The Knights with No Lord: Chapter 13 – Lions and Wolves (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on November 2, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Tristan and Pellinore finally throw down to settle an old score. Meanwhile, Gawain comes to terms with his own inner demons and the threat that’s looming beyond the horizon.

You see, on the surface, Prince Gawain is the so-called paragon of virtue, always doing the right thing, embracing responsibility and fending off indulgences. But deep down, Gawain has a gift for manslaughter. He showed a glimpse of it last night. Morgan thinks he’s wearing a mask. So badly, she just wants him to take it all off.

Chapter 13 - Lions and Wolves

Chapter 13 – Lions and Wolves
By Rock Kitaro

“Sorry for calling you all the way out here. The lads will get mad if they find out about this,” said Pellinore, squatting with the naked blade of his claymore propped up against his shoulder.

“No matter. It’s my duty as the Champion of Cornwall to accept any challenge, anytime,” Tristan grinned with crossed arms resting on his puffed out chest.

“That’s good. That’s good. This pleases me.”

“Just one thing, Pellinore. After I finish beating you to a pulp, you better not blame it on last night’s libation.”

“You bastard. That’s my line.”

Both men were without armor. The golden lion wore a gray shirt with brown slacks. The dark wolf was without his red scarf, wearing a black sleeveless shirt and black pants.

It was a brisk clean day with clear blue skies. The morning sun gleamed like a pearl, not too bright, not too dull. A refreshing wind rustled through their light fabrics. The duelists had convened on an isolated ridge near the coastal cliffs of Treknow with their horses grazing nearby. The grass beneath their boots was soft and slick. Waves crashed against the rocks, erupting with a spray that cooled their heated bodies.

Pellinore’s claymore was four and a half feet long. It was double-edged with one side serrated like a steak knife. He’s had it ever since he was sixteen and not once has it cracked or slipped from his grasp. Tristan’s long sword was a foot shorter but had a longer handle, long enough for four hands to clamp it at once. Tristan didn’t have any special bond with this sword. It was just one that he picked up from the armory as he was riding out for the morning.

The alpha predators circled each other with razor sharp focus. Pellinore made the first move. He sprung forth in a spectacular leap, clutching his sword with both hands for a vertical strike. Tristan sidestepped and countered with a rising sweep. It was blocked and sparks flew. The two crossed blades in a test of strength but it was Pellinore’s heels that scraped back as Tristan pushed forward.

In a snarling chuckle, Pellinore taunted, “I’m not the same whelp from before! Everyday I’ve trained with the thought of beating you.”

Tristan responded with three swooping strikes. Each time Pellinore deflected it, sparks flew. The third strike hit Pellinore so hard that he was sent stumbling back. A laughing Pellinore jumped to his feet and extended in a straightforward lunge. Tristan spun out of the way but it was just a ruse. Halfway through the lunge, Pellinore twirled his blade and swiped at Tristan’s thighs. He drew first blood.

Ignoring the pain, Tristan unleashed another procession of whistle-singing swings. Pellinore blocked each one and when Tristan got too close, Pellinore whacked him with his pommel. Tristan staggered back but kept his guard up as his opponent maintained pressure.

Pellinore was clearly the superior swordsman in terms of skill and technique. He displayed a dazzling array of difficult moves with effortless precision. He punctured and landed cuts all over Tristan’s upper body, shredding his shirt and stinging him like spikes of searing hot metal. Even when it came to defense, Pellinore was better trained. He could telepath Tristan’s trajectory and was quicker on his feet.

The problem was Tristan’s ungodly strength. Each time Pellinore blocked an attack, his arms would rattle and send teeth-clenching vibrations to tense up his back. It was an extreme exertion of energy just to push away and Tristan seemed to have the stamina of a racehorse, pounding, hacking, and grunting with monstrous aggression.

Every time the two crossed blades, Tristan would use brute force to shove Pellinore away like kicking a door off its hinges. Pellinore would fall with the wind knocked out of him but he’d keep coming back. Again and again, he rose and unleashed a relentless barrage until suddenly, Tristan started smiling. It wasn’t to taunt Pellinore, but rather it had been a while since Tristan was able to spar with an opponent of his own standing. He acknowledged that Pellinore had indeed improved and was genuinely impressed.

“You bastard. DON’T THINK YOU’VE WON!” Pellinore screamed.

…

Five minutes later, three galloping horses approached the highlands of Treknow. It was Princesss Isolde riding with two Cornish knights, her armed escorts. Isolde was kept warm by a gray wool cloak that covered her borrowed blue dress. A bare-chested Tristan was using the rags of his shredded shirt to wrap his shallow wounds. He turned and saw Isolde staring with her blonde hair blowing in the wind.

“What are you doing here?” said Tristan.

“Your king was gracious enough to allow me a ride under escort,” Isolde said as she leaned over and scratched the neck of her mare.

Tristan furrowed his brows with disapproval.

“And you, brave Pellinore? Do you require a physician?” Isolde teased.

An exhausted Pellinore was sprawled on his back with a half-sedated gaze fixated on the blue sky. Oddly enough, there wasn’t a single laceration on his body. But after being tossed about like a rag doll for well over three minutes, his bones were brittle and his organs were on the verge of rupture. He might as well have been thrown from a speeding carriage.

There was, however, a stream of blood gushing from his broken nose. That’s because Tristan knocked him out with a vicious overhand right. Poor Pellinore had only just regained consciousness as the horses arrived.

“Tristan. Listen up,” Pellinore wheezed. “I’mma let you off the hook for today. Okay? You’re free to go.”

Tristan beamed with a bright, unexpected smile. It was probably the funniest thing he’d ever heard and he couldn’t stop snickering. Isolde shook her head with bewildered amusement as she wondered why Tristan found it so funny.

“Did you hear what he said?” Tristan said.

“Yes. We all did. Didn’t we?” Isolde smirked.

Tristan roared in a laugh so hearty that he collapsed to his knees and clutched a handful of soil. Pellinore started to laugh with him, but the pain in his midsection caused him to coil up tight.

…

Just two miles north, another young man had risen early. Gawain was sitting on a smooth rock slab within a cove on Trebarwith Strand. It was a scenic beach of crashing waves and cawing gulls. Monolithic towers of earthen formations were scattered along the shoreline as turbulent breakers exploded against them. The majestic cliffs surrounded the Y-shaped cove casting cold shadows over Gawain who was stationed in the middle.

The Slave Quarters: Chapter 13 – The World Media (Mystery Suspense)

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

Cloud’s worst fear comes to fruition as the media flocks upon Augusta, Georgia, foaming at the mouth with cries of racism and police corruption. Families of the Slave Quarter Killer’s victims demand justice. They say, if the victims were white girls, the police would’ve had a greater response. Cloud confronts the whistle-blower for fanning the flames and, in the end, gets checked for all the world to see.

Chapter 13 - The Worldly Media

Chapter 13 – The Worldly Media
By Rock Kitaro

Whelp…After I got beat the fuck up, I had no choice but to file a report. The sergeant working the graveyard shift wasn’t too pleased about my going out without a service weapon. Thankfully, he was polite about it, keeping his skepticism and scolding to a minimum. Other than a description of my assailant, he couldn’t care less why I was there or what I was looking for. He suggested I visit a hospital but wasn’t persistent about it. I ignored the suggestion and opted to return to my motel room.

As the shower rinsed the sweat and dirt off of my battered body, I saw the messy blotches of black and blue swelling all over my chest and back. The area between my neck and shoulder was worse from the barstool. Never before had I been so thoroughly thrashed. I winced with every turn. The simple act of reaching sent a wave of inflammation through my shoulders like popping battery acid in my bones.

My face remained unblemished, thank God. However, a migraine persisted and no matter how many painkillers I took, this migraine would stay with me for next three days.

On top of all that, there was blood in my urine. I couldn’t remember if pissing blood was a good or bad thing in terms of the healing process. All I knew was that I definitely didn’t want to go to the hospital and get a catheter stuck up my urethra. Too much information? Good! Street fights aren’t cool, kids. They suck. And as an investigator who depends on his sharp senses and clever wit to outsmart criminals, a throbbing headache is the last thing I need.

I should have sprawled out on that inviting floral pattern comforter covering my queen size bed. I should have nestled my head in between those crisp and cool pillows and let my burning eyes recuperate from the strain of staring so much. Like an imbecile, I don’t do any of that. I don’t know what’s driving me. It doesn’t make sense. It’s stupid. I know.

With a disgruntled mug, I wrangled on a white collared shirt. I shoved my legs through black slacks and yanked my blazer off its hanger. My head dangled forward in a dazed stupor as I glared at myself in the mirror and fiddled with frustrated fingers to tie this stupid tie. I’m whispering f-bombs. Should’ve brought a friggin clip-on.

I had to stop, calm down, and breathe.

This time, before I left my motel room I made sure to bring my service weapon. It’d be a shame to have to shoot the suspect, but I’d rather put one in his back than watch him scurry off in the woods again.

As I made my way to the motel’s front office, my face gradually descends into the droop into a disheartening grimace. I passed by Leanne’s room and as much as I didn’t want to think about what was going on inside, her nasally laughter couldn’t be ignored. She was still up but I don’t hear anyone else. I didn’t expect to. Because I know Griffin excused himself not too long ago to try and kill me.

I thought about kicking in Leanne’s door like riot police and interrogating his departure time out of her. I thought about it, but didn’t have the nerve. So I simply proceeded to the front office and dropped off the rental keys to the car. Leanne would pick them up in the morning and that would be that.

It was closing in on three in the morning when I hit the streets. Downtown Augusta is an eerie sight, not for the timid or fainthearted. The roads are barren and silent. Tungsten streetlamps cast a burnt orange tint over the sidewalks, but beyond the cracked cement and chained linked fences is a vast sea of darkness. I saw outlines of historic buildings with no electricity. Every once in a while I’d hear a random cough in the distance. I wondered how many squatters took up residence in those vacant buildings. I wondered how many were watching me.

Police HQ was only few blocks away, a thirty-minute hike. I take out Miranda’s pack of cigarettes and just as my lips snag one out, a strong pressure squeezes in my head so hard that my jaw clenches. That was my body’s way of telling me, “Nope!” and I listened. The pack is discarded in the next trashcan I pass.

Flipping up my collar, I replayed the last few hours in my head wondering if there’s anything I missed, anything I might have overlooked. Mr. Wayne said the killer drove in a vehicle with flashing lights. It has to be law enforcement! The desk sergeant knew where I was going. Anyone could’ve found out where I was from entry logs but I can’t just approach the sergeant and make inquiries. It would let the killer know I’m onto his trail. And when you’re trying to set a trap for someone the last thing you want is to let them know you’re baiting the hook. Not to mention, a hawk scooping up a venomous snake still runs the risk of getting bit in return.

So what should I do? Was it really Det. Griffin? For all I knew, Griffin could’ve still been in Leanne’s motel room when I heard her laughing. I don’t know for sure. And if Leanne was with Det. Griffin all night then his alibi is airtight. However, if he slipped out sometime around midnight, then yeah…he’s my guy.

After thirty minutes, the cold finally penetrated my defenses. It numbs the pain but my front teeth’s doing Morse code as I stopped under a lamppost on the corner of Moor and Hightower. Police headquarters was a stone’s throw away. I just stood there staring at the ghastly four-story building of Beaux-Arts architecture like a vindictive criminal coming for payback on the pigs who locked me up. My brooding eyes were fixated on the main entrance and the line of squad cars parked out front.

Migraines…they not only dull your senses, they reduce your common sense. I’m strutting down the middle of Moor Street like it’s nobody’s business. There wasn’t any traffic but even if there was, I doubt I’d get out of the way. I was in a mood unbecoming of an officer of the law, unbecoming of the authority vested in me.

Even as I passed City Hall on my left, I was squinting at it with disgust as if the entire building was sprinkled in bird shit. I never understood why people liked to put City Hall and police HQ within spitting distances of each other. It’s like having quarreling siblings grow up and deciding live next door to each other when there’s a whole world of space out there. So stupid. Like I said, I was in mood.

When I entered police HQ, I ignored the desk sergeant’s judgmental gaze and didn’t react when she called me a dumbass from afar. I simply found refuge in the mostly vacant 2rd floor bullpen. It was sad. The Chief just finished giving a press conference talking about how urgent this case was, but I only saw two detectives burning both ends of the candle. These two good detectives were following up Jessica’s suggestion to search J-Poopy’s sanitation truck. I could’ve walked over for an update but it was so quiet, so tranquil. I’ll ask them later.

Taking up a post at an empty desk, I spread out the case files, the pictures, the documented statements. I was ignoring the obvious in search for trivial details, any kind of discrepancy I could use to prove J-Poopy’s innocence. I was walking on eggshells because I knew my agenda undermined that of Jessica and Leanne’s. They’re not gonna want to hear that I think their primary suspect is innocent, so I’m determined to keep my suspicions to myself until I have concrete evidence.

My eyes jumped from page to page, timecode to timecode, dates to dates, addresses and their correlation to the points of interests. It’s…it’s all so very taxing. It’s never a good sign when you start seeing things in three, when your vision blurs the lines and causes the letters to come floating off paper like leaves on the surface of a rippling pond. My body finally seizes control. Fatigue grabbed me by the back of my neck and gently lowered my head to rest on the surface of the wooden desk, right next to Tiquasia Payne’s autopsy report.

The Knights with No Lords: Chapter 12 – The Most Uncontrollable Emotion (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 26, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

It’s a spectacular night where the Hall of Roses pulse to pounding drums and beating hearts. Tintagel Castle celebrates the homecoming of Prince Gawain. And whilst everyone hopes to make him an ally, his eye is on the alluring Morgan le Fay.

There’s music, magic, and intrigue. And as with every dance, envy erupts, hormones explode and if you’re not careful, you might find yourself on the receiving end of blunt force trauma. In this arm’s race between hot-blooded men and seductive women, it’s not the drink that induces rage and retaliation. It’s lust.

Chapter 12 - The Most Uncontrollable Emotion

Chapter 12 – The Most Uncontrollable Emotion
By Rock Kitaro

Awesome fireworks lit up the sky. It shimmered and rained from far. If just for one night, in hopeful delight, everyone was his or her own special star. There was electricity in the air as the golden horns blared, and smiles from ear to ear. But who could have guessed, that this would, at best, be the moment that all should have feared.

A cool breeze, but pleasantly so. It stimulated the senses and made the very essence of anticipation somewhat exciting. Eager young hearts descended upon the Hall of Roses in spectacular fashion. Horse driven carriages came in a steady procession. Each stopped on a red carpet as baby-faced ushers helped women with their ball gowns, careful to keep them from touching the dirt.

The lads arrived in droves, all hot-blooded and spurred with confidence. Eager to meet the woman of their dreams, they wore their optimism with regalia on full display. The duchesses and baronesses were uplifted and transported by the extravagance of purple, blue, and gold bursting in air. It was amazing. They didn’t have to go to Camelot or Avalon to find fairy tales. They were living it, all under the same roof.

And what a glorious roof it was. Three hours after the sun had set, King Mark had already given his commencement speech and the celebration was well underway with over 5,000 in attendance. The king spared no expense in making this a night no one would ever forget.

The Hall of Roses was dolled up with green vines and radiant roses swirling the colossal columns as loose petals fell like glittering red flakes of snow. All 580 wax candles blazed from the stunning antler chandelier. Over sixty Hellenistic marble statues were scattered about, drawing much awe and serving as excellent conversational pieces.

At a time where the fiddle and dreary choir music dominated festivals, musicians were granted permission to showcase their newest experimentations. The Hall of Roses pulsed and shook with the profound banging of tribal drums. The beat was accompanied by an arrangement of over forty symphonic string instruments called violins and cellos. No one had ever heard such a heavy sound. Nor would they for another hundred years. Forty-eight musicians blended in perfect harmony to create a charged tempo that coursed through the veins of everyone there. It was a entrancing to say the least.

The actual enchanting, however, was left to professionals. Over a hundred prepubescent ladies dressed in blue fabrics frolicked amongst the guests in the theme of water nymphs. They were coordinated in their dance and, in various locations, took over the center of the dance floor to entertain with synchronized spins and waves in hypnotic fashion.

Court jesters with blue and black painted faces weaved themselves in and out of group circles. They took over conversations, replacing them with whimsical jokes and slapstick comedy. It was a real hoot for the older gentlemen who weren’t as spry enough to risk injury on the dance floor.

Fast shadows swiped on and off of the guests, drawing their attention to the daredevils dashing above. They wore white robes with wings and swung on harnesses in smooth maneuvers. These angels and cherubs flew to and from as they sprinkled petals and pretended to play golden harps. And just above them was the real spectacle to behold.

Stationed in the interior balconies atop the baroque crown molding, were six pyromancers dressed in dark hooded purple cloaks. Their old wrinkled hands were stretched out like puppet masters, but there were no strings on these decrepit fingers. They manipulated streams of fire from the wall torches mounted on all fifty bronze columns. And with their magic, the pyromancers would turn the fire into lukewarm purple flames, animating astonishing illusions.

Radiant bodies of celestial spheres floated above the angels and cherubs, rotating, fluctuating, shrinking and expanding. Wondrous constellations dispersed from exploding supernovas, the inconceivable conceived. Heaven itself had raised her curtains and guests were mesmerized by a glimpse of it. It was like levitating in a dream that lightened the load of one’s burden. The guests didn’t need to socialize to have a good time. One could just lie on the golden floor and stare up at the heights.

A buffet of sweet treats and smoked meats covered three fifteen-foot tables. The largest table held bulky barrels of honey wine. As expected, this was where the Brood of Black Bloods staggered about. Pellinore was having the time of his life as bedazzled ladies competed to make his acquaintance. The dashing young Pellinore was well aware of the lure he had on women and the jealousy fuming from his comrades caused him to roar with laughter.

More than once, Tristan looked over and rolled his eyes at the repugnant noise of Pellinore’s making. The exquisite Lady Annaliese maintained a firm grasp on Tristan’s arm but not his attention. When Tristan wasn’t supervising Pellinore, he was monitoring the deviance of Princess Isolde.

The blue-eyed Isolde was absolutely stunning in her sleek white dress and glistening golden hair. She turned heads wherever she went, leaving a lingering scent of stimulating fragrances that stirred the blood of all men. At the moment, King Mark was taking the time to formally introduce her to various members of the royal court.

Everyone was polite enough but they knew she was the Helen of Troy by which the Hibernians were coming to reclaim. Isolde smirked at their apprehensions and made no attempts to assuage their anxiety. She’d simply nod in small-talk and pretend to be utterly captivated by the purple stars shining above. The Duchess Igraine suggested King Mark take her for a dance and, while stiff in the knees, the good king obliged.

Joining Lot and Morgaus on the dance floor, King Mark took Isolde by the waist and pranced her about like a ballerina. She giggled with genuine joy and it surprised the king to find such satisfaction in seeing her happy. He was nearly twenty years her senior, but from the way she smiled, he was rejuvenating. There wasn’t an ounce of fear or reticence in her. The king was taken aback by the boldness of her hands, the way she gingerly massaged his beard, and even took him for a twirl.

At last, the ice around Tristan’s heart began to melt. He saw his enamored king and for the first time Tristan was grateful to have Isolde grace them with her presence.

“Gaheris!”

“Oh, Gaheris!”

“Prince Gaheris!”

Agravain was only fourteen so it didn’t take many drinks to impair his mental faculties. The endless gaggle of girls calling Gaheris’s name was beginning to get irritating. At first, he was resilient, impassive as his older brother was besieged by beauty. But after Gaheris bumped into him to evade the lunging lips of a kiss, envy ignited.

The bearded Constantine noticed and offered Debra’s hand for a dance. Fuming under the collar, Agravain reluctantly accepted as the kind-hearted Debra took him by the hand and led him onto the floor. Meanwhile, Constantine glowered at Gaheris who was now the prized center of ten of Tintagel’s most beautiful daughters. Gaheris felt the scathing stare and laughingly escaped groping hands to approach and inquire.

“Something vexes thee?” Gaheris asked as he struggled to stop smirking.

“You unruly bastard. Would you just pick one and be done with it?” said Constantine.

“Yes, well that’s easier said than done,” Gaheris grinned.

“Just pick one!”

“Wait, Constantine. See, you say that. However, the difficulty therein lies with-”

“Yes! Yes, Gaheris! Please. Please explain the abject horror of possessing the power of such appeal. Such hell!” Constantine shouted.

Gaheris chuckled, “Gladly! For starters…”

As Gaheris began a very detailed explanation with scholastic elocution, Constantine secretly plotted how he was going to knock him out and make it look like an accident. The girls gradually buzzed over like bees to pollen, and soon, Debra lost sight of Constantine from her position on the dance floor. She was beset by reasonable concern.

“Debra, thank you! You should go,” Agravain shouted over the music with a grateful curtsy.

Debra pouted, “Oh, Agravain. You’re so young. One day, women with fall to your feet the same way they do Gaheris. Just wait. You’ll see.”

Her words did little to move the heavy stones mounting in his heart. Agravain merely nodded and walked away, disappearing in the spirited sea of dancing crowns, capes and corsages. Everyone had a partner, a companion who sought none other. At almost every turn he was bumping into someone who easily recognized the lonely look on his face.

First it was his aunt, the Lady Elaine, a woman of reputed fame who had two knights nearly come to blows just for her hand in a single volta. Elaine chose neither and instead whisked Agravain away, lecturing him never to become like those brutes. The aunt and nephew enjoyed each other’s company briefly before Tristan’s friend, Bruno, arrived in his sharp green cloak. Bruno bowed before Agravain and asked for Elaine’s hand. Agravain approved. And again, Agravain trudged on.

Moments later, four lovely virgins dressed as blue water nymphs came and took him by the hand, twirling him around and around. Agravain blushed with embarrassment, spellbound by their remarkable beauty and painted blue eye shadow, but then, an ecstatic shriek from his mother broke that spell. The sight of Lot nibbling on Morgaus’s neck was enough to make Agravain cringe in disgust.

The giddy Queen Morgaus was reaching out for Agravain while a frisky King Lot held her tight. They were drunk and it wasn’t the first time Agravain’s seen them like this. Mead always made them a little too affectionate for his taste. Agravain didn’t want Morgaus’s wet slathering kisses drenching his face, so away he went.

A hand reached out and grabbed one of Agravain’s padded shoulders. He was clutched with such strength that Agravain instinctively reacted with an aggressive swing. He missed. Gawain removed his hand just in time.

“Whoa! Aggie, what happened?” asked the eldest brother.

The young gallant Gawain was conversing with six Lothian knights. For most of the party, ambitious statesmen ceaselessly approached Gawain in the hopes of establishing a powerful political ally. It was too obvious. Thus, Agravain saw through their pretentious smiles. The wall that held back his temper was beginning to crack.

“Hey!” Gawain leaned in to whisper. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t trust these men.” Agravain warned. “They’re not your friends. Neither is Toothless Kersey or the rest of those sycophants.”

Gawain chuckled with a soft smile, “Well, of course I don’t trust them. I’ve only just met them. What’s wrong, Agravain? I see the ire of a scorched heart in you. Tell me.”

Agravain was touched by his brother’s empathy and became glossy eyed as he muttered, “I hate this.”

Gawain nodded, “Let’s get out of here and go for a walk. Just the two of us.”

“No. This is all for you. You should stay and enjoy it.”

“Hey, wait!” Gawain called.

Gawain shouldered his way through the crowd, determined to catch up with his little brother who darted under connected arms and around gowns like a rabbit racing to its dent. He lost sight of Agravain, and almost as soon, he lost sight of everything else.

Everything, except for her.

 

Chapter 12 – Ghosts of the Old South (Paranormal Mystery)

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

Agent Cloud Beaudry ventures out to the crime scene in the middle of the night. As expected, he sees remnants of the Old South, ghosts of the slaves and slave owners tilling the fields and haunting the big house. He interrogates the most prominent Master of the house, seeking clues that could lead him to the Slave Quarter Killer. What he didn’t expect was to have a run-in with the killer himself.

Chapter 12 - Ghosts of the Old South

Chapter 12 – Ghosts of the Old South
By Rock Kitaro

When the crickets go on like this, I do wonder if it’s the middle of their mating season. I left my rental car on the side of Waynesboro Road and trekked through the field of crunchy branches. The beauty of the full moon is about the only thing that makes the crickets tolerable. It casts a dim light over the glistening field of white cotton, creating silhouettes out of the trees and the big house.

After the first two minutes, my eyes adjust and beyond the fields I see a massive wall of black that make up the towering woods reaching up to mesh with purple stardust.

I shouldn’t be here. I confess, I’m a little afraid. But there’s something about the suspense that’s making me a bit giddy. At any given moment someone could come up and stab me from behind and I’d just die laughing, thinking about Miranda’s advice and how she told me to wait till daylight. For all intents and purposes, she’s right. It’d be insane for anyone to come out looking to find a tiny silver barrette in the middle of the night.

However, I’m convinced KeNedra’s spirit is bound to the barrette. Which means if the barrette’s here, KeNedra’s here. I’ll ask my questions and solve this mystery. Case closed.

Each step I take is with caution, touching toes first before planting the rest of my sole. I keep looking over my shoulders. It’s a little after one on a weeknight so I don’t expect anyone to drive by, but you never know.

Approaching the slave quarters, I emerge from the dense thicket of brittle branches into a clearing of softer flat soil. A car hasn’t passed by in over fifteen minutes so I’m comfortable enough to take out my smartphone and activate the flashlight app. A small needlepoint bulb shines a beam, carving through the darkness and crawling along the soil. That’s when I hear it once more. Gospel music.

The chirping of the crickets fade out. It gives way to a soulful hymn that gradually picks up in volume. It’s the tune of people making the best of a bad situation. I hear footsteps in the bushes behind me but I’m not startled. Instead, something strange washes over me. A cool breeze penetrates my sweater and massages my chest like a refrigerated ointment.

Given in to some inexplicable compulsion, I’m brought to my knees. I close my eyes and let go if just for a moment. Gospel music is so therapeutic. Well…I say it’s gospel but for all I know it could be the blues.

More than twenty deep voices hum in blended harmony while ten tenors sang lyrics I couldn’t quite understand. So badly, I wish I could make out the words. Only one was discernible. God. The way they enunciated “God” with such passion, over multiple octaves. I never knew Gospel music could have such a psychological effect. It’s similar to the way metal helps me cope with the rage. Gospel seems to heal. I can’t remember the last time I felt so transported.

Slowly, I open my eyes and I’m awaken to a forgotten scene that obliterates the serenity. Around the slave quarters, I see dozens of dark billowy apparitions toiling in the fields. Their movements are drawn-out and perpetual, like seaweed swaying in a murky lake. There must have been thirty of them and that’s just what I saw in front of me.

Scanning my surroundings, I observe the length of three football fields teeming with paranormal activity. Hundreds of slaves continue to till but with no taskmaster. I heard no crack of the whip or racist taunts driving them on.

The closest to me is a large male raking a stretch of sand. Most of his form is that of dark smoke but his eyes are yellow. He can sense I’m staring and rewards my curiosity with a resentful scowl. His face gains solid definition with a hardened rough texture. I see the grooves of his nostrils snarl like a hostile Rottweiler about to lash out.

I avert my gaze, not out of fear, but sadness. I want him to know, I want them all to know that I’m not their enemy.

A spray of dirt scrapes over my shoes. I looked down to see dozens of small gray wisps, curious faces blended with animosity. High pitch laughter squeals out as the mischievous children realize they’ve been caught. As soon as I see them, they scurry off in all directions. Some disperse in thin air.

Even inside the slave quarters, I spot yellow eyes glowering at me, some with contempt and others with concern. They stare at me for close to three seconds and then fade back into the shadows of the roofed shelter.

“AYYYE!!!!”

A piercing scream sends shivers down my spine. There’s a scuffle, a struggle over life and death emanating from inside the slave quarters. My eyes gloss over with rage as I’m immediately reminded of what happened to Tiquasia Payne. Her pleas, her wailing, the vision of her being brutally manhandled and raped, it stokes the fire inside and snaps me out of this stupid melancholy.

KeNedra. Where are you? If your barrette is here, so should you. With that strong indomitable spirit, one would think you’d be the first to show yourself and steer me in the right direction. Were you really possessed by some evil spirit? Is that why you committed suicide? Were you driven mad? Demoralized?

I sit down on the frame of the doorway facing outward towards the cotton fields. Amidst the whimpers and bludgeoning thuds, the whacks of Tiquasia getting hit over and over again, my eyes stay open. I’m glowering at the fields and any resenting ghost that’s staring my way.

Screw that! I refuse to believe KeNedra was possessed. No! I won’t have it. KeNedra was strong. She stood up against injustices fully aware of the consequences. So what happened? Where the freak are you?

“Kill Crystianne!”

Great… Just what this situation needs, an entitled little schoolgirl from the 1950s showing her pale face for all to see. Maggie steps out of the other doorway ten paces to my right. Her arms are crossed and she’s wearing that signature squinty-eyed scowl of a rich girl who wants to play with the poor girl’s toys. We lock eyes. Both defiant. I bounce my eyebrows as if to say, “Problem?”

“GO KILL CRYSTIANNE!!!” she screams.

A wave of frightened wisps scurries off into the cotton fields. Even the larger slave kept his eyes down and suddenly timid as if he had a drunk Andrew Jackson bearing down his back. Maggie starts in an angry approach. Her face convulses and glistens as sweat and black mucous oozes from her pores.

“Why are we here?! Crystianne is still out there! She’s still alive!!!” She screams, adding monstrous bass in her voice like the growl of a mastiff.

“Damn it, Maggie! For craps sake, quit your hollerin. For the past few days you’ve gone on and on about wanting me to kill Crystianne. You know I will, so hold your fucking horses!”

“NO! SHE’S THE WORST!”

“Then why didn’t we kill her first? Hmm? I made you a promise, didn’t I? When have I ever let you down? When have I ever gone back on my word? Against my better judgment I’ve done every-goddamn-thing I said I was going to do for the sake of keeping my vow! So how about you get off my back and try helping someone else for a change! The sooner I solve this case, the sooner you can go back to hoarding all my undivided attention for yourself. Alright? ALL RIGHT?!”

It’s explosion of frustration and fury that takes her by surprise. She backs up and literally clean up her act. At once, her sweat ashes up and returns to the chalky complexion that was her default. I stand up. Everything I told her was exactly how I felt, save for one minor detail. I honestly don’t want to kill Crystianne so soon after the death of Florence Leach. If anyone picks up on the fact that these two senior citizens were in the same sorority, it could make things a bit difficult. A little patience could go a long way but it looks like Maggie’s fresh out of all that.

 

Knights with No Lords: Chapter 11 – Paramour (Fantasy Fiction)

Posted by Rock Kitaro on October 19, 2018
Posted in: About the Author, Knights With No Lords. Tagged: , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Three sisters have a heart-to-heart talk. After seeing Morgan languish away in the darkness for some time, Queen Morgaus and the Lady Elaine use their experience in an attempt to guide Morgan to the light. Morgan has to come to terms with the fact that she is indeed in love. It’s just unfortunate that the man she wants above all else is bound by stupid things like honor and virtue.

Chapter 11 - Paramour by WLOPartwork by WLOP

The Knights with No Lords
Chapter 11 – Paramour
By Rock Kitaro

“You must be happy. To have your friend back.”

“Elaine, if your wenches are with you, please send them away. I’m not in the mood,” Morgan said without even turning her head to look.

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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. Continue Reading

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…(Fantasy 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.

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