The Slave Quarters: Chapter 11 – Thin Air (Paranormal Mystery)

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

Cloud gets to work. The six victims aren’t going to find their own killer, but usually, they point him in the right direction. He needs to find KeNedra’s ghost, but where is she? Miranda suggests investigating the paramedics who discovered KeNedra limping down the road. It’s a start…

Chapter 11 - Thin Air

Chapter 11 – Thin Air
By Rock Kitaro

This is where she died. KeNedra Thompson, age 15, of Cedar Creek High School. She planted her hands against the yellow brick walls and proceeded to bash her head in.

I’m sitting on the floor of the interrogation room with my back against the wall, staring up at the spot where flesh met cement. It’s a blotchy spot, lighter than the surrounding surface area, suggesting the walls haven’t been scrubbed for years and it was just the blood that the janitor focused on cleaning.

I’ve been staring at this same spot for over fifteen minutes, nearing the eleven o’clock hour. A single lamp lights the room. There are overheads, but I left them off on purpose. I wanted the shadows, not out of some dramatic flair but it was the shadows that spoke to me.

However, at the moment, it’s only Maggie’s apparition standing in the corner to my left. As ever, she’s scowling with those squinty dark eyes, her Betty Paige bangs, her sooty school dress. Even in a calm state, her presence is unnerving. She has a cruel tendency to charge at me, without warning and quicker than a bolt of lightning. It’s like being in a room with coiled rattlesnake, primed strike at any moment. That I haven’t developed PTSD or some kind twitch is a miracle in of itself.

KeNedra…where are you? Why won’t you show yourself to me? I’m here to help.

The cameras are recording, so I have to be careful about what I say out loud. Scattered before me is my computer tablet and the photos and dossiers of all six victims, the deceased majorettes. I have statements collected by detectives. Maps highlighting the distance between the plantations and the victims’ homes. Only two conclusive autopsies. KeNedra Thompson’s and Tiquasia Payne’s.

Let’s see… If I was in KeNedra’s shoes what would I be thinking?

KeNedra just finished telling the detectives about how she woke up in the slave quarters when she heard the screaming, Tiquasia’s screaming. She saw the killer jump on Tiquasia and drag her back into the other compartment. I’m assuming it’s through the hole in the wall that got me dirty. KeNedra recalled how the killer beat Tiquasia to death with a rock or a brick. It was then that desperation kicked in and KeNedra broke free from the chains and ran off into the cotton fields. After that, paramedics found her staggering along Peach Orchard. This was what KeNedra told the first detective.

I remember the video. I’ve replayed it over a dozen times and it’s always the same. As she recounts what happened, KeNedra appears cooperative, coherent. Yes, she’s despondent but there’s sliver of hope. It isn’t until the detective asks KeNedra if she recognized the killer that all hope goes up in smoke. I’ve seen that look before. Any guard patrolling death row would recognize it. When an individual acknowledges their inevitable death, they resign themselves. The light goes out of their eyes and they simply let go of everything attached to the living world.

That’s what’s bugging me. According to her friends and family, KeNedra wasn’t the type to give up so easily. I went to her MeBook page and downloaded photos from her profile to my phone. I saw videos of her protests against police brutality, a calling for an end of black-on-black violence. KeNedra was strong and courageous. If history’s taught me anything, people like this only commit suicide for martyrdom or to protect someone they love. Either way, why would she kill herself in such a brutal fashion? Was it haste or impulse? Did she recognize the killer and would rather die than give him up? Was it her brothers?

The light bulb goes off as I begin to settle on the idea that it just could very well be her brothers, Jamar or O’Shea. Both were tall and strong enough. But at the same time, their familial bond was solid. If one of them was a rapist and a killer, I can’t see them harming their own sister. The passion at the Thompson residence wasn’t fake.

Great…Then, why else would KeNedra commit suicide? Why isn’t her spirit in this room? Was she truly possessed?

A frustrated groan vibrates from the back of my throat.

“She’s not here! The girl, you’re looking for,” Maggie says with crossed arms.

My eyes lock with Maggie’s. She’s not lying, or at least it didn’t seem like she was. Where would KeNedra’s ghost be if not in the place of her death? Is there a difference between suicide victims and murdered victims?

I’m focusing too much on the paranormal. I’m missing something and my brain is about to burst. After picking myself up with stiffness in my joints, I step out into the hall to call my good friend, Miranda Burnette. It’s pretty late but I know she’s still up. If she went out with her girlfriends after that spin class, chances are they hit up the bar to treat themselves.

The phone rings as I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone. There isn’t a soul in sight, save for Maggie’s silhouette standing in the dark end of the hallway under a red exit sign. So cliché…

Intelligence – The Best Thing People Hate About You

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 14, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Food for Thought, religion. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

“He’s so full of himself.”

“He thinks he’s better than everyone”

“He thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.”

“He has an answer for everything.”

Machinery_of_the_Stars_by_alexiuss

Intelligence – The Best Quality People Hate About You
By Rock Kitaro
Date – October 14, 2018

I had a dream last night that was so vivid, it gave me heart palpitations in despair. The immense sadness struck way to friggin close to home.

It’s about a teenager, black, strong, tall, and handsome. He’s attending a religious meeting, dressed in a sharp suit. He’s asked to pray for the congregation, sort of like, “just go for it son, we all support you” type deal. When he does…he hears others whispering silent prayers over his. That’s when his vision gets blurry. He struggles to think. His chest gets hot and he shuts down.

On the van ride home with his parents and brothers, he has his eyes closed. He’s trying to stay calm but for some reason he’s full of suppressed rage. They keep asking him what’s wrong. But he can’t say. He can, but doesn’t want to. They keep pressing him, but he refuses. He keeps his eyes closed. He’s afraid to open them. He’s afraid to show that rage. It’s there. They all know it. But the sight of his eyes…he doesn’t want them to see it.

In school, four boys push and tease him. He keeps trying to walk away but they block his path. Everyone’s laughing at him. Even a larger teacher who has the ability to break it up, this teacher just sits back and smirks at the young man.

After a final shove, this young man turns around and cracks one of them in the face so hard that he dislocates the bully’s jaw. The others rush him. They gang up to jump him. But he anticipated it. He knew they would. From the first insult, on the first day of school, he’s dreamed of this day. And now that day is here. They swing and grab our young man, but our young man is quicker, stronger, and more importantly he has the knowledge of a fighter.

He bobs and weaves, slipping the jab, evading the cross, sending crippling uppercuts to their kidneys, stomping out their knees, and shoving their heads into the locker. When the larger teacher gets involved, our young man puts the teacher in a headlock and literally spins him around for a devastating DDT to plant the teacher’s forehead into the tile.

It’s only then that our young man submits.

In the principal’s office, the young man is on his knees. Again, his eyes are closed. His heart is full of suppressed rage as if that beat-down hadn’t even scratched the surface of the release he so desperately craves.

His parents are there. Again, they’re begging and pleading with him to open his eyes, to try and explain to them what’s wrong. But he refuses. He’s moved to tears.

Now he’s in the living room of their home. Again, he’s on his knees in a submissive state, his heart full of rage, his eyes closed. It’s a family meeting. Everyone speculates about what’s to be done. Our young man is hopeless. At this point, he could careless about his future. Whatever happens, happens.

There’s a knock at the door. A man enters, dressed in a sharp suit and a hat, like some sort of priest from the Exorcist. The Man walks over to our young teen and smiles.

“It’s alright. You can open your eyes. I understand.”

Those magic words…the key. I understand, he said. But it’s not enough to say it. He has to prove it.

“You have power to do or be whatever you want. Your potential is off the charts. Anything you want, you can get it. But you won’t. Because you want to do the right thing. You have to do what is good in God’s eyes. Jesus talks about how the meek will inherit the Earth. The Proverbs talk about how there’s wisdom in silence. Being humble and exercising humility conflicts with who you are and its tearing you apart.”

“What are you talking about?” The mother says.

“Shsh…” Says our guest. He continues with… “I understand, son. It’s alright. You have to come to terms with who you are. What you are… Intelligent.”

Our young man opens his eyes. The rage is feral.

“I know. Knowledge. Wisdom. Intelligence. You’re blessed with all three gifts but you have no idea what to do with them and it’s painful, isn’t it. It’s like Superman, who has super strength and super speed, but he holds back all of that in an attempt to blend in and live a normal life with all the other ordinary human beings. But unlike strength and speed, intelligence comes with an unavoidable caveat that is awareness.

“You can’t ignore what you see and hear. You take it all in and process everything. Even now. You see me. You see my suit, my looks. You hear my voice and the precise words I’m choosing to speak. Your mind is moving a hundred miles an hour trying to figure out who I am, where I came from, why I’m helping you, and am I really as satisfied with life knowing what I know. You see your parents and your brothers, wondering what they will say when I’m gone, wondering if they’re already concocting some counter to my perspective to keep you contained.

“And that’s all that is. The bullies. Your peers. Your parents. Your teachers. They don’t understand you. They see you. They know what you’re capable of and they’ll say things like they don’t want you to come out arrogant or with an inflated ego, but that’s all ludicrous. Isn’t it? They’re too stupid to realize the immense rage in your heart is not at them, but yourself. You know you can pretend to be who they want you to be, but you know God sees deep within your heart. You can’t hide the truth from Him. So what’s to be done?”

Already the weight is beginning to lift. The young man can breathe again, but still it’s uneasy.

“These gifts God blessed you with, they have a purpose. I don’t know what that is. And neither do you. But if you’re a true believer and truly intelligent, then you know that regardless how much information you soak in, there will still be answers inexplicable. But no matter what, trust in God.

“Embrace these gifts. Use them when you can. And prepare yourself. No matter how much you hold back, and you do…hahaha! I know you hold back so much. Every problem that comes up, every time you hear someone complain, every debate, every conflict, you see the answers. The solutions are obvious to you. But you know. These people aren’t looking for solutions. They’re in love with the drama, which is illogical to you and it’s killing you. I know.

“But dare I say, therein lies your true strength. The strength to walk away. The strength to say nothing when you know no one gives a damn about solving the problem. You pick and choose your battles and the fact that you see all paths and pick the one that you think is best in God’s eyes…that’s your humility. That’s how you display how humble you are.

“You can gloat. You can brag. You can rub people’s faces in their problems saying ‘see! I told you, I warned you! You didn’t listen to me!’ Or you can simply say nothing. Work off those frustrations in the gym.”

“I think the key for you is simply finding a best friend.”

“How?!” the young man says as if already knew that. “Everyone I meet or talk to thinks that I’m arrogant. I can see it. Even if they’re friendly to me at first, I can see my words putting them to shame so I hold back and conceal that so-called intelligence. But if I’m always holding back and not being myself, how can I say that anyone around me, how can I say that I have any friends at all? They don’t know me. They’ll only know a performance of me, an act, a character I’ve created and presented to them.”

“Is it really so important that they know the real you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

…

“Because it only amplifies the loneliness. And even in the Bible it says it. Man’s not meant to be alone. It’s not fair. That everyone can have someone, except me. It’s like I don’t exist. It would have been better not to be born at all.”

“Consider the example of Job, my young scholar. Did he know why God allowed for him to be stripped of his home, wealth, and family? When his so-called friends came to talk some sense into him, they did more harm than good, didn’t they. Because they failed to understand his faith. They kept trying to make him out to be actually less faithful than he really was. And they’re arguments were convincing. Any lesser man would have caved and cursed God. But Job didn’t. Regardless of the reason why, he still put faith in God and endured. And God rewarded him.”

“He doesn’t reward them all.” The young man says. “Consider Stephen. Who spoke the truth in the face of an angry mob and was stoned to death. Where was his reward?”

“Stephen’s death was tragic, but surely you don’t think he was the only martyr during that era. Why do you think his example was written and included in the Bible? Even Solomon in Ecclesiastes, makes it plainly clear that sometimes the righteous do suffer. But why do you think God allows these things to happen? What do the deaths of the innocent, the righteous…what effect does that have on others?”

The young man already knows. And yet, the truth does little to assuage his seemingly rotten predicament.

“It inspires others. Doesn’t it. Who knows where Christianity would be if those early martyrs had not died, if they didn’t take up the cross and truly follow Jesus Christ?”

“Is that what I should be? A martyr?”

The man sighs. “I certainly hope it doesn’t come to that, my friend. But know that this world is wicked. It accepts what is there’s and because you belong to Christ, it will reject you.”

“Even my own family?”

“You can’t blame your family for failing to understand. Not everyone has your gifts. The best thing you can do for yourself is strengthen your resolve. One day you’ll leave this nest and if you must, seek out others who are just as intelligent. But even then, it’ll be tricky. Intelligence, being smart, they say it’s a virtue. But more and more it’s beginning to seem that none of the virtues are wanted or appreciated it. So brace yourself for that.”

“That’s not very inspiring, mister.”

“I’m not here to inspire you, my friend. I’m here to prepare you. I’m here to help you help yourself. That this is reality. You can use your daydreams to escape to a far-off land when you’re alone and need to take your mind off things. You’ll immerse yourself in work and keep yourself busy to refrain from think about that which isn’t necessary. And who knows…Maybe God will bless you with at least one who can be a best friend to you, someone dependable and there for you. But know this…even when you do, you’ll also have to be a best friend to them. Jesus Christ helped others. What will you do?”

The words are a jolt…an injection of determination. And there. For the first time in a long time, our young man smiles. Because it’s a challenge. It’s a cliché and sophomoric thing to think that it’s just you against the world. So many times we see this attitude and its usually not in the heart of a meek and humble Christian. But for Christians who do endeavor to do what is good in God’s eyes, it really is the Christian against the world.

“He’s full of himself.”

“He thinks he’s better than everyone”

“He thinks he’s the smartest person in the room.”

“He has an answer for everything.”

“You really do come off as a bit arrogant.”

“I’m not sure if you realize just how intimidating you really are.“

“People don’t hate that you’re smart, they hate how you talk to them.”

If you’ve received any criticism like this, and inquire to those firing off such criticism as to why it is that they think this about you…the answer is usually because of something you think, which you made known, not out of the blue, but because you were friggin asked. Or worse…they have no answer. They’ll just say, from the way you act.

Essentially it all boils down to their own insecurities. And instead of simply admitting in their hearts that you are smart, intelligent, or knowledgeable, they’d rather just break you down and bring you to their level. And it sucks, right? Because chances are, the people who say these things to you are probably the closest ones you can come to calling a “best friend.” Or worse…someone you actually want to get close to.

Last week…really over the past couple of months, there have been so many instances in which a coworker with brings forth some new idea to implement. And while, I get that everyone’s open to trying new things, I’m not on board with experimenting at the expense of hurting team morale or driving down production. To much is given, much is expected. What’s the point of being a leader, of having the wisdom, if not to use it to help others, if not to help my team?

So, discreetly, I messaged and sent e-mails to the right people without taking it to the top boss, warning them of the problems that would arise, that would come about it. And each time, I’ve been brushed off.

And just as I predicted…literally exactly as I predicted. The problems took place. People complained openly. And everyone was pissed. Meanwhile, I saw all of this and rode the rollercoaster of emotions.

First it was such joy that my premonition was right on the money. Then as people complained, I wanted to scream at how I tried to warn them. But because I don’t gloat, because I don’t brag or tell anyone how “right I was”…I feel like crap inside. So badly I want somebody, anybody to acknowledge my efforts, how I tried to avoid the catastrophe. I don’t know why I want that acknowledgment. Call it validation. Call it a “pat on the back”. But without it, I really do feel invisible. Like I don’t exist.

And probably the worse thing about it all, is indeed my ego. You have no idea how ridiculously tough it is not to think that everyone around you is a fucking idiot while your intelligence puts you above the rest. You shouldn’t think this. Everyone’s equal, right? You’re no better or worse than the rest. You’re supposed to be humble.

No lie…I even Google’d for the best way to keep your ego in check. And on almost every list, there’s the suggestion of having a best friend. Someone you can unload and reveal these most honest of thoughts to. And this is a real struggle to me.

Probably the closest friend who really knows the real me lives on the other side of the country, and she’s married. So I can’t really call on a daily basis, lest I cause a strain on her relationship with her man.

I have two other close friends a bit closer to home. But one is an ex, who I’m afraid of hurting by getting too close. And the other is a good-natured individual who lacks comprehension. So if she were to read all of this right now, she’d still be like… “huh?” And with friends who simply lack that ability to comprehend, you really have to be careful because they have a way of making you second-guess yourself. As if, because they don’t understand, it must not be as “bad as you’re making it to be.”

Thus…I really don’t have anyone dependable in my life whom I can talk to on a regular basis about this kind of stuff. I suppose it isn’t that important that they understand a hundred percent of what I’m saying. It might not even be that important that they understand a hundred percent of who I am. But at the very least, I need someone to lean on, someone supportive and encouraging. I think that’s why I’m drawn to upbeat, happy-go-lucky women who smile and laugh so easily. Of course, one wonders what a shining light like that would be doing with a dark storm like me.

Companionship is the key.

“Well, if you’re so smart, why aren’t you rich?”

Because I’m not willing to do, just anything. Lol, I mention that here at this point because I’m sure by now, it’s pretty obvious what one should do if they want someone in their life who either has that intelligence or shares the same worldview. Join a congregation or enter a scholastic circle.

“Hi, what’s your name?”

“I’m Rock.”

“So what brings you here.”

“I’m looking for a friend.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that! Go for it,” says the optimistic.

lol…I just might.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 10 – The Eldest Daughter (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 12, 2018
Posted in: Knights With No Lords, Original Stories. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Here, we’re introduced to Queen Morgaus, the fierce she-bear of a mother when it comes to Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain. Ever since Morgan ran away with the brothers, Castle Tintagel has been on pins and needles, fearing the wrath of Morgaus and praying for the day everyone returns safely. That day comes.

The clouds give way to sunshine and all of Tintagel rejoices. But still…in the triumph of Gawain’s return and their subsequent capture of Princess Isolde…no one thanks Morgan. No one even acknowledges her presence or gives her any credit. It’s just like when they were kids. Gawain is the light, favored by all. While she is the darkness, ignored and forgotten.

Chapter 10 - The Eldest Daughter - artwork by WLOP from his comic Ghostbladeartwork from WLOP and his “Ghostblade” series

Chapter 10: The Eldest Daughter
By Rock Kitaro

In the weeks following the disappearance of Morgan, Gaharis, and Agravain, the mood at Tintagel had soured immensely. King Mark, in particular, felt an enormous sense of responsibility since no one had reported their absence for days after the Council of Gold Clovers left to return to their respective domains.

Sir Cador, the Lord Chamberlain, dispatched his own son to lead the search party, but Constantine’s failure to produce results in the first few weeks cast dread over the city. Making matters worse was the fact that Tristan had also disappeared. King Mark was convinced that Tristan was with Morgan and the princes, but his personal assurance wasn’t enough to satisfy an unforgiving mother.

For nearly four weeks, the maids, masons, stewards, and guards walked with stiffness in their shoulders. Everyone performed his or her duties to the utmost perfection for fear of maximum reprisal. Even the elderly Sir Ekner was on edge as he presided over the training halls in the Western Ward. Tintagel’s devoted knights practiced with due diligence as prognostications of pending battles were on the tips of everyone’s tongue.

The castle’s labyrinth of corridors were devoid of laughter or glee. Melancholy and foreboding anxiety spread like a contagious disease. Even the sun itself stayed hidden behind a blanketed overcast of dark clouds, sending only an easterly wind to howl through the alleys.

There was no talk of sport or recreation. All hunts and banquets were cancelled. The musicians kept to the abbeys, and on the king’s orders, all choirs were forbidden from raising their heavenly voices. Taverns closed early. Ale was outlawed. Duels were suspended and no one could ride horses faster than a trot.

Most citizens thought King Mark’s decrees were unfounded, unreasonable, and unjust. However, the royal court knew and understood the king’s logic. It was more so a precaution than a sign of despair. That’s because Tintagel had guests. If there’s one thing King Mark feared more than an invasion from King Vortigern…it was the combined wrath of the Duchess Igraine and her eldest daughter, Queen Morgaus.

Morgaus was the eldest daughter of Igraine and the late Duke Gorlois. She was married to King Lot of Lothian and more importantly, she was the adoptive mother of Gawain, Gaheris, and Agravain.

The twenty-nine-year-old Morgaus was much like her youngest sister Morgana in appearance, blessed with bold eyes and rich brown hair. Morgaus was strong, ready and able to perform manual labor if she needed to. She loved dressing in purple fabrics. Her favorite ensemble consisted of a purple dress with a black leather bodice strapped around her ribcage. Her shoulders would be draped by warm fur. Even her gold crown donned an exquisite arrangement of smooth sapphire stones.

Growing up in Tintagel, Morgaus was popular due to her warm personal affection to both the rich and the poor, the guests and the staff. She was praised for her beauty, but Morgaus beat back vanity and conquered her own conceit. She was humble at every turn, often volunteering in the neighboring villages to oversee building projects such as schools and nurseries.

Like Elaine, Morgaus was always smiling, always optimistic despite the constant flow of tumultuous news that poured in from the violent world around them. She rarely complained or overstepped her bounds. Even when she felt she was being mistreated, she’d simply remember the less fortunate and take it with a grain of salt.

However…this was also what made her so scary. Everyone in Tintagel knew it.
Morgaus had lines that should never be crossed. All of those lines related to the safety and security of her boys.

Years ago, Gaheris and Agravain were kidnapped during their first mission to the Roman Emperor Lucius. Queen Morgaus suspected the guards had betrayed them. Without any evidence, she had them arrested. They were tortured and forced to swallow hot boiling lead until one of them spoke up. The problem was, she was right. The guards had indeed taken a bribe to give up their route. Since then, Morgaus’s every intuition was treated as a matter of fact. This made her a very scary individual.

In her relentless pursuit to get her boys back, Morgaus coaxed King Lot into making a pact with a famous sorcerer named Kaidan. Fire and brimstone literally rained down on Emperor Lucius’s northern armies. When Kaidan brought the boys back and demanded payment, Morgaus reminded him that he was her subject and threatened to cut off his hand if he ever held it out again expecting compensation so brazenly. It was the first time Kaidan ever cancelled a debt and news of the incident spread.

“Morgaus is fearsome…”

Yes, when it came to her sons, the fable of a ferocious she-bear protecting her cubs was made true by her existence. There was nothing King Lot could do about it. He resigned to the role of a supporting husband and did his best to placate her. And now… Gaheris and Agravain had gone missing, yet again. The berating Duke Tiburne got was beyond excessive.

 

Slave Quarters: Chapter 10 – The Most Annoying Emotion (Mystery Fiction)

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

Jealousy…For over five years, Cloud has been spared this stupid emotion. Griffin takes the team out for a night on the town. This is way outside of Cloud’s comfort zone. He’s a closeted agoraphobic. Seeing his beloved Jessica dancing with other dudes stirs up old feelings of hatred and envy. And as much as Cloud just wants to cast everyone off as his enemy, Jessica’s revelation about her past prompts Cloud to realize just how pitiful he is.

Chapter 10 - the Most Annoying Emotion

Chapter 10: The Most Annoying Emotion
By Rock Kitaro

Already my fingers are jittery. We haven’t even entered yet. For a Tuesday night, the place is friggin packed with large groups congesting the waiting area. It’s so bad that a line formed to curl around the brick walls outside. Most had been waiting for well over forty-five minutes, so I can understand their exasperated gasps as a self-assured Griffin leads us past the hostess like one of the mobsters from back in the day.

Josey’s Steakhouse is a popular spot on Broad Street in downtown Augusta. It’s loud with country guitar music flooding out. Passing pedestrians were prompted to give a little two-step as they traverse the popular thoroughfare. Broad Street was known for its bars and southern restaurants. It’s one of the main thoroughfares saturated with foot traffic every month on a little festival the locals called, “First Fridays.”

The place is dimly lit but bright enough to notice there’s nothing but white people in the building. That’s not a knock on race, just a glaring observation anyone used to diversity would notice. The restaurant boasts an authentic cowboy theme. Loud burly men in flannel shirts chug their beer at the bar in front of their sports. The rustic skulls of Texas longhorns hang above the main entrance and nearly every major beam. Lassos and haystacks are stationed in random places to give it that barn vibe and the waitresses look cute in their brown boots, jean shorts, and red midriff baring center knot shirts.

The dance floor in the middle of the restaurant is the size of a tennis court. As per usual, I locate all five exits and differentiate the uniforms of employees from the guest. I’m stepping on crunchy peanut shells as Griffin leads us to his favorite booth in the corner. Along the way, I notice timid glances from gorgeous women. I sensed their fear of upsetting their territorial dates. The men would simply glare over their shoulders and I, for some reason, made sure to smile submissively as if to say, “It’s okay. I’m not after your woman. Carry on.”

A glimmer of light catches my eye. I turn to the flames of the grill kitchen on the other side of the restaurant. Everyone is good looking and young. Everyone’s having a great time. The atmosphere is energetic and uplifting and suddenly I can’t help but think I’d rather be anywhere else.

My heart’s pounding. A migraine flares. Heat crawls up my neck and stretches to one side of my face. It’s chilly outside, but the moving bodies and racing hormones bring the room temperature up to a humid eighty-two degrees. I’m beginning to think it was a bad idea to wear my black slim-fitting, shoulder-padded sweater. I have it worn over a tucked in collared shirt and I feel the beads trickling down my abs. At least I’m in comfortable khakis. My legs feel great with enough room to breathe.

Griffin and Leanne are both nearing forty but they’re dressed younger than me. Griffin’s wearing a tight dark V-neck tee shirt with blue jeans and black boots. He looks like a ranch handling MMA fighter, to be honest. His pecs and biceps bulge with intimidating tone. Leanne is wearing a center knot blue denim shirt with a white body-wrapping blouse underneath. Her jeans sit low on those hourglass hips and they’re so tight that she has to carry the rental keys by hand.

Jessica is directly in front of me. She’s wearing a black tank top to showcase those smooth caramel toned shoulders. Her long silky black hair stops just above the groove in the center of her back and I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing a matching satin bra underneath. Her dark colored jeans sit low like Leanne’s, except I can see a thin tease of the dimples on her lower back each time her hips shimmied from side to side. I have to concentrate to keep from breathing hard.

We file into the corner booth with red padded cushions. It has a window view of the abutting brick buildings. The polished wooden table catches the light well. It mirrors the ice rattling in Griffin and Leanne’s whiskey glasses. In fact, the two of them are sitting awfully close to each other and while I’d normally shoot Leanne a cautionary glance, I’m too consumed with trying my best to maintain composure.

“Be cool. This is what normal people do. They go out and have a good time. Just be cool.” This is what I tell myself.

Jessica abstains from alcohol while Leanne orders my lime soda as a mother would to a child. She did this on purpose as a joke and I laugh it off just wanting to get the dinner over with. My looks, the way I’m behaving…I perform as if everyone in the dining area is watching me. They’re not, but I think they are.

Conversation begins with Leanne regaling over her production for the day. It’s boring police stuff that would make anyone wonder off and daydream but Griffin can’t get enough of it. It’s like Leanne’s doing stand-up over here. Oh god…a giggling Griffin shoulders into her. There’s a meeting of the flesh. Leanne’s heart flutters like a butterfly and that smile is showing way too much teeth.

Jessica’s laughing at their jokes but she keeps turning to exchange glances with me as if every shocking revelation deserves a jump of the brows. This is unbearable. Jessica is trying to ask me these deep philosophical questions to lure me into a conversation but it’s way too loud. There’s nothing more irritating than trying to talk about something deep and meaningful while competing with a ruckus. So I give short answers and quickly ask her for her opinion on the subject. She appreciates my attempt to engage and tries to reciprocate but I can’t hear a single word she says. I just keep nodding while throwing in clichés like, “exactly!” or “that’s so funny.”

After twenty minutes or so, our orders come out. Leanne’s lager is topped off. As a server sets sizzling steak fajitas down in front of Jessica, I reach under the shade of the platter and snatch up the keys to the rental car. Leanne squints at me. I squint back at her. Just like that, she switches back to a smitten schoolgirl as Griffin compliments the searing of her New York strip.

Opting for a lighter meal, I ordered lemon grilled chicken breast over brown rice. The rich citrusy smell is divine and uplifting, just what I needed. I’m salivating before I even pick up my sterling fork. And just as I hover the serrated edge of my knife over this tender chicken, I notice the tip of my blade is shaking. My nerves are tingling with a mild burning sensation seeping into my knuckles. My nostrils furl as I’m determined to steady my grip. I glance at Jessica to see if she noticed. So precious…She’s shoving a wrapped fajita in her mouth like a vacuum. She catches me looking just as she chomped down.

Laughter erupts with her turning away so bashful. “Why are you looking at me!? So creepy!” She snaps.

“Haha! Sorry. Hungry, eh?” I snicker.

“I haven’t eaten all day! Shut up! Eat!” She commands.

“Yes ma’am.”

The meal is delicious. I finish it within three songs before sitting back and letting my mind return to the case at hand.

“Kill Crystianne!”

It enters my eardrum like an echo in a hollow cave. It’s nearing nine o’clock but it’s been sundown for over two hours. Why am I just now hearing Maggie’s creepy demands? I peer out over to the dance floor. A mass of bodies moves to a rhythm of the guitars. And hovering above them is a dark, almost organic smog. It wasn’t there when we walked in but I see it now. My gaze lifts to the ceiling. The place has been renovated over the past two years but the souls hovering above tell me that they perished in a nasty fire. Shadowy bulges of their faces press out from the smog as if they’re trying to escape but keep being pulled back in. There’s nothing I can do for them.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen a cluster of souls like this. The last time was during my visit to Charleston, South Carolina. There was an old pirate ship that also perished in a fire. Unlike the pirates, however, these souls seemed relatively complacent and calm. Sad and miserable, but not like the belligerent pirates.

“Kill Christianne!”

I react as if to a mosquito bite. And just over my shoulders I catch a glimpse of Maggie scowling through the reflection of the window.

“You alright, Cloud?” Jessica asks.

“Hey! Let’s dance!” Leanne shouts with haste.

Leanne…She knew I was about to say how tired I was and she didn’t want the night to end. This girl had a playbook for her game and it was only halftime.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 9 – About Pellinore…(Violent Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 5, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Pellinore’s got issues. Probably the most hated man in Britannia, Pellinore is the ruthless mercenary leader of the Brood of the Black Bloods. He’s only twenty-two, but everyone knows he’s a legend in the making. And as with most legends, Pellinore’s story isn’t a pleasant one. The bastard son of a barbaric knight. A child who was ripped from his mother’s arms. The stigma of forever battling the very idea of becoming just like his sadistic father…indeed there is a lot of pain masked behind his demented laughter.

Chapter 9 - About Pellinore

Chapter 9 – About Pellinore…
By Rock Kitaro

It was a turbulent world of warring clans and backstabbing kings. Death was always just looming over the horizon like a volcano waiting to erupt mayhem down on the beleaguered villagers. The meek and innocent lamented being born in the Dark Ages. There was no end to the threat of raids and pillaging. There wasn’t a moment’s peace, no hope, no security. Only the strong survived. Only the ruthless felt right at home in the midst of the chaos and destruction.

In that regards, one man possessed probably more strength and ruthlessness than any one of his peers or contemporaries. Before he reached the fiery age of twenty-two, his name would be loathed by nearly every clan in Britannia. His name was Pellinore, the dark gristly haired wolf who sank his teeth in and never let go. The man who can’t cry.

Pellinore was born in a small mining village outside the castle of Listenoise. His mother was the homely daughter of a coal worker. But his father was one of the most barbaric knights the world’s ever seen, a cold-blooded ax-murderer named Sir Pellam.

Everyone knew of Sir Pellam’s depravity. They knew he extorted from the miners and bullied visiting nobles but no one could do anything about it because his brother was the King of Listenoise. When Pellam learned he sired a son, he snatched the then four-year-old Pellinore from his mother’s grieving hands, determined to rear him in the art of war.

Pellam was a cruel and relentless father. Before the boy was old enough to string whole sentences together, Pellam had him training and would beat him like a grown man every time the heavy sword fell from his soft tiny hands. The toddler cried every night but only when he knew Pellam had left the castle.

Maids could only mourn from afar with the deepest sympathies. They dared not coddle the child, because they knew Pellam would find out. He made an example out of the first two ladies who tried to care for his son by breaking their legs and leaving them to wander the castle as penniless cripples. When brave knights and duty bound husbands tried to stand up for justice and challenge Pellam to a duel, they were promptly sent to their graves.

It wasn’t long before the child Pellinore was regarded as a leper. No one wanted to touch him. No one wanted to be around him. Everyone saw through the boy without a hint of acknowledgment as if he truly was invisible.

And Pellinore never forgot his mother. His sadness would enrage his father who would launch vitriolic tirades at the boy for possessing such weakness. Sir Pellam thought the boy was weeping from the abuse. In truth, Pellinore couldn’t get the sight of his screaming mother out of his head. Her face. Her voice. Her hair.

He remembered the way the villagers had to restrain her as she fought and clawed her way to the horse Pellinore was slung over. The traumatic image of her despair was a painful painting forever seared into his memory. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d see his mother and the saline would seep. It was like a burning cut that refused to heal. Watching everyone else enjoy the affection he so desperately desired only worsened the affliction.

Then, at the age of nine, the warlord Ambrosius came tearing through Listenoise demanding the king’s head on a spike. The village of Pellinore’s mother was directly in the warpath. Pellinore stood atop the castle ramparts as his mother’s village burned in the night sky. The clamor of clanging metal and pounding trebuchets thundered for hours. The agonizing screams of a mass slaughter funneled to his ears. One scream penetrated and rose above all else. It was a loud coarse shriek that paralyzed him in place.

It was his mother. The same tormenting wail that’s haunted him for years was abruptly silenced once and for all. His fists tightened. His glossy eyes flared red as the flames stripped away at the city below. The orange flickering ashes carried in the wind and sought out the young Pellinore. And as the tears trickled for the last time, a smile surfaced.

Pellinore was reborn.

Since that day, Pellinore embraced his father’s brutal regimen and pushed himself to get stronger. He was consumed by combat, obsessed with it, dreamt of it. Even when Sir Pellam was out in conquest, Pellinore fought with the ferocity of a future king who would one day be called upon, not to protect his people, but to conquer for his people. That day came sooner than expected.

At the age of impressionable age of fourteen, King Cynfarch’s emissaries came begging Listenoise for help. High King Uther was visiting the Kingdom of Rheged when an immense Viking army laid siege, hoping to knock out two birds with one stone. Sir Pellam and a majority of the castle knights were already out fighting the Goths, so Listenoise didn’t have many swords to send.

Fourteen-year-old Pellinore volunteered.

Slave Quarters: Chapter 9 – A Suspect (Mystery Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 1, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

The six Slave Quarter victims have been identified. But before the police chief holds his press conference, the team goes over the grisly details surrounding their deaths. They have a suspect in mind, but as per usual, Cloud isn’t satisfied. He takes a moment to reflect.

Chapter 9 - A Suspect - Maju Bellucciartwork by Maju Bellucci

Chapter 9 – A Suspect
By Rock Kitaro

“So apparently, Griffin’s a racist. Who would’ve thunk it?”

“I knew it. That’s probably why he ain’t take me seriously when I told him Joe was the one who killed your mom!”

It’s closing in on six and I finally have a moment to myself. It’s outside the four-story police department in historic downtown Augusta. The pastel skies cleared up for a gorgeous golden sunset over the Savannah River. From my spot on the 2nd floor terrace, I can see clearly the shimmering waters and the Carolinian townhomes lining the banks of the other side.

This 2nd floor terrace was where ranking officers came to eat lunch or enjoy a smoke break. Since it’s after five, the picnic tables are vacant. I’m twenty feet away from the doors and there’s a rustling breeze brushing against the façade like a current. I have the floor to myself, thus I feel safe to give my one confidant a call and speak my mind at ease. Miranda hears the wind and thinks she has to shout to overcompensate.

“To be honest, the decision to put myself on this case was kind of spur of the moment. I suppose deep down, knowing Griffin still exists, potentially botching cases galore just didn’t sit well with me. And looks like my premonition isn’t far off. Seems he’s still a living, breathing miscarriage of justice. And to think I was so close to forgiving him.”

“Boy, please. You weren’t about to forgive nobody. Not over your mother. It’s the reason why you’ve been doing what you’ve doing. What exactly did the bastard say?”

“He said he doesn’t like black people. Pretty clear, cut, and dry about it. Although, you’ll forgive me if I hold back certain details.”

“NO! I want to know everything!” Miranda shouts.

I shake my head and chuckle. “No, Miranda. By the way, you better not be smoking.”

“You took my last pack, bubblehead! I don’t get paid till tomorrow.”

“I’m doing you a favor. You don’t want those good looks to go down the drain, do you? How else are you going to find a good man?”

“I got men chasin’ me. Don’t you worry ‘bout it. Anyways… How’s the case coming? Almost done?”

“I don’t know. I mean we’re on the right track. I think. We’re about to have a briefing to discuss a new suspect and everyone’s salivating to sink their teeth in him. The haste is alarming and I can hardly stomach such half-assed investigating. Not to mention, there’s still the business of KeNedra’s suicide. It’s so freakin weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“Everyone keeps talking about how strong-minded she was. Strong people simply don’t commit suicide. I can’t believe that. I don’t want to accept it. Dude, I…I don’t want to say it. Friggin Jimmy Coolidge planted this idea in my head. Maybe KeNedra was possessed,” I say whilst loosening up my collar.

“Well, that’s not unusual. Not in your world. Not sure what I can say over the phone, but didn’t you say that’s how Maggie got business done?”

“Maggie’s different. Besides, she only works on individuals who are already terrified to the state that their mental capacity is diminished. That’s when their realities can be manipulated and toyed with. Actually, we should probably stop talking about this over the phone,” I say with a careless chuckle.

“And you don’t want to believe she was possessed?” Miranda asks again. Her tone suggests that I’m refusing to believe the truth, like a child who doesn’t want to believe Santa Claus is a lie.

“This case. Feels like there’s something I’m overlooking. Something that’s staring me right in the face.”

“And how are you gonna handle Griffin?”

“I have to work with him. He’s not a bad person. He’s just…you know. Normal. He and Leanne have been texting each other all day like a couple of schoolgirls trying to be discreet but failing miserably. Anyways…as long as Leanne has her sights on him, I don’t have to worry about her watching me.”

“And your lovely dovie?” Miranda asks.

“It’s not like that. I might be wrong about Jessica. She’s proven herself to be nothing but courteous and professional, very insightful and dedicated. Five years is a long time. We’ve had a president come and go. I’ve grown up. I’d be silly to dismiss the idea that she has not.”

“So you’re just going to forgive, Griffin? Just like that. What if he came out and said he don’t like blond haired white people?” Miranda questions.

“Miranda…He’s not a killer. Just an idiot.”

“And how many Cloud Beaudrys has he created by letting his prejudice fuck up the case?”

“Wow, Miranda. If I didn’t know any better…”

“Hey, baby. You can lie to yourself all day, sugar. But you can’t lie to me. I don’t believe for a second that you get any satisfaction out of doing what you do.”

“I made a promise, Miranda. A man keep his word.”

“And I’m saying! If Griffin did his job in the first goddamn place you would’ve never had to make any promises to begin with.”

“Miranda! I hear what you’re saying. Honestly I do. But you talk about not lying to myself. I’m telling you, my world ended the day my mom died. Handling Griffin or anyone else will never change that. The least I can do is keep my fucking word!”

“To a ghost, Cloud! Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

“Alright, Miranda. I need to go.”

“Hang up on me if you want to.”

“I need to go!”

“Let me tell you one more thing. See, ya pissed off cause you know I’m right.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Miranda, I had a conversation with KeNedra’s mother today. She could’ve given a paid exclusive worth thousands of dollars to any one of the top media outlets in the country. She could’ve cashed in her grief for fortune and fame but she’s wont. She’s exercising forgiveness. Forgiveness, Miranda. Her daughter was abducted and died in police custody. She’s not crying out for retribution.”

“AND?!” Miranda barks.

“And I’m saying, who the fuck am I? That I lash out and put everyone down who crosses me!?”

“Why are you comparing yourself everyone? This ain’t like you, Cloud.”

“I always question myself, Miranda. Just not out loud.” I say, hopelessly leaning over the rail.

Miranda sighs. “Cloud, you’re not happy. Even when you’ve come back from keeping ya fucked-up promise, I see you. You’re miserable. You know what I think you need to do? Help this family. I know you have all your secret agendas and Maggie crawling up your ass, but help this family. Griffin gon’ be Griffin. Flush out all that noise and focus on getting justice for the little girl’s family. Your justice.”

I didn’t expect this conversation to get so sentimental. She’s striking a nerve on so many levels. It’s been a long day and this is mentally draining. Miranda Burnette… She likes confrontation way too much. You won’t conquer her with compliments and confections. What she craves is conflict, as per usual. Maybe I’m the same way. I did volunteer for this case after all.

“Anyways! Let me get out of here. Meetin the girls at the gym for a spin class.” She brags.

“That sounds…like a lot of scraping. Hey, Miranda. Do me a favor. Download some gospel music for when I get back.”

“What kind of gospel music you want?”

“I don’t know. The kind that makes you feel good in this rotten world. I defer to your judgment.”

“Alright, boo. I got you.”

– Click to Read the rest of the Chapter

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 8 – Cascades (Historical Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on September 28, 2018
Posted in: About the Author. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

There’s a lot of catching up to do. Gawain learns about the tension between Britannia’s warring nations while his brothers learn about the hardships he had to endure while enslaved to the Hibernians. The youngsters come to terms with the fact that they’re living in a violent world of death and destruction. But despite the odds against them, everyone knows deep down…one day they will come to rule the world.

Chapter 8 - Cascades - Jorge BarredaPhoto by Jorge Barreda

Chapter 8 – Cascades
By Rock Kitaro

Their mission was a success. Gawain was rescued and the capture of Princess Isolde was an added bonus. Tristan asserted himself as the party leader as they galloped a full day to cross south over the River Clyde. They didn’t consider themselves safe from King Drest’s reach until they were south of the river.

Daylight dwindled. They needed to find shelter soon. Tracing southbound along the river, Tristan led them to a magnificent waterfall that was once inhabited by dwarves a century earlier. A hollow cave at the base of the waterfall served as the gateway to deep boroughs hidden beneath the earth. There were still carvings of their ancient language etched in the cave wall. The symbols glowed bright orange, infused with ether and amber.

The valley at the bottom of this breathtaking waterfall was enclosed by flat slabs of marble and cream-colored limestone. Beyond the rock formations, a perimeter of flourishing green trees shrouded this oasis with a leafy canopy that stretched out over the river. Birds whistled. The cascade’s endless crash was pleasant to hear. The water was crisp and refreshing, so clear that they could see the smooth pebbles settled on the riverbed. It was perfect. They were isolated. They were safe.

Morgan and Isolde cleansed themselves under Kanish and Balto’s supervision while the rest of the men ventured out to hunt. It was an awkward situation for the ladies as Isolde distinctly remembered Morgan calling for her death. Isolde understood the animosity and was willing to forgive. Morgan, however, wasn’t too timid to hide her enmity. The malcontent was manifested by her hooded gaze and sporadic groans. It was annoying at first, but after Isolde realized that Morgan was several years her junior, the princess started to tolerate her presence.

Morgan kept her pink cotton dress on as she bathed. Isolde stripped until she was completely nude. Kanish and Balto tried their best not to peep but Isolde’s body was the very definition of exquisite. There wasn’t a single blemish, scar, or bruise on her sun-kissed body. Her breasts were full formed and smooth enough to cup steady in even the roughest of hands. Small dimples were perfectly indented above the derriere, and her toned midriff was smoother than a baby’s cheeks. As Isolde released her braids, her gorgeous hair flowed and bounced with a radiant glow. Balto glanced and was nearly floored by her beauty.

For Morgan, it only piqued her ire. Isolde reminded her of Elaine, blessed in all the ways she was not. Isolde and Elaine were both relatively tall with slim slender figures. Both had blonde hair and mesmerizing eye-smiles. Even when they were angry they projected heavenly grace. Whereas Morgan’s resting bitchface always prompted people to ask if something was wrong with her, a pastime she abhorred more than loneliness itself.

Haughty laughter in the distance signaled Pellinore’s return. Once the ladies were finished bathing, Pellinore, Tristan, Jeremy, Dantry, and Barxy swam nude. Pellinore kept trying to provoke Tristan with splashes but Tristan was too tired to strike back. Princess Isolde had confined herself to the cave hidden behind the veil of the cascade. She watched Tristan with an attentive gaze, giggling at the possibilities.

Morgan was now lounging on a smooth slab of limestone as she wrung out the fabric of her pink sunflower. She felt Gawain watching. Indeed, he was. As he prepared a deer for roasting, Gawain’s jade green eyes kept bouncing over to Morgan as if she was calling his name.

His heart thumped hard at the sight of her. For the young man, it was a dream come true. Few of her features were exactly as he remembered. Her deep alluring eyes, those mystifying long lashes. Her small mouth with kissable lips that remained so pouty and puckered. Unbeknownst to Morgan, she had developed in all the ways he found desirable. Her voluptuous figure of curves and concealed strength. The way excess water glistened off her ample thighs. The way her flawless snow-white complexion contrasted with her long, dark, brown hair.

Gawain took a mental picture of Morgan lounging on the rock with the roaring cascades casting a misty cloud under the setting sun. It was better than his dreams. This bliss…Gawain didn’t want it to end.

“It won’t take me long to make a new one. I’m not worried.”

Gawain caught the tail end of Gaheris speaking to Agravain. The younger brothers were waist-deep in water as they massaged wet stones over their shoulders.

“Not worried about what?” Gawain asked.

Agravain chuckled, “Gaheris broke the bow that he made for King Mark.”

Gawain burst with laughter. It was amazing to see how much they’ve grown. He had just finished skinning the deer when he heard the news of their baby brother, Gareth. Agravain elaborated by explaining how their mother Morgaus had married King Lot. Gawain was astounded to learn that they were now all princes of a foreign land called Lothian and Orkney.

“Of Lothian? Hack!” Pellinore interjected. “You might as well be heirs to the damn Picts the way Lot kisses up to the Romans.”

“What do you mean?” Gawain asked.

Gaheris explained, “Well, King Lot rules over Lothian and the northern islands of Orkney. We have over 10,000 men at arms but compared to Vortigern’s forces we’re merely toddlers playing at soldiers. To match manpower, Roman soldiers are loaned to us by Emperor Lucius. King Lot has to pay an annual tribute.”

Agravain added, “Gaheris and I were delivering a tribute last month when the emperor felt good enough to have us send messages along the battle lines in the war against the Franks. I swear it’s only a matter of time before he puts us in the vanguard.”

“Why you? Why send a squire on a knight’s errand?” Gawain questioned with low brows.

“They are princes, are they not? Comes with the price of eminence, boy. Best get used to it.” Pellinore scoffed as he stood up from the water and flaunted his manhood for all of nature to see.

For Gawain, it was a disquieting notion. He had just been liberated from one house and it appeared that he was about to be thrown into the conflict of another. He wondered how Morgan felt. He turned and caught her staring. As soon as they locked eyes, Morgan quickly averted. And much to Gawain’s chagrin, Morgan’s fleeing eyes settled on the naked ass of Pellinore. He was wading his way toward the cascades and the cave where Isolde was getting dressed.

“It’s not so bad. King Lot treats us alright,” Gaheris noted.

“And he’s kind to mother,” Agravain added.

“That’s great. Hey, Pellinore! Ho-How’s your son doing!?” Gawain quickly shouted in haste.

At once, all of the Black Bloods turned to Pellinore with a puzzled expression. Apparently they never knew he had a son. Taken aback by the question, Pellinore sank until the water reached the bottom of his chin and made his way closer to the brothers.

“Who told you I had a son?” Pellinore asked.

“You did. About seven years ago when we first met,” Gawain smirked.

“You have a son? You scoundrel! I thought you only had the two daughters?” Barxy asked.

“Aye, Percival’s my firstborn, a bastard from some peasant girl not far from Listenoise. Cries as much as his sisters. It drives me insane.”

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 8 – Majorettes (Mystery Thriller)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on September 23, 2018
Posted in: Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Investigating KeNedra’s death, Cloud and Griffin interrogates her family and the high school majorette team she was a part of. Cloud works his magic, his gift of persuasion to try and get information out of the grieving mother, but Det. Griffin throws his weight around as an officer of the law, careless to tense history between African-Americans and law enforcement. Well…Cloud thinks its carelessness…until Griffin makes a provocative revelation that threatens to jeopardize the entire case.

Chapter 8 - Majorettes

Chapter 8: Majorettes
By Rock Kitaro

It’s a quarter past twelve when Griffin and I pull up to a middle class home in the subdivision of Coventry, only a fifteen-minute drive from the Waynesboro Plantation. I’m annoyed even before I’ve step out the car. As if the pending interview isn’t daunting enough, another nuisance has presented itself in the form of a rugged middle age hippy in a brown leather jacket, chain-smoking on cigarettes as he leans against his busted up yellow bug.

“Alright, now who the hell is this?” Griffin asks.

“Jimmy Coolidge. A persistent nut-job blogger working for one of Atlanta’s most widely read outlets. Mark, you’re looking at a man who thoroughly believes aliens walk among us. That’s Jimmy. Welcome to my life,” I groan before exiting.

Griffin’s never met the guy, but sticking to the “bro code,” he mirrors my displeasure. Jimmy’s scruffy appearance, from his ponytail, to his beer-stained eyes and that peach fuzz of a goatee…it’s like he forgot to fade along with the rest of the 70s. No, he didn’t forget. It’s more like he saw opportunities to throw a monkey wrench in the same corporate machines all his old friends sold out to.

He wheezes in his laughter, letting the cigarette drop from his fingertips before starting off in a jab-step approach. Griffin stops in the middle of the sidewalk and stares in bewilderment as if he was watching a mime performance. I’d like to continue on to the front door but halfway there, I have no choice but to turn around and confront the inevitable confrontation.

“Sir! You need to go.” Griffin says, pointing off down the street.

“Hey man. Hey. Hey. Hey. This is public property, fella. I’m not on the resident’s lawn. I have every right to be here. Hahaha! Howdy, Cloudy! See you caught yourself another doozy. Funny how these bizarre cases seem to keep falling right dab in your lap.”

This S.O.B… He’s way too loud to be spouting that crap. Exercising restraint, I approach Jimmy with my palms pressed as if I’m about to pray. Jabbing my spear-like hands at the center of his chest, I whisper, “What do you want, Jimmy?”

“Screw that. You don’t owe him a damn thing,” Griffin grunts.

Jimmy laughs, “He don’t know bout’ me, do he?”

“Oh no, you don’t know bout’ me!” Griffin asserts. “But you gonna find out real quick if you don’t get the fuck out of here.”

“I saw the suicide video,” Jimmy says. “Weird, right?”

“What the hell you talking about?” Griffin barks.

“The girl’s behavior. KeNedra. I’m here for the exact same reasons you are. I want to know if she’s displayed these strange signs before.”

“What are you talking about!?” Griffin barks as I play the buffer.

Jimmy snickers, “Cloud knows what I’m talking about. Look at him. It’s why he’s here too. He’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking. KeNedra Thompson was clearly possessed. That’s right! Possessed by an evil vindictive spirit. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Tell him, Cloud.”

I shoot my sights to the front of the house. I’m checking the blinds and the windows, scanning for any movement. I really hope no one heard Jimmy’s little theory otherwise the questions I had lined up would’ve been a completed waste of time.

“Are you insane?” Griffin asks him.

“Yes! Like I said!” I blurt out in an explosion of angry whispers. “Look, Jimmy. I don’t know how you got your dick-grabbing hands on that suicide video and I don’t want to make a thing of it. Right now, I need you to leave. You know me. If there’s anything crazy or supernatural, I’ll give it to you. All right? But right now you gotta let me do my job. Now, get the hell out of here. Please!”

Jimmy backs up with puckered lips as he returns to his jalopy. “Aight, Cloud. But hey! I’ll be around.”

“Supernatural?” Griffin asks as we watch Jimmy’s backfiring vehicle scoot off down the road. “You think KeNedra was possessed?”

“No. Of course not. That’s absurd.”

“Seriously, though. You don’t believe in that kind of crap do you?”

“Mark, I swear to you. I only believe what I see with my own two eyes.”

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 7 – The Trossachs (Fantasy Fiction)

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

Fight! Battle breaks out as an angry horde of blue-painted Vikings pursue Gawain and Isolde through the thick of the woods. It’s an action-packed chapter where Gawain shows off his superior swordplay and Tristan, his Herculean strength. At last, Morgan and Gawain are reunited. And while it should be a joyous occasion…

Chapter 7- The Trossachs

Chapter 7 – The Trossachs
By Rock Kitaro

Racing for their lives, Gawain, Isolde, and the Hibernians scraped through wet leafy branches. A flood of furious Picts chased Isolde’s group through the wet woodlands of the Trossach. Three minutes felt like an hour. Isolde rode at the forefront with Gawain and Sir Ewangish right behind her. Five knights assisted from the rear but one of them was fading out from blood loss to an arrow wound.

King Drest’s four elite warriors in blue chalky paint were leading the charge and they were closing in. If Isolde had hesitated in deciding which path to take, the Picts would’ve overwhelmed them in less than ten seconds. It wasn’t until Gawain narrowly dodged his third low hanging vine that he realized Isolde had no idea where she was going. She was slowing down with doubt sinking in.

“YAH!” Gawain yelled as he spurred with intense fervor.

Gawain quickly sped up and took the lead. He wasn’t familiar with the Trossach woodlands but he was calm and collected, wise enough to follow the flow of water to avoid getting stuck at the dead end from some rising ground. The terrain fluctuated with gorges, steep hills, and drop-off cliffs. Rising tree roots could snag a horse’s hoof at any moment and the shallow ponds were actually veiled sinkholes. Dense vegetation made visibility poor. He could barely see beyond the sharp turns. Gawain knew it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out.

He spotted a glimmer of sunshine and followed the light. Within seconds, Gawain’s company emerged from the thick woods and into a clearing. It was a vast open meadow in the middle of the forest, an oasis of rich green grass and sunflowers.

Halfway across the meadow, another force came charging out of the tree line at full speed. These six newcomers were all suited in black armor with their leader wearing a flashy red scarf flowing from his neck. Gripped with fear, Gawain pulled on his reins for an abrupt stop. Princess Isolde and Ewangish struggled to do the same.

Pellinore raised his helmet visor and examined Gawain with the same bloodthirsty stare from the day they first met. They locked eyes for less than a second but time slowed as they gradually began to recognize each other. Pellinore was so impressive. His long serrated claymore was drawn and ready to carve into flesh. It wasn’t until Gawain noticed the pink vertical scar over Pellinore’s left eye that he was certain.

“Pellinore?!” Gawain shouted.

“HA! Found him!” Pellinore slurred with a thick wad of flying spit.

“Help us! Picts!” Gawain begged, pointing over his shoulders.

Pellinore looked and was instantly mesmerized by the boldness in Isolde’s sky blue eyes.

“Come on, boys! Let’s play!”

With that, the Brood of the Black Bloods stormed the Picts head on.

“You know this rabble?” Sir Ewangish asked.

“I believe so,” Gawain said, breathing hard but smiling with relief.

“Away!” the princess ordered.

Pellinore gripped his claymore with both hands as he charged between two of the blue elite warriors. Sweeping in a straight line, from left to right, Pellinore sliced through the pair with a powerful swing. The disemboweled bodies of his victims fell from their horses and Pellinore was just getting started.

Kanish, Balto, Jeremy, Dantry, and Barxy followed Pellinore to corral the Picts in an all-out melee. It was brutal. The six mercenaries fought like a well-oiled machine. Balto would wound a man and Kanish would follow up for the kill. Barxy was a bear the way he leapt from his horse to drag two soldiers down.

Jeremy and Dantry followed Pellinore into the thick of the forest. The Picts were losing men at a rapid pace and broke from a clustered group to spread out. Pellinore dismounted and gave chase.

Like a wolf on the prowl, he leaped over tree roots and stumps without skipping a beat. His intense gaze remained focused on the prey. And when Pellinore closed in, he threw everything he had into each swing, severing through sword, armor, flesh and bone. Jeremy and Dantry merely followed to put Pellinore’s victims out of their misery.

Isolde, Gawain, Ewangish and the four Hibernian knights continued south through the Trossachs. The woods were so dense. A web of slender but sturdy trees combed through their group and caused them to fan out. The enemy was coming from every direction and soon, the princess found herself surrounded with no ally in sight.

Suddenly, three wild-haired Picts came pouncing from the trees. They startled Isolde’s horse, causing it to rear up high in the air. She screamed and nearly had a heart attack, hanging on for dear life. The Picts groped and clawed at her cape, latching on to pull her down. Then, a flash of gold came dashing by.

Tristan, with his blond hair and rippling muscles came charging out of the bushes. He shattered a log over one savage. The remaining two jumped on his back, but Trisan easily hurled one to the ground and rammed his back against a boulder to crush the other.

Isolde’s horse was still bucking with fright when Tristan hurried over and grabbed the reins. He didn’t whisper or click his tongue to calm it down. He simply glared into the horse’s eyes with the snarl of someone who wasn’t opposed to adding horse meat to the menu. Needless to say, the horse calmed down.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 7 – The Cotton Fields (Mystery Thriller)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on September 17, 2018
Posted in: Cloud Beaudry, Slave Quarters. Tagged: , , , , , , . Leave a comment

The GBI Agents arrive at the crime scene where KeNedra was held captive, where Tiquasia was murdered. The location is an abandoned cotton plantation on the outskirts of town. Ignited by his paranormal curse, Cloud sees exactly how Tiquasia was murdered. It’s an emotional experience but he has to keep it together. All eyes are on him. Not to mention, in order to convict, he still needs to gather that annoying thing called evidence.

Chapter 7 - The Cotton Fields

Chapter 7 – The Cotton Fields
By Rock Kitaro

It’s strange. In all the days since I’ve embraced the paranormal, I’ve never experienced anything quite like this. As soon as I step out of our rental car, a strong frosty breeze overwhelms me. I don’t wrap up in my coat as my colleagues do, instead I embrace the cold air to come in and wrap around my chest. The wind appears in the form of bending trees. The branches rustle in a perpetual wave.

What I found unusual is the ceaseless rhythm of gospel humming. It’s the soulful blues of people making the best of their hardship, their toil. It’s serene, the complete opposite of graves and cemeteries that usually come replete with screams and demented pleas.

As the investigators advance into the crime scene, an unbearable sadness prevents me. I close my eyes with a clenched jaw. Horrible things have happened at this place, terrible atrocities passed off as a way of life. Justice turned its back and ignored an entire class of people. They say, unless you’re black you could never understand the pain and suffering of a slave. I wonder if that applies to me…with what I see…with what I hear…with what I feel…