THE BLACK ROSE

Heres the story, just as I promised:


He stared blankly down the sight of his rifle at a deer grazing not ten feet ahead he was suddenly reminded of his wife. Not that she had ever been unknowingly targeted (atleast not to his knowledge) and definately not that he wanted to shoot her (atleast not all the time). No, it was
the deer itself that held her image, its dark and knowing eyes, it graceful shape and even her likelihood to eat from the ground.

At first he savoured this vision of her while holding his rifle to his shoulder, awaiting the perfect moment to shoot. But when that moment came he knew that with such a vivid image in his mind
he couldn't handle pulling the trigger.

As the rifle fell to his side it brushed slightly against the branch of a pine tree. The startled animal, know noticing the hunter's presence bolted into the towering forest. Leaving nothing but a single memory of its presence behind.

The hunter whispered a curse into the bitter cold of the winter as a slight mist floated from the crack of his mouth. He thought of sticking around for a while, thought of catching something smaller so that his venture wouldn't seem wasted but he knew he couldn't. With such a vibrant image in his mind how could he consciously shoot anything? He laughed aloud at how strange his thoughts had become and turned toward home.

His boots crunched heavily in the tightly packed snow sending a slight echoe into the sky above. Soon the meandering hunter found his way to a path which, after many twists, turns and forks, lead him to his ramshackle truck parked snugly within the pathway, sheilding it from the snow that had been falling earlier in the evening.

He climbed clumsily into the rusted door of his one navy blue ford, now a mess of rusted metal and scratched paint, barely recognizable to even the most sharp of eyes. Soon would be the time to remove the rusted pile from the face of the earth. But knowing that this had been his first vehicle he had stubbornly held onto it for five years too many.

As the truck strained to start many loud curses flew from the mouth of the stubborn hunter. once the broken heap began to roll from the snowy pathway a victorious smile tore across the hunters lips. The bumbling rustbucked tottered along the bumpy dirt road creaking loudly as it went. The road of dirt connected to the highway which after an hour (usually two but traffic was extra thin) he took an exit toward home.

But as he travelled across the paved (but much too thin) road toward home the car ahead of him screeched suddenly to a halt and as he slammed on the brakes a terrible scream of pain and extreme age roared from the brakes of his truck. Many loud and ferocious curses fell into the air at that moment, from both the hunter and the driver ahead of him. Soon a deer trotted calmly away from the front of the the line of cars. The hunter stared thoughtfully at the deer, so very much alike the one he had targeted earlier he wondered whether it truly was the same animal.

He drove on for barely three minutes where he found the driveway leading to the home he shared with his beautiful wife. As he parked the truck carefully behind the house (hiding it from the neighbors as was his wife's command) he wondered what his wife would think about him returning home early with an empty truck. He then reminded himself of the countless other occasions when the same thing had happened and forgot all about his worries. The thought of his wife being angry for such a petty reason floated from his mind like a feather in the wind.

As the door of his home Slammed behind him the smell of cooking spaghetti sauce rose into his nostrils and he fell into a trance of hunger. He had forgotten to eat the lunch he had packed for hunting because of the appearance of the deer and now that descision was coming back to haunt him.

"A little early, aren't you?" His wife called from the kitchen, seemingly confused. How could she be blamed her husband had told her he'd be home three hours later.

"Nothin' around. No point in staying," he lied, knowing how easily his story of seeing her resemblance in a deer could be taken in the wrong way.

"Makin' food, " she called, waving a wooden spoon in the air showcasing what he already knew. Then she ordered, "Come in and help."

The hunter strode obediantly to the kitchen, sure to drop his winter coat and boots at the door.
His rifle still lay in the passenger seat of his trusty, rusty ford.

After a short while of adding and sampling the sauce was finished and the couple stood victorious. They then began working on a chocolate desert so decadent I dare not mention it for fear of invoking your hunger.

"Try some," the Hunter's wife told him while raising the wooden spoon which now held a sample of the finished spaghetti sauce. Her husband nodded his head and waited greedily for the sauce to find its way to his stomach. The spicy mixture floated within the clumsy fingers of the wife, slowly toward the mouth of her husband. On its way droplets of various sizes fell to the ground, including a piece of mincemeat and a small mushroom. The taste of the sauce was highly exaggerated by pleased mumbling sounds rolling from the throat of the hunter.

The wife then threw the spoon into the pot and dropped to her knees so that she could recover
as much sauce as she could. She then ate greedily the sauce that she had collected. "Might as well be soup," she commented, creating an excuse for her clumsiness.

Despite the joking and giggling and incredible meal to be found at the table that night, despite their undying love for one another, despite their carefree and optimistic lifestyle. This would be Timothy and Anna Blake's last supper, last night together.

The morning that preceded will remain the most terrible day in Timothy Blake's lifetime (and most probably Anna's). He rolled over to Anna's side of the bed in the depths of his sleep, this is what woke him. It wasn't simply was it the fact that Anna usually slept in late and it was only seven, no, there were stronger forces at work than the unusual urge to wake early. A sharp pain prickled at his back like a bee sting only in several different spaces of his back, but not even this was all. Along with the pain, a warm liquid soaked into the back of his t-shirt and boxers.

His first (and incredibly obvious) reaction was to quickly remove himself from the bed. As he stood facing the wall he wondered grimly what was laying in Anna's space of the bed. Blood dripped from his clothing and as he turned with, what Tim believed to be, 'vain fear' he saw what had caused his back to prickle in pain. Upon the bed lay a large splotch of blood and a wilted red rose whether it was actually red or simply colored that way from the blood Tim didn't wish to know despite many gruesome thoughts of the situation. Blood was not only upon the bed but smeared across the ground as if somebody had tried (with much futility) to clean up the mess. There was no doubt in his mind (or, as I'm guessing yours) that this was the scene of a murder, you didn't need to have watched CSI to have figured out such a simple fact. Tears fell from Tim's eyes as he sobbed continuously for his wife. Tim scanned all that he knew about his wife quickly but nothing he could find would lead to her murder. His wife had been slain, the woman he had wished to grow old with was dead only five years into their marriage.

The next few hours were painstakingly filled with police business that has little to nothing to do with the rest of the story so I'll save you the time.

After his questioning had been finished Timothy climbed into his trusty rustbucket with little else but his coat, boots and the clothes underneath. He knew there was only one place for him to go, his Mom's house the place he'd lived for the many years before he'd married Anna. Welll.... she's not his real mom, he was orphaned as a child and she'd adopted him. He'd never had a dad, not even a father figure. His mom had raised him alone, she hadn't bothered with love, only her adopted son, Timothy.
Tim drove with both anger and sadness pulsating painfully in his mind. Still he cried but much more solemnly (less sobbing), calmly remembering Anna's long brown hair hanging beautifully on her shoulders and her dark brown, almost black, eyes shining like diamonds in the sunlight. She had wasted nothing in her lifetime, not food, not time and especially not the chance to make fun of his truck.

"Barely worth the space in the driveway. Can we please get rid of that pile of rust," Anna pleaded staring upon the old ford laying lifelessly in the driveway.

"Ah, but the memories it holds, it's the only vehicle I've ever owned," Tim replied, resisting her sugary tone and waited for her pathetic attempt to change his mind by (with immense futility) trying to hurt his feelings.

"Stupid pack-rat. Every piece of your past will eventually go away and if I have anything to do with it you'll start with this pile of scrap metal," fury boiled within her words but they were wasted on the calm demeanor of her husband.

"You say pack-rat I say nostalgic. You say scrap-metal I say truck. You say the past will go away I say its here to stay," he replied childishly. But as he had hoped with his childish answer to a childish insult the conflict was to be resumed another day.

Now he drove for his old home. He believed his nostalgic attitude had dissipated into the cool night air, he thought all he wanted and needed to know lay in the future. Anna was gone but poor old Tim couldn't grasp the idea and, contrary to his own belief, he was more nostalgic than ever. His memory constantly jolted from memory to reality until neither could be deciphered from the other. This strange cycle went on until his rusty old ford sat comfortably in the driveway of his mother's house.

He slowly hauled himself from the truck, almost dissappointed to see his mom's car was home. Tim couldn't help but be hesitant to relive his horrific experience even once more. Soon he was knocking his knuckles against the smooth surface of the wooden door that lead to his mother's living room. A short woman with black, greying hair answered the door, it was his mother staring back at him.

After she had lead him to the living room and they both sat comfortably facing eachother his mom began speaking. "So you want some tea or cookies?" She asked kindly, staring through large and almost insanely thick spectacles.

"No thanks," he replied blandly, holding back either anger or sadness he didn't have a clue to which it was in such a state of pained confusion.

"Not even home-made chocolate chip?" She asked in blind confusion. As if it simply took her breath away that anyone could refuse her cookies.

"No," he replied simply, still holding back the conflicting emotions within him.

In fact his mother's astonishment about his refusal of cookies (especially of chocolate descent) was well placed. Of all foods he loved chocolate the most and the best place Timothy had ever found chocolate was within his mom's home-made chocolate chip cookies.

"What's the problem?" She asked worriedly suddenly realising the terror of the situation by the simple refusal of baked goods. She then braced herself for the worst which as she had rightly guessed was all there was to find in Timothy's story.

After he had finished his mother stared blankly toward him, unconsciously teetering between shock and disbelief, although she knew that her son would never, in his right mind, lie so severely to her (atleast so she hoped) and of course she was correct.

Chit-chat ensued, flipped out and completely laughable conspiracy theories arose from their words. They also verbally investigated anything or anyone new in both Anna and Tim's life that could possibly lead to murder. But, as they had both already known, no probable theories arose from their conversation. But to his mother's joy Timothy's spirits were lifted by this simple exercise.

So Timothy stayed with his mom and, after several days, his composure had begun to return. Meanwhile Anna's murder had spread to the news, her name had been withheld, but all of the gruesome details, including theft of the body, had been given. Most interesting of all was the mention of a serial killer who had killed the husband and toddler of Katrina Thomas. It was once believed to be an act of vengeance on Katrina or her family but thanks to the new death that held no connections to Katrina it was believed that the killer had something else in mind.

Three days after the most devastating event of Timothy's life he sat in his mother's kitchen eating a breakfast of bacon and eggs. His mom had left to get groceries to accomadate her much welcomed guest. Once he had finished eating Tim dropped himself in a heap on his mother's couch surfing through the channels, finding little satisfaction in anything that found its way to the screen.

As he sat like a slug a several loud knocks rapped against the smooth wooden surface of the front door. Tim was hesitant to answer, he didn't want to speak with sympathetic aunts he hasn't seen in years or uncles who want to speed up the funeral to silence their hysterical wife (despite the fact that there was nothing to put in the casket). But despite his unwilling attitude he knew that if he didn't answer they'd just return later.

As he turned the doorknob and the door swung open he saw nobody that fit the description of an aunt or uncle. The woman that stood before him was a little younger than him, he had never seen her before, she held determination instead of sympathy in the shadowy depths of her cold blue-gray eyes, and her hair was long and messy, holding a black veil over many of her facial features.

"Hello there, and who might you be?" Tim asked trying his best to be friendly to the stranger standing before him who held a dark gaze upon him, unwavering despite his futile attempts to hide from it.

"I'm sorry to bother you brother but I heard about your wife and had to express my deepest... sympathy," her voice was clearly forced to display an obviously fake happiness.

"I'm sorry but I never had a sister. The orphanage would have contacted my mom about it years ago," he was suddenly afraid. Even (at that point) going as far as to believing that there was a good chance that she could have been Anna's killer.

A smile cracked across her lips but the determined flare in her eyes hadn't (yet) burned out. "Oh, how cute. Don't worry Timmy I am your sister, the biggest difference between you and I though is that our parents decided to keep me. I'm Katrina Thomas, by the way, my husband and daughter were killed by the same woman that killed your wife. Oh, and just so you know the police were undoubtfully wrong about one thing at the least."

Suddenly realizing the possibility of truth in her words Tim decided to all that she had to say, but he still wouldn't be dumb enough to allow her to enter his mom's home. "And what exactly would it be that the police are wrong about?"

"Just that the murders are connected and they are undoubtfully an act of vengeance. Not on me, or even you but our father," she seemed almost happy to share her beliefs about the murders with anybody but herself. Tim never wanted to know about his real family and now that he knew that they were the source of his greatest misery he liked the idea of knowing them a whole lot less.

"Elaborate," Tim commanded, he knew that he had to know everything to understand.

"Our dad was engaged before our mom. When Sally, that was her name, got pregnant he realized how much he didn't like her and he left. She stalked him for years, she watched as he met mom, got engaged then married, she watched as you were orphaned and I was kept. When I was a kid she sent letters and notes in our house begging for dad to take her back, he ignored them. Then Sally began threatening mom, and us if he didn't return to her. Dad had enough and...," her voice trailed off, she paused, wondering whether she would regret the words she had guarded within for so long. "He killed her, in front of the child, his child. The kid was orphaned and although mom suggested adoption dad wouldn't have anything to do with Sally's kid. Sandra, the kid, saw it all happen, she knew of the letters and of her father. She began enacting the threats her mother had promised to fulfill with my baby's second birthday, almost a year ago," Katrina began to cry, Tim didn't know what to do, he wanted to comforther but suppressed the urge. He didn't want to make the problem any more awkward than it already was. So instead of helping her he became a spectator in a theatre of sorrow.

Soon the tears stopped falling and Katrina spoke once more. "Sandra lives on Thompson Avenue, number seven. She gardens roses of every color you could name, no other flowers though. If you want to do something about your wife that's the place," She then turned and left, climbing into a sleek black car which Timothy couldn't recognize (he didn't know much about cars). Then she was gone and Timothy knew he would never see his puppeteer again. He knew she was using him to do something she was much too afraid to do herself but what did that matter to him? He believed her completely, it could have been the promise of vengeance or the incredibly accurate stroy that she had told of which not even Timothy himself knew, only one thing was certain, he was paying a person in Thompson Avenue a visit.

His memory of Katrina was faint, he hadn't a clear vision of her in his mind, only a faint sketch, a rendition of the truth. Only a single thing remained of her that he'd never forget, the cold and sarcastic tone of her voice remained uttering the words "Thompson Avenue, number seven". This remained etched on his mind an eternal grip of vengeance that would never begin to leave his memory.

He hauled on his boots and winter jacket. His eyes held a fury that would only be lost in the pain of another and he embraced it. It was time that he avenged not only his wife but his neice and brother-in-law. He then hauled himself into his truck, snow fell lightly against the windows melting as it touched. The keys turned in the ignition but the sputtering that followed held much doubt for the stubborn hunter seated comfortably behind the wheel. once, twice, three times more the key turned and the engine sputtered before dying curses rained down a blizzard within the rickety old truck. It just had to break down at the very worst time possible.

Then he remembered, Thompson Avenue wasn't even a block away, he could simply walk there. It was in the direction of hunting grounds so if he carried a rifle who would make anything of it? He grabbed the rifle that lay solemnly across the passenger seat of his truck and began walking. His boots crunched heavily in the tightly packed snow beneath him, he was heading for the vengeance that patiently awaited him on Thompson Avenue and little or nothing could stand in his way. Cars whizzed beside him as the drivers stared quizzically at the hunter striding with incredible determination for what both the drivers and Timothy alike considered to be a hunting ground.

In less than half an hour Timothy stood at the entrance to Thompson avenue. But the first thing that stared him in the eye was not a house, or a sidewalk, or even the sign proclaiming the name of the street. No, instead a deer standing carelessly in the road held a crude gaze upon the hunter but felt no fear in his presence. Tim shed a single tear as the animal once again stole the image of Anna before a car crashed into the careless beast, the driver and passenger remained unharmed, only their car and the deer suffered damage, but the stubborn deer continued along darting into the wood leaving a trail of blood as it went.

After Tim's bearings had returned her continued on toward house number seven. When it came into view he saw it was a sickly bright green color with a large metal seven bolted onto the door. A victorious smile tore across the hunter's lips, the end was in view.

Tim tapped the tip of his rifle against the door and waited impatiently for Sandra to answer. Footsteps rang out from inside loudly she was home and she was headed for the door. When she answered the door her face became a twisted mask of fear and shock melded together in a tormented frown.

"Why are you here?" She asked, despite being quite sure of the answer.

"The same reason you bothered to kill my wife. Petty vengeance my dear," Tim whispered grimly a demented smile rising across his face as he raised his gun to her stomach and lead her inside. Wilted red roses were strewn everywhere. A child of three lay in a wooden crib shaking its rattle visciously. Tim knew it was Katrina's daughter, for no particular reason at all, it was a simple intuition. "It's Katrina's child isn't it," Tim asked calmly, she didn't reply. "Isn't it!"

"Yes," Sandra sobbed her short blond hair held back in a tight bun.

"What's her name?" Tim yelled, knowing that intimidation was the only way to get Sandra to speak to him.

"Catherine, I couldn't kill her. I didn't have the guts. I had to take care of her, 'cause if I brought her back, I didn't know what Katrina would do," he voice wavered under the pressure of sadness, it was obvious she wasn't as dangerous as Tim had expected.

"Where's Anna? Where's her body?" Tim screamed shaking the barrel of the rifle against her stomach and forcing her to listen to him load up a bullet.

"I buried her, my backyard," She screamed. Timothy didn't realize this but he was becoming as much of a killer as she already was.

"Don't cry, don't cry shhhh," he whispered as silent venom pulsed in his words. "You wont die here, Catherine can't watch that. I'll take you far away and dont worry I'll make it as quick and painless as I possibly can," he laughed bitterly his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

She was silent, knowing that she probably deserved death for what she'd done to him, but she'd never admit such a demeaning fact to anybody. After several simple orders that I needn't mention for they'd be too miniscule and pointless to offer, they both sat in Sandra's car. Sandra was bound in the passenger's seat and Timothy sat joyfully behing the wheel, knowing that soon he'd be able to go home and the world would be good again (or so he hoped). As they drove down a snowy dirtroad that branched from the highway a question popped into Tim's mind that he had to ask before he sent Sandra to death.

"Why a red rose? I mean why mark your kills with such a puny trademark?" Tim asked oblivious to how connected that Sandra was to the rose.

"They symbolize lust, and I've lusted to make your family pay ever since your idiot of a father killed my mother. Your foster mother was next you know, then Katrina, then you, then your real mother and then, finally your father. But now its all over, I've been planning since I got out of that orphanage," Tim had enough of her he wanted to kill her right there, he wanted to end it all so much sooner but he knew there was only one place for her to die and it wasn't inside her car.

When the dirtroad ended they both climbed out of the car and Tim lead Sandra down the path that twisted and turned until it forked off into the clearing where he had first seen the deer. He stood Sandra up in the middle of the clearing a loosed a single bullet between her eyes before burying her beneath the snow and soil, so that she'd never be seen again.

As Tim began walking back up the path he heard sounds all around him, a branch cracking, an owl hooting, wings flapping, and his own boots crunching heavily in the tightly packed snow, as he neared Sandra's car the deer that he saw had been earlier been hit trotted drowsily toward him until it collapsed in the snow at his feat, dead. He simply stepped over the deer and drove back home.

The next day the police phoned Tim's mother and told her that his blood was found at the scene of the murder at the tip of a thorn on the rose. It was the only evidence found but it was just enough to send Timothy Blake to death row, although he hadn't killed his wife I must admit that he severely deserved the sentence he recieved.

Nobody stood up for poor Timmy.Katrina didn't want to get sentenced for helping her brother kill Sandra, plus she had gotten exactly what she wanted and more. Her vengeance was complete and she had little Catherine back, what did her brother matter to her? Not even Tim's mom stood up for him, she backed up the evidence as a witness stating that Tim hadn't been acting like himself lately and that she wouldn't put murder past him.

But why did you need to know this you may ask, if you've decided not to have given every inch of your attention here is the answer. Love is a rose emitting a crimson glow of beauty, a remembrance of what you've always wanted and the blind belief that you've found it. But even the most radiant rose holds thorns, as does love. For when love is given but is not recieved or is taken away a deep wound is severed within your soul. Remember the rose before you love, not the thorns that may become your end. All whithers, all fades away but when something dear is stolen you may never again be the same.

On My Deathbed

I have seen much suffering in my life, heck I've created most of it. But nothing compares to what I see here on my deathbed. I dont know if its the fact that its my own crew standing there being slaughtered or if the navy are the incarnation of feirce and heartless brutality. My ship is slowly sinking from a hole bored by the cannons of those navy scum and I have been given the honor of going down with her. An arrow peirces my stomach, a pain only imaginable to those who have suffered such things. I have two choices at this moment I can leave the arrow and suffer or remove it and undoubtably die, I have decided to suffer, ending my own life would be too hard on my pride and if there is an afterlife I would forever suffer there also I need to let my memory live on, let people know the hell i am living at this moment.

Blades clash and the noise echoes into the night, my crew fight valiantly in the sure face of death, they kill as many as their blades can touch before they swim with the sharks. A select few accept their fate, realizing the futility of fighting and let themselves die, they dont derserve to have felt the gentle rocking of the waves on my 'Maybeth'. The cabin boy has been drowned in my own blood, the pool in which i lay, the one that the arrow has made for me. The poor boy, a naval boot held his face down until his struggle ceased, he was not even a teen, far to young to have ever felt a true loving embrace, instead death shall hold him forever in its cold winding halls. Just weeks ago I taught him how to steer 'Maybeth' and taught him how to use a cutlass, that knowledge was useless this night and it hasn't served him as it should. Tears are as uncontrollable as death, they fall from me at this moment upon such reflection of the boy, incase you care his name was James, more important to me than my ship, for he was my son, he always will be and soon (if not already) he will be with his mother in the ivory halls of heaven as I will soon lay rotting in the dark halls of Hell.

The crew is all gone, the navy is leaving but I feel in a new sense of awareness, the sound of the waves and the cawing of the gulls is all I hear, a shining light appears before me and my Maybeth stands before me, James in her arms, she beckons me to the light from which she came and I will follow, wherever it leads for she is my love, my life and my death, forver and ever, to the ends of time we will follow eachother, remember these words and the truth will be yours to see.

The light fades and I am alone once more, free from painful dillusion but much more awake to the death around me. I see my friends laying in their own blood, blades still clasped tightly in their hands, they fought well and will soon be one with the ocean, the most beautiful mistress any sailor should behold. But the ocean never held such a luster in my eyes when i stared within her depths I saw Maybeth her everlasting beauty held a shining torch in my mind, one that will never extinguish. My ship is fall into the sea but still I am unready for death, for she can hold me another day, this night revenge will poison the air and blacken the sea, none will stand between me and it's burning halls of death and flame.

I have boarded the lifeboat and plan my voyage to Fort Sorrow, those within it's walls will know it's namesake better than it's creators. The ocean gently rocks my boat and my thoughts drift to the better days that brighten even my worst nightmare, the days when James, Maybeth and I were together, James was only a child then, barely old enough to speak but he still charmed Maybeth to a smile with every word. Her smile could purify the greatest darkness, if only she could give me one last smile, one last kiss, one last touch.

As my memories slowly left my thoughts I saw the dock of Fort Sorrow, the surrounding village, once my home, still oblivious to the crimes of the navy. They must have been made to forget the words of Maybeth and Isabel, Isabel was Maybeth's sister, she was killed shortly after Maybeth. I thought of staying the night but quickly ruled it out after remembering the arrow still lodged in my stomach, if that wouldn't arouse suspicision I don't know what else could. Instead I came to one descision, the only way I could fulfill my vengeance upon those worthless sacks of entrails would be to hunt them down now, leaving them no chance to discover me before my plans for each of them were finished. I snuck to the back of the fort and slowly made my way to the front entrance where I swiftly and quietly killed the gatekeeper, with his keys I made my way inside. Quietly killing those who were watching the halls that marked my path they should be thankful that their death was as painless as it was, the others would face much worse. As I began checking rooms I found one that deserved every torture I had been imagining, it was his boot that had suffocated my son and it was mine that would cause him his most painful experience. I quickly grabbed a rag laying on the ground and snuck behind the bastard. I shoved the cloth in his mouth before stabbing my cutlass partly through his back, a stifled moan echoed from his mouth enough to make me cringe, even through my hatred of him. I then held him down as i sloly cut him up in ways so horrible I dare not descrbe them to you in fright of constant nightmares. Then as his blood rippled on the floor I held his face to it until his breathing stopped, why I did such things to any man I will never know.

As I walked through the halls making my way to the captain, the demon who took away Maybeth's life I heard shouts from a room not far behind me, they had found a body, they were closing in behind me, I knew they would catch me but I kept going, desperate to fulfill what I had began. I made no effort to keep the deaths silent or intricate anymore, I simply wanted the captain, the others could live for all I cared. When I finally found his office I revelled in my victory and held my blade tight in my hand, if he killed me atleast i would know that I had tried something, not let myself die, not let such a thing go.

I walked into his office, he was waiting, but alone. He threw a blade at me in desperation for his life, he feared me though I had done little. I kept walking toward him, he threw quills, vases, and other objects at me as I neared him, when my blade was close enough to hurt him he drew his own. We duelled for awhile but I knew it had to end fast, lest his guards strike me from behind. I kicked him in the groin and his blade hesitated to block my next strike, it hit him in the neck and he fell. I then crawled into the corner and began writing. The footsteps are nearing me now and I know my death will not be quick if they find me, I have nowhere to run so I will remove the arrow, ending my life but bringing me to my family, a fair trade.

A Bloody sign - the first short story

I sit upon a strange island contemplating the odds of how this wonderous night went so wrong, did i upset the gods and require punishment or was i simply an unlucky sailor finding in due time what i had dreaded for years. Either way what is done is done and nothing can change that fact, might as well write away my pain.

I sat upon the deck of my faithful barge, she'd sailed with me for a good many years and I felt an unhealthy connection between her and I, I'd probably say that we'd become one and the same after so many years. I could barely tell whether the salty spray refreshing my face was remanents of a violent wave or a loppy droplet crashing against her hull. As the light fell from the sky, scattering from the wrath of the darkness the moon tore from the sky brandishing the blood of fallen sailors, a warning to us that trouble would follow. My crew feared the sight whispering tales of demons and monsters of the deep, all foolish nonsense I thought while fondly steering the ship toward our destination. The red moon was a common sign of misfortune to superstitous folk, much unlike myself. Their was whispers that when the moon was red it was the devil smearing the bloody remains of those who had died at sea and fallen into his kingdom across the moon. All for fools and beggars not merchants with such an importance as myself.

Soon my thoughts were interrupted by a loud clunking noise at the nose of my ship, as I looked overboard I grimaced at the terrible omen, my Maria was wading through the corpses of dead fish, blood smearing her hull. I heard many losing their meals over the side and mutterings of death all around. I rose my voice and assured everyone that there must simply be something within the water that was killing the fish, a poison or something of the sort and as long as nobody ate them we'd be perfectly fine, though truthfully I was unsure of the truth in my words. After Maria had torn through many dead fish a terrible sight caught my eyes, planks of woods littered the ocean and masts floated gracefully around in the black water, flames lit the remains of a fishing vessel, three grotesquely disfigured bodies lay upon a large plank of wood, their eyes and jaws were missing along with fingers and various strange bite marks upon their faces, chest and arms. I stared in shock and awe, fearing the worst for my crew.

Cries and suggstions of what could have done such terrible things carried through my ship like the whisper of wind in a pile of dead leaves. I raised my voice once more and blamed pirates for the destruction of the ship and sharks for the disfigured bodies, but once again I didn't believe my own words, but I was given a pleasant suprise when my lies had calmed many of the shaken voices. I continued through the wreakage with fear and a new sense of faith. I found myself praying for my safety much more than once throughout the silence that followed the discovery of the disfigured fishermen. The silence gave me the chance to remember what I'd lose if I would die that night, and I soon realised how little that was. I had no family, such a busy man as myself had no time for women or children, gods forbid a happy life for a rich man. My life was my ship, Maria, the crew, and of course the money were my only company in life. I'd gladly trade what I had for normality but I'm too far in years to worry about such things, there's no going back now.

A loud growling sound flooded the night air, it held a slight beauty at first with such contrast with the silence until the screaming of my crew followed, there was nothing I could do to calm them now, there was no reassurance I could give them, or myself to explain such a noise. Soon the growling multiplied into many eerie voices resounding perfectly in the moonlight soon halting the commotion on deck to a silent panic. Several men ran to cannons in hopes that they could scare or kill what was terrorizing the crew, what they found was much worse than could be imagined. The three disfigured fishermen were climbing the side of the ship, their fingers digging into the wood with an inhuman strength, their teeth glimmered like pearls in the darkness while showing their razor sharp edges as if somebody had bothered to sharpen them. Several other cadavers bearing the same diusfigured faces and bodies joined in with the growling chorus, as the first few had arrived aboard they tore through my crew like wet paper, taking the care to brand the dead delicately with their common disfigurement.

In fear I unhitched the lifeboat and hopped in, taking several crewmates with me, as we rowed quickly toward an island in the distance we were plagued with the memories of what had become of our friends aboard my ship, my Maria. the ship soon began to wobble, we questioned the source but with blind fear we left the culprit to our imagination and decided against checking to find out what had caused our disturbance. When we were only meters from the island the wobbling intensified and one of the men in the boat let his curiosity control him, he took a hard look overboard, scrutinising the very water until a three fingered had gripped his face and tore him into the water, we heard his muffled screams from within the water but decided, we had no better choice than to keep rowing. Another was taken just before we came ashore, when his brother tried to save him he failed and simply ended up giving his younger sibling some company. When we came to land only two stood before me to represent the five survivors I had taken into the boat. I began to write upon the beach in fear that the creatures may come ashore for us, I fear that my time on earth has found its end and simply hope that my words will reach the ears of open minded readers, those who will warn the world of the dangers when the moon begins to bleed.