(Legendary Bowery Gang Leader, Mose Humphrey)

“The deaths are three each day. This is in the parish of Tuoist. The people are buried without coffins, frequently in the next field. (There is) no noise or sign of grief for the dead; every thought is selfish and unfeeling…” – Irish official during potato famine, 1847.

-

The jagged mountain peaks and lush green hills of Kenmare surrounded me. A chuisle, a chroí. My pulse, my heart. I was in heaven, until the second I woke on the floor of the Dock Street bar in Brooklyn. Someone had me by the arm and up I went. Soot clogged my nose and coated my mouth. I heard somber voices, the clink of glasses, and the crackle of damp wood in a fire. Through bleary eyes, I picked up the glow of gaslights and fading afternoon light in patched up windows. Men were hunched over drinks at the bar and playing stuss at the tables. A barman in a white shirt and leather skullcap was busy filling glasses from barrels stacked at torso height. A few whores in dirty, man-handled dresses were about, plying their trade.

<This is a very rough draft. I will finish in a few days>

Filth and misery permeated my being. I ran my fingers through my damp groin, having a pocket sewn into my undergarments. I needed a drink, bad.

The same strong hand that had lifted me, grasped my shoulder. My joints were too stiff and my mind was too muddled for a proper response. All I could do was turn. I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze. It took a few seconds to realize he was the Ward Boss, Joe Steers. It had been days since that first raid at Miller’s Landing, and in that time, he had grown a mustache that looked like the wings of a small black bird.

Joe was not a normal man, of that I was certain. But it wasn’t something I cared to mull over. My heart sank when I thought of the money he had paid me. It had been enough to forget about that nasty business at Miller’s; too bad Joe didn’t forget about me, at least till the money ran dry. Though my hunger had long ceased to be a daily concern, my thirst for gin and ale was insatiable. So no matter what his plans entailed, I was his man.

Someone peeled away from the the bar and came at us. He was a few inches shorter than myself with broad shoulders. “Well now, a crimp come to shanghai one of our men,” he said with a Kerry brogue.

I knew the Irish chap was talking about Joe, who wore a long black frock that was buttoned to his chin. He looked like a Bowery b’hoy brawler. Best in those clothes, to wear them you when you were with your gang.

“I am prepared to make you an offer,” Joe said politely, his brown eyes aware of growing situation, “which I am certain you will accept.”

“I want the drink, I need it,” I said.

“Sure, but not here,” Joe said.

“Do ya’ hear me crimp,” said the Irish fellow to Joe. “What’s your kind doing with men here that work for a living–”

“He’s gonna shanghai one of Erin’s finest!” cried another man who also had a brogue. “Oh ho! We was goin’ to do it ourselves! An’ sell the tinker to the men of science.”

A heavy glass soared by our heads and smashed into the plank wall. Not a second later, the front door opened and a man breezed in. He was dressed in a fine coat and hat. He flashed a smile at Joe. He had a wild light in his eyes and long, thin teeth that made for a cheerily, psychotic look. Even before I recognized him as one of the gorillas from Miller’s Landing, I knew there would be trouble.

And I also knew Joe and the gorilla had planned it that way.

(6th Ward, 1855 Brooklyn Fire Insurance Map)

“We don’t want a muss,” Joe said, removing two arm-length poles from his jacket. He snapped them together to make a wooden stave. He looked up like an owl. From his coat pocket, he removed a metal wedge with razor’s protruding, similar to the one he had used at Miller’s Landing. He looked back down as he attached the wedge to one end of the stave.

The Irish fellow raised his bare knuckles and stepped forward. Joe flipped the stave to me, then took a quick step and swung with abandon, cracking the Irishman’s jaw with a hammer-heavy blow. Then another man jumped into the fray, wielding a hatchet.

“That’s the one, Joe!” the gorilla cried with an exuberant grin.

In a seamless motion, Joe plucked the stave from my hands and popped his attacker in the forehead with the wedge. Blood spraying from his head, the man went wheeling back into the crowd at the bar, only to be pushed back at us.

The gorilla, who was tall as Joe, though as thick as a barrel, was already swinging a bludgeon. Whoosh! The fat of the barrel sunk into the side of the man’s head. Wump! Blood exploded from his mouth and ears.

The gorilla then turned to me with a joyously sick smile. “I got him good, eh’ sailor boy!” he said in a high-pitched voice.

I nodded with a wide-open mouth.

“You men don’t know what you’re messing with,” said a man who pulled a large knife. Others came forward brandishing knifes, shivs, and brickbats.

“We sure as hell know your type,” Joe said. “The child and the whore, get out,” he said, pointing to a girl no older than twelve, who sat on a card player’s lap.

Both men looked at me. There was another young whore and a plain-faced serving wench. I wiped me eyes.

“Your life depends on your choice,” the gorilla said.

“I’d say the young one, but I want a drink,” I said, pointing to the girl.

To my utter shock, the man who had wielded the hatchet, miraculously started to stir. When he stood on his feet, I was beyond amazed. It seemed a miracle. But in that moment, the bar seemed such an unholy place. Most seemed not to care.

Joe and the gorilla laughed. “They’re all forsaken,” Joe said.

“Being here and being with these hellcats, is a deal with the devil,” the gorilla said.

One of the card players stood and reached out with a pistol. But by that time, Joe had already pulled a knife from his boot and had launched it with deadly accuracy. The blade sunk to the handle in the man’s chest. The gun fired and the bullet whizzed by us.

“Paying attention isn’t enough,” Joe said. “You must anticipate.”

Two more men came forward. Joe struck with the opposite end of the stave, while the gorilla swung so often and hard, it was all I could do not to get hit. There had been a whore near the center of it all. The pleats of her dress were swathed in blood.

Joe and the gorilla laughed and looked at me. I could feel horror, frozen on my face.

“Now let’s see you,” the gorilla said, smiling. He handed his blood soaked bludgeon to me.

The girl looked at me, then at the other two. She was barely a teenager. I grabbed the stave, but darted to the bar. Joe and the gorilla began to laugh. “We was just joking,” the gorilla said.

The barman was standing stiff as a board in the shadows. “Gin, gin, gin,” I cried. The barman hesitated, until Joe spoke.

“For all of us, you and the whore, too,” Joe said.

The door banged shut as the whore had fled when we turned her backs. The gorilla lifted his glass of gin, looked at me, and then to Joe. “This man needs work, lots of work.”

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Eight

American Horror Story

(More coming this week…)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(My grammar school photo)

“Just hit the fecking thing,” Joe Steers had said. “But you have to break the bone. Skull’s the best spot. That’s all a man has to do and he’s golden.”

I looked down at the diabolical weapon in my grasp that he had been showing me how to use. It was a wooden stave with interlocking razors on one end. Then I looked at Joe and shrugged. “Okay,” I said as if it was all just clean fun. Little did I know, that what I was entering into would haunt my childhood, one hundred and twenty years later . . .

-

I would get this pain as a kid in the 1970s. It would shoot up my throat to my tongue. It didn’t hurt all that much, though each time it came on, a shock of white terror had me breathlessly screaming. I feared the unknown cause more than anything. Thankfully, the pain ceased to occur by the time I reached ten or eleven.

With the passing of time, it was all but forgotten, until weeks ago the pain roused me from sleep. It was the same night Benny, “the cigar store Indian” had told me what I pretty much knew–that I had lived past lives. I saw a long fingernail, pressed deep into my neck, and knew the pain all-too well. When I couldn’t move, I realized I was dreaming, though my terror grew as the face of a devilish creature hovered close. It had pupils of orange-fire, skin as coarse as rough sandpaper, cheekbones that protruded like tiny fists, and lips that reminded me of blood-sated leeches. It opened its mouth to speak, and there came the low roar of a fire. From off in the distance, I heard Joe Steers’ voice:

“Blink and you’re back in the world of the dead.”

I blinked hard and woke. The first thing I remembered was how Joe Steers had taken me under his wing in the mid-1850s. In today’s terms, we could be described as demon hunters, though we were really just ”tools.” We made a bloody mess of things and rarely killed. Plus we had no clue who we truly worked for. I doubt even the men we answered to, who also ran a shipping company out of an office on Brooklyn’s Water Street, knew the full truth. Yet the memories of that past life are cloudy at best. But with each day things are coming back to me.

One thing I wish Joe would have told me straight away was that you can’t kill a demon. At first, all we had to do was brand them with the stave; each time it was a different razor-shaped mark on the end of the weapon. From our perspective, all that did was get them real fu-kin’ angry. They were after us night after night. Good thing we were paid well, we did whatever dirty work we had to do, then hid away in the bars and got regally soused for days and weeks on end.

It’s funny, but even now I’m still mad at Joe. He shouldn’t have lied to me in the beginning. If I knew the truth, I still probably would have gotten on with him and his business. But just hitting “the fecking thing!” with the stave wasn’t all a man had to do. That strike, branding the recipient, was just the first step. By the time I learned the rest, I was in too deep, just like Joe . . .

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

 (View of Brooklyn Heights, 1849 – from digital New York Public Library)

You had to be there before nightfall. These ships always came in the middle of the night, and they wanted you there earlier to wait. They wanted to watch, you and the others…

-

Miller’s Landing was a rickety old wharf on the Brooklyn side of the East River, part of which had been scorched by a recent fire. Inside on a burned-over slip were a half-dozen ruined looking men armed with staves and huge bludgeons. The men grew still as I approached. They sat on barrels and boxes branded with the name of one of the waterfront warehouses, which populated Furman Street behind me.

It was a misty, overcast day, though felt cold enough to snow. I flipped the collar up on my thick woolen coat. None of the men looked at me, and I thought I was in for a row, until a pimply faced giant who said his name was Joe Steers, said I had come to the right place. Since I was unarmed, except for a shiv in my coat pocket that I was remiss to mention, Joe gave me a brickbat, and welcomed me to sup with the men. They had a pot of pork and bean soup, and bottles of gin and rye whiskey.

I had a few mouthfuls of the soup, and took a tin cup of gin, but was very suspicious about the goings-on. I noticed a few professional gorillas over at the gloomy entrance to the landing. Joe told me they were there to make sure no one left, and to see that it was a private affair. After that, I kept to the drink, but my intrigue was not forgotten.

It was Christmas Day, 1853. Little did I know that my descent into darkness had just begun.

A short while before in a saloon up on Dock Street, where I’d been boozing all day, a big man in a fine black suit had waltzed in and started pumping hands and buying drinks. Someone said he was the local Sixth Ward boss. He also kept smiling and bending back on his toes with his thumbs in his britches, seeming like he was the richest man in town. When a drink came my way, I lifted the cup, grinned, and cursed him under my breath.

On my way out back to piss, the ward boss followed me into the cold and rain. He grabbed my shoulder. “I have an opportunity I would like to offer to you,” he said and seemed to force a smile. He was nearly a head taller than me. “There is nothing illegal to it, and you will earn twenty dollars for just a few hours work.”

Red-faced and wincing, I looked at his hand on my shoulder. He took it away.

“Right this moment, over at Miller’s Landing, we need another big man like yourself,” he said. “You’ll be back at the bar in a wink of time.”

Big or not, it made little sense to ask a person in my condition. Yet drunk and looking to stay that way, I acquiesced. All I had left was a few cents. It was barely enough for an all nations, which was a mix of drinks from unfinished bottles.

-

When two more sullen Johnny Newcombes joined our motley group, one of the gorillas came over and spoke in a high-pitched tone. It sounded like someone was squeezing his nuts. “A ship is coming to dock here this very evening. You men will see to it that the crew is waylaid, as we would like to have a word with the Captain, who is a wanted man. He scarpered on bail, after being arrested for fitting his ship for the slave trade.” That speech got the blood going in our hideous bunch. We hated the Negroes, and didn’t want any more of them in our midst. They took our jobs and our women. We drank to busting up the captain proper.

Joe Steers and another man named Tom Bickers, did not drink alcohol, and they both had staves equipped with razor sharp ends. “This is my last night,” Tom told Joe a few times. ”I’ve had enough,” he said, and I could tell Joe wasn’t happy with decision. ”It’s a terrible thing, and all the money in the world can’t make me stay.”

At some point, I blacked out and slept like a babe, until a pock-faced scamp with a mouth full of cracked teeth kicked me awake. He was pointing to the river and shaking his rear end. “Sh-t, sh-t, sh-t,” he said, and I thought he was crapping in his pants.

Everything was a blur. I wiped my face with a damp coat sleeve. Clouds hung just above the river. I heard the ringing of bells from passing ships, and the clop of hooves on a cobbled Furman Street. Over in Manhattan not a single shape or light was visible. I slowly discerned the broad sheets of a three-masted barque, headed straight at us. The rest of the ship was cloaked until it was nearly upon the quay.

Our gang climbed over the side of the vessel just as it knocked into the slip. Some sailors were high up on the rigging, going about the business of tying up the sails. Sight was so dismal, Tom Bickers had to whistle to get their attention. Even then, they were slow to take us in, so we started hooting and waving our weapons.

“The captain is all we want, and no trouble,” Tom cried, shoving the sharp end of his stave up at a sailor. “He is a wanted man!”

A man in a soldier’s uniform came down from the quarter deck. He reached out with a Colt revolver in hand, and aimed at Tom, who lowered his stave.

“We have no trouble with you!” Tom said. “We’re here for the captain. He is a wanted–”

The soldier shot Tom the chest, and then fired at the scamp who had the broken teeth, hitting him in the back of the head. The soldier came at us, firing four more shots. We hid as best we could, while the sailors ran off the ship. Luckily, only one shot caught our chap in the arm. When the soldier began to reload, two of our men pounced on him, running the points of their staves through his belly. When he fell, the man who had been shot in the arm, clubbed the soldier’s head with a bludgeon, which he held in his bloodied arm. He also took turns kicking him with his boot that was studded with hobnails.

There came a cry to search the lower deck for the captain. I happened to be standing by an open door, where out bolted a fair-haired man. He pushed me aside with a powerful forearm blow, and sprinted for the side of the ship. His long black coat billowed in his wake. I slung my brickbat, which cracked him square in the head. His feet stomped as he tried to regain his balance.

Joe Steers, who I hadn’t seen on deck since we boarded, sprung up from between a row of sacks and barrels, and poked the fair-haired man in the forehead with his stave. Blood sputtered down the man’s face. He recoiled and swung wildly, though Joe pulled back his stave and moved away as if his work was done. Through the blood, I could see the outline of a mark left on the fair-haired man’s forehead. He wiped the blood from his eyes, then jumped over the side of the boat, onto to the slip. It was the last we saw of the fair-haired man that night.

Joe immediately went about paying us twenty dollars apiece. One of the men said we should split up the money meant for the two dead men, and Joe said that was fine, but told us to throw them in the water.

I went straight to Tom, wanting to search his pockets for money. But Joe beat me to it, yet was good enough to give me the few bills and coins he found. Then I reached for Tom’s stave, but Joe snatched it from me.

So close, I took my first good look at Joe’s face. To my stunned disbelief, I realized he was the ward boss. But there was something more, there was a blood-colored nimbus about Joe’s face. It was the mark of evil.

His eyes lit up and he touched his chin, seeming to read my thoughts. “I know that look,” Joe said and laughed, staring into my eyes.

I clenched the dull end of the shiv in my pocket.

“I thought you were just a drunk, a useless sot for the soldier to shoot down, if so be it, but you’ve got ‘the sight.’ You can see things few others can.”

No one had ever said anything like that to me before. One of the reasons I drank so much, was to dull my senses. I was terrified of the things I saw at night, though most of it seemed just shadows of shadows.

“I could use a man like you,” Joe said. “Sober up and if things go right, you could take Tom’s place. Though if you do, you too would suffer the same fate if you tried to run off on me.”

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

-

(View of Brooklyn Heights, 1849 – Original lithograph)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

 (Greek Salad – food photos uncreditted)

No one goes to a diner in NYC unless you live in Staten Island and don’t know any better. I know Seinfeld did, but he went with a TV crew and George Costanza, and then made comic history. All I can think is because of that awesome show, Diners, Drive-ins and Dives, the people from Jersey made a trend of diner fare, and it somehow seeped into Manhattan. Good for Jersey.

The other night we wound up at a diner in Midtown Manhattan. I was starving like marvin and the place we went to has a menu that’s like nine pages. I ordered a Greek salad, fries with cheese, extra white sauce on the side, and a Diet Pepsi. Also, one of the first things I did after we sat in a corner booth, was pour a dollop of catsup on my finger, just to make sure it was Heinz, and they weren’t filling the bottle up with something lesser–

Oh, I also ordered a side of falafel, which I plopped on top of my Greek salad. Do you care? Yes you dooooo!!!

(Falafel)

Now don’t ask me what everyone else ordered. The pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) don’t speak a language I can understand. Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” is small and unassuming as was his meal, and though lady friend(LF) was right across from me, my food was piled so high and I was so hungry, I ate like a nut and hardly lifted my eyes.

The walls were mirrored, which is so cheesy, though each booth had its own jukebox, but we just talked. No music. Oh, I’m wandering, or at least there was a point to this post.

(Tzatziki aka Greek white sauce)

We went to the diner to meet someone. Benny set the thing up. He didn’t say if it was a guy or a girl, just that they had insight into NYC’s darkest paranormal secrets, and that they would enlighten me in ways he couldn’t.

But the food was awesome. I floated away on a garlicky cloud replete with Greek salad and white sauce. Oh!!! I ordered a side of half sour pickles, too. I like to dip them in the white sauce, just like I do the cheese fries. Though after I dip the fries into the white sauce, I dunk ‘em in the catsup. It’s delish! It would be great if somehow I could keep the cheese gooey the whole time. I wouldn’t mind a heat lamp hanging over the table while we ate. Nothing is more exciting than gooey-cheese fries, because once the cheese goes hard, the excitement goes away.

(Cheese fries)

Oh, sorry, I was there to meet someone. Benny, who is an old homeless man and seer, said this person lived a bunch of past lives and crap.

Over the meal we had this long conversation, and I was making like I was paying attention, and was talking, but have no clue what the heck we talked about. I was so into the food, *my body sang electric yums! Thumb cocked, I kept pointing at my food. I don’t know why. Well, actually I do, ’cause it was sooooo guuuud!

After I finished, there wasn’t a crumb or bit of lettuce left on any of my plates, just wads of crumbled up napkins. In the mirror I saw my face was blotched.

(The bigger pickles in pic are the half sours I like)

When LF went to the ladies room, num and nuts followed, because that’s what they do–follow, follow, follow. I was left at the table with Benny sitting next to me. I caught him in the mirror looking at me expectantly.

“Where is this person I’m supposed to meet?” I asked, turning to give a sweeping glance at the diners. Heads bent over meals, drinks, and conversation, no returned my gaze. “Are they coming or not?”

The cigar store Indian met my gaze in the mirror with a smile, and continued to smile when the waitress handed me the bill, which I paid. On a side note, the one positive thing I’ll say about num and nuts, they will pay the bill next time, no questions.

“Let’s get out of here. That guy’s not coming,” I said to Benny, and slid heavily out of the booth.

“Here’s here,” Benny said.

I stood tall and looked around once more. No one seemed uncanny. Just as I caught my own reflection, Benny tapped my chest.”Here’s in here,” the old man said with a gap-toothed grin.

I wasn’t impressed. Sorry. Or at least I couldn’t process all Benny had told me. I ate too much and all the blood went to my stomach. I’m gonna have to digest this knowledge and get back to you.

(Mr Creosote – still from Monty Python’s movie “The Meaning of Life”)

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

-

*”I Sing the Body Electric” by Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Brooklyn Bridge – historic Tobacco Warehouse – Photo and Photoshopped by Joe)

Okay, I’m back after a hiatus from posting. Who cares, right? No one. I sure as heck don’t.

Anyway, things haven’t been going so well on my side of the fence. I’ve been living at my boss Nick’s house, yet not going to work (though I do drag my butt out for job estimates). You’d think after weeks of not showing up at the job sites, Nick would say something, but to him I’m as inanimate as the couch or the table or the chairs. I don’t know who or what he cares about other than gambling, it sure ain’t me. I did ask him one college-football-Saturday if he wanted me to move out, and he just waved for me to move away from the TV. The man’s a stone. Whatever.

Most days I’ve been sleeping into the afternoon, and in the evenings I usually head over to this seaport dive on the Brooklyn side of the East River. I won’t say where the bar is exactly, except that it’s just outside the glitzy(to me it’s glitzy!) Brooklyn Bridge Park area, while the door to the place is three steps from an unobstructed view of the bridge. It’s a bar where you can really immerse yourself in the moment. The patrons tend to be euphoric and unbridled, particularly after midnight when rough-hewn characters begin to slip in among the crowd of slick-heeled wannabes. The dregs make a game of leering at the ladies, who don’t seem to mind much, though some give dagger-eyed looks. These men also love to violently cry out, sing, and yowl. I can hardly tell a word apart, or if they are truly singing or yelling at one another. Most peculiar is that although everyone sees and hears the dregs, they appear ghost-like, as they breeze in and out of the bar as if on jets of air. It’s no wonder that in looking back the day after, the night spent in the place always seems like a dream.

After one especially long night there, Benny, “the cigar store Indian,” popped up on me as I plodded to the subway. I can’t remember much of what he said, something about me having to change my ways, that I was on the path to becoming irrevocably nocturnal. It was all blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Oh, he also said that I was messing with the type of forces that lure in the mind, only to consume the body. Whatever. I haven’t talked to him about it since. Though the next day he did orchestrate a meeting between me and my estranged lady friend(LF). I was dying to see her, and didn’t want her mad at me anymore. Benny even came along and did a lot of the talking. He really helped smooth things over between us.

-

In the week or so since LF and I have been back together, I haven’t gone to that seaport dive. Plus I’ve been working everyday and even going to the gym. She is my everything. I know that, and so do my readers. I won’t go into our reunion, though you can read about our breakup. It wasn’t my fault. A trickle of demon blood made me sick. Read Episode Thirty-Four and Episode Thirty-Five, if you want to know all about it.

Otherwise, because of the dose of demon blood from that runt of a kid I met at the “House on the River’s Edge“, I do get sick now and again. When it happens, besides the fact that I get a little nutty, my extrasensory perception sharpens. Though you’d be surprised, things get very clouded, and I usually have to search the streets really hard to see a ghost or true spirit matter. As far as the nuttiness, I won’t go on about it, except to say that no one should fear me. I don’t want to bite anyone. And I don’t get that crazy, so long as LF is with me. I trust in her, and know after a few hours, I’ll be fine.

Unfortunately, Since LF’s in my life again, the pizza and Chinese delivery guys(aka num and nuts) are back stepping on my tail. Not having seen them in two months, they appear more primitive and bizarre than ever. They seem thrust from a TV commercial, or sprung from the pages of a fashion magazine. They both work hard to evoke fashion-conscious personas; whether they’re on a street corner, at a bar, or at the dinner table waiting for a helping of garlic mashed potatoes, corn, cranberries, stuffing, and gravy, those two love to pose with pouty mouths and affected gestures. They are whacked, plain and simple.

-

Today is my first day back living in the old apartment with LF and num and nuts. In a little while the four of us plus Benny are going out to dinner. Afterwards, Benny wants me to meet someone who can offer some insight into NYC’s darkest paranormal secrets. It’s partly because I’ve been toying with writing a book on the subject. The old man thinks that’s a great idea, especially because he’s always telling me that I need to learn more about the supernatural to help myself. Benny says this person is someone who has lived many past lives, yada, yada. I don’t care. And as far as the book, I’ll be upfront and honest with you like I always am, I want to write it so I can make a few extra greenbacks. E-books are easy to do.

So, whatever, I’m really hungry and can’t wait to stuff my pie hole.

But I will say that I owe Benny one for bringing LF back into my life. I know I complain about the old man, and always say how I don’t trust him because he’s doesn’t tell me all he knows, but now I’m truly indebted to the bastard, that is, at least until I pay for his dinner tonight.

Thanks for reading.

Your friend,

Bald Punk aka Joe

P.S. I’m happy to be back blogging with you.

P.P.S.S. To that person from the Bronx with the demon problem, sorry I couldn’t help you directly, but let me know if my suggestions were of any help?

—

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Seven

Hello Again!

Gorged

Into Darkness – Christmas Day, 1853

THE PAIN

-

Brooklyn Bridge Park (Photos only)

DUMBO (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge) in Brooklyn (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(“Catcher in the rye” by Kamiyari)

Chapter Three

Two hours later, Karl was still parked outside the Sisters of Charity Children’s Home. He lowered his torso as a compact green-colored car passed. Behind the wheel was a brown-skinned woman with tight curly hair. She drove by at least three times a day, though never once catching sight of him. Seated inside the car for five straight months, Karl not only worked to hide himself, but his vehicle, too. That day it was the shape and color of a 1992, dark blue Ford Taurus.

Karl remained crouched as a white-colored taxi pulled up in front of the building. The young couple came out of the orphanage, slinked down the stairs, and got inside the car. He had wanted to take a closer look at their faces, but as the car pulled away and he lifted his head, he was certain they would soon be back for the child.

Positioned in his vehicle so he could see the left side of the two-story white building, he focused his gaze on baby Max through the rear corner window on the upper floor. Located in the middle of six other children, he was the odd little one of the group. Unlike the other children who were bigger, brighter, and more colorful in Karl’s extrasensory vision, Max’s flame rose and spread to the dimensions no larger than the size of an adult-size beating heart. Though most of it was near white in color. That was what mattered—to be white and pure; and Max was very close to that state. Another vehicle, this one full of children, came up the street. Karl bowed down again. He was sure no more than a handful of people had glimpsed sight of him. The few times that too much of his attention had been on baby Max and someone had seen him, he’d sensed their intention as it occurred and merely bowed out of sight. For him it was a simple and casual maneuver, yet done so fast that any beholders surely questioned their vision as they stared into an empty vehicle.

Even if they did see him, the alien knew he looked unimposing. He was a statistically average white male with a perpetually clean-shaven face, short black hair, and earnest blue eyes. Yet he was extremely thin and could move like the wind, which helped if he had to protect baby Max. This was something he was ready to do day or night.

When the car turned the corner, Karl rose, catching clear sight of Max, though he moved his head forward to let the sunlight hit his face. He liked the feel of the direct light. It helped him to imagine dying a glorious death.

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Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

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Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(*Old Mill Road, Richmond Town – Photos by Joe)

The most exciting thing about starting the novel process for me is that the impetus forms completely outside of my control. That is to say, I could never write a novel, but there’s something outside of my scope of understanding that can.

In the beginning, silly, abstract thoughts form the basis for what I believe will be the foundation for a novel. There is no way I can say why I believe they will work. The tell tale sign that I have a story to tell, is when my excitement grows to a fever pitch. Not long after, The Words come.

I find I’m more excited to begin a novel, than to finish it. It was that way for my two Max Beckley novels, both of which I couldn’t be more proud of.

       Check out this related post: Bald Punk on Writing 101

The ideas for the Max Beckley novels, the first of which is titled ABDUCTION STORY, came over a few weeks. It was years ago, in the month of August. I was originally inspired by summer skies. I thought there was a mystery in them that needed to be unraveled.

I can also remember one morning watching planes land at Newark International Airport. It was then that I first imagined a man locked in a dark space, whose only escape was to a mysterious world or other dimension. I kept dreaming, and daydreaming about these different skies and why and how this man was locked away, and how he could break in and out of that mysterious world. All the while, dreams of death and dying I’d had as a child, came back to me.

It was weeks before I wrote a single word, but I was certain they would come. And they did, late one August evening on Staten Island.

    See links below for my other experience on SI:

       Seventh Episode – May 2009 (Bald Punk Rides Again)

       Bald Punk The Explorer!

       My Journey to the Edge of the World!

       Staten Island BBQ Mayhem

       Bald Punk Rides Again

I had piloted my Plymouth Acclaim up the tight curves of Snake Hill, then weaved through La Tourette Golf Course, and come to the top of Richmond Hill Road, when I first caught a glimpse of the most amazing August sky. I continued down the road to the Staten Island Mall, and parked by Richmond Ave, out across from Sears.

I eyed the start of a chemical sunset over the factories in Elizabeth, NJ. In the southwestern sky was a tall, long, and massive shaft of molten clouds. Breathtaking is an apt description. I can still see that hallowed cloud belt now. I imagined that within the blazing colors lay the mystery of Heaven. At that moment a violent rush of inspiration coursed through me: I had to get “those clouds” on paper! It took three years, and more than 160,000 words(draft version was over 200k), for me to be satisfied.

Along the way, I lost myself inside a Picasso or two, but that was only to clear my head/to stop my conscious self from thinking. Because a book writes itself, and the author should rarely if ever get involved in the writing process. But what do I know.

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*I chose the above photo from Old Mill Road–even though in the beginning of this post I was talking about an August sunset, because it just so happens that I took that photo standing about a mile or so east from where I saw that Heavenly sunset.

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Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

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Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

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Photos in and around Old Mill Road in Richmond Town:

A Few Winter Photos – Richmond Town

Richmond Town in Staten Island

Storm Damage in Staten Island

Church of St Andrew’s – Staten Island

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Part of this episode is set on Old Mill Road by St. Andrews:

Episode Twenty-Seven - March 2010 (Feat: Ghost of a Slave named Hardy)

White Fire

In My Head

Inside Me

NOTHING

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Heaven in Her Arms-WALL by ‘vhm-alex)

Chapter Two

Four people appeared in the gloom above Max’s crib. His eyes darted to the small-featured face of Father Raja, and then settled on the compassionate, lighter-brown face of the nun, Tooti. He looked deep into her eyes and wanted her to lift him so he could feel the love that he knew stirred in her chest. He longed for one of her sweet kisses. A young white man and woman also stood over him. Max glanced at them before his eyes swam back to Tooti, and he wished she’d touch him.

The nun moved out of sight and Max spent a second shuffling his brown limbs, his eyelids fluttering, before he took in the two strangers who hung over him like bright lights. The young man’s hazel eyes combed over Max’s face. He seemed confident—a military man. Maybe he knew something about Max’s past. The man took a step back and the child’s eyes fell upon the young woman’s face, which glistened with a bluish whiteness. He felt a growing relief that turned into a tangible attraction. Her eyes were deep blue and her glossy, red lips were thinner than Tooti’s. Max traced the lines of her brow down to her small nose, amazed by the soft texture of her satin-white skin and its bluish sheen. Utterly brilliant and bewitching, she roused his tiny heart. She was the antithesis of his life in the Miami orphanage. She was like Tooti.

Max remembered that in the beginning his skin had been white, too, though it would alternately burn and then tan in the summertime. The summertime—the word stirred up old memories, and for a second he felt the muscular body of a horse beneath him, and the thump of its hooves against hard earth, and the sun burning down heavily. He remembered being older, stronger.

In his orphanage crib, a pulse of happiness floated up the child’s spine and filled his mouth. “Ooooh!” he uttered, enrapt with his ability to remember such sweetness from the past, a time when he had had not only mobility, but also a real sense of freedom.

He looked up at the woman’s perfectly-shapen eyebrows and then, with his imagination, traced the curves of her breasts under her pink, cotton blouse. Suddenly, he ached for her to hold him, wanted to nurse at her breasts, burrow in her arms, be smothered by the instinct and old blood of her womanhood. His need was great, very great, but he wasn’t evil. He was simply very different, not your ordinary child.

The woman reached down and teased his chubby cheek. Max cooed, fascinated by her richly-colored red lips. He lifted a hand to touch them. A moment of frustration passed as he was reminded of his young age and limited mobility. She gently clasped his hand with her thumb and two fingers. Their eyes held steady for a moment until he felt a palpable connection—a winking “hello” between their souls. In that instant his body seemed filled with helium—with ecstasy. He was floating away, was suddenly far away. He was in an ineffable place, a place he had been before. He was at peace. And when he thought it couldn’t get any better, the unthinkable occurred.

With a dour smile Father Raja put his hand on the woman’s shoulder, spoke a few soft words, and, to Max’s dismay, guided her away. The child went completely numb; a light had been turned off in his mind. The world once again was bleak and sere. His air was rank with sour smells and the lingering scent of feces. It was stagnant with hopeless regularity. Max grew nervous. He couldn’t see what was going on. He was overwrought with his own helplessness. The returning gloom was too much to bear.

Then he heard a female voice. It had to be the pretty young woman. “We never really cared. Either a girl?” her voice raised a few notes, “or a boy.”

“Um, yes, a boy,” a male voice replied. “Or a little girl, honey?”

“Since family has taken the other child, we might be able—” Father Raja coughed and mumbled the rest of his reply. The floor creaked as they all moved to another crib in the room.

Max gulped air. The odors and dankness repulsed him more than ever. He gasped. All his hopeful, new thoughts became jumbled with the old despair as he remembered the pain of death. Always a vicious death. Always a sudden death. It had to be that way. But why? Did they say so? Were they here now?

With a punching motion, Max stretched out his delicate limbs. A huge quantity of air filled his lungs. His face knotted as he tried to expel, only to gasp instead. For a moment, he thought he would suffocate. A short cry escaped his lips, followed by another and another until he was wailing and tears streamed down his face. A chorus of cries sounded as Max choked again, his face a tight knot.

The young woman came and stood over him again. Her eyes darted first to Max and then about the room before returning to his face. Her hands rose above the rail of his crib. Desperately, Max tried to quiet himself. He threw his limbs up as he choked and spit, mucous filling his nose. She stared at him for a long moment, yet try as he might, he couldn’t be still.

“You want me to pick you up?” she said melodiously, the softness of her words absolutely paralyzing Max with hope. She opened her hands and her face was aglow. She scooped him up, kissed him, and held him close. Her affections blazed with ferocity as they coursed through him.

Max was delirious. The room was spinning. The beautiful young woman held him out and gazed hungrily upon him, her eyes wide open, beaming like bright lamps. In that instant Max felt completeness, a purpose in one of the humming chords of the universe. Let it be a symphony!

“You want to come home with me?” her soul whispered.

Max smiled from ear to ear; she wasn’t putting him down. He snuggled close to her soft breasts. Her sweet perfume was strong, though the smell was soothing like her warmth, but nothing was greater than the attraction he felt toward her. In his delirium, he developed a new outlook on life. It was going to be different this time. It was going to be a good life. The beautiful young woman was going to take him away and keep him safe. Home was in her arms now.

 —

Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

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Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

 (Most Holy Redeemer Church, NYC - Photo/Photoshopped by Joe)

Chapter One

Late one morning Karl became aware of a subtle change in the air. He had been sitting in a car, stationed outside a Miami orphanage. Through the back window, he spotted a taxi that had just turned onto the street. An uncanny, burning-white light inside the vehicle caught his eye. As he watched it swiftly close in, he was like a child in awe, staring with his eyes beaded and mouth agape. The light emanated from a young couple in the back of the car.

The taxi came to a halt outside the orphanage across the street. The rear passenger-side door opened and the couple exited.

For the time it took them to ascend a handful of steps and vanish into the building, Karl did not take a breath. Beneath the layer of human flesh, his alien lips gave a thin smile. He was certain that the young couple were the chosen ones. God Himself couldn’t have handpicked two better specimens, he thought.

Though Karl hadn’t selected the couple, he had been the one to find Max Beckley.

The alien relaxed in the plush seat and let the calm Miami summer sky fill his field of vision. He remembered the exact day he had abducted Max. August 27, 1776. The date had somehow stayed in his mind, probably because of the importance it held for Max. Karl still remembered looking down upon the sprawling Brooklyn battlefield from his small, open-aired craft. He could remember the flashes of exploding light, and the heavy black and gray clouds of smoke. He even remembered the precise moment he had spotted Max’s beautiful flame. It had sent a shiver through his alien flesh. It was exactly what they were looking for.

In a hasty maneuver, Karl’s craft had fallen from the sky in a blaze of color to Max’s mangled body that was just a few breaths away from death.

Since that day it had been a long and hellish course for Max. They had killed him more times than Karl cared to remember. But what a good soul; one that if all went as planned would soon be perfect.

The alien glanced back to the orphanage. Just beyond the entrance, through the closed curtains of a tinted glass door, he could still make out the pure light of the young couple. Tears welled in the alien’s eyes. A tinge of guilt tugged at his throat. “Max deserved the couple,” he told himself. They would serve him well. And, in the end, maybe they all would benefit.

Karl let his gaze drift up to the second floor window, to the room where Max unknowingly waited for the couple. A sense of anticipation spread over his stomach. He closed his eyes, daydreaming of how eternal light might feel. He imagined the final door opening and a ghostly hand beckoning him onward. It was then that from the primeval depths of his mind came a long-dismissed hope… God is forgiveness.

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Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

-

Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels

(Max Beckley – Uncredited picture Photoshopped by Joe)

For way too long I’ve been yakking about how I wrote two books about Max Beckley’s plight. He’s a Revolutionary War soldier that was abducted during the Battle of Brooklyn by the same demons that haunt me now.

I’m gonna share the first few chapters of the first novel. They are still a bit rough.

The working title of the book is ABDUCTED SOUL. Each novel is approximately 80,000 words.

Note that I often refer to Max’s abductors as demons on my blog, while in the books I call them aliens. I kinda think the terms are interchangeable.

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Here are all the posts in this series: Episode Thirty-Six

Max’s Story

Chapter One: “God is Forgiveness”

Chapter Two: “In Her Arms”

Chapter Three: “A Glorious Death”

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Notes on my Max Beckley novels

Most Holy Redeemer Church in the East Village (Photos only)

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Here are links to the first two Episodes that mention Max Beckley.

Episode Fourteen – August 2009

New York City’s Deepest, Darkest Secret

Secrets

We Are Knowing

LIFE IN TWO HOURS AND FIFTEEN MINUTES

We’re on a Road Trip to Home Depot (Secrets Interlude)

THE IMMORTALS

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Episode Seventeen – September 2009

Carrie Robbins channels a Revolutionary War Soldier 

Hiding Behind Coltrane

Memory Giver 

The Rush Is Over

Here are my STORIES and info on my Novels