The Woman in the Green Cocktail Dress (Suspense Short Story)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on March 17, 2019
Posted in: Paramour Letters. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Repressed memories of a murder leads to a lifelong obsession. Elliot Chan was just a toddler when it all went down, but now that he’s all grown up, he’s searching for the missing pieces. He’s searching for his mother, the woman in the green cocktail dress.

Green Cocktail Dress 6

Elliot Chan – The Woman in the Green Cocktail Dress
By Rock Kitaro

“When I count to ten, I want you to open your eyes. Tell me what you see. Elliot, open your eyes. Tell me what you see.”

“It’s dark. Like nighttime. There’s a light to my left. TV’s on. Everything’s grainy with blurred lines like the Zepruder film but I see the semblance of an American flag. I’m sitting low to the floor. I don’t like this.”

“It’s okay, Elliot. It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. This is why we’re here. Confront this. You’re not alone.”

I was sitting back with my eyes close but my mind open. Palms were sweaty. I didn’t want to see it but she was right. It would never end if I didn’t go through with it.

“Tell me what you see,” she prodded.

“I see a fat man sitting in a lazy boy. Right in front of me. In a white tee shirt, black pants, and a large belly. He’s bleeding. He’s bleeding out. He’s twitching. The handle of a knife is sticking out of his chest and I’m just sitting there watching. What is this? Who is he?”

“Keep watching.”

“I’m not doing anything! I’m just sitting there. It’s the same as before! Nothing’s changed.”

“Keep watching!” She urged.

Even with eyes close, tears came through.

“Wait…” I said, almost in a gasp of relief. “Someone just walked by. Long calves in a green dress. High heels glistening from the TV light. I smell her, her scent, her perfume as she just walked by. Dude, she is stunning. That dress, looks like she just came back from a cocktail party or something.

“She’s walking towards the man on the love seat. She’s standing there. The man, he’s struggling to look up at her. I can hear him. He’s wheezing. I don’t know what he’s saying. Oh! She just grabbed the knife! She’s shoving it deeper into his chest. Oh my god! What the hell is this! He tumbled back! She literally just shoved the knife so hard that he fell out of the chair. She’s screaming. Stabbing him over and over again! Dude, she’s stabbing the hell out of him! I can’t do this!”

“Keep going.”

“This is messed up!”

“Keep going!”

“No!”

“You’ve come so far, Elliot! See it through. You’re the only one who can!”

“There’s nothing… She stopped. She’s getting up, standing over the man’s body. Damn…There’s blood everywhere. It’s pooling around her heels. She’s walking my way. I see the knife. It’s drenched. I can’t make out her face. The TV light, it’s not enough. I’m looking up at her. Long dark hair. Her hand’s clenching the knife. It’s completely drenched as if she just dipped into a can of paint.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

I couldn’t tell if it was Dr. Wilkerson or the woman in the green dress who just told me that.

“Go on, Elliot.”

“She drops the knife. It hits the hard surface floor. She’s walking away. I turn to watch her go but I can’t see her anymore. She entered darkness. I just hear the clacking heels fading in the distance.”

“And the knife?” Dr. Wilkerson asked.

“I don’t pick it up. I don’t do anything. I just sit there. Like a dumbass.”

Finally, I opened my eyes to the white popcorn ceiling. Dr. Wilkerson’s nodding, seemingly proud of my accomplishment. Odd. I didn’t feel accomplished. I didn’t feel fulfilled and I for damn sure didn’t feel satisfied.

“How do you feel?” She asked.

“Not good, doc. Not good at all.”

“Before we entertain the possibility that this actually happened, is there any chance you saw this before? On TV or in a movie?”

“Ma’am, I saw Scarface and Goodfellas when I was six. This doesn’t even compare.”

“Where are you going? You have thirty minutes left in the session.”

“Doc, I really appreciate everything you’ve done. Really, today was truly a breakthrough. I’ll follow up next week. I promise.”

I was halfway out the door when she tugged me by the sleeve and said with caring, compassionate eyes, “You really do need to talk about what you saw.”

“Ma’am, I just did.”

…

This all began because of the reoccurring nightmares that decided to hit not long after I enrolled into film school. I understood the neighborhood of Chelsea tended to have that affect on impressionable artists but this was different. New York was supposed to be the place where I could shed off the past and begin anew. But no matter where I went. The unanswered questions lingered like a chronic illness, like a sore throat. There’s no vaccination for what I had.

I was walking past the eclectic boutiques of hipster vibes when I felt the vibration in my pocket. It was Marvin, my father, giving me a call.

“Yallo.”

“Hey, how’d it go?” He asked.

I heaved a little sigh before changing directions on a course for Washington Square. It’s a park in the Village known for its ripoff of the Arc de Triumph, but ideal for self-reflection amongst the shaded trees, the exquisite monuments and a lovely central fountain. Twas still early in the day, so I didn’t expect it to be noisy or packed.

“Dad…I have to ask you something and I think it’s about time.”

He’s groaned. I got the feeling he knew exactly where this conversation was headed.

“Dad…who are my real parents?”

After a long pause, he said, “Elliot, I think its time you come home.”

“Yep. Was thinking the same.”

Is God Really Hearing My Prayers?

Posted by Rock Kitaro on March 10, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, Food for Thought, religion. Tagged: , , , , , , . 2 Comments

Is God Really Hearing My Prayers?
By Rock Kitaro
Date – March 8, 2019

billy-graham-praying

Every once in a while, I fall into brief bouts of depression, short spells that last two or three days. It’s usually triggered whenever circumstances force me to slow down and I have no choice, or rather it gradually becomes apparent that I’m missing out on a lot.

What most people do for “fun”…isn’t fun for me. I can’t help but see how different I am from my peers…and all of it makes me sad and lonely.

Like I said…this doesn’t happen often. But as long as I live in a society, I believe its human nature to compare yourself to others every once in a while. It can’t be helped.

During a recent conversation with my mother, a strong believer of Christ, she asked me if I trusted in God with my whole heart.

Without hesitation, I said yes. 100%. Understandably, she had some reason to doubt me. In the Gospels, I recall Jesus mentioning a number of times how… “Happy is the man who trusts in Him…”

And of course, if I’m not happy it does beg the question if am I really trusting in God? It led me to an interesting thought in which I may have surprised myself more than I surprised my mother. I asked her:

“Was Jesus happy? While he was here on earth, was he happy in the general sense? Sure the Bible mentions that there were times when he was happy. But also times when he was indignant. Or what about Jeremiah? Or Isaiah? Or Elijah? Or the Twelve Apostles or the Apostle Paul? Were these happy individuals? Happy to be doing God’s will, sure. But other than that…”

This requires deep thought and for the topic of this essay, I don’t want to dwell too much on answering that. Because, as humans, I believe everyone runs the gauntlet of emotions in which we experience happiness, sadness, triumph, victory and defeat. But overall, in the big picture, it is food for thought to consider whether men of God who sought to serve him and do what was good in his eye, were happy…living on this earth, amongst human societies.

And the reason why these thoughts prevail…As a man who’s read the Bible in its entirety, cover to cover, I believe it’s incumbent upon me to serve as a good example to others. God is my salvation, my rock, my hope. But if I was a non-believer, or someone who was on the fence about wanting to learn the true character of God, and they saw me looking down and depressed on a chronic level…it doesn’t exactly make for good advertisement.

Meaning, why would someone want to read the Bible in its entirety and strive to put God first in their lives…if they’re witnessing the complete abysmal state of someone else who’s doing that? Thus, I feel responsible. I have to fight back that which is bringing me down and remember God’s grace. But I need his help. I can’t do it alone. And so I pray…

I pray everyday when I leave my home for the strength, patience, and wisdom to deal with whatever may come. I pray when I’m faced with a challenge. I pray before I leave work, thanking him for getting me through it. I pray before I hit the boxing gym, asking that he help keep my body intact. And when I come home, after a hard day’s work and near depleted from working out…I sit in the same spot on my couch and bow my head, truly reflecting on the day, what I’ve done, how far I’ve come and where I want to be.

I beg his forgiveness for I know I have sinned. I know my weakness, my propensity to desire badness towards those who have crossed me. I know my weakness to sometimes lust after women who are no good for me. So I pray and beg him to continue to be with me. I pray that he blesses me with the strength to continue on, to hold my head up and keep the faith. I pray that his will be done. And I pray that I forever continue to strive and seek first the kingdom of heaven.

If I pray so fervently on a daily basis and claim to trust God 100%…how could I ever face bouts of depression? Doesn’t sound right, does it?

And last week, I watched a documentary about the evangelist, Billy Graham. This was an awesome man who lived to be 99 years old. And I confess, I wept as I watched him. From what I learned, he truly did so much to spread the Gospel to hundreds of millions throughout the world. And he seemed happy doing it. He appeared to have a loving wife, loyal children, and productive grandchildren. This was a man of God, in my opinion, who truly put God first in his life and from what I saw, he seemed happy.

But still. It was a documentary. It’s kind of like Facebook, or reunions where people share the highlight of their lives…while keeping the lowlights, the dark chapters tucked in the closet. I think that’s the case with me. It’s not like I’m miserable. I laugh and I smile a lot. But I confess…it’s tough.

Thus, my mother hit me with a question that left me dumbstruck for about five seconds. She asked… “Do you think God is hearing your prayers?”

As she continued to follow up with skepticism about whether or not I’m doing what’s good in God’s eyes, I took a moment to really evaluate the question. “Do I think God is hearing my prayers?”

And it made me smile, the conclusion I reached. I told her:

“Honestly, I don’t think there’s ever been a time in which I ever doubted God was listening to my prayer. I know he is. It’s part of that absolute trust and faith that I have in him.”

And I meant it. In my heart, I await God’s judgment. If I were to walk out of my home tomorrow and saw Jesus Christ returning on the clouds of glory to come and rid wickedness from this earth as it’s foretold…I wouldn’t dread it. I wouldn’t fear or run or scream or try to hide. I’ve dreamt of it. I know without a shred of doubt that I’d smile with open arms. Whether God thinks I’m deserving of life or death, punishment or grace, I submit to his judgment. Honestly, I can’t wait. Sometimes when I pray for the day, I weep thinking of how glorious the day would be.

I know that makes me sound somewhat like a fanatic…but if you knew the history I know about this world, what has happened, what is still going on all across the globe…I truly believe that you too would welcome the return of Jesus Christ with the utmost relief, like a flowing oasis in the middle of a scorching desert.

But of course…as a true intellectual, my belief and theories are just that without the pillars of evidence to support my conclusion. So…I went to the source, keeping in mind the question, “Does God hear my prayers?”

In Lamentations 3:8 it says “though i cry out for help, God shuts out my prayer.” This was Jeremiah speaking his wailings in the time of the Babylonian siege of Jerusalem. For those who don’t know…circa 600BC, Jerusalem was a very immoral place. For generations, God’s own people turned their backs on him by worshiping false gods, indulging in immorality and vice, and even sacrificed their children in the service of these false Gods. Time and time again, God sent prophets to warn them, to warn their kings to do the right thing. But Judah did not listen.

Thus…God passed judgment on his own people. And even still, in his infinite grace, God used Jeremiah to warn the people of the sentence he passed. Jeremiah told the kings and the people that a hammer, an army from the north would sweep through and destroy them. God chose King Nebuchadnezzar and the army of Babylon as the instrument of his wrath to discipline his people. Not to wipe them out completely. But to punish them severely for their iniquities.

In the book of Jeremiah, God repeatedly tells Jeremiah not to pray for the unrepentant ones of Judah because of their perpetual sin. And in Lamentations, he confirms that at the very least…if God does not hear it, he does indeed “shut out the prayer”.

So… If God doesn’t answer your prayer, is that an indication that he doesn’t hear your prayer? Or that he has “shut out your prayers”?

I don’t believe that’s the case. We have to understand that everything God does, he doesn’t have to do it at all. He owes us nothing. But he gives us according to his grace, love, and generosity. God answers prayers according to his will and at the time of his choosing. In Jeremiah there were instances where he prayed on behalf of the people and it took ten days for God to answer. In the case of Joseph who was falsely accused of sexual misconduct (sound familiar?) and imprisoned, even after he correctly interpreted the dreams by God’s grace, it would take him another three years before he was released.

Then there’s the example of Job. Job is probably the ultimate example of how bad things happen in which we have no explanation and will probably never learn the reasons why. Job never knew why God allowed Satan to strip him of his possessions and destroy his loved ones. And Job’s friends did their utmost with convincing arguments to say Job was guilty of all the afflictions. He wasn’t. If was due to a conversation God had with Satan, and really by God’s good grace and wisdom that he chose Job to have this happen to, knowing Job would not curse him and instead maintained faith as a shining example for billions who would go through trials and tribulations in the future.

That’s why I have faith. I ask God for his blessing every day as well as the strength and patience to wait. If I feel like I’ve been waiting an eternity, I have to remind myself that it just might be that God in his infinite wisdom is preparing me mentally and physically with experiences to handle that which I have asked for…like preparing me to be a man who would be a loving husband and devoted father.

Or it could be that he’s preparing me for another mission that I’m not currently ready to embark on. It may also well be that God is using me as an example for others, to test me, refine me, and punish me should I dare slip up and turn my back on his Word.

No matter what, we must never falter in doing our part by continuing to pray and have faith. Trust in him and if you lose focus or start to doubt, remember the examples he provided for us in the Bible. You think you have it worse than Job? Or Jonah? Or Jeremiah? Trust in Jehovah, our heavenly father. Always.

In conclusion, does God hear your prayers? Yes. Does he answer or deliver on all of them? That’s up to Him. But for your part, it should be irrelevant in your faith and trust in Him. And striving to put God first in your life certainly couldn’t hurt your chances.

And feel free to check out my essay of Job and Human Suffering. I think it might help improve one’s perspective. Thanks for reading!

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 29 – Remember Me (Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on March 7, 2019
Posted in: Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

When all is said and done, Morgan le Fay has to pay for what she’s done. In just a few days’ time, there’s been a massacre, tragedy, and all-out war…all due to the treachery of a seventeen-year-old enchantress. Britannia will never be the same. Thousands will die in the battles to come and Gawain is determined to avenge them.

Chapter 29 - Remember Me

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 29 – Remember Me
By Rock Kitaro

Nothing that once was could ever be the same. She knew that now. She knew there was no turning back, but at the same time, how could she move forward? Hopeless, exhausted, and alone, Morgan retreated to the one place that’s never turned its back on her. Chadwyck Forest.

The flourishing trees and all of its vivid colors was devoid of the blood, fire, and steel that so recently filled her sights. Here, she found solace with the woodland creatures, the rich smell of vegetation, and the trickle of crystal clear creeks.

She heard birds singing from the branches above. A cool breeze rustled the leaves and soothed the stinging gash along her right thigh. Morgan’s long black hair was grainy with the residue of sand and dried seawater. She had a blank stare, as if she was out of ideas and her body was now moving of its own volition.

Her black top, black pants, and hip-resting skirt were shredded and singed. She trudged into a shallow pond, an oasis in the middle of the forest where beautiful green willows bordered the banks. Once the frigid waters reached her waist, Morgan sunk her weight and let her ankles slide forward to submerge her body.

There she lay, baptized in suspended motion. The grime that encrusted her body gradually deteriorated. Her long black hair fanned out. As if the pond felt pity, it caressed her, consoled her, cleansed her, and kept her company. Thirty seconds felt like thirty minutes. When she finally opened her eyes, the clouds appeared so close. It was easy to imagine flying, gradually floating up towards the heavens.

Morgan planted her heels to stand and emerged from the pond as streams of water trickled down her smooth porcelain skin. The pain in her thigh subsided, as did the heat from physical exertion. Her heart still palpitated. And her eyes still burned from the sweat and tears but she didn’t scratch or wipe. The scene was too beautiful.

She took her time, trudging out of the pond as her hips pushed ripples with each step. Her glossy purple eyes rose up and peered through the canopy of leafy branches and the golden light that shimmered through. She found a spot by a massive oak with giant roots and a bed of soft grass.

There, she cowered down and lounged with her back against the roots. Then, tearing from the bottom of her shirt, she ripped a strip of fabric and fastened it as a bandage around her leg. She didn’t know if it would be enough to stave off infection or not. At the moment, she didn’t care.

All she could think of was the danger. The death. The look in that corpse’s eyes as she was crawling on her elbows in the midst of a full fledge battle. What happened at Tintagel was beyond her wildest imagination. Nothing went as expected. She never calculated Isolde to take matters in her hands. And she certainly didn’t think Gaheris would take it upon himself to kill Isolde.

A single tear trickled down her cheek. Her chest fluctuated as anxiety and mind-numbing fear mounted. She wasn’t naïve. She knew she deserved to be punished. She accepted it. The sooner the better…Just not from the man who was coming.

Imprisonment. Lashes. Disownment. Death. Those things, she didn’t fear. Let her die by Tristan’s hand. Let King Mark sign her death warrant. Let Gaheris put an arrow her heart. That’s fine. She could take it. Just not from Gawain!

“Oh god!”

She deflated with an emotional whimper as her face convulsed in a disgusted grimace. She buried into in her hands and cried. Oh, how she wept. Like a toddler who had all of her favorite toys taken away from her, Morgan sobbed and gushed and languished in self-loathing agony.

Then, she gasped with abject horror. The fast footsteps of a sprinter were approaching. Just as she looked over to her right, someone came bursting through the bushes with a skidding halt.

Gawain turned around and cast his sights on her. Beads of sweat covered his face. The fury in his eagle eyes blazed hot with indignation. He didn’t blink. His dark tunic was tattered and torn. His britches were soaking wet and with each step he could sense the unpleasant feeling of mud sinking beneath his boots.

Morgan said nothing but pouted in a silent plea of mercy. Meanwhile, Gawain’s eyes conveyed the sermon of a fiery priest, blaming her for the induction of sin itself. She curled against the tree roots with her legs tucked in close. Her eyes dropped from his face to his right hand. Gawain was clutching his katana, the razor sharp blade still filthy with the blood of so many. Morgan stared at the sword, fixated on it as a child to a father’s rod. She was triggered to vomit but pushed the lump back down her throat. After sitting there for some time, she finally propped up and sat on her knees with a studious arch in her back.

“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.

Gawain squinted. It brought him no pleasure to see Morgan so afraid but he demanded justice.

“Just give me a reason…”

“Because I love you!” Morgan whimpered.

“YOU CALL THIS LOVE!?” Gawain screamed with tears of his own.

“Damn it, Morgana! We’re not children anymore! These are peoples’ lives you’re toying with! Look at what you’ve done! I could’ve died! My brothers could’ve been killer. For the love of God! I almost lost you! You… I almost. I almost lost …Why? Why can’t I…DAMN IT!”

Gawain flung his sword into the pond and began swinging his fists as if he was literarily battling his own demons. Morgan kept her head bowed and winced with each forceful swing Gawain threw. Finally, Gawain dropped to his knees and let out a deafening roar that sent ripples across the pond.

A gust of wind howled through the trees.

“Just tell me this,” Gawain said. “Is it true? Did you poison Tristan’s mind to make him fall in love with Isolde? The truth!”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 28 – Gawain vs. Algayre

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 28, 2019
Posted in: Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , . Leave a comment

Gawain knows that Morgan will never be safe as long as Algayre’s alive.

Chapter 28 - Gawain vs Algayre

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 28 – Gawain vs. Algayre
By Rock Kitaro

Two riders carved a trail as they raced across the rolling moors of dying grass. Morgan was riding for her life, dipping and diving, zigzagging in an erratic fashion as she continued west for the shoreline.

Algayre was an avid horseman. The way his steed cleared fallen logs and skipped across shallow streams without so much as a pause was enough to inject fear in any prey. Twice now, he came within arm’s reach of her, lunging out to grab her hair before she dipped into the slope of the fluctuating moors. Algayre was getting agitated but he kept smiling. He knew her death was inevitable. There was only so much ground they could cover.

At last, they entered the Y-shaped valley between steep coastal cliffs to arrive at the sandy beach of Trebarwith Strand. As soon as Vebby’s hooves reached the first wave of the foam-crusted sea, Morgan hurled herself into the shallow water. It was just in time to dodge the decapitating sweep of Algayre’s rapier.

Even though he missed, Algayre was amused. There was nowhere else to go. His prey was trapped. The sea was freezing and the towering cliffs served as barriers. While Morgan struggled to wipe the sand and saltwater from her eyes, Algayre took his time to dismount and clean his long slender blade. Grinning from ear-to-ear, Algayre let the tide roll over his boots as the saliva began to build underneath his tongue.

Then, much to his surprise, Morgan stopped retreating. She turned around and faced him, kneeling in the saltwater that rose up to her hips. Algayre was ready to skin her alive but he noticed her dark purple eyes had turned milky white.

Morgan thrust up her open palms. Five streams of jade colored sea erupted from the waves and materialized into hardened knights with swords and shields. At once, they charged.

The knights fought valiantly but Algayre countered with his own magic. He replicated his image. The knights swung at illusions, carving through a mere image of Algayre before that image dispersed like a popped bag of sand. The real Algayre would sneak up from behind and slice through the knights with either his rapier or the dagger. The battle lasted less than thirty seconds.

When the last knight was no more, the milky look in her eyes faded. Just as Morgan regained her senses, Algayre dashed for her. Impulsively, she extended her ruby palm and blasted him with a surge of furnace hot fire. Algayre stopped, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. The scorching flames hit an invisible force field that caused the fire to flow around him like a river coursing around a cemented boulder.

Steam from the scorched ocean rose until they were engulfed in a cloud of vapors. The fire flowed in a continuous stream. Morgan was giving it everything she had. She was already fatigued but now it was getting difficult to breath. A migraine throbbed so bad that it muddled her vision. She could barely see the blinding light emanating from her own hand. What she did see was Algayre smiling through his crossed arms. She screamed with rage and dug deep to pull out any hidden reserve still left in the tank, but alas…

The fire stopped. Morgan dropped to her hands with a hard splatter. Fumes rose from her singed hair and fabrics as she gasped for air.

“No words? Pity. I was hoping you’d chide me further. The arousal of gutting the bold in the midst of their foolhardy edicts is unlike any other,” Algayre taunted.

Morgan was drained. She lacked the wherewithal to hit him with some snarky comeback. As if she just finished a marathon, her lungs were compressed, her mouth gaped open, and thick strands of saliva dripped from her lips. The front of her head felt like it was about burst from the pressure.

It was in that moment that she heard the sounds of galloping in the distance. It was faint. Could’ve just been the headache. But in the midst of her shock and exhausted stupor, Morgan peered through her bangs to look up the beach and there he was, Gawain coming to her rescue. She wanted to smile but she couldn’t. Too tired. So deflated.

“Oh ho ho…This is sweet. Such pleasure. Such ecstasy. I’ll remember this moment for the rest of my life.” Algayre said with the utmost satisfaction.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 27 – Knights with No Lords (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 23, 2019
Posted in: Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Gawain (17), Gaheris (15), Agravain (14) are the brothers. Joined by the mercenary Pellinore (23), the squire Constantine (16), the lancer Kersey and several others…these young lads make up the future legends who will one day play a role in uniting all of Britannia. For now, they’ll settle for conquering the destroyer of Hibernia.

Chapter 27 - Knights

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 27 – Knight With No Lords
By Rock Kitaro

Cups crashed and plates shattered as Morgan fled down the dark corridors like a runaway slave. She dragged down ornamental armor and tipped over chairs all in an attempt to create obstacles but the laugh persisted as if it was always just creeping over her shoulders.

Every time she stopped to throw a fireball down the hallway, it would hit absolutely nothing, lighting up the corridor until it reached a dead end. And just as the scarlet flames fizzled out, she’d see him. The ghostly image of Algayre, with his black hollow eyes, grinning from ear to ear with that creepy smile that flashed all fifty-two of his crooked teeth.

For a moment, he’d just stand there, taunting, toying with her. Then, he’d glide forward with startling speed, standing vertical without any gait as if he was levitating just an inch off the ground with his heels glued together, closing the distance so quickly. Twice now, she was only barely able to dodge the glint of his impaling blade, the glimmer of steel just inches from her face.

Morgan jumped from a window, fully aware of the adjoining rooftop just six feet below. She landed and scraped her knee on something awful. Almost immediately, she picked herself up and continued running along the narrow wind-scraped rooftop, focusing to ignore the perils of plummeting 200 feet into the alleys below.

A sharp pain seared across her right thigh. Algayre had just fired a crossbow, slicing through flesh. The pain was too much. The arrow hit her in midstride so she fell.

Propelled by the forward momentum, Morgan spilled into the nearest open-air terrace and crashed through a wooden table. Her hair was frazzled. Bruises galore. She sat up and gawked at the excruciating gash throbbing from her leg. It hurt to move but she had no choice. The laughter drew near. Thus, she forged on, biting her lip with angry determination.

Morgan entered the 3rd floor of the citadel and spotted two Lothian knights at the end of the corridor. Both had blood on their shields. They seemed strong and eager for more action. Morgan shouted that a villain was after her. And just as she pointed towards the door, there was a flash of gray light. Someone had entered and closed the door.

“Fear not, milady! We’ll handle this!” the knights declared.

One of them charged headlong into darkness and soon screeched out in pain. There was a hard stabbing sound followed by the thud of a body dropped. The second knight ran to avenge his comrade.

Morgan watched in horror as Algayre grabbed the knight’s neck and sliced him six different ways all while smiling at the seventeen-year-old enchantress. He threw a dagger her way and it was out of sheer luck that she managed to evade it by staggering against a pedestal. Blood from the dagger dripped to her cheeks. Morgan snarled with rage.

“YA!” she shouted with the hurled a fireball.

The grinning Algayre held out his open palm. The fire vanished inches from contact. Morgan threw another and another but it had no affect. Algayre’s own magic intercepted the flames. Each time Morgan summoned her magic, it exhausted her, bringing her closer to fatigue and dehydration. It got to the point where she felt light-headed and saw double vision. Algayre laughed.

“All witches must die!” he hissed.

Again he came at her, levitating off the ground.

“AYE!” Morgan yelped as she dashed into the connecting corridor.

Hobbling as fast as she could with blood, sweat, and tears draining from her face, Morgan raced for the nearest open window. Algayre was right behind her, so close that he could reach out and wrap his entire arm around her neck.

“AHHH!!!” Morgan screamed as she threw herself out another window.

This window was unfamiliar. She didn’t know if she’d splatter on a roof, a body of water, or the streets below. Anything was better than death by Algayre. She flailed through the air for what seemed like an eternity until finally her back hit a cushioned surface. Her lungs bounced as if she just was body-slammed and it took a few seconds to regain her bearings.

By some miracle, Morgan had plummeted eighty feet and landed in a wagon full of sheep’s wool. As she gulped and struggled to breathe, her weary eyes gazed up to the third floor window she jumped from. Algayre leaned out of the window with that haunting smirk and it pissed her off to no end.

Women Really Do Run the World – Short Story (Suspense)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 14, 2019
Posted in: Paramour Letters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

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Marcus Angel – Women Really Do Run the World

Getting shot’s probably not the best way to begin a story, but here goes. Streetlights. The glint from her golden earrings. The flash from her muzzle and then I died. Even as I type this, I still can’t believe it. But in the end, what I saw with my own eyes confirmed what I’ve suspected all along. Women really do run the world. Perhaps they always have. I’m willing to bet they always will.

…

Ever since I first laid eyes on her twelve years ago, Anna Marie’s held the title as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. This includes actresses, pop singers, and fashion models. None of them could hold a candle to my Anna Marie.

At first glance it didn’t even make sense why she was working for a start-up company to begin with. She looked like she belonged on one of those housewife shows, lounging on a beach, or shopping along some strip of sun-blasted boutiques. The way she carried herself. Her height, her posture, her figure, it was ridiculous. As if she trained her whole life to win every pageant she could. Anna Marie was a stone cold stunner and she didn’t even know it. Or maybe she did know and just didn’t care.

Back then, Anna was always so bubbly and free-spirited, the type of woman who’d get out of my car in the middle of an intersection if she spotted a frozen yogurt cart on the corner. I’m not saying I like unpredictable women, but I confess there’s something about her that I found superior to myself in so many ways. How she never seemed to care about the future. That freedom, that spontaneity, I thought it was because she was fearless. I respected it. She was amazing.

Her association with me was a bit of a mystery in the beginning. Just to be clear, Anna was never officially my girlfriend, but someone who preferred hanging out with me as opposed to everyone else…in the beginning. Sure I made her laugh with my observations and blundering blithe. But back then, I was grossly overweight. I turned my back on religion and I barely had a social life because I didn’t drink or smoke weed. And more importantly, I had no direction in my life, no clear or concrete goal. No purpose.

Women like Anna have a way of changing all that. You can’t be with someone like her and have absolutely nothing going for you. I realized this the first time I pushed her away. My dumbass had “caught feelings” for her and I had the brass to come out and tell her that I loved her. I told her that face to face. She smirked and shook her head and told me that it wasn’t love but lust. I was completely embarrassed and promptly walked away in the middle of that conversation. In hindsight, I do think I should have stayed and played it out.

Next came that fog of awkwardness and uneasy tension, the emotional roller coaster cliché to CW shows. I’m talking about the dramas where the entire season could be ended with one conversation. For the following few years, Anna and I would toy with each other, each trying to make the other jealous. We’d go the extra mile to outdo each other in our work performance, each trying to rise above the other in terms of station and pay grade.

During this time, this dance, this arm’s race of love and hate, I lost over a hundred pounds. I joined a gym, worked on my cardio, and indulged in a period of enlightenment, soaking up philosophy on matters that were otherwise foreign to me such as astronomy, romanticism, identity politics, and cultural diversity.

Anna also progressed. She went and joined a military boot camp for women. I should have expected no less. Every weekend it was something new with her. Skydiving, swimming with sharks, shooting at the gun range. I even heard she started taking MMA classes, which really burned in my chest, the thought of her grappling with other men. Could never look at UFC the same way again.

And of course, during this time Anna was rarely without a man. One after another, they came and went. Buying her flowers. Picking her up for lunch. I’d sit there in my cubicle and just take it. She knew how I felt about her but still, she’d parade them about and act like nothing was wrong. It hurt so bad. Not just that she was going out with other men, but the kind of men they were.

All of them looked like they played for the NFL. All of them looked like a million bucks, sharp and suited, impressive cars, edgy cuts, thick beards or tatted up with that bold “it’s all good” charisma. They all had the same low bass-heavy voice and barely showed any facial expressions. They were cool, hip, and exuded an air of confidence. The complete opposite of who I was. No matter how much I bettered myself I could never be them.

For years I had to listen to Anna brag about her penthouse parties. She started appearing in music videos and even modeled designer dresses at the Met Gala. The MET FREAKING GALA! She was living life in the fast lane, so far head of me that I couldn’t keep up. I want to say I stopped trying but that wouldn’t be true.

The thing is, I honestly believed Anna was putting on an act, a bold front for her club bunnies and the socialites she cavorted with. We were in our twenties. She was a sexy Colombiana who could get any man she wanted. Of course she’s going to run the town. But deep down I felt I knew “the real Anna”. I was there for her before she donned the skin-tight skirts and heavy eyeliner. I saw her cry. I heard her regrets. I listened to her speak so passionately about why she wanted to live each day to the fullest. I knew about her family, her sister, her upbringing. I knew the real Anna Marie.

Then…after three years…Anna up and left. I didn’t have all the details, but from what I gathered, she found another job on the west coast somewhere in Silicon Valley. And even though she was never officially my girlfriend, we never kissed or hugged or anything like that, we weren’t even on speaking terms when she left, but still, it felt like one of my best friends had just died. I went into work the next day and was like, “now what?”

I know that might sound strange, but the mere presence of her was like a drug that stimulated me. Once she was gone, there was a deep void in my heart. I had withdrawal symptoms that left me somewhat depressed. In the three years that we worked together, I’ve been attracted to no one else. This woman really was the center of my universe, the source of all my ambitions. Truly, she was.

But one day a couple months after, I woke up and had that Parker moment. I looked in the mirror and realized…I really am one impressive looking dude. In the midst of progress, it’s difficult to see how far I’ve come. But I really had transformed over the years.

My columns now averaged over 30,000 readers. Three of which were circulated nationally and were up for awards. I used to weigh 378 pounds and now I was a solid 215. I could run. I could fight. My confidence was through the roof and more importantly, I reconnected with our heavenly father, reading the Bible cover to cover. It shifted my priorities and taught me to put my faith in God, not people.

In the two years following her departure, things had certainly become turbulent when it came to culture in the U.S. As a Millennial with some amount of intelligence, I felt responsible for what was happening to my generation. They called us Snowflakes. They said we were lazy and entitled. They said most of us were still living in our parent’s basements, that the institution of marriage was on the decline.

But there was a silver lining, a beaming ray of light penetrating the dark clouds. That ray of light was “equality.” The disgruntled had voices. The special interest groups had assembled. Protests and marches galore. Everyone took to the streets demanding to be heard. And what was more surprising was that not only were people listening, they believed. I believed.

But here’s the problem, here’s where it gets a bit dicey, here’s where I’m more or less bleeding myself as I step out into shark infested waters. What social and mainstream media had been feeding us, what they told us about what was happening in the world, it was all just an illusion. It wasn’t real. It was a projected fantasy that they were hoping they could turn into a reality by tricking the masses, by lying to us.

The reason why it worked so well was because people had effectively found a way to silence those with an opposing point of view. Anyone who disagreed, anyone voicing a view that went against the popular opinion was labeled a racist, a bigot, sexist, or a supremacist. Their careers and reputations were ruined. When corporations started firing their top employees based off of mere allegations, people knew they won the battle. Because corporations are empires. Their heads are world leaders. Other companies had no choice but to follow suit or else they’d more or less be browbeaten and boycotted until they submitted to and appeased the court of public opinion.

As I said…this had gone on for some time. As a minority, and worse still, a minority within a minority, I initially felt that I didn’t have a leg to stand on when it came to such squabbles. I decided to make it my goal to expose these tactics and introduce a new theory of soft-core oppression that attacked free speech and essentially, free thought. I felt it would be difficult to do that with a label strapped to my back. So in the beginning, I kept silent and observed.

However, it didn’t take long before I realized that by keeping silent I had only contributed to the symptoms. I noticed the mainstream media had become heavily reliant on statistics, polls, and trends. As a contemporary pointed out, this is a gross misrepresentation of the country as a whole.

A majority of Americans didn’t use social media. Who the freak were taking these surveys? And why the hell were decisions being made on our behalf based off of the subjective opinions of a study group. If 20,000 people were surveyed, that’s less than one percent of the population. It didn’t make sense. And I refused to believe that I was the smartest dude on the planet. I couldn’t be the only one seeing this. So what the hell was going on?

Then, last year I saw a string of sexual misconduct allegations topple some of the world’s foremost figures in the entertainment and political arenas. Good, right? Anyone who abuses others, regardless of race, gender, or orientation deserved to be punished. I had no love for the rich and famous, so screw ‘em. That was my first impression. That was, until I was approached by a man in an parking garage.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Right away, you think, “oh, that’s cliché. And let me guess, he brings you some secret file that proves your theories and sparks controversy?”

Nope.

Maybe he was going to do all that. But before he could, a soft spray misted into my face and the man collapsed before my feet. I couldn’t believe it. I must have stood there for the better part of a song just staring, doubting my own eyes, paralyzed, thinking this couldn’t be real. He was breathing one moment, and the next…

Paramours 2

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 26 – Onslaught (Action Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on February 6, 2019
Posted in: About the Author. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

This is a chapter I’m most proud of. When I was sixteen, I read Dale Furutani’s “Kill the Shogun.” It was the first time I read a novel in which I learned you could choreograph fights in a book or a novel. Before then, I’d just read “they engaged in battle” and the author presumes the reader’s imagination will do the rest. To me, that wasn’t enough.

However, if you’re skilled, you can describe a fight so much so that the reader can see each blow, each move, each block, each strike. Without further ado, I give you the climatic battle that engulfs Tintagel Castle. Princess Isolde has just been shot down by Gaheris’s arrow. The dike that held back the decades of strife and bad blood has been ruptured. The young men rise up and show why their generation will be the greatest knights Britannia’s ever seen.

Chapter 26 - Onslaught 2

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 26 – Onslaught
By Rock Kitaro

“RAAAAAAAAAAAARRGHH!!!”

Tristan’s roar reverberated louder than a chorus of angry trumpets. The Lion of Dumnonia was still leaning over the chopping block when he saw his beloved collapse to her knees. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and with brute force, Tristan curled his biceps and snapped the thick ropes binding his wrists.

The soldiers near the scaffold advanced to restrain him but Tristan was out of his mind. All he saw was red and there was no difference between friend or foe. He picked up a bench and crashed it against the four men sending them sprawling.

Another knight and old hunting buddy stood in his way with open palms trying to reason with him. Tristan slung the buddy by his breastplate as if he was nothing but a pillow. Trepidation kept other knights at bay as Tristan shouldered through the mass of hysteria. After shouldering through the crowd, Tristan slid to his knees and scooped up the wounded Isolde.

Panic struck like a stomped ant pile. Over 2,000 civilians rushed for the exits. Clanging steel and forceful grunts picked up as the battle began. Swords were drawn. Bows were pulled. The shimmer from raised shields flashed from every corner. Orders were drowned out by screams and crashes. Soon, the exits became clogged as soldiers struggled to enter and join the fray. It was chaos.

“NO!!! Don’t touch her! You’re not fit to touch my daughter!” Queen Iseult screamed as Sir Maven damn-near had to drag the queen to safety.

Like a guardian angel, Tristan wept and held Isolde close to his chest. Such sadness. Intense grief and an abandon of all ambition beset Tristan and Isolde as they pressed their faces together, blending their sweat and tears. The queen called for his head over and over again. Sir Maven and five guards had no choice but to physically lift her off the ground and carry her out of an exit.

“Fire the cannons!” Algayre shouted.

At once, a Hibernian archer hidden on the roof took up his long bow and set an arrow ablaze. Arching back, he aimed high and released. The flaming arrow sailed out of the abbey, southbound towards the edge of a precipice where five barrels of oil were stacked in a triangle. The thunderous explosion blasted fleeing citizens into the air and ignited a fire that spread from a pair of oak trees.

It was a signal to the Hibernian battleships at sea. Within seconds, a volley of cannonballs was unleashed but their aimed wasn’t to hit the castle. The booming cannons could be heard throughout the entire city. Morholt’s 260 warriors who had secretly come ashore were alerted. This was their cue to rise up and annihilate.

Horror and dread spread like a fast virus as slaughter screeched from every corridor, stairway, and plaza. But help was on the way.

King Lot heeded the earlier warning brought forth by Gawain and Constantine. Gawain predicted the ambush would begin at the wedding, but the prudent King Lot wasn’t the type to procrastinate. He ordered his Lothian knights to remain diligent, alert and ready, especially when the royal household was all gathered in one place.

When Morholt’s warriors attacked, the Lothians emerged in full battle armor. They combed through the waves of fleeing citizens and engaged the enemy Hibernians, crossing blades in the corridors, the stairways, and the plazas.

By the time Queen Iseult was carried to her ship at the Port of Talons, intense fighting had spilled out of Angel’s Square and into the streets. The monstrous Morholt had already chopped down nine men and he was just getting warmed up.

In Angel’s Square, Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain were taking on all comers. It wasn’t long before Agravain began to splinter off on his own but Gawain wasn’t worried. Constantine joined Gawain and Gaheris with a sword and shield. He wasn’t as skilled as the brothers, but his bravery was up to par.

Gawain’s feet never stayed in one place for less than a second. He moved from side-to-side in a crescent sweep to protect his sharpshooting little brother. With nerves of steel, Gaheris’s arrows sniped off rival archers who were hiding on the roof and within the cloisters. His accuracy was ridiculous. Out of the sixteen arrows he let sail, he only missed once.

“HO!”

A loud crash of exploding bricks and mortar got everyone’s attention. Morholt had just rammed his way into Angel’s Square. Two knights challenged with a loud battle cry. Morholt swept them away with a single swing from his mighty ax. Then, his beer-stained eyes turned and settled on the back of the lion.

“Tristan…” Morholt grumbled.

By now, Isolde was no longer blinking. The trails of tears had crusted over her face and she could no longer feel Tristan’s warmth. With her last bit of strength, Princess Isolde caressed Tristan’s cheek and whispered, “Don’t lose.”

Tristan’s stone cold eyes slowly elevated to the massive obstruction that was blocking the sun from view. With his sights locked on the beast, Tristan carefully lowered the beauty to the grass. His cheeks convulsed as a tremendous roar of absolutely nothing to lose came blaring from his throat.

The entire courtyard seemed to tremor as Tristan and Morholt charged for each other. When he was close enough, Morholt raised his ax for a downward swing but Tristan flew at him like a missile, ramming his rock hard shoulders into Morholt’s gut and causing the giant to drop his blade. Tristan tackled Morholt into the now vacant royal platform and completely obliterated the structure on impact. Splinters of wood chips flew everywhere.

It was a brawl unlike any other, like two grizzly bears mindlessly swinging their fists, relying on nothing other than maximum power and true grit. Each blow sounded like thick slapping steaks. Morholt would grab Tristan and hurl him against a wall. Tristan would bounce back with a two-handed clubbing attack to send Morholt skidding in the grass.

Soldiers on both sides did their best to stand clear. It was terrifying. They had to fight in the midst of a destructive tornado that wreaked havoc in an unpredictable warpath. Anyone caught in their way were crushed, bludgeoned, or used as weapons.

In the market plaza just two blocks north of the St. Gabriel’s Abbey, the red-scarfed Pellinore was running across a breezeway when he caught sight of Hibernian warriors racing for the back entrance of the royal palace. With a hungry grin, Pellinore ignored Kanish’s advice to take the stairs. He leaped over a railing and dropped two tiers to land in an open yard where mothers where herding their children indoors.

Clutching his serrated sword with both hands, Pellinore unleashed a ravenous roar and sprinted towards a wall of twenty warriors all by himself. The children cried and screamed for someone to help him.

Pellinore didn’t need any help.

As he came within twenty feet of the closest halberd, he launched into the air and flung his long sword like a dagger to impale the closest man. He landed and snatched the shaft of two spears before the tips could scratch his armor, redirecting their momentum to stab each other. He yanked his sword out of the dead man and began cutting down warriors left and right like a scout hacking through vegetation in the jungle. He was so fast, his swings, so powerful that confusion spread. And when his eager Black Bloods joined the fray, the Hibernians didn’t stand a chance.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 25 – The Greatest Escape (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 31, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan arrives for his execution. The courtyard at St. Gabriel’s Abby is packed with mourners all here to say their goodbyes to Cornwall’s favorite son. And perhaps no one is more of a wreck than Princess Isolde. Screaming like a woman being skinned alive, all she wants is to touch him one last time.

Chapter 25 - The Greatest Escape

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 25 – The Greatest Escape
By Rock Kitaro

The bells from St. Gabriel’s Abbey could be heard for miles. Shrouded in her dark cloak, Morgan le Fay stood alone on the second floor cloister overlooking the courtyard of Angel’s Square. No one forced her to be there. She couldn’t even recall how she got there. Yet, there she was, devoid of any triumph or emotion. Just staring out with an empty gaze. Her sapphire eyes settled on nothing and everything at the same time.

Over 2,000 men and women filled Angel’s Square. A cold wind blew from the north, rustling leaves and making it difficult for one not to squint. Children were prohibited. Armed guards were stationed at every exit with archers posted on high. Everyone wore dark garbs or black mourning gowns. It was a tragic scene with so many weeping and sobbing before the ritual began. It was contagious and spread quickly. Even the most hardened men fought back tears with stern frowns and clenched jaws.

Off to the side were the stands designated for special guests. King Lot, Queen Morgaus, Gawain, Gaheris, Agravain, and Debra were seated in the front row. Sir Ioness’s daughters, Dawn and Fawn were behind them.

The royal platform was behind the crowd on the far end of Angel’s Square opposite to the scaffold. It was a dais elevated five feet up and protected by a perimeter of iron clad soldiers. Seated from left to right were Algayre, Princess Isolde, Queen Iseult, King Mark, the Duchess Igraine, and the Lady Elaine. The chair next to Elaine was vacant. It was reserved for Morgan, a void Gawain couldn’t help but notice.

Morholt the Destroyer was waiting outside the walls of Angel’s Square, in front of the church massive main entrance. A thick velvety cloak covered his grotesque bulging muscles. Four of his deadliest cutthroats stood by his side as a horse-driven carriage entered the yard. Tristan had arrived.

The guards had cleaned him up. His blond stringy hair was washed and he was now wearing a familiar attire of tan britches, brown boots, and the light blue shirt he was always so fond of. He was no longer wrapped in chains, just a sturdy length of rope binding his hands behind his back.

As Tristan stepped down from the carriage, a chuckle that sounded like grinding walnuts emanated from Morholt’s throat. Tristan knew he was there but couldn’t bring himself to look at the man who killed his parents. He simply submitted himself to the dungeon master and was escorted through a path of red berry hedges leading to the stage of his demise.

The crowd erupted with grief and groans to see their hero so pale and despondent. Isolde nearly slid out of her chair, whimpering like a tortured hound as a suffocating lump formed in her throat. It was torture. Her legs grew numb with a sweltering heat tingling around her knees rushing down her calves.

Queen Iseult clawed at her daughter’s sleeve to keep her seated. The princess whispered and begged to leave but Iseult forced her to stay. The queen’s patience had dried up. She grew weary of Tintagel and each passing second only ate at her thin veil of civility like a corrosive acid. The sooner Tristan was dead, the better.

Morgan’s guilt was creeping in. She didn’t think it would, but watching the outpour of sheer misery, she couldn’t believe it. The huddled mass swayed to and fro with outstretched hands like a tumultuous tide inching closer to reach out and touch their favorite son. The keening became so loud that it drowned out the bells. Their faces. The tears. The agony, as if Tristan was truly loved on a personal level by each and every soul in the courtyard, it was too much. Morgan finally closed her eyes and the flood of tears broke free to roll down her cheeks.

“So this is what it feels like to be Judas. So wretched,” Morgan sniveled as her hands gripped at her face.

Isolde was the worst. She screamed like a woman being skinned alive.

“AHHHHHH!!!!” she screamed.

Her high-pitched shrill screeched through the courtyard. Gawain’s eyes shot open at the sight. Algayre tried to hold on to her shoulders but Isolde convulsed and dropped to her knees on the dais. Gawain and his brothers exchanged awkward glances. She just kept screaming, over and over again, but the queen would not be moved.

Gawain hardened his heart. His brothers did the same. All three wore the masks of soldiers, determined to conceal their sorrow. They ignored the incessant screams and pleas for mercy to focus on the event at hand. Tristan was nearing the steps of the scaffold.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 24 – A Single Ounce of It (Romance Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 24, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , . Leave a comment

Hours before Tristan is slated for execution, he imparts some big brotherly wisdom upon the downtrodden Gawain. Prince Gawain knows Morgan is responsible for the death and destruction that’s plagued Tintagel Castle, but still…he’s in love with her. It doesn’t make any sense.

Chapter 24 - A Single Ounce of It

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 24 – A Single Ounce of It
By Rock Kitaro

Gawain peered around the corner. The gigantic dungeon master was watching Tristan only for a moment. Then he turned and walked on, exiting from a large wooden door and closing it behind him.

Finally, Gawain approached. One hand was resting on the hilt of his katana. The other was raised, letting his fingers graze the cold wet bars as he walked to stand front and center.

Tristan’s blond hair was wet, stringy, and stinking. The wool blanket was wrapped around his torso and tucked between the wall and his shoulders. His legs were sprawled out from the wooden bench he sat on and his steel blue eyes…those blue eyes from whence such ferocity, such authority once exuded, it was as if his soul had already passed on.

Then, without blinking, his sights elevated to settle on his visitor. Gawain smiled. Then he pouted, overwhelmed with hopelessness as his forehead and sweaty bangs pressed against the bars.

“Christ, not you too,” Tristan groaned.

With a shaky voice, Gawain said, “You’re the closest thing I ever had to a big brother. I suppose that’s a stupid thing to say, considering I’m the one who got you into this mess.”

“Gawain, stop. It’s annoying to see you so hard on yourself. I need you to be strong. Now that I’m gone, you’ll need to defend Tintagel. Lothian can wait. King Lot’s not going anywhere. I need you to promise to protect Dumnonia from her enemies.”

Gawain nodded, closing his eyes as the tears began to trail down his cheeks.

“Gawain. You have to know. You’re so much stronger than me in so many ways.”

“Don’t,” Gawain whimpered. “Everyone talks about how strong and honorable I am. They have no idea. If I was so strong, so virtuous, why does it hurt so much? Why is it so difficult to simply be alive and bear it?”

“You rather it’d be you on the chopping block?” Tristan asked.

Gawain chuckled before biting down on his lower lip with a defeated sulk.

“Gawain…Just love her. Take her and embrace her with all your heart. If she means so much to you, your brothers will understand. Morgaus, Elaine, the duchess, they will all understand. Who cares what everyone else thinks? Your character shines through. Truly, it does. Besides. What warlord’s gonna be crazy enough to wag his tongue at you with that mad dog Agravain chomping at the bit,” Tristan said, drawing another chuckle from the disheartened Gawain.

“Tristan, during your hearing you couldn’t answer any of the queen’s questions about the princess. You claim to be in love with her but you don’t know anything about her. She likes bumblebees. They’re fuzzy. For hours almost every day last summer, she tried to collect them like marbles. She made me help. I must have gotten stung like twenty times. It was extremely irritating.”

“Bumblebees, huh. I had no idea,” Tristan snickered.

“That’s my point. How can you be in love with someone you barely know, and more importantly, all the sudden? Tristan, I’m trying my best to come up with some other explanation but the obvious truth is staring me right in the face. I can’t ignore it.”

“You think Morgan cast a spell on me,” Tristan nodded.

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Tristan leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the blotchy gray ceiling. A soft chuckle expelled from his nose before he said something that left Gawain speechless.

“So what if she did?”

“What?” Gawain whispered.

“Say, Morgan did cast some magical aphrodisiac on me. If she did, I confess, I probably need to thank her,” Tristan smiled.

“Tristan, no! You’re about to die and you’d thank her for it? You’ve gone mad. That’s the magic talking.”

“It isn’t,” Tristan said. “Listen to me. All my life I’ve heard the choirboys, the squires and knights talk about love and romance, that beautiful someone. I’ve seen ladies from hundreds of castles and I’ve never felt anything for any of them. When I see people, I see them as animals in which I’ve always felt like an entirely different species. They all have the same features. Everyone has a head, a pair of eyes, hair, nose, and lips. I never saw any of that and said to myself, this is attractive. Until a few days ago.

“Gawain, these past seven days have been the best days of my life. Contrary to how it seems, I’ve never been happier. Even when I pulled you from the black sea, fully aware you’ve come acting as marshal. I came back to Tintagel accepting my fate. It was worth it. It was worth it just to feel, just to feel an ounce of it. That thing they call true love. If giving my life means she can go on…it’s worth it. I know you don’t understand now. To be honest, I hope you never have to find out.”

Gawain gripped at the cell bars with that emphatic rage he tried so hard to suppress. Grinding his teeth, Gawain uttered, “How am I supposed to love a woman who starts wars, creates monsters, and sets about the destruction of so many innocent people?”

“Gawain, I know that sounds horrible? Truly. But do everyone a favor and shut up about it.”

Gawain shook his head in confusion.

“Now that I know what love is, I know what jealousy is. You might be the only man on earth who has a woman who’s willing and capable of starting wars, creating monsters, and devising destruction if it means keeping you all to herself. You’re like the male version of Helen. And Morgan is both the Greek and the Trojans. It’s kind of amazing, actually.”

“I can’t condone that!” Gawain barked.

“Yes you can, you idiot. Because you love her. You say can’t condone it now, but if ever you’re put in the position where you have a split second to choose between her or your own brothers, I guarantee you’ll choose her.”

“Then I guess you are right. I am stronger than you,” Gawain said with a fierce gaze.

“Don’t be salty. I meant no offense. Besides. Just because you’d choose her, doesn’t mean you’d actually defeat your brothers,” Tristan mused.

Spit flew from Gawain’s lips as he laughed helplessly. “You really think my brothers will be the death of me, don’t you.”

“Between them and Morgan, God knows,” Tristan smirked. “You could always join me on the chop block.”

The two laughed even more when Gawain imitated banging his head against the bars. The boys chuckled in their mild amusement before silence entered and made itself at home. Gawain would stay with his sullen head pressed against the bars for a full hour. Then the Dungeon Master entered.

It was time.

10 Year Challenge – From 378lbs to 220

Posted by Rock Kitaro on January 20, 2019
Posted in: About the Author, rock kitaro. Tagged: , , , . Leave a comment
ten year challenge 1

Rock Kitaro, at your service

Reluctant and proud to post this. Never should have got up to 378lbs, but I thank God for instilling the discipline and commitment to work it off and get down to 220 in four years.

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My face, looking at my old pictures