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All posts for the month December, 2018

The Slave Quarters (FINAL CHAPTER): Chapter 22 – Back to Work

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 30, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Before Agent Cloud Beaudry can close the book on the Slave Quarter case, there’s one last objective, which brings him to the scenic city of Savannah, Georgia. You see…Cloud is one of those rare individuals who takes his vows very seriously. Even if it was a promise made to a ghost.

Chapter 22 - Back to Work

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 22 – Back to Work
By Rock Kitaro

The coastal city of Savannah should be called the City of Spanish moss. There are giant oak trees at every turn and the aged moss hangs like garland throughout the year. It’s the oldest city in Georgia, a history replete with tales of the Civil War, colonial pirates, and remnants of the grand Old South.

Its college town atmosphere reminds me of Athens, except it has more character reminiscent of antebellum class and sophistication. Horse-drawn carriages are one of the key stables for tourism. The many churches, statues, monuments, and Victorian age street lights…it makes the city a time capsule by which one could escape from the modern world. Liberal Arts is huge in the area. Even on a crisp Thursday afternoon, one could hear a distinct cello or some classical string arrangement carrying with the wind.

It’s not my first time to Savannah. To date, I’ve solved three cases here. The last one involved the disappearance of a teacher who was so fascinated with the pirate folklore that she managed to get herself trapped in an old dungeon. By the time I found her, the rats had stripped her to the bone. The graphic image has scarred my mind and ever since, I’ve dreaded the idea of coming back. Between Savannah, Charleston, and New Orleans…the ghosts really are the worst.

Thankfully, I’m not here on official business. I moseyed on down after stopping by Augusta to testify at Det. Griffin’s Internal Affairs hearing. It’s been one whole week since I helped solve the Slave Quarter mystery. Det. Griffin was still a mess but my guilt no longer held me down. Griffin will probably spend the next three years in and out of the psych ward. And here I am indulging on a decadent dish of shrimp and grits at a highly recommended kitchen near Hutchinson Island.

It’s a satisfying meal. My belly is full and my schedule is clear for the rest of the afternoon. So as per usual, I seek out aesthetic beauty in the form of quaint scenic parks where I’m least likely to find horrible humans beings. Notice how I said “horrible”. I don’t mind the company of other humans so long as they’re good and decent. It’s been my experience that horrible human beings don’t bask in nature’s glory. If they do, it’s rare and brief.

The golden sun glistens through the browning crowns of Reynolds Square. The blue jays and robins are tweeting their lovely tunes as they bathed in the jade waters of a trickling green fountain. I’m wearing khakis and a cream-colored sweater vest over my shirt and tie. The cool breeze and a soothing scent of jasmine makes me feel lighter than a feather.

Indie Rock plays in my earbuds as I stroll the park on a grass stained walkway of maroon colored bricks. My mood is so chill, so cool. That rare sensation of “be free” enters my bloodstream causing my hands to wave along with the groove of the guitar. My shoulders bounce along with the beat. I don’t care who sees me, it’s all good. It’s all gravy. Dog walkers and joggers smile as they pass by. Single mothers are checking me out. I smile and nod to everyone. These are good people. It’s a good day.

I should be heading back to Atlanta. I have to work in the morning. Apparently Jessica and Leanne picked up a gangland murder that threatens to break the stability of Atlanta’s most prominent mob family. It wasn’t my case, and yet, for some stupid reason I feel responsible for those women. Call me chauvinistic if you want, I don’t care. They are my women and I protect my women. Yes, it’s this old-fashion obligation that compels to make one final stop before getting back on I-16. When a man makes a promise, he follows through. It’s just one of those things.

So here I go.

The Knights With No Lords: Chapter 20 – Break Out (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 27, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

In the dead of the night, a resounding bell wakes the castle. A massacre has taken place. Blood and bodies are strewn about. And when everyone finds out that the killer is one of their own…all bets are off. Peace talks go out the window and everyone’s calling for war.

Chapter 20 - Break Out

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 20 – Break Out
By Rock Kitaro

Gawain didn’t leave the banquet to go lay down as he said he would. Instead, he trudged out of the palace and got lost in the nightlife of Tintagel’s nefarious underground. With gloomy thoughts and a defeated drag, Gawain would eventually find himself drawn to the boisterous laughter of a man too full of himself to let anxiety ever enter his cognitive.

The “Slewellen Chest” was one of the most popular rough and tumble taverns in all of Tintagel. All of the sell swords, thieves, and drunkards frequented this massive two-story pub. Cigar smoke and discombobulated revelry filled the air and spilled out into the streets. Arm-wrestling and card games took up the center tables while discreet plots and conspiracy theories permeated along the timber walls.

The tavern was packed on both tiers, a rabble of activity. Playful wenches in tight bust-pressing bodices made themselves familiar. Somehow, they managed to balance trays of foamed topped brews, roasted fish, and salted pretzels while spinning on their heels, swaying their hips and dancing to the jaunty tunes.

A few sailors tried reaching up their skirts but they were quickly made examples of. The retired Sir Brackish yanked them up by their necks and sent them flying out the nearest windows. That being said, the Slewellen Chest had a storeroom full of spare windows. Every time glass shattered, everyone raised their mugs and gave a unified cheer before guzzling down the rest of its contents. It was a fun tradition.

Sir Brackish owned the bar and ran it alongside his remarkable wife, Slewellen. Short and stout with possibly the largest breasts in all of Britannia, Slewellen was indeed remarkable. All seven of her daughters were blessed with similar assets and Sir Brackish wasn’t shy about using them to draw wayward travelers to his establishment. Two ladies were stationed outside, dancing under the protection of four bearded swordsmen. The other five happily helped their mother tend to the guests and staff. Their charm, the way they interacted with visitors as if all were part of the family. Thus, Sir Brackish was one of the most famous men in all of Tintagel. If something were to happen to him or his daughters, an army of criminals would rise from the shadows and rally to his side.

The antler decorations were spectacular. Spirited fiddle and flute musicians played on a stage near the grand fireplace as the baker’s wife sang her song about sailors and pirates. Flickering candles and burning torches made the tavern a star that could be seen from the highest towers.

With a ceiling reaching up to forty feet, all of the walls were adorned by an eclectic array of swords, spears, and shields from around the world. The centerpiece was on the largest wall just above the fireplace. It was seven-foot replica of Duke Gorlois’s shield, bearing his image imposed over the black Cornish flag of gold coins. Surrounding it was the mounted heads all sorts of wild beasts, but regardless of the excess, all eyes were drawn to the shield the moment they entered the tavern.

Seventeen-year-old Gawain plodded into the tavern and was immediately greeted by dagger-like stares from the closest tables. The Lothian pin on his chest revealed he was royalty. That coupled with his youthful appearance and careless swag made the cutthroats ripe with animosity. Prince or not, the Slewellen Chest was no man’s land. Gawain was aware. Deep down, he was actually thirsting for a fight.

The grind of chairs being pushed put him on edge. Gawain turned to see a large potbellied mercenary approaching with three others, all ugly as sin. They looked strong. He could see the scars through their hairy forearms and they were already putrid with fatty sweat. Still…Gawain was thirsting for a fight.

“OYE! He’s with us,” shouted Barxy.

Everyone turned to the largest table closest to the fire. Pellinore and his five men, the Brood of Black Bloods had occupied this table. Kanish, Barxy, Jeremy, Dantry, and Balto, all decked in black armor with the aura of wolves ready to hunt. Pellinore was the only one smiling. He had one of Brackish’s daughters on his lap. She was a vibrant with orange hair, playing with Pellinore’s red scarf as she stared at the cool vertical scar over his left eye.

“He don’ belong ‘ere,” grumbled a Celtic warrior with a red beard.

“Anyone touches him…Do I even need to say?” Pellinore warned as he chuckled and leaned in to nibble on the lady’s neck.

The big scary men stepped aside and cleared a path. Gawain started to pass when suddenly he turned and smacked the taste out of red-bearded Celtic. The Celtic fell back and dragged with him the contents of a table full of drinks. Everyone laughed and applauded as the prince approached Pellinore’s table with the authority of a man well beyond his years.

“That idiot is the captain of the Hollow Fang. His boys will come looking to fix this,” Kanish warned.

“Good!” Gawain said as he plopped down in a chair.

“Hear, hear!” Jeremy shouted.

“HA! And here I thought this one was all pomp and piety,” Dantry slurred.

“Nah. He’s got plenty of Spartan in ‘em when certain toes are stepped on,” said Pellinore.

“Judging from that mug of his, I’m willing to bet there’s a lover’s quarrel, no doubt,” Kanish smirked.

Gawain didn’t answer. He just sat there with hooded eyes staring into the fire. Barxy, Jeremy, Balto and Dantry continued their card game while the inquisitive Kanish continued to make inquiries.

“Coming from the banquet?” he asked.

Gawain cringed and nodded. “Nothing makes a lick of sense anymore. You should have seen it. Everyone was getting along. It was as if peace was manufactured and the engineers held hidden blades to those with the blueprints. Morgan was the master of ceremonies. She gave some kind of motivational speech! I couldn’t believe it. I swear I thought I was hallucinating. And Tristan was…Pellinore, Tristan was giddy.”

“Giddy?” Pellinore doubted with a raised brow.

“I know! Sounds utterly insane. Doesn’t it?”

“Aye, it does. Maybelle! Come bring the lad some ale!” Pellinore shouted.

“No thanks. I don’t partake,” Gawain declined.

“Poppycock!” Barxy snapped.

“My prince, if you’re with us you’re gonna have to turn that frown upside down. Maybelle’s brown sugar ale should do the trick,” Jeremy assured him.

Gawain grumbled, “Oh, what the hell. On with it then.”

“ON WITH IT THEN!” Pellinore shouted.

“ON WITH IT!” the boys shouted, all pounding their mugs and fists on the table.

While Pellinore resumed burying his face in breasts, Kanish reflected on Gawain’s assessment. The prince drank and every time his cup was half full, Barxy would lean over and top it off. By the fourth refill, a miserable Gawain was slouching over, propping his elbows on the table and wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. He peered through his curly bangs and noticed Kanish was still staring.

“I’m not crazy,” Gawain mumbled.

“Never said you were, my prince,” Kanish said with that laid back smirk of his.

“You think I’ll lose myself to the drink and become like the rest of this riffraff,” Gawain asked.

“You want to know what I think?” Kanish asked.

“For fuck’s sake, just tell the boy!” Pellinore yelled.

“Milord, the prince and I are talking. You’d do well to listen yourself. Seeing as you’d be in the same boat if I stole your lady from you,” said Kanish.

“Let me tell ya,” Pellinore slurred. “You try and steal this valkyrie from me, you better run and hide yourself well!”

“Yes, that’s my point. Young Gawain. You are the heir of Lothian and Orkney. You need only lift a finger and a host of swords would set upon your enemies. Yet, here you sit as if you’re rotting in chains in some backwater dungeon. It’s odd, no?” Kanish noted.

Pellinore nodded. Everyone at the table was paying attention. Gawain, however, kept drinking. That was until Pellinore reached over and palmed the top of his mug.

“Remove your hand, sir,” Gawain warned.

“Or what? You’ll strike me?” Pellinore grinned.

Gawain’s fierce gaze was locked on Pellinore like a snake poised to strike.

“Hit him, Gawain!” said Barxy.

“Knock that scar off of his face!” Jeremy hissed.

“Go head. Strangle him with that stupid red scarf,” Balto urged.

“HEY!” Pellinore shouted. “This scarf is not stupid. You jackals have no sense of taste! That’s what that is!”

Fear flashed over Pellinore’s face as Gawain suddenly jerked forward. Only, Gawain didn’t attack. He erupted with a stream of pink projectile vomit spraying all over Pellinore and his lady. The woman took off screaming before Pellinore grimaced and started vomiting himself. The Brood of the Black Bloods roared with laughter as Gawain toppled over and hit the floor chest first.

“OH!!!”

“UGH! YOU DISGUSTING BASTARD! I’mma kill you!” Pellinore shouted.

He managed to get two kicks in to Gawain’s ribcage before the boys pulled him back. Gawain’s sweaty cheek stuck him to the stone floor. His sight got blurry and then all went dark. All went silent.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 21 – Warmth (Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 23, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud and Jessica attend the heartwarming wake of KeNedra Thompson. Here, Cloud finally releases the floodgates of so much emotion. He receives comfort from KeNedra’s mother and in return…Cloud is able to give her something from KeNedra.

Chapter 21 - Warmth

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 21 – Warmth
By Rock Kitaro

– Mika “Happy Ending”

There are things about African Americans that I can’t help but find truly endearing. For starters, there’s the gospel music, a genre that’s been stuck in my head for the past few days. I hope Miranda’s burning a CD for me when I get back.

But also…when it comes to church congregations, the unity, warmth and acceptance. It’s in times of tragedy or celebration that these people really know how to put aside their differences and treat one another as family. Everyone is a brother or sister, momma or pops. You feel loved. You feel supported. Even the few Caucasians are embraced and welcomed with warmth.

I wish this sentiment could carry on every day. I wish strangers, pedestrians, and passengers could see one another in the same light regardless the circumstance. I wish they’d put down their phones and look each other in the eye; say hello, smile and don’t be afraid to step out of their bubble. Don’t be afraid to introduce yourself. Talk to someone. Learn something new. The world is too big to confine yourself to one ideal, one culture. As long as your faith is strong, there’s nothing to fear and you’ll never be offended.

Some people slight the south, calling it “the Bible Belt” as if that’s a bad thing. In my opinion, it’s the “Bible thumpers,” those who embrace the “God first” mentality, those are the people I’d want to surround myself with. These people have an optimism I severely lack. Theirs is a pure beauty that shines through my gloom and melancholy. They have an ability that, to me, seems almost superhuman in the sense that I find it impossible to ever emulate.

That ability…is forgiveness.

The wake of KeNedra Thompson takes place at the Goshen Heights Community Center. It’s a huge turnout. KeNedra’s classmates, friends, relatives, and various figures from the majorette community have come to bid farewell. The parking lot is packed with vehicles having to park curbside along the streets of the neighboring houses.

The golden lawn of browning grass is garnished with sprinkled red leaves. The maples themselves still have plenty of foliage in their vibrant crowns as the morning sun trickles through the canopy. It’s brisk but warm enough for people to leave their heavy coats in the car. Thus, everyone is donning their Sunday’s best, black if they had it.

Leanne elects to stay in the rental while Jessica accompanies me to the front entrance. We’re dressed corporate but don’t intend to stay long. Her beauty and my bruises draw unwanted attention yet, oddly enough, I’m not nervous. In fact, I’ve found that when I’m attending public events with a purpose that transcends the sole act of socializing, I function much better. My agoraphobia remains subdued. My heart remains stout. The bouquet of yellow roses in my arms serves as my olive branch.

The reception lobby’s loud and congested. It’s a wake, sure, but there are so many reunions going on. Jessica hooks onto my arm as I see “brothas” checking her out. I smirk and nod their way. They nod back as if to congratulate and say, “Aight, now. Gah head.”

Two girls wave at me. I reciprocate, marveling at their charm, their modest attire providing a glimpse of the mature women they’ll one day become. It’s Jacqui and Meghan, the two prominent members from KeNedra’s majorette team. They’re surrounded by friends from other teams, all high school students, glowing with blooming youth and promise.

Like the guys, the girls seem surprised to see Jessica with me. I know she’s out of my league, but I confess, my ego starts to swell as Jessica squints with a playful glare as if I’ve forgotten the majorettes are all minors. I whisper if she’s jealous. She responds by merely jutting her chin and batting those long lashes.

Nearing the banquet hall, I spot two familiar faces dressed in sharp purple vests over their black attire. They have to do a double-take to recognize me with the patch under my eye and the queen by my side. Immediately, the brothers erupt with laughter and disbelief as their friends stand puzzled.

“Dayyum!”

“What in the hell happened to you?!”

“This man stay in trouble, boi. Shieet! Hahaha!”

“For real, though. Is there ever a fight you’re not involved in?”

“Straight up! Can’t take this dude nowhere.”

“You know what? Shut up, both of you,” I chuckle.

Jessica releases to let me embrace the brothers in that awkward hand-clap pull-hug technique that I never truly mastered.

“Bruh! You really need to learn how to fight or something!” says O’Shea.

“Forgive me, but I do seem to recall slinging one of you over a sofa set.”

Jamar laughs, clapping his hands as their young friends turn wide-eyed in shock. Apparently O’Shea is known for his prowess and the fact that this here white boy bested him is somewhat hilarious.

“Ah, man! I wasn’t even ready. You came out of nowhere with that kung fu shit. I got you back though! Look at his face. Hey! Look at his face.” O’Shea brags.

“Yeah. You got me back.”

“Anyways! Who dis?” Jamar asks.

“Yeah, Cloud. Who am I?” Jessica asks, flustered to just be standing there in awkward silence.

“I’m sorry. This is one of my best friends and colleagues, Agent Jessica Arroyo. Her expertise was pivotal in solving the case. She used to work for the FBI so, yeah. Best watch your back.”

“Okay! Okay! I’m Jamar Thompson aka JT Smooth. This my little brother O’Shea aka O’Sssh!”

O’Shea tries to give Jessica a hug but Jessica juts her hand like a spear, preventing him from coming too close. The disappointment on O’Shea’s face is priceless.

“You’ll have to excuse their profanity, Jessica. I assure you, I have been working with them about that.”

“Um. Profanity is just an expression by which we add emphasis. Can’t help it if society wants to demonize the practice.” Jamar explains.

“Well said.” Jessica compliments.

“No! Jessica, please. For the love of God do not encourage it.”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 19 – Sweet Revenge (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 20, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

It’s time. After containing her rage and resentment for so long, Morgan puts her plot in motion to get revenge on Tristan and Isolde. Everything’s going according to plan. It’s brilliant. No one suspects a thing…Well, no one except for Gawain.

Chapter 19 - Sweet Revenge

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 19 – Sweet Revenge
By Rock Kitaro

Sir Anatola was a retired knight nearing the age of fifty-eight. For decades, he’d thrown himself in combat to defend Dumnonia’s borders from invaders. His courage and sense of duty was undeniable. Thus, when Anatola became a father at the age of fifty and tendered his resignation, the king honored him by giving him command of a strategic beacon near the relaxed seaside jurisdiction of Devonshire.

Sir Anatola was a devout husband, tending to the wheat fields with his son and daughter. Everyone in the village looked up to Anatola as the community leader. Whenever there was a domestic or civil dispute, the villagers of Torridge would sooner come to Anatola than seek out the sheriff. Whenever there was troublesome news pouring out of Tintagel, the villagers would seek out Anatola for his guidance and wise prognostications.

However…for the past two days, Anatola considered himself just as baffled as the huddled masses when they learned of King Mark’s betrothal to Princess Isolde. Anatola tapped into history lessons of how political marriages were used to stifle aggressions between conflicting nations. Yet when it came to the Hibernians, specifically Queen Iseult and the thousands of widows and orphans she’s created over the decades, Anatola found it hard to believe King Mark was so willing to forgive.

Anatola had lost all five of his brothers and his father to the forces under Morholt’s command. His nieces were captured and hauled into slavery, the same as Gawain, except the girls never returned. Sir Anatola had no idea if they were dead or alive. The grief and animosity was buried deep in his heart.

“Byron! Stay close,” Anatola called.

Seven-year-old Byron was helping his father and a handful of workers harvest the field. It was after noon and the winds were picking up, allowing for a hypnotic effect as the wheat swayed like ocean waves. The night rain had drenched the field. Every so often, Anatola had to stop and wipe his sickle of grime and residue. That being said, dark skies threatened to release another torrential downpour.

Just then, a streak of lightning stabbed the high trees of the neighboring forest. The sharp crackle and booming thunder frightened everyone. All eyes were on Anatola, hoping he’d call it a day. Anatola didn’t want to stop. A solider stays until the job is done.

“Father, look!” said Byron.

Out the corner of his eye, Anatola saw the glint of shiny steel. A single knight dressed in black and gold battle armor was riding across the hill. The horse was carrying a long sword, a shield, bow and arrows, and a lance. The rider held the reins with one hand while the other gripped the banner, the gold and black sigil of Tintagel.

“Rally to me!” Anatola called out.

At once, the workers took up their pitchforks and sickles and rallied around Anatola. Children were collected and brought indoors. Doors and windows were barred.

The knight galloped across the field before slowing down and lifting the visor of his helmet. It was Sir Tristan.

“Something’s wrong?” said Tristan.

“Forgive ‘em, milord. People are on edge following the news of what happened to Germatis’s boy.”

“What news is that?” Tristan asked.

Anatola scoffed with a hint of disappointment. “I see word still travels like molasses. Two nights past, Germantis’s son was chopped in half by a single blow. Happened south of the capital. Signs of a militia moving ashore not far from the squire’s body. Mean to tell me you didn’t hear any of this?”

Tristan used both hands to remove his helmet, letting his long locks flow and confusion show. He’s known Sir Anatola since he was a child. The old man even saved his life once and when Tristan was strong enough to best him in jousting, Tristan knew it was because age slowed Anatola down. Anatola wouldn’t go spreading rumors he didn’t believe. And the fact that the villagers reacted in such a reheased fashion suggested Anatola warned them that Tintagel had been compromised.

“This is truly disturbing, sir. I’ll make sure the king hears of it and see to full inquiries myself.”

“Tristan, my son,” Anatola said discreetly as he approached the horse. “Why are you armed for combat?”

Tristan’s cold eyes peered into Anatola’s. Thunder boomed causing the workers to flinch once more.

“It’s going to rain soon,” Tristan said in a grave tone. “You and your workers should take cover immediately. Seek shelter and don’t come out. No matter what you hear.”

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 20 – I’ve Seen Some Things (Suspense Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 16, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

Det. Griffin has gone mad. He’s just been through a traumatizing ordeal. Cloud explains why he was punished and in the midst of his self-righteous condemnation, Cloud discovers sins of his own.

Chapter 20 - I've Seen Some Things

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 20 – I’ve Seen Some Things
By Rock Kitaro

The next morning, Jessica, Leanne, and I arrive at the precinct promptly at nine. There was a vast difference on Moor Street between today and yesterday. No crowds. No screaming faces. Just littered trash.

The ladies pick up the pace as we step off the elevators. I end up falling behind with my hands in my pockets. There’s a square patch beneath my left eye to reduce the swelling. I’m pristine in my black suit and tie. One could safely assume I just came back from serving as a pallbearer. It wouldn’t be too far off from the truth.

It’s touching to see them all so concerned about Griffin’s well being. I understand why and I don’t blame them…but still…if only they knew what I knew I wonder if they’d be so quick to lend a helping hand. Yeah, probably. Perhaps that’s why the guilt’s beginning to gnaw at my conscience. In any case, it’s too late now. The damage is done.

On the 3rd floor, deputies and detectives are huddle around the desk closest to Griffin’s office. Agent Dixon sees Jessica and Leanne coming. He receives them with open arms. Leanne fires off question after question by which Dixon simply proceeds to nod. Jessica covers her mouth in shock. Everyone hears the click of a door handle and a round of shushing quells the conversations.

It’s Samantha Griffin…the wife. She leaves her husband’s office as two suits from Internal Affairs enter in her stead, closing the door behind them. I recognize Samantha from the photo on Griffin’s desk. That sandy blonde hair and the soft freckles bridging her nose, its Sam alright. She has the toned body of an avid tennis player, active and fit. She’s about my age, a couple of years younger than Griffin, but her tan complexion is now pale with grief.

Jessica and Leanne exchange awkward glances before approaching to introduce themselves. As soon as they reveal their involvement with the case, a despondent Sam breaks down in a gripping scene of tears, collapsing into Leanne’s arms. It’s as if she just learned her son was killed in combat. Leanne doesn’t know how to react. She keeps gawking up at Jessica but even Jessica’s at a loss of words.

Instinctively, Leanne lowers Samantha to the carpet and settles her against the side of a desk. There, she and Jessica console the wife with false promises about Griffin’s recovery. It’s all so melodramatic. I should be more sympathetic but I’m not.

“I saw the tape,” a country voice crawls over my shoulders.

Agent Dixon continues with, “It doesn’t make the darnest bit of sense. The boy just stands there while the sum’ a bitch walks up and splits his head open like a jack-o-lantern. Never seen anything like it. Beginning to think this place really is haunted. That’s what the papers is callin it after the last suicide. But what’s stickin in my craw is that the suspect seemed to have no concept of pain whatsoever. Just kept pounding away. Not even when his eyes popped out and his lips smashed in like a banana.”

As discreet as I assume he’s trying to be, Jessica and Leanne overhear. Jessica in particular looks up with a fiery glare. It’s no longer that she doesn’t believe it, but more so she smells foul play. Two suicides in the span of five days is a coincidence Jessica’s not willing ignore. She abruptly stands and straightens out her pantsuit, holding back her ire with a clenched jaw and slow steady breaths.

“I’m gonna need to see that video,” she politely demands.

“Yes, ditto.” Leanne says in a whispery exhale.

Dixon extended his hand to direct them toward the conference room in the corner of the bullpen. He informs them, “It should still be queued up. The D.A.’s in there right now so tread lightly.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” Leanne assures Sam.

Jessica doesn’t wait for Leanne to get up. She promptly marches into the conference room and takes over. No one rebukes her when she takes command of a laptop and starts the video from the beginning. Leanne enters the room choking on her own tears. Dixon helps Sam off the floor and escorts her to get her some coffee.

All the while, I say absolutely nothing with my hands in my pockets. I only observe as if I’m sitting inside the theater of my own head with eyes as my own personal big screens to the real world. And of course, as per usual, I’m conflicted by what I see. It’s all so morbid, so morose, the complete opposite of last night’s triumph. There’s so much pain and suffering in plain view. All of it’s my fault and the only one I want to apologize to is the wife. But I can’t. I won’t.

Be cold. Be cold, Cloud. Don’t let the tears soften your heart as it has time and time again. Don’t forget what happened. Don’t forget what led you down this path. Be cold. Harden your heart. This is the path you’ve chosen. Now see it through, dammit. Walk.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 18 – Generations (Young Adult Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 15, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tintagel prepares for the wedding as Princess Isolde finally begins to wrap her mind around married life. Tristan and King Mark come to terms, putting an end to years of unspoken animosity. And Morgan enlists Agravain in her plan to ruin everything.

Chapter 18 - Generations WLOPartwork by WLOP for his creative series

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 18 – Generations
By Rock Kitaro

 

As the threat of light rain continued well into the morning, production for the upcoming wedding was well underway. The ceremony was to be held in the monastery, but decorations and arrangements for the reception also required coordination and construction. It was tradition for a tournament to follow the wedding and considering several of Queen Iseult’s knights signed up, Sir Cador knew he had to be careful with the match assignments.

Constantine was always by his father’s side. Sir Cador exerted supreme authority over the wedding plans and any error would be met by the backhand of his gauntlet. Constantine was truly in awe. The way everyone skirted around Sir Cador like a tiger on a chain, Constantine couldn’t help but admire his father.

In the Northern Ward, Tristan and Isolde strolled through the bustling district of tradesmen and vendors peddling their products. Almost everyone stopped and stared, utterly awestruck by their presence. It was as if the two were birthed from a romantic painting, a dream, a divine scene of a shining knight and a beautiful princess, both with shimmering blonde hair and heavenly faces that surpassed mere mortals.

One by one, skilled artisans and shop owners offered them food, wine, and crafts but the couple respectfully declined. Instead, Tristan spared a moment to help a carpenter hoist a beam up for a new roof. Isolde helped a farmer’s wife carry a basket of eggs from one cart to another. Once they finished their volunteerism, Tristan and Isolde rejoined and continued on their way to the palace.

Queen Iseult was waiting. On the great limestone steps of the main palace, the queen was accompanied by twelve choice men, all sharp and dashing. Sir Maven entertained her with a dazzling sword dance. He spun and twirled his blade so fast that it whistled with each spin. Everyone knew the techniques were useless in combat, but it was still spectacular to see.

The princess arrived, laughing and leaning into Tristan’s arm. The queen was not pleased. With a skeptic gaze, she watched as Iseult pranced up the steps and curtseyed.

“Good morrow, mother!”

“Good morrow, my dove.”

Tristan’s brooding heart had softened from before. At least now he could bring himself to look in the queen’s eyes without cringing.

“Bow before the queen!” Sir Maven shouted.

Tristan merely squinted and curled his lips into a half grin, half snarl.

“Insolent!” Maven slurred as he lunged forward with his sword.

Maven’s blade poked into Tristan’s chest but Tristan didn’t flinch. Isolde smirked, standing so close to her mother.

“Care to explain that blotch just above the derriere?” Iseult asked her.

Isolde pulled on her white dress to see the grass stain smudged by her hip.

“Oh! I fell,” Isolde answered, confident that it explained everything.

“Amazing.” The queen remarked. “This one hasn’t said a single word. Isolde’s father was the silent type. So laconic, plain, and dull. Like a cauldron of lukewarm water.”

“Oh! Trust me, once you get Tristan talking you’ll be hard pressed to find a moment of silence,” Isolde chuckled.

A page came running from the portico of the palace and kneeled before Tristan.

“Sir! The king requests your presence. He’s awaits in his private gardens. The orchards!”

The page continued with, “And milord, have you seen Lady Morgana? The duchess has the entire castellany out searching for her. I’m afraid she’s run off.”

“Of course she has,” Tristan scoffed, winking Isolde’s way.

Tristan departed. Isuelt observed how intensely her daughter watched the lion with that smirk of admiration. It was troublesome, to say the least.

Moments later, Iseult and Isolde were leading their retinue through an arcade on the second floor of the palace. They were high up, overlooking a busy plaza of merchants bartering their finest goods directly to the royal staff. After walking a considerable distance in awkward silence, Queen Iseult finally asked, “Will he be a problem for you and your betrothed?”

Isolde chuckled at the thought. Her light blue gaze wandered into the plaza and settled on a cart of ripe strawberries.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” said Isolde.

“I see. So you’ve tried.”

“Can you blame me? Never before have I ever felt so foolish, and yet I can’t help but marvel. Tristan and Gawain, they’re so full of loyalty and honor! I can’t believe such men exists,” Isolde gushed.

“Neither can I,” said the queen.

Isolde laughed off her mother’s cynicism but that laughter was cut short when she locked eyes with the man selling the strawberries in the plaza. The merchant had just finished with a customer when and he looked up and smiled at the princess. Isolde recognized him. The merchant was a Hibernian posing as local, one of Morholt’s warriors who had come ashore in the middle of the night. The warriors had randomly murdered merchants and stole their occupations to blend in.

Shocked, Isolde turned and stared at her mother. The queen knew exactly what she was thinking and shook her head, silently warning her not to ask questions.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 19 – Flickering Lights (Horror Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 9, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Cloud Beaudry casts judgment on the Slave Quarter Killer. Maggie is unleashed. (warning, graphic content)

Chapter 19 - Flickering Lights 3

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 19 – Flickering Lights
By Rock Kitaro

There’s something about an individual who isn’t afraid to admit his mistakes that warrants my respect. I prefer someone like that over those who hide their flaws yet presume to openly criticize the faults others, forgetting that we are all imperfect. We are all marred by error. That is to be human. No one is without sin. Especially me.

I admit it.

Bigots beget bigots and the accusers of hypocrisy are often the biggest hypocrites. To accuse another man of being too judgmental would in turn make me judgmental. I’m aware of this. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one.

The thing about today’s society that drives me wild is the implied expression of what is and isn’t acceptable. If a man slips up and makes an offensive comment, it could spell the end of his career. One sentence is all it takes. Demons behind computer screens will dig into the wounds and rip it open all in the name of justice. They call it social justice.

I don’t condone racism. I deplore it. In fact, I’m quite sure I’ll never understand it. But in this day and age, what seems more prevalent than racism is the backwards ass standards by which other flaws are swept under the rug. The glorification of sex, rudeness, and riches runs rampant. Despicable bullies now use their self-proclaimed victimhood to silence those they disagree with. They walk about with their heads held high, as if hurt feelings aggrandized them moral authority. At some point…all of this has become acceptable.

Shameless is confidence. Ambition is blurred with greed. Protesters embark for the sake of bringing purpose to their own meaningless existence. And those who simply just want to live their lives on the fields of neutrality are guilted into wars they never wanted to fight.

It’s not out of hate that I mention these things. If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t waste my breath. I love you but I have no place amongst you. That doesn’t make me cool. It doesn’t mean I’m better. In fact, it’s lonely. I wouldn’t want anyone to have to walk a mile in my shoes. But it is what it is. I am a man from the outside looking in. The guy on the hill overlooking the fog infested city, the one in the bell tower weeping over debauchery below.

That’s me. Cloud Beaudry, the walking contradiction. The man who sees the unseen, who hears secrets from grave. I know at some point I’ll be judged by the same measure. But quite frankly, if one were to peer into my soul right now they’d see over a hundred middle fingers raised in defiance.

This is my creed, my manifesto, if ever I’m caught and made to be held accountable for my actions on this day. Everyone remembers the killers. No one remembers the victims. I’m about to change all that. I’m sorry Det. Mark Griffin. I’m sure you think I’m like everyone else in assuming you’re cool or something to aspire to. But I’m not. I find you detestable. I’m here to hand down your sentence.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 18 – This Isn’t Over (Detective Mystery)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on December 2, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

They’ve caught their man. Cloud Beaudry risked his life and got his ass kicked in the process, but he isn’t the hero everyone’s propping up on their shoulders. Det. Griffin is taking credit. Det. Griffin is the man of the hour. Det. Griffin needs to be dealt with.

Chapter 18 - This Isn't Over

The Slave Quarters
Chapter 18 – This Isn’t Over
By Rock Kitaro

Det. Griffin is the man of the hour. Dressed sharp in his black overcoat, Griffin is met by thunderous applause as he parades a traumatized Calvin Chalmers through the 3rd floor bullpen. Detectives, deputies, and sergeants alike stand with adulation, thankful and relieved that the storm battering their withered department will soon dissipate. And of course, perhaps no one is more grateful than the police chief himself.

“Breaking News” scrolled on the lower third of every major network. The police chief was preparing to make an official announcement at the eleven o’clock broadcast. No doubt, it must have been how Obama felt when Bin Laden was killed. Because at long last, the police chief was ready to announce that the “Slave Quarter Killer” has been captured.

Calvin Chalmers was severely beaten. His jaw was popped back into place, but other than that, the police didn’t bother with his broken ribs or the cuts and bruises swelling over that baby face of his. After Calvin refused to say another word without his attorney, Griffin locked him in a holding cell down in the basement. It was the same holding cell Jamar and O’Shea was kept in earlier in the day. Cell 1-A, the one closest to the entrance and directly in view of the camera so Calvin was supervised attentively.

Turns out, the paranoid Leanne logged into a computer to track the GPS on her phone, the phone she left in the rental car. Once they found out I was at the slave quarters, she, Jessica, and Griffin hauled ass. I guess I should be thank…No. I’m not thankful. If I wasn’t distracted by Griffin’s obnoxious LED headlights I would’ve seen Calvin scooping up the dirt that he threw in my face. I suppose the only thing I am thankful for is the confession recorded on my phone. Better to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

Jessica and Leanne briefed the police chief with the details of the evening. Jason Hicks was taken as a material witness. Since I couldn’t give up how Miranda hacked the Halo-Star servers, it was Jason’s testimony and the confession from my phone that backed the warrants needed to search Calvin’s home. Hair fibers and blood samples were found on Calvin’s clothes, his bed, and in the car he owned. The victim’s wallets were kept in drawers. Their DNA was found in the sinks. All of it was incriminating, enough to condemn him.

The revelations were appalling but served as an eye-opener for the department and the community. Everyone was so focused on pointing fingers and casting blame. None of it was productive and if it hadn’t been for my rebellious determination to get to the bottom of it, more people could have been seriously hurt or killed.

The protesting mob that gathered outside eventually broke up and started planning vigils. The police chief would later face criticism from his own department for dropping the assault charges against Jacory. He did shoot three officers, after all. But I guess losing a leg and having to register as a sex offender was punishment enough. His face, distinguished by those orange contact lenses and his bald brazen build, made it difficult for him to fit in with any neighborhood. He’d eventually go on to leave the state and start a new life somewhere in the Southside of Chicago.

Jason Hicks would lose his job as a paramedic. In fact, the community would forever think twice every time they saw an ambulance parked near a school. It’s kind of sad actually, how a few bad eggs can tarnish an entire occupation.

Griffin was golden. His clean image and tall statuesque build made him the perfect poster child for the department. The chief credited him with Calvin’s apprehension and planned on giving him a promotion. Even on the news, it was Det. Griffin’s face beaming as the man who caught the Slave Quarter Killer. He was lead detective after all. Everyone praised him for staving off years of racial tension that threatened to proliferate throughout the state and possibly the entire nation. In every hallway and every bullpen, Griffin received a warm welcome and another round of applause. Yes, the police were proud to have him, a paragon of exemplary service.

As for me…I didn’t hear any applause. No one came to shake my hand and tell me, “good job.” I sat on the examination table of the 1st floor infirmary receiving medical attention from a nurse who was all too eager to go upstairs and meet the darling Griffin. She slaps on a cold methane pack where the butt of my own gun hit me. Even touching it with something as soft as gauze would cause half my face to flare up something fierce. I fear its an orbital fracture that would require surgery.

Nope. I’m just a wimp.

The nurse doesn’t make conversation. She doesn’t ask how I got the bruises or what I did during the night. She doesn’t care why I’m wearing a bulletproof vest or why my back’s covered in dirt. Even when she fetches a bottle of painkillers, she just puts it on the tray next to me and promptly leaves the room. She doesn’t return.

After a while, I slowly turn to look in the mirror. I’m like Quasimodo with this face. My left cheek looks like it’s about to give birth to a plum. If I took off my shirt, I’m sure it would look like the aftermath of a paintball fight. And as much as I needed to rest this body and let it heal…I can’t let things stand as is. I just can’t.