Merry Christmas

author, christmas, holidays, Life, sad, shortstory, Uncategorized, writers, writing

In the spirit of Christmas, I decided I needed to write something that encompasses the holiday spirit! Nobody loves Christmas as much as Spring does in this new piece. Enjoy.

(Warning, there is some foul language.)

-Turner

The tree was glistening, the lights flashing in an organized rhythm. Blue. Green. Red. Blue. Green. Red. The stockings were hung on the fireplace mantel, arranged by age and size. Mom. Dad. Hunter. And me, Spring. The milk and cookies were placed on the traditional Christmas plate my grandmother had given us when we were just babies. It looked like a Christmas magazine spread.
It was perfect, a flawless family holiday. Oh how I’d been wanting one for so many years. Ever since Hunter moved away for college and Mom and Dad started fighting, it hadn’t been like this. Each year I would call, stop by, hope that the decorations would be hung, that my mom would ask me to come over and bake her special Christmas cookies. Each year that I was denied, that my Mom said she was too busy, that there was no point and that I should have fun with my friends, a part of me would crack.
My brother was too busy with his college buddies and drinking to even answer my calls, my family had fallen apart. My father was always in his study, a strong glass of whiskey beside him, while he chatted with other women online. They thought I didn’t know about all their indiscretions, but I did.
But this year was going to be different. I decided I’d hang the decorations myself. Exactly how mom used to do. I baked the cookies in my mother’s oven, making sure they were just right. I poured just the right amount of milk for Santa. The presents were carefully placed under the twinkling lights. Everything was perfect.
I took in my masterpiece once more before a moan behind me broke my concentration.
“Mm, ahh!” My mother calls from behind her duct tape. Her blue eyes frantically searching mine. Her blonde hair pressed against her cheek from the sweat beading down her temples. I kneel in front of her and push the hair behind her ear. Her breaths are coming in pants as she tries to communicate with me. I shake my head at her, it’s not time yet. It isn’t midnight, it isn’t Christmas yet.
Movement to the left of Mother. My father, wiggling his hands, attempting to free the zip ties I’d placed on them. I know it must hurt, I don’t want to hurt them. I just want to be a family again. This is the only way. Mother looks into father’s eyes, tears falling from both. I think this is the first real emotion they’ve shown one another in years.
Lastly, my brother, Hunter. The brother I haven’t spoken to in almost six months. A brother who posts photos of himself with different girls every night, drinks and drugs in his system. Ignoring what was happening to our family. Ignoring his sister as she spiraled into loneliness. The duct tape I placed on him is barely allowing him to breathe. Bright green ecstasy pills I shoved into his mouth, telling him to not swallow. He needs to learn constraint. To abstain from the evilness of drugs.
I look up at the ticking clock, only eight more minutes til Christmas. A giddiness builds inside me. I look back to my family, who are all panting, sweating and eyeing me like I’m crazy. Frankly, I’m the one sane one in this family. I grip the kitchen knife harder in my hand, wishing time would move by faster. I look out the window, the snowflakes falling in the lights reminding me of when I was a child and would stay up to watch the white blanket covering our small town.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I say, to no one really. Whimpers escape my mother. “Christmas is the most joyous season, wouldn’t you agree?”
My mother shuts her eyes tightly, her chin falling. I leap over to her, grabbing her chin and pulling her face to mine. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mother?” I ask politely. She nods frantically. Sobbing behind her gag.
I nod back, giving her my best smile. I walk into the kitchen and check on my punch, a family recipe. I take the large ladle and make sure all the pills I’d put in it earlier are dissolved. Almost there, perfect.
A crashing sounds sends me into the living room. Hunter has somehow escaped his duct taped hands, and is now pulling the tape off his mouth.
“You crazy bitch!” He spits at me. I take a deep breath and hold the knife up for protection as he comes towards me.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Jesus Christ, Spring!”
“I had to!” I sob, holding the knife out farther, halting his movements. Mom and Dad are now frantically trying to escape, eyes darting between their two children. “You don’t understand. Our family was falling apart!” I cry, a tear escaping my eye as well.
Hunter takes another step towards me and I slash the knife in front of him, he jumps back, his hands out in a soothing gesture. “Okay, just…let’s just put the knife down, Spring. Okay? We’ll put the knife down, let Mom and Dad out, and we can celebrate Christmas.” His head turns towards the clock. “Only four minutes left, right?”
I check, he’s right. Only four minutes. Maybe Hunter is right, maybe everyone is ready to celebrate Christmas. “O-okay.” I stutter.
Hunter lays his hand out, palm up in front of him. “Just, pass the knife over, okay?”
I grip it tightly once, before letting it go in his hand.
He takes a step back, towards Mom and Dad. “I’m just going to let them go, okay? Just so we can be together.”
Together. That is a nice word. Soon, we’ll be together forever.
“Oh, thank god.” My mothers voice rushes out, pulling Hunter to her and gripping his cheeks as she cries.
“Jesus.” My father mutters, pulling them both into his body. Protecting them, from me. Don’t they see, they don’t need to be scared of me. We’re a family. I take a step towards them, wanting to be a part of it all. They hesitate, but allow me into their fold.
After a moment of bonding, they all let go. I can tell they are shaking and unsure what to do.
I look at the clock one more time. One minute, perfect. It’s time for punch and Christmas.
“I’m going to get us some punch. Then we can sit by the fire and open presents, just like we used to, right Momma?” I say.
She nods. “Right.”
I quickly head into the kitchen, pouring ladle fulls of punch into the crystal goblets we’d always used. All the pills are dissolved, they won’t even taste it. Soon, every day will be like Christmas.
“Here.” I say, passing everybody their own glass. My mothers sloshes in her nervousness.
“Spring…I, maybe we should talk about what’s happening here?” My father asks.
Anger rushes into me. “NO! No. We’re going to celebrate Christmas like a family, like tradition!”
“Okay…okay, but after. After we need to…”
“Not now.” I snap. “It’s time. Let’s count down?”
Everyone nods.
“Ten. Nine. Eight.” Dad starts.
“We all sip on zero.”
“Seven. Six. Five.” Hunter.
“Four. Three. Two.” Mom.
“One. Zero.”
Everyone sips.
Merry Christmas.

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My short story titled “I lie”

Blog, sad, Uncategorized, writing

I curl myself into a ball on the bathroom floor, pulling my knees tightly to my chest. I don’t cry, or sniffle. The only sound is the small breaths I take, frequent and shallow. It seems no matter how hard I try, I can never take a deep breath. My body is constantly in a state of hyperactivity. I can never get enough oxygen.
The small carpet beneath the sink is purple and it scratches against my cheek with its course fibers. If I look forward I can see where my sister dropped a bottle of nail polish years ago, a brilliant shade of red is splashed over the cupboard door in an arc. The red reminds me of passion and how I don’t have any.
I shut my eyes. Why is it so hard to be happy? I try to be, and maybe sometimes I experience a glimpse of happiness, but it disappears like fog in the sunlight. I thought that if I could fake happiness long enough I might start to believe my own lie. But it seems this dark pit that grows in front of me has creeped around behind me. If I take one more step in either direction, I’m going to fall in.
Staring down into the endless black has become routine, expected. I imagine what it’s like to fall in. Will it hurt? Will it be over quickly? Before I can think too far into it a voice will call over my shoulder, asking me to come watch t.v. or come hang out. I step back from the edge and glance back once before rejoining the world.
Sometime it seems like my mind and my body are two separate beings floating separately in space, and both of them turn against my soul. They berate it like school yard bullies. You’re not strong enough for this, you should just give up, no one cares about you, you have no friends, you need to be scared of everything, they say. You begin to take those insecurities to heart and question every good thing that happens to you. Because nothing good can happy to you, you don’t deserve it.
You praise yourself for becoming content with your appearance, but little did you know, that was the easy part. The hard part is fighting yourself, the parts you can’t see, but can feel completely. The wounds cut deeper than anything else. They’re self-inflected. But they don’t feel that way. Because you’re not the kind of person that hurts themselves. Unfortunately, your mind doesn’t care. It doesn’t pick favourites.
You begin to walk that all too familiar dark path. I can’t take this anymore. I’m alone. No one will really miss me. I should just—
A knock on the door jars me out of my thoughts.                                                                                
“Are you okay in there?” my sister asks.
I cringe for a second, all my muscles tensing. I push up from the floor and work to sound relaxed. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
I lie to my sister. I’m not fine. I’ve never been fine. But she doesn’t need to know that.
-Collins

It’s going down, Jacob

Blog, characters, death, excerpt, fiction

It’s going down, Jacob.Newest installment. Enjoy.
It’s been too long since blood has coated my skin. Since I watched the light drain from the eyes of a victim.

I’ve been so engrossed in my Angel I’ve put my urges to the side, just soaking up as much of her as I can. Most of the time she knows I’m there, but I still lurk in the shadows. I just can’t help myself.

My mother has called a few times to discuss my abrupt exit from dinner two weeks ago, but I’ve ignored them. I know I’ll have to call her back eventually for appearance sake, but until then, I’m going to bask in the after glow of my kill.

The body is already rolled up and buried deep in the forests ground. My blade is sheathed in its home, resting against my hip. However the blood remains, I run the sticky remnants between my fingers as I make my way back to my car.

Just then my cellphone rings. I check the time, my fingers leaving a red smear on the glossy surface of my I Phone. I’ll have to disinfect the damn thing…again. The ringing stops by the time I’m finished my thought. It’s three am and Angel’s name is flashing across my screen.

“Angel.”

“Jacob…Jake…I need help.”

My heart stutters.

“Excuse me?”

I hear a whimper. “I’m…I’m out, and…someone is following me, Jacob.”

My fist grips my phone so hard I’m scared I’m going to shatter the glass.

“Where. Are. You?”

“Just down on West Haven…can you come? Please?” Her voice is a whisper. A whisper that shoots straight through me.

“Keep walking, head towards the closest store you can. I’ll be there soon.” With that, I hang up.

I pick up my pace until I’m sprinting through the dense underbrush, bursting out into the night when I reach my car and throw myself in. Not even buckling my seat belt, I peel the car out and head straight to my Angel. Whoever is following her is going to be the second victim to feel the fury of my blades tonight.

How I love blood. How I will relish in the feeling of this stalkers as it sprays my face.
-Turner

Twitter: @turnercollins_

Family Tidings

creative, fiction

Newest Jacob piece. Enjoy.
-Turner.
It’s time for family dinner. I haven’t attended in quite awhile and my mother was becoming bothersome. I’m here to appease her, to keep up appearances and to warrant another four months without coming.

Not that I don’t like my family, I do. As much as I am capable of. Besides Angel, my emotions have never been a large part of who I am. I’m merely indifferent. Although hate is a feeling I am much more accustomed with. But I digress.

I smooth my hair back one more time before knocking on the door. Father always insists I just walk in, but that doesn’t seem right. Especially with my lack of communication as of late.

“Ah, my sweet boy, you made it!” My mother croons. Her short gray hair tucked behind her ears, her large blue eyes with the crinkles in the corners regard me with what I assume is affection. Actually, that’s not true. I know it’s affection. My mother is the most boisterous, charming woman. According to Angel, at least. I take her word for it.

“Mother.” I respond. She gestures for me to come in, rubbing her smooth hands across my cheeks before giving the left one a light tap. I want to cringe at the contact, but I school a smile onto my features. Evelyn does this every time she sees me. So I remain ever the actor.

I walk into my family home, the one where Angel and I would have play dates. Where we would read books, and play hide and seek. It might seem strange, that I would have had such a typical childhood, only to turn into what I am today. But it’s true. I wasn’t always this way. I had normal experiences. Loving parents. And an annoying…

“There you are, you little shit.” My older brother, Keith, says, grabbing my shoulder and trying to put me in a headlock. I want to stab him in the thigh for it. I restrain myself. He finally lets me go when he realizes I’m not going to take the bait and wrestle him to the ground like I used to when I was younger. I’ve gained much more control with age.

I nod my head. I really have nothing to say to him, I feel like I should. I should probably look up to my pre-med older brother, with his beautiful girlfriend and lavish predictable future, but I just don’t. His eyes turn down at my dismissal.

I head towards the dining room where my mother has a full spread out with all my favorites. I can hear her bustling in the kitchen, always the perfectionist. It’s the one thing I have inherited from her. I walk past to the den where my father is sitting, watching Wheel of Fortune, calling out the correct answers each time. He hasn’t noticed my prescene yet, I take in the room that hasn’t changed in twenty years. Same faded yellow couches, same creaky rocking chair. Same bay window with a view of the house of horrors that was once Angel’s home. I feel my pressure rising the longer I stare at it. I itch for my blades, their smooth metal between my fingers. The spray of blood as I bring it down into my victims.

“Dad, guess who’s here.” Keith says coming to join us in the living room, garnering my fathers attention. He plops his ass into his usual spot on the couch, throwing his arm over the back. I take my spot on the rocking chair.

“Well, long time no see, Jake. Where have you been? Your mother has been beside herself with worry.”

“I’ve been busy.” I respond, turning my attention to the T.V.

“Busy, too busy for your family?”

With that, Keith turns to me. “Yeah, what gives? You know Yvonne really wants to meet you.” Yvonne being his blonde, bimbo girlfriend. Whom I’ve already found every piece of dirt on. Luckily, her family line is clean, she is just a few nuts short of a bolt.

“I have a lot of clients. I’m busy, working, making money.” Hopefully that appeases them.

Dad shakes his head. “Money ain’t everything, Jacob.”

I ignore his response. And my brothers glare.

After only one more puzzle, my mother announces that dinner is done. We all gather around, piling our plates with our favorite foods. This is one thing I do indulge in whilst here. The food. My mother is a great, fantastic cook.

It doesn’t take long for the questioning to start. “So…how is Reina?”

And there it is. One of the biggest reasons why I never come here anymore.

“She’s fine.”

“Are you ever going to bring her back? We miss her around here.” My father says.

My fork stabs into my pot roast, pulling away pieces, before I shove them into my mouth to avoid answering.

Keith nods, speaking around a mouth full of food. “Yeah, I miss the little squirt.”

“I don’t know.” I whisper. Hating how weak I sound, how weak she makes me feel.

This is bullshit.

“What was that, Jake?” Mother asks.

My fork is displaced as I slam it into the table.

“I said, I. Don’t. Know.”

And with that, I’m done. Because I have no answers when it comes to her and I can’t stand to be reminded of it.

Jacob’s got his Angel.

Short story, Uncategorized, writing

Newest piece in the Jacob series. Feels good to be back in his head! Enjoy.

-Turner

“You shouldn’t be here. I told you to leave and not come back.” She whispers, her body rigid. These may be the words she is using, but I can see the truth in her eyes. They’ve never lied to me before.
“I know.” Is all I say as I work my way past her into her home. I take in the surroundings, it’s a small place. Just one level with one bedroom and one bathroom. But she’s made it hers. Although I already knew this, seeing as I’ve been watching her in here for weeks, months.
“Jacob…I’m serious.” She says, opening the door wider and motioning for me to exit. I want to laugh at that. Like I’d leave before I’m ready. I’ve given her months. I can’t go any longer without at least a taste of our once friendship.
“I’ve missed you, Angel.” I say, running my finger down her arm. Loving the goosebumps that overtake her smooth, flawless skin.
Her face turns a bright shade of red with her anger. She turns around, slamming the door closed before brushing past me and into the kitchen where she reaches to the top of the fridge, grabbing a large bottle of vodka. Pulling the lid off and foregoing a glass she chugs back a fair portion. Hm. That’s new, Angel never was much of a drinker. We’re going to have to work on that. Must be the influence of those new friends of hers.
“No. I didn’t want one, thanks for asking though.” I tease her. She doesn’t take this too well, her eyes are now shooting fire at me. I’d take the burn from her any day. Any time.
“What the hell do you want from me?” She spits, slamming the bottle onto the counter in front of her, the clear liquid sloshing onto the clean surface.
Now this is an easy one. “You.” I say, taking measured steps towards her. She stands her ground, not backing down until I’m right in front of her, breathing in her floral scent.
Her eyes glimmer at the same time her fists clench. She’s at war with herself, not that I blame her. I haven’t sent out the best signals lately.
“I gave you a chance to have me.” She whispers, her gaze thrown to the other side of the room, avoiding my own.
“I know.” Because I do, but the monsters inside, the darkness, was too much then. I was worried it would consume her. That I would consume her. But I know better now, I know I can’t live without her light. It’s the only thing that’s kept me who I am, kept me human.
She scoffs. “Then why are you here, you threw it away, Jakey.” She uses my old nickname. It makes my heart beat faster, something that almost never happens to me.
I cup her cheek in my hand, running my thumb along the slight freckles there. Feeling her essences seeking me out. I pull her gaze back to me, she has to crane her head up to look at me. “I would never throw you away, Reina.”
Her body sags, falling into mine. Her forehead resting against the beat of my heart and her hands fisting the sides of my jacket. If it’s in defeat or exhaustion, I don’t know.But I don’t care. Because now that I’ve got her in my arms, I’m never letting go again.
I will kill anyone who tries.
My blades sing to me, speaking their promise.

The Paul Series pt. 2

short story, writing

Here’s what Paul sees after Jacob’s conversation with Angel…

 I missed the last quarter of the game. So that was great. My wife also burnt the meatloaf, so I spent dinner scrapping the blackest bits off and crunching on the less black bits. My son refused to talk about anything other than macro- something or rather or whatever the hell he’s learning in that fancy collage we spend twelve grand a year on.

I don’t know this Jacob kid, but I hate him. I watch him from around the corner, behind a giant shrub. He’s bugging that girl he’s sick for. They talk for a minute, and she stands inside, hidden behind the door the whole time. He’s itching to come inside, I can tell by the way he leans forward, shoulders hunching. He must say something the girl doesn’t like, because the door slams shut, leaving him frozen on the porch.

He just stands there for a good two minutes before he slowly turns and descends the steps. He stops at the sidewalk, glancing both ways, his hands balled in the pockets of his denim vest. His face is screwed into pain but shifts quickly into a smooth plain of nothingness. He starts quickly down the street, heading downtown.

Man this kid couldn’t tell rejection from an invitation to a dinner party. Either he’s stupid, or just a gluten for punishment. That girl looks way out of his league anyway, all blonde and beautiful.

I follow him discreetly for six blocks before he enters a coffee shop. Some fancy place where they serve you your drink in a ceramic mug instead of a Styrofoam cup and put root extracts from Mongolia or some shit in it.

How hard is it to sell straight black coffee?

I shake my head in disappointment and pull at the tie I’m wearing. It’s tight around my neck and choking me. My wife gave me this god-awful tie two years ago for Christmas and I have to pull it out of the closet every few months to make her happy.

The door rings a little bell when I push it open and one of the baristas smiles at me, a young girl with shiny eyes. It’s crowded in here, everywhere expresso drinking hippies with their laptops and barets sit in upholstered chairs. Jacob stands at the counter, ordering. I slip in line, three people behind him, and manage to catch the last bit of the conversation.

“I’m sorry sir, we just ran out of that brew twenty minutes ago,” the barrister says. He’s a young guy with glasses and zits who probably spends his weekends studying instead of getting laid.

Jacob’s hands curl into fits on the counter. “That’s the only brew I like. Go find some in the back and make me some.”

“Again, I’m sorry,” Glasses says. “Our shipment of that brew was delayed, so we don’t have any in store after we run out.” He laughs nervously. “Which we just did. Could I interest you in our featured brew?”

Jacob’s jaw clenches and he lashes out, knocking a container of straws off the counter. Glasses’ eyes go wide and he starts to look a little nervous. Jacob grabs his head and shakes it. Damn, that girl’s got him riled up.

“I’m sorry about that,” Jacob says, struggling to calm his tone. “Fine, I’ll just get a large of whatever that featured brew is.” He tosses a five dollar bill down on the counter. “Keep the change.”

Without another word, Glasses grabs the money and pours Jacob’s drink in record time. His hand shakes as he hands it over, liquid spilling over the edge of the mug. Jacob frowns, but takes the drink and heads over to a table in the corner.

The line disappears and I order a bagel, a whole wheat one with butter instead of cream cheese. I’m trying to lose a few pounds. “Does that guy come here often?” I ask Glasses.

He glances over to Jacob’s table for a second, his face getting a little red. “Yeah, he’s a regular.”

“Is he usually that pissy?”

Glasses hands me my bagel. “No, he’s usually pretty nice. But he does say weird stuff sometimes.”

My interest peaks. “Weird stuff? What kind of weird stuff?”

“I don’t know. He once asked me if I had a sister. My co-worker over heard him talking to himself about his ‘angel.’ Weird stuff like that.” He leans over the counter a little. “I think he’s crazy.”

“Thanks.”

With that, I take a seat at the long bar along the window. I watch Jacob out of the corner of my eye. So really all I still know about this kid is that he’s love sick and unstable. Creepy, even. But I still can’t how he could be capable of murdering anyone. I shove the bagel into my mouth, ripping it in half in one bite and chewing roughly. This is such a waste of my time. What am I supposed to tell the Chief when I get into work on Monday? He’s going to chalk up my lack of evidence to lack of conviction for this fucking job.

Jacob shifts in his chair, leaning forward so that his elbows rest on the table. He spins the half empty mug idly with his fingers, his attention on something else, or someone else. I follow his gaze to a middle-aged man across the shop. He sits alone at a table, eyeing a group of teenage girls. They laugh obnoxiously and toss their hair. Most likely going to grow up to be a bunch of little teases. They get up to leave, tossing their garbage in the trash. As soon as they leave, the man gets up, leaving his garbage behind. Jacob gets up a second later and crosses the shop quickly.

I abandon my half eaten bagel and follow after him. The man ghosts behind the girls, getting closer and closer. He’s about to clap one of the girls on the shoulder when Jacob grabs his shoulder and whispers something to him. The man turns his head, his eyes shoot open, the blood vessels in them popping out.

Then, midsentence Jacob stops speaking and turns around suddenly. The man doesn’t wait around and flees across the street. Jacob narrows his eyes at me. “Why are you following me?”

“I’m not. I’m a little turned around here and I can’t find a cab. I was gunna ask that guy if he knew where I could get one, but you scared him away.” I hook a thumb through my belt loop and try to look relaxed. I haven’t had to act undercover in years, but I think I’m pulling it off.

Jacob’s face is plain again, no trace of agitation or suspicion. His lips taught across his face into something resembling a snarl. “Cab’s that way, now piss off,” he says gesturing lamely down the street.

I watch him slide silently out of sight around the corner of the coffee shop. Rude little bastard.

I think back to the pattern of what the disappearances had in common. That guy was going after those girls obviously. Now, whether that was to ogle them, or to try and rape them is the question. If Jacob thought the latter, was he trying to exact his own kind of justice? Suddenly I’m not so sure this kid is what he seems.

-Collins

Jacob talks to his girl.

author, book, controversial, creative, death, excerpt of the day, horror story

Newest installment in the Jacob series. Enjoy.

-Turner

I decide to cut the pretense tonight. Angel is coming out with me. I need my fix and the view from her window has outlived its usefulness.
I step into the shower, washing the blood of my last victim off my body, watching it swirl down the drain. Rinsing away my sins so I can be with my angel.
After getting dressed in my typical jeans, boots and denim vest I make my way to her house on foot. It’s not far from my place. I planned this on purpose. We grew up as neighbours…it seemed only fitting to still be near her.
I get to Angel’s house after only five minutes of walking, the blinds are shut tight. Tighter than normal. Did she figure out what I had been up to? I ignore the thought and knock solidly a few times before taking a step back and shoving my hands in my pockets.
The door creaks open slowly, just a few strands of hair and a piece of her smooth cheek showing. She must realize it’s me because she opens the door wider, sticking her head out, keeping her body inside.
“Jacob…you need to leave.” She nearly whispers.
“No. Come out here.” I say, done playing games. We’ve been playing games for weeks it seems. Or maybe that’s just me.
I notice a single tear drip down her cheek. It nearly guts me. This woman is the only one who has been able to get any sort of emotional response from me. “Please, I can’t do this again.” Her voice is raspy. I want to hold her, comfort her. That isn’t me. I don’t comfort, I don’t offer support. I kill, I maim, I steal and I hack. But for her, I do all the other stuff too.
“Angel…” I say soothingly, as soothingly as someone like me can. Using her nickname I gave her as children.
Her head shakes a few times. “No. I can’t let you back into my life just to have you leave me all over again, Jacob. You know how I feel about you.”
I nod, because I do know. What she doesn’t know is that I would and have killed for her. I will always protect her. No matter what she does, or where she goes, I will always find her.
I look up into her stricken eyes, the tears pooling on the blonde lashes and give her the biggest piece of my honesty that I can. “I will never leave you again.”

The Paul Series pt. 1

writing

So if you’ve been following this blog for a while, you’d be familiar with Turner’s “Jacob” series. If you aren’t aquainted with Jacob, take a look back at his journey to understand him a little better. I created a sister series tied to Turner’s “Jacob” series, called the “Paul” series. Paul is the cop assigned to surveiling Jacob after a string of disappearances.

 

I’ve been watching this creep for hours. He’s been watching her for hours. She’s been watching television for hours.
I glance down at the file in my lap, brushing powdered sugar off the photo of the creep. Name’s Jacob something, too long to pronounce. His friend, the girl in the house, was the victim of a sexual assault a while ago. The prime suspect in that case disappeared before he could be arrested. I flip through a couple of pages to the police report. Jacob was questioned in connection to the disappearance, but nothing concrete come from it. What a waste of time.
Assigning me to this case was the chief’s idea. Something to get me away from the desk, 9-5 gig. A little surveillance on a suspected murderer was just the thing. If I had to hear one more speech about the merit of not just calling myself a cop, but truly becoming cop, I was gunna shove my box of Dunkin’ Donuts down his throat. I said yes to get him to shut up. I seriously doubt this kid could cut up a body and hide the evidence. More likely he’s going through one of those goth-depression phases. My son went through one of those when he was sixteen. After two months of crucifixes and eyeliner, he was done.
I toss Jacob’s file onto the passenger seat and leaf through the second file. It’s full of disappearances within the last few months. A Mr. Harris, along with three other guys have vanished. The one commonality between the disappearances was each guy had been convicted of sexual assault or had allegations of sexual assault. So someone seems to be targeting these guys, but no bodies have turned up as of yet. For all I know, they all skipped town and hit up a toddler’s pageant. Bunch of perverts.
Grumbling, I pull my coffee from the cup holder and swallow it back. I could be watching the game right now, drinking a nice cold brew instead of ice cold coffee. Glancing at my watch I see that it’s 11:43pm. I’ve been sitting here since 8pm.
I snatch the radio from the console and click it on. “This is officer Pemberton on the Jacob what-his-face stakeout.”
“Hey, Paul. Catch that little shit jerking off to his girl yet?”
I chuckle. Kevin gets it. Chief can shove this assignment up his ass. “If I do, you’ll be the first to know, Kev. I’m heading home now.”
“Take ‘er easy.”
“Same to you.”
I put the radio down and glance over to the creep one more time. He’s still standing in the same spot, across the street from the girl’s house, staring in her front window. He wears a black hoodie, hood pulled up over his head, and blends into the shadows just outside a nearby street lamp. My best guess is he’s some love sick guy that got rejected and just can’t let go. Murderer? No. Pathetic? Yes.
I start the car and pull the seatbelt over my stomach. The belt doesn’t go the whole way and I’ve got to yank it a few times for it to buckle completely. Without another look at the creep, I make a U-turn and head home. With luck, I’ll be able to catch the last quarter of the game.
 
 
 -Collins

Jacob is on the move.

short story, Uncategorized, writing

 

Newest addition to Jacob and his journey to his angel.

-Turner

 

Some people exercise in gyms, weights, running. Swimming pools. Useless DVD workouts. Me? I exercise in the forest, with my blades. I’ve been exercising a lot lately.
Ever since my angel sent me away.
I won’t be away for long, I just decided to give her some time. I know she loves me, oh how I know. I know what her sweet, pink lips taste like. What her silk hair feels like as it runs through my fingers. I’m not giving that up. She’s mine, she always will be. I will hide the monster, just for her. Only for her.
It’s these thoughts that race through my mind as I slaughter the man beneath me. His blood splattering against my boots.
“Please…” It’s gurgled as his mouth fills with bile and blood.
“Please, please…they all beg! Please, don’t kill me! I won’t do it again, I swear!” I mock and spit in his face, leaving my blade jammed into his prone body.
His eyes plead with me. They won’t find any sympathy from me. It’s people like him that made her the way she is now, that stole the light from her eyes. Now I’ll steal theirs and leave them in darkness.
When I’m done with the bastard pedophile, I dump his body into the swamp that lays within the woods. Leaving him to decompose with all the others.
I find my way back to my apartment, dark and cold. The way I like it. I toss my boots in the sink to clean later and strip my clothes off, pouring myself into a scalding hot shower. Letting it wash the darkness away, just for a few hours.
Once I’m done, I make it to her house. She’s in the living room, her blinds closed, but still allowing a little leeway. It’s like she wants me to watch.
I finally release the breath I’d been holding for the last few days.
There she is.

 

 

 

 

A horror story: part 3

advice, alternative, annie lennox, horror story, life, mental illness, shortstory, writing

Here is another addition to the little short I have been writing about an unfeeling killer and his love interest. Enjoy!

-Turner

I won’t bore you with the details of my life, trust me, they aren’t worth knowing. No, I wasn’t abused. I wasn’t molested. I had loving parents, well, so they tell me.
I played little league, had sleep overs with my buddies and played with my dog, Peanut.
I fought like normal with my little sister, Halle, went to Grandmother’s for cookies.
See? Normal.
What wasn’t normal was me. I was the odd one.
For as long as I could remember, I craved blood.
I craved to take life, to be the one in that position of power. To literally hold someone’s fate in my own hands.
I denied myself, of course. I was only a child, what did I know of murder? But as I got older, it got worse. There was no stopping my thoughts. No stopping the need for blood. It got to the point I would inflict pain on myself, simply to try and relieve myself. It didn’t work.
Nothing did.
Not until she moved in next door, I was twelve. She had the face of an angel and everytime she laughed, it caused my lips to twitch into a sort of smile. She was the only girl I ever saw. The only girl who ever silenced the voices in my head. The ones I never told anyone about.
Then a few years later, she was hurt, someone took her from me, damaged her innocent soul.
All that blood lust? It came spilling out. I never could get it back inside me, where it probably should have stayed. Although I can’t say I regret it. I don’t know that emotion.
Now, I relish in the feeling. I bathe in the blood of my guilty victims. I laugh in the face of death, all for her.
Because I love her.