By contrast, look at Columbine and other such events. These killers were made from years of being bullied. Not justifying this by any means, but such events did have some motive attached to them.

          The Theatre in Colorado had no such things.

             What made this 24 yr old male do what he did?

          Speculation will abound on all networks as they clamor for deeper insight, producers aiming for huge ratings, scooping others, death for profit.

           Welcome to the United States! We will turn any and all tragedy into a profit making venture. BECAUSE WE CAN!

              James Holmes event eclipses me in the purest of life.

             Lives were taken hugely. Birthdays shattered and scarred.

              Yet, why did this happen?
               I may eat my words on this: Did he do this to be the number one spree killer in the United States?

              So much unlike predator serial killers like Bundy, Rameriez and Chikatilo, he did this as a singular showing in huge proportions.

              My question is this: Will the United States find some absurd way of throwing this to  some other country as as act of  terrorsism?

                      I remember 911. the madness that took hold in my land. I remember the paranoia gripping many white persons to look twice at every corner store or 7-11. Casting grim shadows on those that had served them kindly for years. Posters crossing freeway overpasses exclaiming: Kill
All Arabs! 
                       To find out several years later that my pwn counrty, the United States welcomed the and funded the very group that supposedly caused 9-11 to happen?
                 So many finanical  ties between the SR Bush Admin and the Taliban and other areas of the same countries we waged war on.

                 Again, I sadly say this: Who, as a people, really give a fecal matter about who gets killed so long as it does not affect us in our day to day lives. Blindly believing free flowing media, hunkering down like frightened gerbils we hide.

                 Walk your road, I will walk mine. I pass no judgement for your thoughts. I do not care how you view or read mine. You have an opinion and will always respect this.

                 Like some bleach blond anorexic bitch in a Miss USA pagent: I WANT WORLD PEACE.

 Mark William Darus 07212012

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Tommy: Game of Hangman Part III

                          Tommy: Game of Hangman: part III


                                     Continued from Part II.


          “Just open that door, “ she said, going for the 1-0-0 tip Tommy held to her. ‘Have a nice stay.”

           Reaching for doorknob, feeling life course his veins in ways unknown to him, wasted, yet feeling more alive than ever.

           Taking hold, hearing Kiss Alive 2’s Detroit Rock City echoing furiously.

                  He opens another door…


            Stepping into near darkness as he faces a jet black wall. Lost in darkness as the door slams solidly behind him. Standing there, pupils attempting to adjust, Kiss blasting louder, feeling Genes bass riffs pound against his chest and head.

          His nose catches the strong scent of Channel #5 as a firm, slender fingered hand takes his right arm and pulls violently, guiding him.

       Whoa, what the fuck?

         Flashing brilliant light blasts directly at him, causing him to falter backward as his eyes feel on the verge of blowing their sockets. Another hand grabs his left arm to steady him.

        Eyes gaining focus, he was walked toward a bar like he had never seen before.

        Thirty foot long, deep mahogany colours bordered in five foot sections with blood red femur, tibia, fibula and humerus bones to accent it. Gas lit bluish flames ascending from shiny bronze tubes with skeletal hands holding the flame pots which were grounded by pelvic bone bases. Behind the bar were shelves ten feet in length, three layers high bordering the carnival mirror in the center on both sides with no liquor repeated with every style and brand known to mankind. Substances illegal in many countries, some in this country, and deadliest of moonshine from Kentucky, West Virginia and Tennessee. Crowning the massive array of alcohol was the fourth shelf. It spot lighted over 1000 beers from across the world.

         Above all that was their mission statement: What ever you ask for, you will receive. What ever your desire, we will fulfill. What you see is what you get, so be careful what you ask for. We wish to please you and your evilest of black thoughts. WELCOME TO HELL!

      “What please you, sir?” a gaunt pale man with deeply recessed eye sockets inquired with both confidence and raspy tone. Dressed in ill-fitting attire: fabric haphazardly tossed over him like thrift store clothing over a scarecrow.

        Got any coke?

       “Of course, sir. We always have that!” Leaning back from Tommy, opening a door below the bar, lift with the scrawniest of hands, producing a bowl brimming with white powder. Thinnest of lips parting, decaying teeth moving: “Suit yourself, sir. Here, there are no limits!”

       Eyes like that of a vagina spreading beyond reach to give birth, Tommy reaches into his pocket to tip the ThinMan.

         “Not at all, sir! Cannot accept with humblest of gratitude’s. Offense not intended, kind sir. We do things differently here and appreciate your patronage!” Ambling off stage left, taking two bottles and a syringe in hand, he treats a regular in the highest of professional manner.

          Shit. Damn. Scar-facing it, he buries his head and inhales.

         BOOM! BANG! Thudding of heart and exploding in thought, senses scream toward pinpoint clarity. Lifting head, seeing face in the carnival glass from the back bar, all is clear.

        Tommy takes a walk from the sickest of majestic styling’s for a bar, toward Hells dance floor. Heavy Techno sounds of Orbital copulating with lasers, floods and churning colours of many shades clouded by dry ice plumes as shapes of semi and fully nude forms passionately move about.

        At closer scrutiny, he sees that many are bleeding, under lit floor turning reds to blacks as pools grow denser every second.

       YOU! Tommy yells at a tanned average looking brunette holding a straight razor with chubby left hand. I WANT YOU! Face tightening, veins standing thick in his neck. Ridged stance striking cocky pose, head cocked to the right.

        “Take me then, “ gasping, hurling her body at Tommy. Flabby breasts heaving down, dark aureoles aiming toward bloodied dance floor. Barely able to see, yet smelling his Freshman status here, she locks in on him.

        He, unchanging in movement, greets her. Grabbing her right breast strongly, his right arm pulls her to him: You gonna make me feel? You gonna make me go elsewhere? You gonna make me?

       Smiling inches from his face, she plants her lips to his as her free hand grabs the back of his head. Smashing face to face as she digs heal of hand pulling hair on his head, drawing him violently inward. Teeth connect with teeth as they chew on one another, saliva faintly mixing with the taste of iron.

        Moving his fingers to her nipple, he fiercely begins to yank as clamps tighter.

        Moaning greatly, her eyes open to meet his, grabbing his shirt, tearing it from him in one deft movement. Expectations high, free hand goes toward the fly of Levi’s.

       Feeling unwanted hand grabbing at him, thrusting in reverse, his right open hand smacks her fully to left side of her head. Tommy’s head turns to his right, eyes never leaving hers. DID I ASK YOU TO DO THAT?

       Redness flaring on impacted area, causing obscure gradients of light as Hells arena radiates Slowly coursing back, she begins to smile at him. Nipples filling to complete erect splendor, she says with a voice of deep throaty desire: “Oh! You so belong here. Welcome home, Tommy!” She slowly reaches down to hips and slowly removes spandex pants.

      Two black clad men push past Tommy in hurried fashion. Watching, Tommy’s head turn to his left. The men scoop a broken woman face down on the floor not far from him.

       Gaunt bartender hands him an absinthe, fire burning atop. He disappears as quickly as arrived.

       Blowing at flame, killing it, tossing head back, he swallows fully.

        Mixing with cruising coke in body, nailing him firmly. Equilibrium. Head cleared momentarily. Tracking muscled men holding trashed female walking off, he begins to walk, telling the brunette to hold fast.

       I’ll be back for you, she hears as her heart pounds soundly, knowing he’d return to her. He’ll return, he’ll return different for sure…

        From about twenty paces behind, following, he trails the men dragging limp female in tow.

       “Slam me, bro! Fuckin’ slam me, man!” some wasted dude sporting a Dokken jersey spat at him.

        One blow given. Tommy felt this assholes nose crunch behind left fist guided surely. Dokken dude drops as cartilage nails brain. Soon dead, eyes rolling up in drugged ecstasy, life leaving, “m-m-man, that wwwwwuuuuz, grea…….”

     Steadily forward, giving no glance behind, head held high, feet steady, moving.

      Men in black push through a wide doorway, sans knob, merely an invisible panel on endless black wall.

       Reaching it, Tommy pushes. Opening freely he is met by a bent over male with large tumor covering his back and neck. “Sir, do you wish to go here?”

      Yes, he grunts as this shattered man.

      “Very Well SIR! Enjoy…”

       This voice echoes down cinder narrow block hallway with dripping iron pipes, some spraying white shots of hissing steam.


       The two men stop, dropping body to the floor creating a flat splat sound on the wet brick floor. Man to the left of the body opens iron and steps away swiftly just before flames rush out to quickly recede.

        Lifting lifeless female body, both push her toward the open hearth than backward several times. ‘Time to feed the boiler.”

       “One, two….THREE.” They toss her into waiting fire.

         Closer iron door, man to the right sees Tommy standing, staring, amazed.

      “Hope this pleased you, sir.”

       They walk past him, grinning, twin gazes of devils own.

       Tommy blankly approaches iron door and opens hit.

        Hearing hisses as body fluid evaporates, smell of burning hair with fat cooking. Burning.

       Steam. Give me steam.

       Dazed eyes, excited, his footfalls splash down the center of the hallway, quietly echoing softly against sporadic blasts of steam escaping.

       Reaching clearly marked doorway leading him back, passing though, back to the dance floor.

       She is waiting for him, totally naked, dark pubic hair above shapely legs trembling with desire. Eager, hungry eyes, goose pimples covering hairless arms. Wanting him.

       I’m back. You don’t look surprised at all.

      “Fuck me! Rape me!”

        I shall, bitch.

       “Impregnate me!” speaking more quickly with each syllable.

       No Rubbers then. Yes! Are you bleeding down there?

       “Yes. Oh, Yes!”

         He releases a low growling sound.

       Seeing crimson stripes down her inner thighs, he throws her down to the floor.

          Loving this, smile rising high in her face as she hits hard.

        Taking his pants and underwear off, he kiss her breasts and moves slowly toward her crotch.

      He begins to such on her vagina, sweat crossing brow. She watches the colours of Hell paint pretty pictures across him.

        “I ask but one thing, Master.”

        Left his bloody face from her snatch: And what’s that?

       “ Please. Oh please,” reaching orgasm. “Please don’t take me back there.”

       I won’t. Just do as I say.




                                  End of part III

                    Mark William Darus 07192012

          Authors Note: Fuck! At no point did I think this would go on as long as it has.

           For Christs sake, this is based on an email sent that seemed short to me in length. In my sincere attempts to do what was asked of me this is going way further than I expected. This is labor, born not of love, but trying to write it correctly.

          I wanted to finish this tonight.

         No chance in hell. On to part IV.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Three words given to me. Make me a story. Fiction. You rate this entry.


                     Three words asked of me to write about.



                 This was a result of someone pushing me where my mind is concerned. I told her give me just three words and I will close my eyes and give you an area, smell and sounds and give you a nicer dream.

             Laying with her naked in bed, she sitting up and smoking a cig, she told me three words: Rope, spaghetti and turtle.

             I gave her a tiny story she seemed happy with. This grew from that:


              Annie awoke late afternoon on a stiffling, humid Saturday. Head throbbing from far too many whiskey sours and singing Shanya Twains tunes in her husbands bar with friends that lay wasted across her tan livingroom floor and dining room.

           Smelling bacon in the distance like a mirage to the parched, instinct guide her to the kitchen.

          Has snoring ever seemed so loud, she thought, placing slender palms to sides of her head.

          What in the name of god did i drink last night, greying longish brown locks falling over shoulders,

            Seeing his woman before him, never failing to get aroused by her pressence in front of him regardless of the decade plus they'd shared. Seeing her screwed up eyes and twisted face, asking her: " you got something against bacon?"

           Please, lower voice.... stupid, yes, but did you m-make coffee?

           Sitting on stool, puke not far from her throat, she eyes nearest wastebasket and its proximity

            Husband at counter, cutting veggies to make omlets, tosses carelesly from blades edge a shard of celery. It hits to floor softly.

              Peering out from under molding counters home, Tamara, seeing food for her children, weighs the odds. Sharp claws useless against tiles floors, both tail and neck extending, waiting to make her move.

         Man embraces woman cradling head.

         Scurrying out to grasp the shard of celery, reaching and biting hard for purchase, tiny eyes darting in all angles, heading back to home.

         Children fed as the only pond around here is in the basement of these humans.

        Hours later, hangover lesser and lesser pounding at temples, Annie hangs laundry on this hot Iowa day over flimsy clotheslines . Wearing sunglasses, more to elevate direct sunlight but more to kill last nights booze grip on her.

         Her husband, wearing tight sweat covered blue tank top sees her from a distance. Gazing fondly at Annies erect nipples, knowing them well, endlessly wishing to kiss them more and more, love and emotions undying, each day, week, month or year. He walks towards her with both fire in his eye as his groin engorged.

       Approaching her, knowing what he wants, she shuts him down flatly: Don’t even think about it, bucko! We got your family coming over here for dinner in no time and I have to cook. Tossing him a glance of possible later events if he helps her, she cocks her average body in ways inviting.

      Later, family arrives and children begin to play about.

       Laughter of children and adults intertwine harmoniously over subjects obscured by age and experience. Embraces whole heartedly felt, smiles shared, eyes meeting.

         Annie says loudly, proudly : I did say bring a dish. All I made was Spag and Meatballs. Hubby’s got the beer and booze ready. There are two changing tents CLEARLY marked Male and Female for changing for the pool.

       Chuckling, Annie states, At least wait til the kids sleep in tents before you people go nude in the pool. Be kind before you need to rewind…

       Her husband sister yells, not even having so much as a beer yet: “Where’s the music?!?!?!?!.

          Knowing his sisters whiny voice, he ’s hit’s the PLAY button: Milliseconds later, V V Brown’s Shark in the Water blares from JBL’s enveloping the massive deck, huge Jacuzzi and pool.

        “Can I do anything? “ Gwen, Annies sister, asked her. Opening plate glass patio doors, smells of garlic, butter and onions holding her nose.

        Hugging her sister a second time. Emotions higher, warmth rising, feeling more homeward with each passing second. Annie said: Thanks. You can watch the kids in the yard. Watch them around the tire-swing. I told him I worry about the rope…

      Sister nods, Men are assholes.

     Sisters embrace again. Tender moments exchanged.

      Albeit slightly so before fierce instability takes hold.

       Afternoon brightness romping quickly to lesser shades as strong yellow sunlight, like western gunfighters so eagerly ride horses, heading east to darkness.


       White skies, yellow sharp below, diving toward the terminator. Reaching reds, orange going into water off a lake as light blues grow to sharper/ darker to Royal blues finally ending in a black star filled night.

       Splashings in the pool, fragrances of BBQ’d ribs, steak and chicken, adult laughter from bad jokes spread. T’Pua: Heart and Soul thumps from the JBL’s. Family dancing on the deck, on the grounds, nude in the pool and hot-tub.

       This families children all accounted for, playing both video and board games in the AC’d family room.

         Annie, seeing her Seiko hit 930 pm on this summer, staggered to close the gates to the grounds.

       Bears and wolves were known to these lands.

        ‘Watch this, “ Annies husband said, tossing left-overs from the higher reaches of the deck to the left of the pool. Tossing head back, turning toward his heart of hearts, seeing his beautiful woman in full, though slightly in inebriated view: I love you, Annie!

        Swaying hips, tilting head, slowly moving toward, wearing a filmy tight fitting shift, Annie smiling walks to her man.

       People dancing on the deck, lit by Tikki’s flittering light, moving.

      Annie grabs her husband by the his hips, yanking him to hers.

       Smiling, firmly kissing him on the lips, sucking him into her.

       As he does her. Loving her more and more with each and every tightened muscle she spends on him.

         A childs cry shrieks killing all silence, cutting peace of this night like a chainsaw to a living rabbit.

      Audible SNAP! Is heard followed by a THUD as Akron tire whitewall and tiny child hit hard, sundried Earth.

       Dark hollow, no longer sleeping not protecting hers, Tamara awakens abruptly.

       Crying? Is this crying? I know this!

        She glances towards hers, sleeping deeply, soundly unbothered.

          Safe. Mine are.

           Leaving safe lands known, Tamara walks.


        “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” broken child cries as night walkers, eaters cover the areas behind Annies house.

        Twin lights strolling cautiously across the dark landscape , the eyes of night flesh eaters cornering, closing, homing in.

        “Fuck IT! IT All TASTES LIKE CHICKEN!” a wasted guy named Felix says, tossing all the Spag and meatballs out away to the far right.

          Slowly, painfully, watching wolves and bear go to the side, she grabs at the tired that gave up a child.

         Child sobbing, broken bones, tangled in mesh twinning’s.

          Tamara’s sharp teeth clamp on unpleasing flavored nylon rope.

            Pulling toward her lair, eyes looking at fierce creatures that would take them both out. Holding purpose, staying the course.



         Much effort spent, close enough for humans to take from her.

           Annie reaches and take the child in her arms.

             Tamara cocks head, meets Annies eyes showing amazement.

           Drawing backward, ascending deck stairs, reaching her husbands desired embrace. Let’s leave the Snappers alone. Okay?

             Amazed, tears running down strong cheeks, : Anything you say, darling….

           The End: MWD07162012





                             Like a song mentioned in this tale: VV Brown’s Shark in the Water.


                       This is my first total writing with nothing but three words to create from and complete in over twenty years.

                This is total fiction on my part and am thankful for the challenge.

              Thank you, Gretchen!

              Mark William Darus 07162012

Tommy: Hangman, Part Two


                           Tommy: Game of Hangman. Part Two.


                  Leaving part one:

….Frustrated and failing with a Texas accent : Just give me a beer!

“What beer would you like to have, Imported, Russian or elsewhere?’


                Tagging him, suspiciously, he is brought down….


          “Sir, you must be more specific in your requests here. Pardon, sir, but you must.” Elegant, dark haired, handsome man of height spoke eloquently on.

           I asked for absinthe, didn’t I? Did I fucker stutter? More nervous with each syllable, voice growing louder, the birth of sweat touching face. Just give me a Goddamned absinthe!

           Bartenders smile growing broader, knowing far too well the road Tommy was going to travel. “Absolutely, sir! Your wish is my command!”

         Tuxedoed man slowly turns 180 degrees, tanned left hand taps on mahogany paneling in Morse code: D-D-D. d-d-d, D-D-D! Message of SOS releases magnetic hold and small door opens slowly, creaking over hinged release. Right hand grasping bottle of Tommy’s desire, a scantily clad redhead with sagging breasts and sunken nipples asks where the Ale Smith ales are. Motioning to his left toward neon vibrantly in greenish hues: ALE SMITH ALES.

           Gracefully pirouetting toward Tommy, free hand snagging an overly tall shot glass, he begins to pour bluish liquid into it, deftly mixing other watery substance into it . Rising tall as the drink reaches safe crest, starring at Tommy, he lights it.

         WHOOSH! Igniting proudly, flame changing colours as the arenas ever-changing lights touch it briefly.

          “Here you go, Sir!. Absinthe, as you asked for. Enjoy!”

          Hand taking flaming drink from evil-eyed Bond from Hell, eyes meeting firmly. Sincerest of handshakes thru glass from the giver of Guyana Grape punch to the soon poisoned.

         Off to other concerns, Mr Tux leaves Tommy, exit stage left in quick fashion.

        Do we do this, or don’t we? The drinks flame, as his body shadows it from back lit illumination, goes from blue to green to orange.

          FOoooooooooooF! Flame blown out, three quarters of liquid left in tall, slender glass, lazily smoky vapor dissipating.

         Let’s go to Hell!

         Closed eyes, standing tall, shoulders broad, catches one last glimpse of himself in the massive mirror layered in its forefront with every type of alcoholic beverage known to mankind. He places glass to pink lips, mouth opening slowly to greet flavours not known. Body tightening, legs tensing firmly, back nearly arching in expectation.

        Bottoms up! Slamming the glass down in exclamation. Holding in mouth closely.

        Letting go and swallowing.

        Tommy’s eyes open sharply as fluid takes over tongue. Eyes, pupils rapidly cart wheeling madly about, taking in a millisecond at a time as the drink courses down his lessening throat, final eye-to-eye with himself.

        Let’s go to Hell.

       Not so bad. Losing sense of self, failing at control, he quips as he does a 90 degree from the bar. Eyes taking in shades of keener darkness senses like that of a feline predator, seeking out with only instinctive hunger guiding him.

       Bumping into a 80’s dressed male with spiky hair, Tommy embraces him and plants a kiss. Responding in kind, Flock of Seagulls dude reacts in kind, taking tongue in and giving same. Holding each other firmly, 80’s guy asks Tommy to pull back from him and gut-punch him.

      Tommy, going with freeing mind and streaming illegal booze, grants him his wish.

       Sort of, that is.

        Staggering man of small embrace backs away, eyes locking to Tommy’s. He drops to his knees.

        Dropping back, Tommy’s mind calculating best situation possible. He steps forward moments later and draws his right leg behind him.

        90 decibel riffs, killer bass tones with spiraling light show arrays mating with dank smell of growing urgent, sexual sweat, pit odor and those direly in need of a douche.

           Blood shoots abundantly as speeding foot meets face as the 80’s guy nose explodes as cartilage barely misses brain with impact. “th-tha-thanx, man. G-god! That wu-w-was fucKING AWESOME!”

        Tommy, no reaction, no emotion, without raise in either heart rate or blood pressure, tests his luck on the dance floor.

      Flashing lights in a myriad of colours and intensities, not holding grayish cheaply made plastic handrails, descending 40 steps to fiercely under-lit colored floor with writhing humanity over it, casting eerie images to the ceiling above.

          Reaching bottom, but only on this floor, he with head held high meets wasted males and females head-on. He grabs a brunette by the back of the head and pulls her into him. Left hand gripping on right, though anorectic tit. Forehead to hers, drugged exaggerated eyes and minds melded, searching, bruising her as she takes hold of soft groin hiding behind cotton fabric.

       Shayla pulls up on Tommy’s balls like one might a Bic from a table wanting to light a smoke.

      Eyes meeting in the truest of mutual agonies only never to be known by those without drugs. Knowledge crossing unspoken wavelengths between them. She lifts his shirt up with her right hand, exposing flat and bare chest.

      Never leaving her eyes. Her eyes growing in intensity.

       Music pounding, imaging’s flooding colored.

      Blood Red acrylic nails of her left hand slash his chest deeply, furrowing it, carrying flesh under them.

           I love you! Gasping in ecstasy, Tommy looks at her. Body feeling looser than it has felt in ages. He reaches for Shayla.

      Shayla drops to her knees quickly, avoiding his arms extended toward her. No embrace, no, don’t want that at all, fucker!

      Looking down, eyes glazed, mind wanting more absinthe…

      Shayla pulls Tommy toward her.

      She licks his stomach where his blood rolled down to. Taking it, sucking it in, tasting iron, moving toward his chest, elation, resurgence, hotter, more alive.

      Cleaning him, rising to meet face to face, eye to eye. “Beat me, hurt me, lick my blood! Take me as I did you!.” Shayla’s look of ferocity shrouded with bloodstained white hair back lit morphing humanity behind her.

          Tommy, obliging, leans toward her, pearly whites abase in colour, lowering himself toward her chest, wanting to take a bite from her chest, rebounds suddenly and gives her a right hand to the jaw, breaking it, giving her a moment of pure pleasure followed by months of pain.

       Threading his way through undulating throngs of semi nude flesh in various stages of connections, Tommy seeks greater shades of pain through tainted pale hues.

       Strong right hand connecting with an S&M garbed brunette, asking her, panting loudly.

           What else is here?

       The brunette, balancing a 24 inch circular tray of drinks, never losing balance. “Let me deliver these, Sir and I will step you further. One moment, please.” Passing him, passing no other words, knowing this man will grant bigger tip-age if she drags and gives dire warnings to what lay beyond this area.

       Granted, Shayla’s warnings should be heeded, but men are stupid. She knows this and the greater she spins, placing her now nude body against them in some fucked sign of purity, will make them tip her further. She tells them what is beyond and its horrors.

       They never listen.

        Shayla reaches for him as she takes him to the doorway that only goes down.

          Dying refrains of Creed’s Higher and purple to blue colours reaching this place he asked for, diving deeper, seeking what others feared to embrace.

         Heart beating faster, second absinthe downed in a blink, confident, going down swinging.

         “Just open that door, “ she said, going for the 1-0-0 tip Tommy held to her. ‘Have a nice stay.”

        Reaching for doorknob, feeling life course his veins in ways unknown to him, wasted, yet feeling more alive than ever.

          Taking hold, hearing Kiss Alive’s Detroit Rock City echoing…

             He opens another door…






                             Authors Note: End of Part II.

              Personal note: Damn, even I did not know when I started this where it would go to this area. Knowing where this is going, grant me time to finish this.

          Christ this is so falling to areas that take much in ability and strength on my part.

           Like the Creed song: Can you take me higher?

                 Mark William Darus 07162012.