A Collection Of Prose/Shorts Years Past

A Collection Of Prose/Shorts From Years Past. I've written hundreds of shorts/prose

A Social Pariah Without a Stage (Version 1)
by
Keaton Foster

"I am not limited by my imagination."

This ravenous mind is bound by the reality of my kind— a kind that only allows me to go to places already known. Comfortable hypocrisy set to the rhythm of familiarity.

If I dare bend or break the normalcy of their predicament, they send me letters of hate. Letters telling me that I am going to hell because of all that I refuse. True heretics, their judgment of me soothes their pain, not mine.

I am a social pariah without a stage.

The performance of my life will be laid at the altar of humankind. Their acceptance means nothing. Their obedience is not required. I am apathetic toward their plight.

I don't hate them; I only hate the idea they spread, like some vile disease. The idea that life will be fine as long as we believe that life itself is not ours to define.

My wish is to go far beyond the precipice of their madness, deep into the void-filled schism. I will peer into the circling darkness. I wish to see what I am certain of—that human beings are indeed capable of a great many terrifying things, beyond all self-preservation.

Humanity's whore in the making.

Each second, more so, the choice I know is beyond all control. I am asking to go, but the truth is that my imagination has long since already led me there.

In the deep of night, sleeping next to my lonely wife, I pray to my God of circumstance. I do not ask for salvation. I do not ask for redemption. Such things are far beyond my grasp.

Out of my need to survive, I have become an unforgivable beast of a man. A man, once a boy, who has lied, cheated, and stolen to survive. A man, once a boy, who did unspeakable things just to get from one second to the next. A desperate human being who never once turned to God because of all that had happened.

God's mercy only goes so far. I, above all, am well aware of that.

When I do pray to my God of circumstance, I ask for only one thing: one defining attribute that will remain long after my life fades away.

I ask for my words to find those who need them most of all—strangers in kind, also doing what they must to survive. I ask for clarity in all that I am trying to express.

I know, above all things, that if I can save just one child, one on the cusp of becoming an adult, from the pain and fear of being all alone, then my life, no matter how impossible it has been, will have been worth it.

I know that if my words can somehow make a difference, then I will have done something right with my life, with my pseudo-gift.

If my God of circumstance can grant me that, then I am certain nothing else will matter.

I am a social pariah without a stage, and this is my performance of a lifetime.





Humanity's Holocaust
By Keaton Foster
(In reference to 9/11 and the events that have transpired since.)

"We have waged a war against ourselves."

A truly tragic example of all that humankind is capable of. A reality of hatred set into motion. Capacity without moral bounds to keep it in check. A true sadness that will forever be lamented.

In an instant, seven billion screams and seven billion beliefs were burned down into oblivion. The graves of many children will be lined with the bodies of those left living to wonder: why?

Salvation has been revoked by the God of many. As one, all will be left to suffer forever by the actions taken on that terrible day. Mankind is indeed capable of such terrible things.
—Justification—

Mini dust storms of absolution rip across the barren landscape before me. The space between us—no-man's land—is a hellish display of the nothingness we are certain to face. I have been sent here; I, as well as my fellow kind, am the side effect of a war with no clear end.

Up high, rage the machines of war. Spiraling across the faltering sky, they seek to dispense death to the enemy of my kind, caught out in the open. In the near distance, mechanized contraptions of war wait for their own opportunity. The lethality of all they are capable of means nothing unless man is in control. They are just machines, waiting to be told what to do.

We are all here, waiting to be told what to do.

I am just a man, yet in my hands I wield the greatest power of all: power over life. Power over all that should be right within a world soaked in creation.

In my hand, I hold my own weapon of death—a rifle that will do nothing unless I command it. It is an extension of my being, a madness best left unseen. As I lay in wait, as I contemplate fate, far across the nothingness, the enemy of my kind does the same.

On this day, the enemy will foolishly run out into the open. I will be compelled by his ignorance, his lack of desire to live another day. Today I will kill him. With much regret, my hand will be forced. Self-preservation will find me; I will not hesitate. I will not lower my weapon and let him close.

Suddenly—and most predictably—a man, my supposed enemy, runs from cover. No one else is near; I am the only one on watch. The mundane trappings of war have left all others sleeping. On this day, it is my turn—a destiny to be lived, a fate to be dealt.

At first, he does not spot me. At first, his eyes fill with hope. I am certain he believes he will get close enough to inflict great damage. He means to take me, and others, away from our families at the price of his own shit-filled existence.

I won’t allow it. I can’t.

I lower my weapon of death upon him. I take steady aim. I count each breath. I count down every last second of his life. I will get only one shot—one chance at death.

As he dashes from cover to cover, I rest my aim upon his new hide. The next time he is fully exposed will be his last. It takes but a split second—he darts out again. Naked and bare, he stands exposed in no-man’s land.

With the grace of a child, I squeeze the trigger of my weapon of death. It lets out a loud snap—instantly, the world freezes. The man before me—the enemy of my kind—stops dead. He looks into my eyes as the single round hurls toward him with great certainty.

I watch on. Frozen in the moment, my heart goes silent, even though it beats near explosive levels. The round finds its mark, and in that instant, time rushes to catch up.

The enemy is shoved back by the force of the impact. The powerful round hits him dead center. His chest explodes like soft, ripe fruit dropped from a great height. Instantly, death finds him. Instantly, he is set free—while I am further condemned by the chains that bind me. His broken body slams to the ground. The sound it makes as it hits echoes across the space between.

He is dead, and I have forever killed him.

Men are such despicable beasts. He did nothing more than believe in something far beyond what I believe. Who is right and who is wrong is unclear. The justification for such a thing as murder holds no weight in the presence of God. Revenge means nothing in the eyes of the King.

A sad realization that comes to me just moments after I’ve killed him. I can’t help but wonder aloud, as I lay my weapon of death down—never again to raise it.

Many are to blame for such a thing. The fault has long since widened. The seeds of hate have blossomed. Many machines have been dismantled, but the pieces that make them whole still exist, as they always have. Hate is never-ending—a sad reality of ignorance, an eventuality of the human condition.

The weak have been chosen since the dawn of existence. All that is different will be exposed; the strong will crush all that stands against. In the hands of the living is death.

To kill comes naturally. It is part of our animal instinct. The machine of our being mercilessly churns, gnawing away at the fabric of society. We have led ourselves astray.

What happens now—what I just did to a fellow human—is all part of it. A widespread system of eradication. The eventuality of all things.

Who am I to say such a thing?

I am one of you. A believer in all truths that have been shown. An unknowing participant in all that has yet to be exposed. A wanting display of arrogance has led me to believe that what I just did was justified.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Some may say—and I couldn’t agree more—that we are indeed living Humanity’s Holocaust. We stand tall against all that is different. With a crushing blow, we willingly send everything that is unlike us into oblivion. Arrogantly, we judge all that we refuse to know.

I am one of you, and arrogantly I speak.
Hear me, if you dare.




A Social Pariah Without a Stage (Version 2)
By Keaton Foster
“Deep beyond the void-filled schism.”

Such a ravenous mind, bound by the reality of his kind—a kind that only allows him to go to places known. Comfortable hypocrisy, set to the rhythm of familiarity.

He is a social pariah without a stage.

The performance of his life will be laid at the altar of humankind. To him, their acceptance means nothing. Their obedience is not required. He is apathetic toward their plight. He wishes to go far beyond the precipice of such madness—deep beyond the void-filled schism.

He will peer into the circling darkness. He wishes to see what he is certain of: that human beings are indeed capable of a great many terrifying things. He wishes to transcend all self-preservation. He has always been humanity’s whore in the making.

Each second more, he knows that any and all choice is beyond his control. He is asking to go, but the truth be known—his imagination has long since already led him there.
A Social Pariah Without a Stage

I know who you are. I know what you have done. I have seen the power you hold close. All of your secrets are mine to keep. I have peered into your eyes as you inflicted great pain on those who stood in defiance of all you desired.

You are a beast of a man—a creature that knows no bounds. A trait increasingly indicative of our species. I have seen you kill others in the name of self-preservation. You feel that God will not judge you for such a thing. I beg to differ with you, my perilous friend.

A sea of war burns away. The bodies of the dead stand tall. In stacks of many, they pollute the environment in which we live. The caustic stew from their rotting flesh has contaminated all that we are, and all that we could ever hope to be. The putrid smell of their death is slowly suffocating us.

Killing others as a means of revenge does nothing except add to the problems we face. Asking forgiveness for all that we’ve done will mean nothing—because it has long since been too late. God has washed His blood-stained hands of us. We are no longer part of His flock. We are His wondrous children, led tragically astray.

I have felt your darkness, deep within my bosom’s core. I have felt your sadness. It has rested upon my chest like a million restless bricks, so desperately wanting to crush more. Spreading from one human to the next, consuming everything without a second's worth of regret.

It is I alone who has the power to stop you—and, in turn, stop everything else. Reflection is what I see. Madness is what I believe. God gave us life, and we just as easily raped it away.

I am a social pariah without a stage. The performance of a lifetime awaits.

In front of many—obedient children of God’s grace—I stand. I scream. I am a lion among men. A beast of madness and placated sadness. I have suffered for far too long. I have become numb. So numb that I fear all I can do now is end my life. I know that if I do, the rest of you, whom I dare not know, will have a chance to live in a world without me.

Here I am, before you. Prepare to see the true nothing I wish to show. Turn and walk away, or stay and face the true casualty of our ways. I once cried out for any of you to love me—none of you replied. I now call out for just one of you to save me, but fear all chance will be denied.

I will take this gun and do what I, above all, know can never be undone. I will lay myself—dead—at your feet. My rotting corpse will fill the air with the intoxicating sadness of my end. Many of you will step over me, while others will stop and say such hypocritical things as, “What if?”

I will care for nothing, for I will be dead. God’s bosom or Hell’s interment is what comes next for me. I will be unable to speak beyond this. These words I scream, this performance laid, is reaching its end—and so am I.

The crescendo screams my name:
I am a social pariah without a stage.

All that remains—

Bang.






Waves by the Shore
By Keaton Foster
“Memories of a youth long since gone.”

Here I am, sitting all alone on the shore of the beach of my youth. Staring out across the endless horizon that unfolds before me. An orange sun falls heavy in a pale blue sky as the day comes to its end. Hopeless waves crash against the shore in predictable fashion, easily shattering all that they are—or could ever hope to become. I have been here all day, counting the waves. They come in droves, one right after the other. I am confident they will never stop.

I used to play on this beach as a child. The sound of my mother calling my name still echoes on the wind here. I was always happiest running up and down the shoreline, chasing seagulls as they landed on the light gray sand. My mother was my best friend when I was a child. We shared dozens of amazing days on this beach.

My mother, Rosa Marie, had the most amazing smile. When she smiled, it always made me feel better. She had long black hair that danced in the wind as she chased me around the beach, laughing. I can still feel the touch of her soft hand as she placed it on my head, holding me just long enough to kiss my crown.

Her voice sounded like a robin singing in the cool summer breeze. Her lips were as red as roses, and her brown eyes—full of life—were the size of quarters. They shined like jewels in the cascading summer light. Her skin was pale compared to the pink and yellow bathing suit she wore that short summer—the best days of my life.

I have been away, and she has long since been lost to me. Many bad things have come and gone since those days, right here on this very beach.

I came back to this place after so many years. I came back to feel those feelings again. I never wanted them to end then, and I don’t want them to end now. I miss her so deeply every day.

For the longest time, I wondered where she was and what she looked like after all these years. Such wondering never served me well. And now that I know what happened to her, the pain I thought I had buried has returned.

She became ill not long after that short summer, and then she began to drink her pain away. At that time in our life together, I feared she would never stop—and my fears were well justified. Others in my family had also tried to drown their misery. Many of them died before their time.

She drank her pain, her misery, and eventually, her family away. I was part of that trade—between what was right and what numbed the pain that consumed her. She became too ill to make the right choices. Her judgment and her love for me were laid to waste by the booze that clouded her every waking moment.

One day, when I was still her precious child, I awoke to find her holding my hand. She looked at me with those big brown eyes—but they didn’t shine that day. They looked as dull as the darkest night. Her smile never broke, and her hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her soft skin felt rough as she rubbed my head and told me everything would be okay. She kissed my cheek—but unlike before, her kiss felt empty. Her dry lips pressed against my skin like a farewell.

She told me to pack a bag. She said I was going far away from that place.

I was excited. Naïve. A fool for thinking that this beach—or some other—would be my destination that day. I packed a few toys to play in the sand. I packed my favorite red towel and bright green shorts. I carried a book of dreams and a pencil to write down all that I saw. I thought I would write about a new adventure. But my book of dreams quickly became a book of sorrow. A book I’ve been writing ever since.

As we left the house, we headed away from the New England coast that now sits before me. I waited patiently as we drove through town. My mother sat in the front seat, in tears, staring out the window at the long, cold streets beyond her reach.

A big man, known to me only by a handful of terrifying names, drove us around. He never said a word as he chose our path. I had no idea what was happening—I was only twelve. I still hoped this was a new way to the beach I loved so much.

Then, just as quickly as the ride began, life without my mother became real. We stopped in front of a large shopping mall. My mother, with a single tear rolling down her cheek, stepped from the car. She opened my door and held out her hand. I reached for it as if I knew it would be the last time I would ever feel her touch.

She sat me down on the curb outside the mall. She kissed my head and smiled at me—in the oddest of ways. She handed me some money and said,
“Have a nice life.”

She turned, stepped back into the waiting car, and closed the door. She rolled up the window and never looked back at me as she was driven away. I never got to say goodbye. I kept waiting for her to turn around—to tell me to get in, to say we were going to the beach.

She never did.

I would not see her again for the rest of my youth.

I’ve come here today, Mother, I say to myself, as the waves by the shore crash with their predictable rhythm. I’ve come to say goodbye. I never got the chance to tell you how much I loved you. And you never took the chance to tell me goodbye—or that you loved me.

But I’m okay. Fear not. I have survived this thing called life without you. I miss you, but I know I’m a better person now—for all you did for me, and all that you failed to do.

I am stronger now than I ever was in those days of youth. I have come so far since the times we shared here—by the shore, in the presence of your love. I forgive you for all that you became and all that you didn’t.

I love you. And I will always miss you. I’ll miss this place too—but I know, after today, I shall never return.

Just as you never did.

I’ve come here today to say goodbye the only way I know how.

The way you taught me.

“Have a nice life.”


She died alone from complications of alcohol abuse in June 2010, in a halfway house in Southern Maine. At that point, I had not seen her in almost twenty-five years.



Miss Pretty Lies
By Keaton Foster
“A true story of my broken love.”


I remember it all too well. It was on a distant beach, far from this place, and far from the person I am now. I have long since whispered her name into the wind. She knows who she is. She knows that I love her—as I always have. Time has done nothing to heal me of such an affliction.

This is the truth of our end. A sad attempt to put the death of true love into words. It takes two to make love work. Anything less than that only leads to suffering.

Once upon a time, under the same dim moon that resides above us now—back when the sinister sky screamed a great many falsehoods—our once-forever love came to its end. I have been irrevocably changed by all that was betrayed.

Holding her close, I spoke my deepest feelings to her. I held nothing back. I kept nothing at bay. I poured out all that I was, hoping beyond all hope that she would see past my mistakes and give me one second more of her love.

I wanted her to find it in her heart to forgive me—for forcing her to lie to me for far too long. I now know that such a thing is unforgivable.

As we stood under that perilous sky, shallow waves crashed at our feet. An ever-expansive beach unfolded before us. A deep, endless sea poured out across God’s canvas. Few stars shined bright. The reflection of the sea soaked the sky in the deepest blue.

I was unsure if it would be the last time I ever held her close as my wife. Dire questions raced through my mind. I wondered if she was about to become the misplaced love of my life.

The answers to those questions, as well as many others, have since found me—if not then, certainly now.

We met back in the early nineties. I was fresh off the bus, wide-eyed in the great big world. She was doing everything she could to break free from her childhood.

We met on a blind date set up by a stranger I’d chatted with while waiting in the express line at a local grocery store. It was an easy sell—I knew no one locally. I guess you could say I was easy prey.

On that night by the sea, under a dim moon, I whispered into her ear. Even though it's been years, I remember each carefully placed word.

She stood there stoically. I know now—her mind was already made up.

I will never forget the first time I saw your jade-filled eyes. I was instantly trapped by your gaze. Later, I would discover the life behind them hid much pain. The pain you carried from your early years—laid bare before me.

Your raven-black hair flowed silently like an endless river of dreams. Since that first moment, I was captivated. It mesmerized me with its natural simplicity. I will miss holding you and feeling it dance against my skin.

Your pale white skin was dotted with freckles—the cutest of imperfections, placed there, I believe, by the hand of God. Every inch of you was part of His flawless masterpiece.

She said nothing as I held her as close as I could and poured out my soul.

Heat radiated from her petite frame—not the warmth between us, but the raw passion for life that I knew was about to begin again... without me.

I continued on. Love forces us in many ways. I had to try. She was—and is—everything I have ever loved.

I have never forgotten each curve of her body. I have never forgotten how it felt to hold her close, to press my lips against hers. I know that I will forever be unable to hold another without thinking of her.

There we stood—two strangers in love. I feared we had drifted too far apart to ever find our way back. Too many stones now stood like mountains between us.

Standing there, lit only by the dim moon, was the only truth that night—surrounded by the sea of lies we’d been drowning in for far too long.

She seemed sure of her choices, and I was certain they would leave me broken beyond all repair. Each passing second made it clearer: this was all just an exercise in futility.

She turned and faced me. Looking deep into my soft brown eyes, I began to speak my final, desperate words to her.

I will forever be trapped within the confines of you. I wish I could say I’ll be able to stop thinking about you—but nothing could be further from the truth.

The power you hold over me can’t be measured. I’ve always been hopeless to resist the lies you breed. With you, there was never an absolute truth—only certain doubt.

Miss Pretty Lies, please still be mine—as surely as I am forever bound to be yours.

If you must speak your lies, then I will learn to find my own truth within the need I have for you. I will do anything to hold you from this final moment on.

Anything. No matter the price—I will gladly pay it. I will change, if only you’ll allow me the chance. I know in my heart, once I let go of you tonight, there will never be another tomorrow unless you alone give us that chance.

I will ignore your lies, if that’s what it takes. I’ll pretend I don’t know the truth. You and I both know—the truth, in love, is what we want it to be. Not what it truly is.

Not another lie was spoken by me that night. She alone had the last word. I remember it well, as if I am standing there now.

Most calculated, she said, “I love you.”

Just like she had a million times before.
Three words that left me in doubt.
Because then—as now—I know:
No greater lie has ever been told.

Once her final words crossed her lips, she held my hand—just for a moment. And then she let it go.

She turned and walked away into a life without me.

At that moment, I knew:
I would miss her for the rest of my life.

Nothing has changed in that regard.

Miss Pretty Lies, what have you done to me?




Lily Rose
by
Keaton Foster

A continuation of love, far beyond life.

A tale of love.

She and I met when we were just kids. We grew up a few blocks from each other in Old Orchard Beach, a sleepy coastal town in Southern Maine. For the first few years, we worked hard at becoming the best of friends.

Ultimately, we became much more—far more than I could ever begin to express. At sixteen, we started dating and would spend the next several years as a couple.

We had our ups and downs. We occasionally argued over things we were truly passionate about. Over time, we came to know each other better than anyone else ever could.

We both attended the University of Maine. She studied nursing, and I studied engineering. We graduated with honors. During school, we shared a small apartment just off campus.

It was an amazing time in our young lives—but a passionate love like ours was, perhaps, not meant to last.

One day, shortly after graduation, she came to me and expressed a need to be set free from the confines of our loving relationship. She wanted to move far away, to pursue her own dreams. She wanted to explore a world without me.

As she so eloquently put it, she had to know what was out there—beyond all that she had ever known. Oddly, for reasons I didn’t fully understand then—and maybe still don’t—I could relate to what she was saying.

At the time, I knew it wasn’t because she didn’t love me anymore. It was because she had only ever known me, and she needed to be sure. At least, that’s what I convinced myself in order to survive it.

So we agreed to part ways. To find out what life was like beyond what we had. We promised to stay in touch. We even told ourselves that, in time, we might find a way to reconnect—maybe even be together again.

We never did.

That was over fifty years ago.

I would marry another. Bethany was her name. Together, we raised three wonderful children. She loved me more than I could have ever hoped. She was an amazing wife, mother, and friend.

But this past summer, Bethany died of cancer. She was sixty-two.

I loved Bethany—but I must confess, it was not the same as the love I had for Lily Rose.

The girl from my youth.

After Bethany passed, and after a proper period of mourning had gone by, I decided to try to find Lily Rose. I had to know. I had to be sure that she was okay—and that she had lived a beautiful life.

Even after all these years, Lily Rose still holds my heart, suspended between the earth and the moon. I’m spellbound by the idea of seeing her again.

She may be far away—but to me, she has always felt near.

Lily Rose is unlike any love I have ever known. She was my one in a world that so often felt full of none. Like a billion stars in the blackest of skies, she lit up my entire world.

Her eyes were as deep as the bluest sea.
Her lips were as soft as the sweetest dreams.
Her smile—endless, like the heavens themselves.

Even now, I can still see every detail of who she was whenever I close my eyes.

And how sad I must seem. Even now, the grip of my imagination pulls me into those memories. I cannot forget her.

I found her—not as far away as I had imagined.

Her brother David, now well into old age, still lived in the same house they’d grown up in. One sunny New England day, I stopped by. I acted like I was there to visit him, but I think he knew why I had truly come.

After the pleasantries, the topic of Lily Rose came up—and never left.

He told me her story. She had moved to California and worked in the medical field, just like she had dreamed. She married a doctor named Richard. He gave her a good life. They had three amazing children of their own.

David shared photos of her with me. Through the years, she had changed little. She was still the most beautiful soul I had ever seen. She looked happy in every picture. David assured me she had lived a full, meaningful life.

Then, he closed the album.

And he told me she had passed.

I didn’t want to believe the words. But I knew I had to.
She died the previous summer, in her home, surrounded by her husband, her grown children, and her grandchildren. She was buried in California, in Richard’s family plot.

David told me the cause of her death—but by then, I had stopped listening.
I heard nothing else.

I just sat there—in shock, in sadness, and yet, strangely comforted by the knowledge that she had lived a beautiful life.

I said my goodbyes. I’m sure David could tell I was devastated. He told me to visit anytime if I wanted to talk more about her.

I never did.
David passed away three years later of heart failure.

It has now been many years since Bethany died, since David passed, since Lily Rose left this world.

I mourn them all in my own way.

I visit Bethany at her grave and tell her that someday soon, I’ll find my place beside her. I visit David’s grave and thank him for telling me his sister’s story.

As for Lily Rose—each June, on the hottest of nights, I go down to the shore and stand barefoot in the surf.

This June, on the anniversary of the last time I saw her—sixty years ago—I did what I’ve done for years.

The cold ocean water splashes across my feet.

I cry out to the moon. To the clouds.
I say her name.

I pray for change. I pray to go where she now resides. I pray for God to take me to the place where she is surely waiting.

And I’ve long since convinced myself… she has to be.

As always, I recite the following words:

Lily Rose, you may have gone to the unknown.
You may have left this world behind forever.
But I promise you—someday, you and I will be close again.
If not in this life, then surely in the next.

Our love will never end…
Even if our lives already have.

I miss you, Lily Rose.

R.I.P.





God is a Ham Sandwich
By Keaton Foster

One day at lunch...

Mustard, mayonnaise, pickles, and some delectably delicious provolone cheese—God is but a ham sandwich to an odd fella like me.

Now, I must convince all who are about to read these lines that, in fact, God is, at least in part, a piece of meat cleverly squeezed between two slices of wheat, with condiments strewn all about.

Read this and by the end, you may very well say, “Wait a second, man… maybe there’s something to all of this?”

There are several things about God, religion, and the whole shebang that perplex me.

They say He sits in His kingdom high above, for no one to see until they are set free from their mortal existence—taken from all that love them, and released from all that hurts them.

Of course, it’s not just as simple as dying. You must believe in order to get the key to His palace.

He sits there in the clouds, handing out fate like samples of spicy chicken at the mall food court. I'm speaking conceptually, of course. For how can His abode float aimlessly, with no foundation to ground it in reality?

Won’t you agree—that’s a perplexing problem we all must concede?

Explaining God is not as simple as it seems.

Then again, maybe that’s just because it’s me attempting such an impossibility. After all, I am quite odd. Have you ever read any of my other writings?

You probably won’t after reading this one.

I mean, come on!

Seriously now—

For many people, it’s as simple as belief, as faith. A blind conviction to the tales of the Bible, no matter how insane they might seem.

Sadly—or in some cases happily—you must die to see the kingdom of heaven.

Blind conviction is what it takes to have faith.

Well, not for me.

It’s not that easy for me to just follow something so… aimlessly. I’m quite sure God would agree. After all, He created me.

Let me continue with this nonsense.

If you believe in the concept of Adam and Eve and the apple tree—or maybe it was a fig tree? I guess it depends on where you live. In America, it’s all about the apple pie. So for us, it was an apple tree, no doubt about it.

In the Middle East? Ask anyone—they'll probably say it was a fig or pomegranate tree.

It is said opinions are like assholes—everybody certainly has one.

I know right about now you're asking, “What the hell are you trying to say in this crazy-ass masterpiece today?”

Just wait—you’ll see. The end will be a shocker for everyone.

Including me.

And I wrote it.

Trust me—read on, and maybe you too will believe that God is a ham sandwich.

Okay, here comes the fun part.

Who created the pig that makes the ham, that feeds man?
God—agreed?

Who created the cow that gives us milk and beef when there’s no ham around?
God, right?

Who created man, who then created that delectably delicious provolone cheese on the ham sandwich before me?

Still God.

We’re getting closer. Stick with me. All secrets will be revealed.

Right now, you’re probably saying, “Rick, what in the hell is wrong with you? How can God be a ham sandwich?! You’re freaking crazy!”

Wait for it. I would not lie—not to the world, not about this.

Now, of course, I know there’s a chance I may go to hell for such a belief.

Certainly, there’s no way that God can be a piece of meat, cleverly disguised as a sandwich.

It just cannot be.

Or… can it?

Maybe I’ve gone insane?

Personally, I like to think I’ve always been insane. But let me continue.

You’ll see that indeed—God is a ham sandwich to an odd fella like me.

And quite possibly, to all of society.

I’m not just rambling. There could be a way that God is a ham sandwich—if only people would believe.

Can you see it now? Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Hindus…

All coming together over a tray of deli meat.

Well—maybe not.

Definitely never.

But the concept?
I swear, it’s good.

Now if you’ll excuse me—
Sir, could you pass the mustard, please?

I love this place. The cafeteria workers here are so friendly. They inspire me.

I wonder—who created Henry John Heinz? The man who perfected this golden yellow mustard I’ve just spread across my sliced swine?

Simple Christian logic dictates: God did.

And who created the idea to pickle a cucumber?

Divine intervention, surely.

As sure as I breathe, I tell you now: God created the pickle.

Before you ask, no—I have not been hit in the head.

Yes, God might strike me dead for saying such things.

But see, I don’t agree. I believe God has just as much of a twisted sense of humor as me.

After all, how else would you explain the life He gave me?

Funny shit, indeed.

Welcome to the world of me. Quite an odd place, you see.

I like to think of myself as nuts compared to crazy—though I’m not sure my therapist would agree.

I’m not going to hell for saying all this… at least I hope not.

There’s a real good chance God is not actually a piece of lunch meat, squeezed between two slices of bread and smothered in condiments.

I feel so inspired again.

Must be the mayonnaise in this God—I mean ham sandwich—I’m about to eat.

Oh right. Mayonnaise.

It shall seal the deal.

The true origin of mayonnaise? A long-disputed mystery. Delicious, yet controversial.

I swear, Google it. The controversy that is mayonnaise will unfold before you.

Mayonnaise is like life, you see:
Who created it remains a hotly debated controversy.

So if you believe that God created ham, cheese, John Heinz, you, and even crazy-ass me—then surely you can understand how I believe God is a ham sandwich.

After all, my theory is based on Christian belief.

He grants me memories of the ham sandwiches my mother used to make—when I was happiest and most carefree.

If God created us all—even the oddity that is me—as well as all the delicious condiments in society, then you must agree:

God is a ham sandwich.

Now if you’ll excuse me—

I must eat God.

Metaphorically, of course.
I mean, come on—it’s God.

Even I’m not that freaking crazy.






Pizza With Ranch On It
by Keaton Foster

I went on a date with a girl named Postulate. She replied to my profile on Match.com. Her picture was cute, but little did I know it was taken back in 1983. I was expecting anything—and with Postulate, I certainly got it.

Before we met, she warned me that she only had one arm. She’d lost it in a tragic smelting accident. I told her I had no issues with the fact she was disabled. Selfishly, I must admit, I was thinking how great it would be to take her to sporting events and rock concerts—front row parking all day long.

Freaking sweet!

I look nothing like my profile picture. First off, I have no hair, I’m 40—not sixteen—and I, myself, am missing a part of my anatomy. I lost my right testicle running with the bulls in Spain. Long story.

Postulate and I agreed to meet and see where the night might go. I won’t make fun of her looks, because by the end of the night, my intentions were to sleep with her—but I digress. All I’ll say is she was a cross between a Mack Truck and a Lebanese lady with a harelip and a lazy eye.

One of the first things I asked her, after she sat down, was about her name.
“I’ve never met anyone named Postulate. Such an unusual name. It basically means assumption of truth, right?”

She quickly replied, “Yes, and, well, I’m an unusual girl. My father was a right-wing cultivist.”

I couldn’t help myself. I pressed further. “What the heck is a cultivist?”

Postulate replied, “A cultivist is someone who believes in growing all they need—not taking anything from Mother Earth except what can be cultivated from her bosom. Basically, he was an extremist vegetarian.”

“Wow, that’s pretty deep. Do you believe as he did?”

“Well, Señor Nosy Pants, I do—to a point. But let’s face it, you don’t get thighs like this from eating grapes and spinach all day long.”

I asked, “So what you’re saying is, you’re a carnivore?”

She replied, “I like me some meat.”

I said jokingly, “Well, Postulate, you’re getting cooler by the second. What are you doing for the rest of my life?”
(At that point, I wasn’t really joking.)

Just then, a freckle-faced waiter approached.
“How may I help you tonight?”

Postulate said, “I’ll have a Bud Light, a basket of wings, and nachos.”
I replied, “I’ll have an unsweetened tea and a bread basket.”

The waiter asked, “Separate checks?”

We both answered at the same time.
I said, “Most definitely,” while she said, “Absolutely not.”

Turns out, she was old-fashioned like that. I was going to pay regardless, even though it was 2009. In fact, as she put it, she doesn’t even bring her wallet on first dates.

After some chit-chatting, drinking (on her part), and appetizers, the main meal came. I had ordered a small steak, while she had ordered a large pizza.

I was really beginning to connect with Postulate. She was quite nice—and interesting. Almost dude-like in her approach to life, except she had a smoking rack and other features men don’t typically have. I won’t go into specifics, but let’s just say it rhymed with “hunt.”

She told me she was quite the party girl, and that once she’d had a few beers, she couldn’t promise to control herself. Her exact words were:
“I’m a freak without warning.”

I said nothing, but I did shout across the restaurant to the waiter:
“Three more beers, please!”

I slowly began working on my steak when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that instantly made me say,
“Holy Batman.”

Postulate picked up her purse and pulled out a bottle of sorts. It was homemade ranch dressing—not the fat-free kind, the fat-injected kind. She popped the top, pulled out a spoon from her purse, and—like a kid licking peanut butter—ran her tongue across it.

I guess I could’ve thought of it in a sexual way, but the truth is even I have my limits. And Postulate was about to shatter them.

She asked, “Do you mind?”

Unsure what was going to happen next, I replied, “Certainly not.”

Postulate, my date—the one-armed freak whose dad was a cultivist—was about to totally gross me out. If she’d farted or picked her nose and eaten it, I wouldn’t have been as wigged out as I was about to be.

She spooned out a heaping glob of ranch dressing. She lathered it on, and before long, the pizza was gone. All that remained was a circular shape of ranch—a coronary bypass in the making. An epic desecration of all things good food.

Holding back vomit, I asked, “Pizza with ranch on it?”

“Yeah, it’s something I’ve done since I was a kid. I actually put ranch on just about everything.”

She continued as she smoothed the ranch out further.

“I make it myself. I put it on my toast, cereal, fish… even my snatch.”

“…Did you just say your snatch?”

“Yes. I put ranch on my snatch. Before, you know…”

I knew all too well what she was saying. Instantly, my mouth filled with puke. I jumped from my seat and ran to the bathroom. I swear I puked for at least twenty minutes. I puked so much I began to cry from the dry heaves.

After composing myself, I knew I needed to get out of the restaurant without Postulate seeing me. Even I have my limits—and ranch dressing on pizza and sexual organs is way past any line I’ve ever drawn.

I slipped down the adjacent row of tables. As I made my way to the door, I looked over and spotted her. In front of her was an empty pizza plate and three more empty beer bottles.

Just before I exited, the waiter approached and placed a large ice cream sundae in front of her.

She thanked him, then reached into her purse and pulled out the bottle again. She licked her spoon—no doubt preparing to put a heaping glob of homemade ranch dressing on her ice cream sundae.

I bolted to the door—and immediately began to puke all over again.

The end.




My Breakdancing Pants
by Keaton Foster

Today at tennis camp, I wore my favorite pair of breakdancing pants. We’re supposed to wear tight, white shorts, but those things hurt my tennis balls.

The coach was quite upset. He assured me he would call my parents. As soon as he was done chewing me out from one foul line to the next, he went to take a quick snack break.

The other kids all said, “Man, you are crazy as shit, wearing those breakdancing pants to tennis camp.” I assured them that not only were they fashionable, they were quite comfortable.

One of the kids dared me to break a beat at center court before the coach got back. I couldn’t resist the chance to show them I could dance, so I took the dare.

“Give me a beat—something from 1983.”

My friend Artemis Foul began to break it down, beatbox style.

Before he could scream,
“YEAH BOY!”—

Suzy Sludge, the sole heir to the Sludge Works fortune, stepped forward and said,
“Before you begin, I bet you twenty bucks you can’t do a triple Lutz!”

“Suzy, that’s an ice-skating move, not a breakdancing move.”

“So? They’re similar-ish,” she replied.

“Suzy, ice-skating and breakdancing are nothing alike,” I said. “Breakdancing is urban—ghetto—straight-up gangster!”

“So?”

“Ice-skating is fancy, rich, white… borderline gay.”

Suzy persisted. “I bet you twenty bucks that you can’t somehow incorporate a triple Lutz into your breakdancing routine.”

James Van Debunk, who was eating a bag of unsalted peanuts, stepped forward and said,
“I’ve got an additional twenty bucks if you can do it.”

Then Benjamin Cohen III—son of one of the co-creators of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream, a roly-poly hippie wannabe clearly born in the wrong decade—stepped in. He’d always been hot for Suzy and was dying to impress her.

He said,
“I’ve got a hundred bucks that says you can’t breakdance to the classic Rolling Stones song Fortune Teller from 1964.”

“Ben, have you been smoking catnip or something? How in the hell am I gonna breakdance to a 1964 pseudo-pop song about a guy falling in love with a fortune teller?”

“That’s so not street. So not ghetto. It’d be impossible. Plus, where are we even gonna get that song—unless we raid your dad’s record collection? Artemis can barely beatbox Afrika Bambaataa—he keeps making it sound like Sugarhill Gang, and it's clearly not.”

“What are you, chicken salad?” Ben replied.

“Dude, it’s just ‘Are you chicken?’ Not ‘chicken salad.’ You’re such an idiot.”

Ben continued, “I happen to have the song right here on my iPhone.”

Artemis, always down to hype someone else up for a risky bet, was quick to chime in.
“Come on, man, you can do it! I saw you breakdance to the Titanic theme. You can do anything. It’s easy money.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Artemis.”

Rolling her eyes and flipping her hair, Suzy said,
“I think you can do it. I think you can do anything.”

“I am one badass breakdancer… So, I’ll take the bet.”

“Okay, you have to breakdance to the song and incorporate a triple Lutz into your routine before it ends. Do that, and you’ve got $140 in your pocket,” confirmed Ben.

“Agreed!” I said.

“This is gonna be sweet!” shouted Artemis.

After some quick instructions, I said, “Start the music, Ben.”

Ben pressed play. The song began to blare—it was definitely unlike anything I had ever danced to before.

I started out with some basic moves: the robot, the funky chicken, a belly swim, a solid hip twist, and some rad scissors.

Before long, Ben screamed that the song was halfway over. It was time to pull off the triple Lutz.

Artemis got down on all fours like a table at center court. I’d need both speed and height if I had any chance of pulling off three mid-air rotations and a solid landing.

Once he was in position, I moonwalked to the far side of the court. Taking a deep breath, I sprinted straight at Artemis.

In my head, I kept counting the rotations. I reached him at full speed.

Just as I planted my foot on his back, I caught sight of the coach coming back from his snack break. He was holding a raisin salad in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other. His eyes widened—like he was about to watch a kid break his neck.

I didn’t stop.

I jumped—HARD—and soared at least ten feet into the air. In what felt like slow motion, I spun nearly three full times. I spotted the landing. All I had to do was stick it.

But standing directly below me was the coach—arms wide, like he was about to catch a baby falling from a burning building.

Of course, I was no baby. I was a 130-pound boy flying at full speed.

I crashed into him like a Mack truck, knocking him to the ground instantly.

Surprisingly, I was standing—both feet square on the coach’s chest.

I threw my arms back like a gymnast after a perfect vault.

Everyone screamed—especially the coach.

At that moment, I knew I was seriously in trouble—and would probably be kicked out of tennis camp.

Which I was.

But hey—at least I was $140 richer.

My breakdancing pants are so rad.

The End





Dangerous Crossings
by
Keaton Foster

Three men stand on the side of a massive highway. On one side is Mexico; on the other, Texas. They are standing in the dark, just out of sight of the passing cars’ headlights. They are undocumented migrants, looking to escape the poverty of Mexico. They hope to find prosperity in America.

One of the men has made the dangerous border crossing many times. His name is Carlos, and he is a coyote—a human smuggler. Carlos works for the Mexican mafia. The other two men have paid Carlos a substantial deposit on a much larger fee to ensure safe passage through the desert. Once in America, they will need to send money home to settle their debt with Carlos and the mafia.

Speaking in their native language:

“This is where we’ll cross. All that stands between us now is eight lanes of concrete highway. On the other side is Texas. We have to be patient; this road is constantly patrolled by border agents. We have to pick the right moment. Once I start across, you two follow close behind.”

Hector and Guzman say nothing. They simply ready themselves and wait for Carlos to give the order. After several minutes of watching and waiting, finally, there is a break in traffic. No cars are coming south, and none are heading north. The road is clear as far as Carlos can see.

“Let’s go!”

Carlos takes off, running down a small embankment and out onto the highway. Hector and Guzman quickly follow. The highway is eight lanes wide—four northbound, four southbound. In the middle is a small median, maybe thirty feet across.

They make it to the median quickly and pause, again checking for cars. In the far distance, a set of headlights burns bright—a semi-truck is heading south.

Carlos knows they must move quickly. He jumps over the small guardrail and starts crossing the southbound lanes. Close behind him are Hector and Guzman.

Just past the halfway point, Carlos trips over his own feet and crashes to the pavement. His head bounces off the road like a watermelon dropped from a rooftop. A loud thud rings out. Instantly, he is knocked senseless.

Hector and Guzman, just behind, nearly stumble over him. They stop for a split second and stare down at Carlos. The headlights of the oncoming semi—now followed by several more cars—grow larger.

Hector reaches for Carlos. Guzman swats his hands away. Carlos is slightly heavyset, and it would take effort and time to carry him across.

“Let’s go. Leave him. We need to move or we’ll be spotted,” Guzman shouts.

“If we don’t help him, he could be run over!”

“I know. But if we do help him, we’ll get caught and sent back. If we’re caught, we still owe him. If we get away, he’s the only one they'll deport.”

Hector hesitates, then agrees. Together, they sprint across the southbound lanes. Once across, they hide in a dense patch of brush just off the shoulder.

Carlos, dazed and bloodied, somehow manages to get to his feet. He stumbles onward, trying to follow. The semi-truck is now close enough for its headlights to illuminate Carlos.

The driver, distracted as he adjusts his radio, doesn’t see Carlos until it’s almost too late. He’s hauling a tanker full of jet fuel. Spotting Carlos at the last second, the driver—wired on amphetamines and several cups of black coffee—slams on the brakes and jerks the wheel to the right.

The truck careens out of control. The trailer, full of fuel, snaps free and rolls. The cab skids across the road and slams into a concrete bridge support. It explodes in a massive fireball. The driver is killed instantly.

The tanker, now a runaway missile, barrels off the road—directly toward Hector and Guzman. It happens too fast. They have no time to escape.

The tanker hits the brush like a battering ram. Its metal skin tears open. Ninety thousand gallons of jet fuel gush out. The flames from the cab’s explosion ignite the fuel in an instant.

Carlos, still trying to cross, is blasted off his feet by the explosion. The force launches him across the thirty-foot median like a ragdoll. He lands hard in the northbound lane, his head slamming into the asphalt. He is knocked unconscious.

Hector and Guzman are vaporized in the explosion. The heat and force of the blast ensure nothing of them remains. The fire melts the nearby bridge supports, causing a large section of the highway to collapse.

First responders arrive minutes later. They find Carlos lying in the northbound lane. He is rushed to the hospital. After several weeks of recovery, Carlos finally wakes and tells the police who he is and why he was there.

He lies. He tells them he was alone. If he admits he’s a coyote, he could face prison time. He says nothing about the others.

Once recovered—at taxpayer expense—Carlos is deported back to Mexico. He never speaks of that night again.

Later, the Mexican mafia goes after the families of Hector and Guzman to collect on the debt. If they refuse, they’ll be killed. The families pay.

Months later, Carlos is back to business. He resumes smuggling people across the border. He never uses that stretch of highway again. He finds a safer route through nearby farmland.

For years, Carlos continues his work—until one day, he crosses the border himself.

He never returns. The Mexican mafia places a price on his head for debts owed.

They never collect.



The Dark Masquerade
By Keaton Foster

"He will act in the name of his own misaligned justice."

In a dark alley, he waits. Within his tortured self, he laments. His name—at least, the one given to him by those outside his world of absolutes—is The Dark Masquerade.

He has long preferred to remain unknown. He lays no claim to such a ridiculous name. He refuses to believe those on the outside of his world know anything of who he really is.

A legend is a wanting display of all that is—and all that is not. His true name is a riddle of words, a dichotomy of sorts. It is based on a lesson learned long before this present space and time. His life is full of regretful experiences that have led him to this place. He lives within a liar's parade. He is beyond the shape so many have defined him as.

All is not as it seems. Reality is deemed unsafe.

He has no defined purpose. He has no face. Concealed is his identity; concealed is the true nature of his eventuality.

He walks the night, hiding in plain sight, looking for those darker than himself. He waits for them to strike the innocent. When they try, he sneaks up and snuffs out their lives.

His justice—his way—is final. He serves in his own court. He passes judgment without regret. Some call him a hero. Many call him a criminal. He calls himself a tortured soul, doing what he must to find redemption. He calls himself a man, doing what he must to make things right.

Right—according to him and no one else.

No truth exists within such a liar's tragic grip. How dare he live? His life is a perennial performance, sung out of key. He is a mistake—a byproduct of conditioning.

He seeks justice, yet to do so he often breaks all the laws of man. He stands alone, screaming into oblivion. There is no reply—only more questions as to why.

His tortured soul dares not find home. Much is left to say. Reality has yet to be misplaced. Who we are as many is quite different than who he is as one.

He is truly a cataclysmic individual. His innocence was raped away. His life has long since been betrayed. All that he once loved by right has quickly become all that he hates by circumstance. He does what he feels he must. No greater purpose exists for him.

The Dark Masquerade.

On this fullest of nights, he hides in an alley. Next to him is a bar—a place of refuge for those suffering from their afflictions. The alley is devoid of all natural light. Only a small exit sign above lends light to any shapes lurking about. In the past, many terrible men have tried to commit heinous acts of despicable violence within the confines of this narrow alley.

Suddenly, a small metal door opens wide. Out into the darkness steps a terrifying-looking man. Close behind is another. The two men quickly retreat to the depths of the alley. Within minutes, they whisper about an exchange—drugs for weapons.

The Dark Masquerade waits. He is hiding so close that he can smell the stench of their polluted breath. The men continue, speaking of the violence they intend. They speak of the deal.

The alley violently comes to life. Two men enter from the street, screaming—they are undercover detectives. One of them holds a flashlight while the other calls for backup on his radio. Before he can finish his next word, the two criminals act.

Both slip pistols from their waistbands. Within milliseconds—quicker than the Dark Masquerade can act—they open fire. The detective on the radio is hit by several rounds. He drops to the ground. His pale face registers death.

The second detective fires back. One of the criminals is hit in the chest. He falls, not dead, only stunned. He twists and writhes in pain as the other man continues to fire. The second detective is hit and falls to the ground—severely wounded, but alive.

The uninjured criminal quickly reloads his semi-automatic pistol. He walks toward the wounded detective. The second man tries to rise, fumbling to reload his weapon. He can't breathe as blood floods his lungs.

The Dark Masquerade has seen enough. He must act.

He leaps from the shadows. The first man, outside the alley, never sees him. Only the wounded second man spots the Dark Masquerade—he tries to shout. The Dark Masquerade won't allow it. He drives a powerful blade deep into the man's neck. Instantly, blood paints the darkness red. The man collapses. His body twitches as the last remnants of life bleed away.

The second criminal, standing over the wounded detective, notices nothing happening only feet away. He lowers his pistol to the detective's face, muttering his hatred for cops as his finger curls around the trigger. Closer to death than ever before, the detective closes his eyes and prays.

The Dark Masquerade strikes.

He leaps from the alley and knocks the shooter to the ground. The pistol skitters away. The man is now unarmed; the Dark Masquerade certainly is not. After a flurry of precise punches and kicks, the once-terrifying man is reduced to a broken shell—now begging for his life.

The Dark Masquerade stands over him. In judgment, he waits. He says nothing. Actions speak louder than any words.

The jury is one man. One decision.
The verdict is in.
The sentence is death.

The once-terrifying man continues to plead. But the Dark Masquerade is no god—only an avenging angel of his own truth. With brutal precision, he slays the man without hesitation.

"No regrets. Not one." he whispers, removing the blade from the man's throat.

Behind the mask lies his tortured face. Every painful experience is etched into his expression—drama made manifest. He, above all, knows what it means to be human. He, above all, understands the fundamental flaws of our species.

The young detective, once doomed, now thanks the Dark Masquerade. Such gratitude is unnecessary. The Dark Masquerade didn’t save his life—he merely did what he needed to do to soothe the darkness within.

He slips back into the night, into the shadows and tricks of light. He will continue as he is. The world—his world—is not ready to see what he must one day show them. Who he is… and why he does what he does… will remain a mystery.

For the Dark Masquerade, there is only one way:
One unique perspective,
That only he alone can see.

As he waits.
In the shadows.





Hide and Go Seek
by Keaton Foster

One cool, breathtaking autumn night, a large group of kids sat around a campfire, roasting marshmallows and telling stories in an effort to terrify each other.

Hide and Go Seek

“Okay, who’s first tonight?” asked camp counselor Mr. Spoon eagerly.

“Me!” shouted Michael Hillsworth. “I have the perfect tale. It’s one my grandpa told me several years ago. He went to this same camp when he was a boy.”

Mr. Spoon handed Michael a flashlight and said, “Okay, Michael. Go ahead.”

Michael placed the flashlight under his chin. The dim light highlighted the features of his youthful face.

“The name of this tale is Hide and Go Seek.”

“Oh Michael, I love the title,” said Mr. Spoon, as he placed a marshmallow on a long stick and held it over the fire.

Michael began his tale.

“It was a pitch-black night just like this one, not too long ago. A group of kids were playing a friendly game of hide and go seek in the dark woods beyond the lake. One boy stood by an old oak tree near Wally Ridge, counting down from thirty while the rest ran into the woods to hide.”

Suzy Martin interrupted. “I know that place—Wally Ridge! I’ve been there with my parents. It’s right over there, on the other side of the lake.”

Mr. Spoon said, “Suzy, let Michael continue.”

“As the kids hid among the trees, they had no idea they weren’t alone. There were terrible things lurking in the woods—waiting in the pitch black. The boy continued counting down from thirty. By then, the others were already deep into hiding. Some climbed trees. Some hid behind large rocks. Others crouched near the lake’s edge.”

‘“Ready or not, here I come!” the boy shouted.’

“He left the safety of the oak tree and headed into the dark woods, looking for his friends. He checked behind rocks, looked up into trees, even searched along the lake’s shore. But he couldn’t find anyone—they were hidden too well.”

Suzy blurted out, “Where were they?”

From across the campfire, Bobby Jacobs replied, “Hiding, of course.”

“Will you two stop talking and let Michael finish?” said Mr. Spoon. “Please continue, Michael.”

“After some time searching, the boy began to call out for his friends. But no matter how loud he yelled, no one answered. He searched for what seemed like hours, unaware that his search was in vain. His friends weren’t hiding anymore. They were long gone.”

“Gone? Where did they go?” asked Janice Marlow, a fresh-faced little girl sitting to Michael’s right.

Michael didn’t answer. He continued.

“The boy began to think maybe it was all a joke, or that everyone had gone back to the cabins. Tired and frustrated, he headed toward the safety of the oak tree. But just as he reached the woods’ edge, he saw something disturbing: a large puddle of blood. And leading from it were drag marks—heading back into the dark woods.”

“Blood? Gross!” Suzy shrieked.

Mr. Spoon quickly interrupted. “Will you kids be quiet and listen? Campfire tales are supposed to be scary. I’m sure Michael will explain everything if you let him. Please, go on.”

“The boy bent down to touch the blood, thinking it might be a prank. But as he got down on one knee, he foolishly turned his back to the woods. Just then, he felt a warm breath on the back of his neck, creeping slowly down his shirt. He knew then that this was no joke.”

“He turned around as fast as he could. And there it was—a terrifying sight. A massive beast with huge, blood-soaked teeth. It had dagger-like claws and pale gray eyes filled with rage. At first, he stood frozen in fear. He closed his eyes, hoping it was his imagination playing tricks. He counted to five and opened his eyes…”

Michael paused, then added:

“The beast was gone.”

He lowered the flashlight from his chin and swept it around the campfire. The girls looked terrified. The boys sat wide-eyed, transfixed by the flickering firelight.

Michael continued.

“The boy muttered, ‘What the hell was that? Man, my mind’s playing tricks on me. I’d better get home.’ As he turned to leave the woods—BAM—he was knocked to the ground.”

Suzy and Janice screamed. Three of the boys shouted in unison, “Cool!”

Michael put the flashlight back under his chin and went on.

“At first, everything was a blur. His head throbbed. But then the truth hit him like a sledgehammer. Standing before him weren’t one, but three of the terrifying beasts. He wasn’t imagining them. They were real. And this time, closing his eyes wouldn’t make them disappear.”

“The two larger beasts snarled and screeched while the smallest leapt onto him, tearing into his flesh with razor-sharp claws. It sunk its teeth into his throat.”

Mr. Spoon interjected, “Michael, your grandfather told you this tale?”

“Yes—when I was five.”

“That’s… a bit violent for the campfire. But go on.”

“Within moments, the boy was dead. All three beasts devoured him—just as they had his friends. There was nothing left but a puddle of blood.”

Suzy covered her face with her hands. “Gross, Michael! That was so gross!”

“Suzy—it’s not over.”

“It’s not?”

“Nope. There’s one more thing you need to know. As you sit here around this fire on this darkest of nights, if you feel warm breath on your neck—don’t turn around. Because it’s probably one of the beasts from the dark woods. Do yourself a favor and run. Or you’ll be its next snack.”

Everyone clapped.

Michael leaned back with a grin, confident no one would top his campfire tale.






Angry Man
by
Keaton Foster

Have you ever just wanted to get where you’re going and do what needed to be done?

An angry man—who has just learned that his wife of ten years wants out of their marriage—stands in a line of two at an ATM. He has just left his broken home and will not return until he has done what he came to do.

Earlier, the angry man arrived home from work and found a note on the door.

It read:

I want out of this marriage. You are angry all the time, and I just can’t take it anymore. I’ve taken the kids, and I’ll be at my parents'. Please don’t come by. You must leave us alone. This has been a long time coming. I’ve taken what I’m sure is mine; the rest we can settle in court.

Immediately after reading the note, the angry man tore through the house to see what she had taken. His precious guns, expensive watches, and collection of military keepsakes were all still there. She would never take what she believed he loved more than her—or the kids.

Gone were their wedding pictures, the fine china, and everything she had used to maintain the façade of a happy, well-kept home for as long as she could.

The furniture—gifts from her wealthy parents—was gone, along with all of the kids’ and her personal belongings.

As he stood in the empty living room, he thought to himself: She must’ve planned this. There had to be movers… people helping her. If I can find out who, I’ll make them pay.

Before heading to the ATM, he stopped by a nosy neighbor’s house—one who quickly insisted he didn’t want to get involved. The angry man questioned him with significant force, almost certainly breaking several bones in his face.

The police are no doubt already at that man’s house taking a report.

The neighbor told him that, as soon as he left for work, a moving truck pulled up and three men emptied the house in just a few hours. The angry man remembered seeing the truck heading through the community gate that morning, but paid it little attention. Still, he remembered the name of the company.

Now, standing behind one woman at the ATM, the angry man is certainly having a bad day—and it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse.

Their joint savings account held nearly thirty thousand dollars. Her wealthy father had always given her money. That account was their cushion. Their rainy-day fund.

And this is most definitely a rainy day.

The angry man believes that at least half of the money is rightfully his. He plans to transfer it into his personal savings account—one that she has no access to. She took the family computer, and the bank is closed, so his only hope is the ATM. He must do it now. He cannot wait until Saturday when the bank opens.

The woman in front of him fiddles with the machine. As he waits, the rage builds. He stares at the back of her head. At first, he doesn’t notice how much she resembles his soon-to-be ex-wife—same age, same hair, same eyes. Same exhausted, overburdened posture.

She mutters in frustration as she struggles with the ATM.

“Damn thing won’t give me my card back. I don’t need this crap today.”

The angry man, of course, feels no sympathy. His day has already been a thousand times worse.

She turns to apologize for the delay. The moment she does, he snaps. In his rage—the same rage that likely cost him his marriage, and will certainly cost him his freedom—he doesn’t see a stranger.

He sees her.

He starts shouting so loudly that people in the nearby parking lot stop and stare.

“You came to take my half of the money! Our rainy-day fund! You came to leave me with nothing! It’s mine and I won’t let you!”

The woman is stunned. She freezes like a deer in headlights. At first, she says nothing. What could she say to an angry man who thinks she’s someone she’s not?

“First you take my kids, my heart, my everything—and now you want my money! I won’t let you!”

“Sir,” she says, trembling, “I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not that person. Please calm down. You’re scaring me. I just came to get money, and the machine won’t give me my card back.”

“You came to take everything!”

Tears stream down her face. She pleads with him.

“Please stop. You’re frightening me.”

Just then, the screech of tires cuts through the air. Someone has called the police—the same cops who were just at the neighbor’s house. They recognize the man. They know what he’s capable of.

Two officers jump out of their cruiser, weapons drawn.

“Put your hands up!” one shouts.

The angry man, convinced he’s lost everything, believes he has nothing left to lose. The cops have no idea that he doesn’t see the woman in front of him for who she is—a stranger—but as the wife who betrayed him.

He starts to raise his hands slowly. The woman stands frozen, unable to move.

As his hands reach his chest, he makes his move—reaching for the .45-caliber pistol concealed under his coat. He’s always loved guns and is highly trained to use them with deadly precision.

In one swift motion, the angry man pulls the gun and fires three rounds into the woman’s chest.

Her body lurches backward. The bullets tear through her and slam into the ATM behind her. Sparks erupt as the machine shorts out. No one will be using it again—least of all him.

She collapses at his feet. Dead.

For the first time, the angry man really looks at her—and sees the truth. She’s not his wife.

From behind, a thunder of gunfire erupts. The two officers unload their service weapons into the man’s back. Bullets rip through his body.

One round silences his already shattered heart.

He will never again be angry. Never again hurt those he loves—or strangers caught in the wreckage of his warped world.

He is gone.

Divorced from life.




Mad Red Beyond the Parking Cone
By Keaton Foster
(Part of a Series of Demented Stories)

I worked feverishly through the night—welding, cutting, and forging my masterpiece of metal. My hell on wheels. My vision was almost complete. Finally, I would have my way with the twisted world outside.
My twisted creation had it all: a battering ram, a flamethrower, a spike, and even an oil slick.

The beast was ready.
I loaded my arsenal of weapons into her. There was no turning back now. I fired up her powerful engine, and off we went, roaring toward the 4-10 freeway.

As I smashed through my garage door, my neighbors looked on in disbelief. At first, people just stared at me funny as I tore down the street. It wasn’t until I rammed my first victim that they realized something was terribly wrong.

That poor little old lady, stopped in the right turn lane, waiting to go left—she never saw my battle vehicle coming.
Wham!
My heavy ram plowed into her Lincoln Town Car. I hit the fuel tank with my first shot. People jumped from their cars and ran in horror. I backed up and floored it—
Wham!
She just sat there with this bewildered look on her face. Maybe she was thinking, Look at that young whippersnapper… what’s he doing to my Lincoln?

As the fuel rushed out, I gently pushed my flamethrower button.
Boom.
In a blaze of glory, that little old lady was toast.

I drove away as people looked on in horror.

A few miles down the road, I came to a red light. There would be no stopping for me or my beast. I plowed through the intersection, smashing several dozen cars along the way. It was a rush, to say the least. Bewildered drivers just sat there like deer in headlights.

I worked my way quickly toward the 4-10. In the distance, I could hear what sounded like an army of police cars heading my way.
I was ready.
I had the beast.
I had my guns.

“Bring it, punk asses!” I yelled out the window as I plowed down the road, smashing into cars like a bull in a china shop. Never again would anyone cut me off. Never again would they drive for five miles with their blinker on. Never again would I be flipped the bird.

And then—I saw him.

Right in front of me.
The guy.
On his cell phone. Driving. Eating his damn lunch.

You know the type.

“God, I hate you damn assholes and your cell phones!” I screamed.

I pointed my beast at his tiny car and floored it. The engine roared, and right before impact, he looked up—right into my eyes.

“Talk on this, you son of a bitch!”

Wham!
The crushing blow sent his car sailing like a toy. It rolled several times as I watched with joy.

The cops were getting closer. By now, all they had to do was follow my path of destruction. I had to make it to the 4-10—that’s where all the slow-moving, texting, magazine-reading dumbasses were. I had to return the favor for every day I’d been made late to work.

I screamed through side streets. I must have smashed a hundred cars already.

The beast was holding strong. My welds were solid. The ram, the flamethrower—everything was working like a dream.

Then—
"Oh crap," I yelled.

The cops had caught up.

Fifty cruisers all around me. I slammed them into oblivion, one after another. They kept coming. Then, up ahead—

A police armored vehicle.
It looked like some kind of tank.
It stopped right in front of me.

I slammed on the brakes.

Cop cars surrounded me. The black tank revved its monstrous engine, and smoke poured from its exhaust.

Nothing would stop me.

I revved my beast. It was a showdown—metal against metal.

I aimed at its front end, hoping to crush its radiator. I floored it. Bullets whizzed all around me. A few made it through the shell and rattled around inside like rocks in a tin can.

We hit.

Wham.
Both vehicles shook like they’d fallen from the sky.
But I was still operational.

I floored it again, straight into his radiator.
Boom.
Smoke and steam.
He was done.

I saw my chance.
The on-ramp was in sight. A mile away.

I blasted toward it, cop cars ramming me from all sides. I sent them flying into ditches and store fronts one by one.

I was almost there—almost free.

Then…
Fifty yards from the ramp, I heard it.

A loud shudder.

“No! Please—make it!”

The beast began to slow down. The engine coughed.
Then it died.

I turned the key. Nothing. The starter cranked. The lights flickered. But the engine would not fire.

Dozens of cop cars boxed me in. They opened fire.

Bullets zipped past my head and into my metal cocoon. I just sat there in disbelief. So close. I wouldn't make it.

What was wrong?

Why wouldn’t the beast start?

How could this happen?

Then…
I looked down at the dash.

“Oh shit.”
The gas needle was on empty.

It was over.

After all the planning, all the hours of work—
I forgot to get gas.

Just then…

Ring. Ring. Ring.

My cell phone.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Hey honey, what are you doing?” my wife asked.

“Oh… nothing. Just out for a cruise.”

“Really? Are you having fun?” she asked.

“Eh, you know. Traffic sucks as usual,” I said with a grin.

“That reminds me, honey… I forgot to tell you something. I borrowed your truck yesterday. I had to run a bunch of errands and I… totally forgot to fill it up.”

“…Oh, shit,” I whispered.

“I know how much you hate it when I don’t fill your truck. I was gonna stop, but I got stuck on the interstate. Ran out of time.”

“The 4-10 interstate?” I asked.





God’s Little Bastard
by Keaton Foster

"Some of us have yet to be truly born."

Standing alone. No one is close. No one ever has been, and no one ever will be.
All around me stands an endless forest of trees—epic giants of time that have existed long before humankind.
Hidden within the twisted onslaught of branches lives all of God's simplest creatures. Creatures that never question His will. Creatures that live and die without an ounce of concern for what comes next.

I used to come to this forest with my mother.
It was our safe retreat from my abusive father.
He used to beat my mother daily.
What he did to me was far worse than any beating she ever received.

When I was twelve, he took a gun and shot my mother dead. Then, in my presence, he put the barrel to his own head and ended his pathetic life.

He could have killed me too.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he chose to let me suffer on—alone.
He wanted me to know he had the power, and that death would do nothing to stop him.

To this day, I still see his face.
The expressions he made haunt me in a nightly onslaught of nightmares—visions I’m sure are more real than anything else in this world.

I’ve come to this forest now to speak to the God of Circumstance.

I’m not sure if He’s listening—but if He is, I know He’ll hear me.

I close my eyes so tightly that the only thing that bleeds in is absolute darkness.

I will never open them again until He hears all that needs to be said—
Until I express all that I am, and all that He is not.

“My God of Circumstance, to You I must speak. Hear me—for the first time in my life.”

After a lifetime of silence, He replies:

“My child.”

“Why do you call me child? I have no parents. No mother. No father.”

God, wiser than me in His ways, replies:

“You were brought forward, into the bosom of creation.”

“No—I was abandoned into this wilderness of existence.”

Arrogantly, God continues:

“I am your God.”

“I have no God. And if I did, why would He allow all that happened to me?”

“To teach you a much-deserved lesson,” He says.

“A lesson? For me alone? No one else?”

“Yes. Because life—certainly yours—is about lessons.”

“Well, I’ve learned enough, God. More than enough.”

“Then I shall stop teaching you, since clearly you have no desire to continue.”

“I have all the desire I need. That’s why I’ve come here—to speak. And you will listen.”

“Continue, my child. But be warned—if you break the back of my trust, I will wipe you from the face of the earth. My power knows no end. And you, however it may seem, are becoming increasingly more insignificant.”

“Your threat is received, God. I won’t break your trust. I’m only here to say what must be said. When I’m done, I’ll leave this forest and walk back into the wilderness of existence.”

“Very well,” God replies. “Say what must be said.”

“To you—the God of Circumstance—I pose the greatest question I can ask: Did you love my mother? Did you care for her in ways that go beyond words?”

“Yes. I love all of my children. Your mother’s faith was always strong. Even in her darkest hours, she turned to me. I know all her prayers, and all her faults. I have forgiven her. In due time, she will reside within my Kingdom of Ends.”

“Then if you loved her, God, I contend that I am your bastard child.”

“I have no bastard children. All who have faith in me are meant to be, and all are blessed with my love and companionship.”

“Then why, God, did you let my father beat her daily—and hurt me in such terrible ways? Why didn’t you save us? Why didn’t you honor her faith and love for you by destroying the obstacle to her happiness—and mine?”

“Because, child… free will.”

“Free will?” I scoff.
“From my point of view, free will is a lie—a tool used by heretics and heathens to explain away all they do that goes against the grain of what makes us human.”

“Child, you are wise… especially considering you have yet to be truly born.”

“What do you mean, God of Circumstance? Please—tell me your darkest secret… and mine. What do you mean I’ve yet to be born?”

“I will tell you what you wish to know. But know this: As soon as I finish, all that you know will be wiped clean. You will be born anew. The past—and your nightmares—will fall away. A new light will shine—one you have never seen before.”

“My hands are outstretched. My mind is open. My soul is yours to weigh down or let soar. Tell me what I wish to know.”

“Intentional child of mine—once thought to be a bastard—what if I told you all that you know, all you have felt, all that ever has been… has yet to happen? What if I proved to you that the life you came here to question me about is about to begin—not end? What if the life you think you lived was only a dream, cradled in the darkness of the womb?”

“I wouldn’t believe you, God. The pain… the loss… it’s been too much. Too real. And why would you do that to me?”

“Because life is my greatest gift. And how else could you ever understand what’s to come? You must know the darkness to appreciate the light. You must be tested—just as all are. A test of faith. Because faith… is what matters most.”

“But if that’s true, God, why do you force us to forget? Why do you let us make the same mistakes—mistakes we should’ve learned from during this time in the womb?”

“Because a true test of faith must be felt—not remembered. And when the darkness comes, if your faith is strong, you will know what to do. You won’t know how you know. You just will. It will be instinctive—a response tried and tested across generations.”

“God… no longer of Circumstance—for the first time in my life… I understand.”

“Enjoy this clarity, child. Because as soon as you are born, you will forget. When you are freed from the womb, the tie between us will be severed. Then… it will be up to you, as it is for all, to find your way back to me.”

Suddenly, the world of black burns away.
Light invades.
Reality floods in.

A new life is born.
A life not yet lived.

The child knows nothing of what lies ahead.

Once, he was God’s little bastard.
Now, he belongs to someone else.

The dreams once had in the womb are gone.
Wiped clean.
Only a blank slate remains.

Will his life mirror his dreams?
Will his mother die?
Will he be abused?
Will his father take his own life?

Only the God of his choosing knows such things…






The Lion In Waiting
by Keaton Foster

Note: This prose is meant to be significantly abstract (weird). This is how I see my world—both the (real) world and the one that I have created in my mind. Increasingly, I struggle to keep the two separate. Stories like this bridge both. Stories like this are the foundation of just about everything else that I work so hard to write.
"Trading one fear for another."

Come quite close. Step inside. I will take you deep into the core of my bosom. A journey of obscure amalgamations and persistent aberrations is yours for the taking. In the process, you may be changed—but then again, you may remain. I am not concerned with such things, for I am simply a storyteller.

I am a man living his life the best he can, continually surviving from one second to the next. I have many regrets—many that I often express. I am not one to hold anything back.

Read these words. Hear them as if they are coming from my lips. Feel each curve. Each rise and fall. Each bend and break. Each dark turn and brutal descent. Come close so that you may know me. Come close so that I may show you.

In my mind, deep behind my ever-widening eyes, a violent event between creatures—beasts that I have created—has transpired. One has destroyed another, taking its place in a realm of madness enslaved.

At the core of my everything is a place of epic proportions. Regardless of its overwhelming size and the vastness of its complexities, I know each detail quite well. Once a void-filled landscape, it is now populated by my creations.

I go there often. Such an escape has never failed me. There are many beasts and creatures there. Some as real as the word human can define; others so terrifying that words could never even begin to describe them. All are based on the defining moments of my early life.

I have names for each one. They are my bastards, and I am their father. I created them all, yet their end is no longer in my hands. I am no god to them—no master pulling strings. They owe me nothing. I gave them life and all that living implies.

Such fictional beasts—creatures—are further brought to life by the words that I write. To some, they are as real as I intend them to be. To me, they are as real as my reality could ever make them seem. I can assure you of this: they have been there long before any of this.

My writings offer me release. For them, there will be no escape—only an end defined by themselves and their kind. I am jealous of such a thing.

Increasingly, I struggle between two worlds—and I fear that I am losing sight.
I fear that I am losing my grip on both.

On this dark night, one that I often held close has died. His life was taken away. My imagination has been betrayed. The sacred boundary between reality and causality has been shattered.

I will pay homage to him by telling his tale. I will lend a voice to his ways.
I will show you all that there are always reasons for me to be afraid.

The Lion In Waiting
In lush fields of succulent grass, lit by the depths of night, sleeps a beast of ghastly proportions.
A beast of my creation.
A dark, ominous amalgamation of all that has ever happened.

I know him well.

Exhausted from the hunt, his stomach burdens a hellish load. He cannot move. Vulnerable he has become.

There are others—far worse—lurking. My imagination knows no bounds. What I can create is not limited by the constraints of reality.
Reality is pale in comparison.

The end is coming his way.

In such a place, one darkness is easily replaced by another. I would write out a warning if I thought for a second it would make any difference.

It won't.

A blizzard of stars shines bright in a blackened sky. An angry moon hangs high—death’s ever-widening eye. A balance long since defined has been wiped away, leaving the fragile world of my creations teeter-tottering on the edge of an ever-widening abyss.

The lion in waiting licks his wounds. Killing in the name of need has become significantly difficult. His prey on this night put up a hell of a fight. Such resistance only further enrages the beast, forcing him to kill in brutally inhumane ways.

Another creation—the darkness—of epic proportions sneaks into view.
A masterpiece of its affliction is that it must kill its own kind.
Perpetuation of the species through extermination.
Such a human affliction is faced by all in my mind.

I struggle to scream—a warning of sorts to an imagination quickly derailing off course. No sound comes out.
Nothing is all that abounds.

The lion in waiting does not see the end coming.
And I fear that I cannot save him.

The shadows shift. The darkness persists. The machine of its being locks into place. Its muscles ache under the tension. The lion in waiting licks his wounds, oblivious to his impending doom.

Suddenly, a lightning bolt shatters the sky. A wave of light turns the darkness into day. The lion in waiting sees the darkness preparing to leap from the underbrush.

He snaps to his feet—from calmness to terror in a single beat.
He readies himself for what he is certain will be the fight of his life.

I taught him well.

The darkness leaps. The two beasts crash together like trains at full speed. A shattering thud rips across the landscape. All others close at hand flee into the obscure recesses of my mind.

I will bring them back when an even keel is restored.

The lion in waiting is smashed to the ground by the darkness. The two beasts—creatures, my creations—begin to roll, each fighting for dear life.

Blood and bone quickly become unknown. All that remains are the dark spirits of creation. They scream in rage as they fight to rip each other away from a mind that I could never hope to escape.

I hold my breath as I begin to contemplate all that may come next.
I will be different.
I am about to trade one beast for another—
One affliction I have grown to know, for something beyond all scope.

Suddenly, a loud snap rings out, and all that was in doubt comes rushing back to me.
My mind allows me to again see with great clarity.

The lion in waiting is waiting no more.

He is free.

A rushing river of complexities finds me.

However, I fear that the price for such freedom from my imagination has left us both irrevocably changed.

I have traded a comfortable beast for the darkness that I have long since been—and will continue to be—unwilling to accept.

Such is my mind: a vast, ever-changing place of terrifying proportion.

The darkness is now in waiting…





Brutal Theorem
By Keaton Foster

"Forever, my view of the world around me has changed."

The other day, as I walked among the mundane, a shocking event awoke me from my lifelong daze—an event that would forever change how I see this world that crumbles around me each new day.

It can be said that all human beings are inherently dark beasts—brutally efficient at destroying each other beyond all ends. A statement I’ve often done my best not to believe, despite all I’ve seen and all that’s been done to me in my life.

That was, of course, before the other day—when the truth of such a thing revealed itself in a way I cannot deny or ignore.
—The world spins by at a frightening pace—

I was standing alone on the street, near the safety of my home. Strangers moved all around me, blissfully unaware of the possibilities that lurk in plain sight. I eagerly shared in their ignorance. Nothing required my attention—until it did.

A man brushed by me, lightly bumping my shoulder. I waited for an “excuse me.” Instead, he turned and looked at me in a way that sent chills down my spine.

I knew then—there would be no apology from the likes of him. Like many times before, I dismissed it. Just another man having a bad day, I thought.

But something about him... stayed with me. I watched him walk away. His stride, the careful placement of each step—it drew me in. There was something off, something outside the usual rhythm of mundane bullshit. I felt like I was watching a car crash in slow motion.

At the corner of the block, he stopped and waited. The light changed—once, twice, three times. Still, he didn’t cross. He just stood there.

I don’t usually concern myself with other people’s business, but something about his stillness haunted me. I had to know—what was he waiting for?

I’ve always had a knack for spotting things that don’t belong. Things that don’t sit right in a world already filled with so many wrongs.

I watched. I waited. I had no idea what was coming. If I had, I’d like to believe I’d have done something. Anything.

He stood in silence, his eyes burning with rage. His posture screamed fear. In hindsight, I wonder if he felt he had no choice—forced into something terrible. Maybe he knew he wouldn’t live another day. There are too many variables when trying to explain such madness.

Then, his head stopped moving. It was as if he’d found what he was searching for.

She appeared—a beautiful young woman, walking blindly into his path. My heart sank. She was what he had been waiting for.

As she approached, he reached into his right pocket. She didn’t notice him. The world roared on around her, unaware of the moment unfolding in silence.

Within feet of him, she froze. It was like she had seen a ghost from a lifetime long since passed. She never spoke. Never pleaded. Never prayed. She just stood frozen in terror.

The man said nothing. His eyes said everything.

He slowly pulled his hand from his pocket. The sun flashed off the chrome-plated handgun.

She screamed.

Everyone stopped—especially me. Reality hadn’t yet caught up to the horror about to unfold.

He raised the gun and, with brutal efficiency, emptied it into her fragile frame. She fell to the ground like a lifeless stone dropped from a great height.

He kept pulling the trigger long after the bullets were gone. The hollow clicks of the empty gun echoed louder than the gunfire.

Panic spread. People ran. But the man and I did not move.

I can’t say why I didn’t run. I was frozen. Still. So still that I’m sure my heart stopped beating.

He stood over her and calmly reloaded. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he mumbled about all she had forced him to do. When he finished speaking—when he had said all he felt needed saying—he raised the gun to his own head.

He looked to the sky and said:
"Please God, forgive me for all that I have done, and all that I am about to do."

The shot rang out, louder than the rest. It shattered whatever trance I was in.

In that moment, I felt more alive than I ever had before.

Even now, I struggle with what I saw, with how it made me feel.

While others fled, I stepped closer. I needed to see. I needed to understand what we—humans—are capable of.

Their wounds were brutal. Devastating. But I looked upon them not with judgment, but with a desperate need to make sense of what had just happened.

He fell beside her, his lifeless body touching hers. In life, they couldn’t be together—for reasons I’ll never know. Reasons that died with them both. But in death, they were side by side.

I still wonder if there was a message I missed. Something deeper I have yet to grasp. Maybe before my own end, I’ll come to understand.

There were other choices. I’m sure of it. He could’ve handled his pain another way. But he didn’t.

He made his choice.

His reasons remain a mystery to people like me—those of us content to live and let be.

Together in death, they remain.

And forever, I am changed.

In the end, two people were dead.

Two lives misplaced by the pain of a terrible thing.






Stones to Throw
By Keaton Foster

“Piled at my feet are the insidious convictions of others.”

Alone I stand, tied to a post in the middle of a courtyard. Strangers gather round to hear tales of all that I am, and all that I have done. Each tale is full of lies, told quite convincingly. These strangers—these feeble-minded spectators—will soon become willing participants, bound by their convictions.

The ominous bird of death circles high above. He will not be denied on this day. His wings outstretched, he soars unabated by all that is happening below. I fear that, when the time comes, he will land quite close.

Quickly, a few turn into hundreds. They have all come to watch, while others take part. It will be a glorious show of all that we—human beings—are capable of. Everyone here will be changed by all that is about to transpire.

Everyone here will witness my end.

An even-keeled man approaches. Quickly I can tell that he has done this before—many times, I fear. He is carrying a basket brimming with freshly lent stones. They look as if they have been cleaned and polished. They shine bright in the quickly rising sun. There is no doubt that, when this day is done, they will be returned to the earth from which they came.

He pours them out at my feet. Feverishly, I begin to count them. The odds of surviving this day are contingent on a number I am quickly realizing is far too great. The totality of such a thing is beyond my comprehension. Some of the stones are big, and some are small. They all vary greatly in shape—and lethality.

As soon as he’s done, as soon as he steps away, strangers who hate me for reasons unknown step forward. At first, they pick the heaviest stones. They leave the little ones for the children that abound. Before long, all the stones are gone. Before long, they will be returned—with great force.

A man disguised by his robes of God steps forward. He unfurls a list of my deeds. It is hellishly long. After several minutes of methodical reading, the crowd screams for him to finish. I, however, continue to pray that he never stops.

When my final deed crosses his lips, he steps forward and says,
“May God have mercy upon your soul.”

His last words to me ring true.

Nothing more is said. The same man who delivered the stones stands tall. He raises a bloodstained rag. When it falls, the world will be thrown at me for all that I have done.

I will die today. But before death finds me, I will suffer. I can only hope the first stone thrown crushes me of all sense—that my ability to feel is quickly torn away. A state of unconsciousness is all that will protect me from the pain I am certain to feel.

With no regard for me, the man in charge drops his hand.

The stones begin to fly.

After the first few strike my chest, it becomes brutally clear that the people throwing have done this before. They know where to hit me. They know that, to make me suffer most, they must avoid my head.

Each hellish stone seems to break one of my bones. Before long, I am certain that every bone from my neck down is shattered. The only thing keeping me upright is the tight rope that prevents me from escaping my fate.

After several intense minutes, the stones stop. The man in charge steps forward and shouts,
“Throw no more!”

The crowd cheers—they have somehow managed not to kill me. Until that moment, I had not realized that was the point of this hellish day. Their intention was to make me suffer. To make me feel each and every stone—one shattered bone at a time.

The man in charge leans in and whispers with ease:
“Son, fear not, for I have saved the heaviest of stones for you.”

He walks away. Others come to see what they have done. Women, children, men—young and old—all come. All day, I am left to wallow in dismay.

All day, the bird of death circles high above. All day, I suffer in great pain—so much that after several hours, I forget what it ever felt like to feel nothing at all. If they intended to make me suffer, I can assure you—they succeeded.

All day I languish.

Then, as the sun begins to fall, the crowd returns. The man in charge appears at my side. He whispers in my ear,
“It is time. Have you anything to say before I smash any and all life from your being?”

I have much to say. And on this day—the day of my death—I will be heard.

The crowd gathers close. The courtyard falls silent. Intently, they listen. They are hoping I will ask for mercy. But it is far too late for such a thing.

On this day, there will be only death. My brutal death.

“Hear me. Listen well. These words will redeem you for all that you have done here today.”

“Here, piled at my feet, lie blood-soaked pieces of a former greatness I dare not relate. Insidious convictions thrown at me because of all I have done—or failed to do. Varying in size, the smaller the means, the more brutal the end.”

Between each well-placed thought set to words, I struggle to breathe. Each time I take in air to lend power to my voice, the pain of my shattered ribs races through me. But I must continue.

“The heaviest of stones dare not fly straight. They are pulled down by their own weight. Inflicted with blatant disregard for all that makes me human, each wound is a clear representation of all that waits in judgment—not only for me, but for you.”

“These stones to throw lie quite close. Deep inside, I wish to pick them up and throw them back in the direction from which they came. However, I must resist the effect of your cause.”

“I wish I could change all that it is you have made of me. I wish not to be broken of all that once made me whole. I know I cannot change a damn thing—least of all this life I now find myself lingering in.”

“I have received my punishment—for what, I am unsure. I am tempted to fight back, but regardless, I will stand perfectly still. I will continue to be an easy target for those of you that wish to cause me the greatest harm. I will not flinch—even if the stones you throw strike deep within my most fragile heart.”

“So if you must—please, kind sir—the end.”

I close my eyes and whisper the sweetest of prayers. God alone will hear my cry for help. My cry for forgiveness—not only for myself, but for those gathered here today.

The crowd cheers. I will never again open my eyes to see their expressions of joy. I will never again open my eyes to face the end I know is coming.

The heaviest of stones has most certainly been thrown.

With great accuracy, it is heading my way. It will find its mark.

All of my senses will fade away. All that I am will be replaced by nothing more.

I will quickly be broken of life...





Paranoia in Bloom
by
Keaton Foster

"A limitless imagination set askew."

He screams forever into a wilderness of trees that unwinds within the confines of his fertile mind. Only nothing, in its truest form, need reply. The nature of its intent has long since been defined. It has become a God to him. He is bound by the faith he has come to find meaning in.

Inanimate objects, devoid of all life, lay in plain sight. Twisted trees reeling in pain stand as monuments to all that has happened in his life. Cold, lifeless dirt stains his weary feet. Jagged rocks lie strewn about, razor-sharp in their disgust for him.

In this wilderness of the mind, all that lives is of his own terrifying creation—amalgamations of his experiences, set to cautionary words of all that could be, and all that is.

A limitless imagination set askew.

It is not his imaginings made real that concern him. He knows there are far worse things hiding in plain sight. Creatures lurking just beyond reality and causality. Each one progressively more terrifying than the last.

Copious amounts of infectious matter invade the cerebral cortex of his crippled brain. He sees things that are not real. Instead of questioning their factuality, he often asks what is real within the confines of such a self-imposed reality.

An answer he fears he is no closer to speaking today than any other day in his complicated existence.

Paranoia in bloom, spreading like a flower, beckoning an alternate form of individuality. Screaming to take all that makes him real and leave him naked. Screaming to take all that he can feel, and leave him cold—spoiled to the bone, inside his flesh-covered home.

Some say he appears as normal as the next—perhaps even more so. But then again, what is normal? Speculation persists.

Reality and normalcy waver greatly within his wilderness.

With utter confidence, he replies:
“Normal and reality are far too simple of defining terms for people like us. And by us, I mean me, myself, and I.”

Paranoia in Bloom.

Alone, he walks down a crooked path as it unfurls before him. He is certain it will lead him away from all that he dare not wish to betray. It will take him into the bosom of nothing. It will take him home, back to the antithesis of all that he has ever known.

He was born into a home broken long before his miserable life adorned its walls. Monsters—whom he alone came to call parents—shaped him into a creature of epidemic proportions.

His name is Addison Gray. He is a boy on the cusp of becoming a man—a child soon to be left to his own defenses in a world full of monsters. He, above all, knows he will have no chance unless he turns from innocence and becomes something quite terrifying.

He walks with another—a childhood friend. A girl. Her name is Claire Martin. Claire is unaware of where Addison is leading her. She follows eagerly, hoping to escape her own dark reality.

Claire and Addison share a life of torment. A life full of much to lament. They both so desperately wish to escape. Claire’s visions of grandeur have left her willing to follow anyone she believes might help her, directly or indirectly.

Addison’s reality is far different. The real world has become dislodged. His imagination has created another—a terrifying wilderness full of creatures. An endless forest laden with paths leading to nowhere. He knows each one well. He has traversed a lifetime of distance in his own ever-evolving, dark reality.

On this day, Addison has become convinced that Claire intends to harm him. He feels he must act. He must show them all what he alone is capable of—so that they leave him be.

In his mind set askew, a toxic stew of all that humans are capable of has begun to boil over. All that he has been shown is well known. Each lesson, easily understood. Each lesson, reluctantly retained.

As Addison and Claire walk, a sound from the wilderness snaps Addison to attention. He stops in place. He knows the sound quite well.

“Stop,” he whispers in a low, melancholy tone.

Claire halts mid-step.
“What is it? What’s out there, Addison?”

“We are being watched. A creature of unquantifiable torment lurks there—just beyond the shadows. Just beyond all rationale.”

“What do we do?” she asks, hopeful that Addison has the answers she’s been chasing.

“Wait here. I will go and speak to the creature. I will reason with it. I’ll do what I must to win favor—for both you and me. Stay here. Don’t move.”

Addison steps into the darkness. Claire obeys. Frozen in place, she is overtaken by a fear she’s only just beginning to define.

Addison disappears. Claire waits. She says nothing. The only sound is the beat of her troubled heart.

After several moments—each stretched into a lifetime—Claire feels something strange on the back of her neck. A warm breath unlike any she has ever felt before.

In that instant, she considers turning around. But, heeding Addison’s words, she does not. She stares into the dark.

The warm breath becomes searing. Her skin begins to blister and bubble under the heat. She screams in pain. Falling to her knees, still—she does not turn.

Instead, she closes her eyes and speaks.

“Dear creature of unimaginable depths, leave me in peace. Go back into the darkness. Leave me here to suffer no more. I will not face you. I refuse to know you.

“My friend Addison warned me of you. He told me not to speak. He told me not to see you. He is my friend—and his words I will obey.

“After all, this is his reality. His limitless imagination, set askew. I will do as he said. I will not turn and face you. Please—leave me now. Go back into the darkness.”

Suddenly, the breath falls away. Silence.

Just as quickly, footsteps emerge from the dark ahead. Claire is certain—Addison. She rises to her feet.

She calls out into the deep dark.
“Addison—is that you?”

No reply. Only footsteps. Getting closer.

Then—just out of sight—they stop.

“Addison, please... is that you?” she pleads. Again and again.

Only silence. Only nothing.

There she remains.
No answer will come.

Her paranoia in bloom consumes all that she is—and all that she could have ever hoped to become.

For all time to come and go, she remains.
Stuck in that place.
Too afraid to move.
Too afraid to turn around and head back to a past she so desperately wished to escape.

Addison is never again seen. Nor is she—by any who ever knew her.

A new reality, one born of Addison’s limitless imagination set askew, becomes her new home...






The Parable of Jane
by Keaton Foster

Dedicated to you, Jane.
An unfortunate story of truth.

Some stories need to be told...

Jane was a girl—a most special childhood friend.
Lost to this world, and lost to me long before she had a chance to grow up. Lost before she could blossom from the girl I knew into the woman she might have become. Lost before her roots found solid ground. She was ripped from this place and cast away into nothing.

There she has remained: most alone, most afraid. I’m here to tell her tale. I’m here to lend my words to her story. I’m here to speak the truth—regardless of what it means for everyone involved.

This is the parable of Jane...

She lived down the street from me in a small coastal town, just off the beaten path—somewhere between something and absolutely nothing. It’s where we spent the earliest part of our lives as best friends.

We played on the shoreline during that wonderful summer of 1981. I remember it well—for it was a most special time in my life. We shared our dreams as we ran in circles, chasing each other until we were so dizzy we fell to the ground from the motion of our own existence. She wanted to grow up to become something more than the nothing she had seen so many others become. And I, like so many young boys, desperately wanted to grow up to be her everything.

On that wondrous summer day, as the waves crashed along the coastline, Jane and I sat with our feet in the sand. She leaned in and whispered thank you in my ear. Earlier that day, I had given her a best friend necklace to let her know how much I cared—how much she meant to me. On the back, it simply said, 4-ever friends.
A promise I’ve kept to this day.

When I close my eyes, I can still see her as if she were here with me now. Her long brown hair flowed in the breeze. The sun danced on her freckled white skin. Her soft brown eyes welled with tears as she turned to me.

"Can I trust you?" she asked with a crooked smile. "Can I believe that no matter what I tell you, you’ll keep it our secret?"

I smiled and replied, "Yes, you can trust me. I’ll never tell anyone our secret if you don’t want me to, Jane."

She didn’t acknowledge my promise—almost as if she were hoping I would break it.

Then she leaned over and whispered each terrifying word of her secret—the secret that would become ours.

I was in shock. I was afraid for Jane. I was amazed by all the horror she expressed in a few trembling whispers.
My first thought was to tell someone, to get her help.
But just as quickly, I remembered my promise.
A promise is a promise, I told myself.

So I kept it. That day, and every day since, without my friend Jane.
I never told anyone. Not a single soul.
Not even God in Heaven knows what Jane said to me on that day.

Of course, that was decades ago. Today, I’m a much older man.
I find comfort in remembering all the days before that day.

That day went from just another amazing moment in the middle of nowhere… to a day I’m sure will stay with me until the end of my life.

We sat there for hours, our feet in the sand.
We never spoke another word—not one.
Something changed between us. Something I couldn’t name.
As the sun fell from the sky and the moon climbed high, she turned to me, and without speaking, she said all she needed to say.

Then she stood up—leaving me there alone for all time.
Jane walked away, never to find her place beside me on the shoreline again.

I sat there all night, thinking about what she had told me.
She was my friend.
But we were both just children.
I didn’t know what to do.
So I did nothing. I kept her secret locked away, like a memory.

A few days later, as I walked to school, I stopped at the corner and waited for Jane—like I always had. I waited for what felt like the longest minutes of my life.
But Jane never came.

Worried, I ran down the street to her house and pounded on the door in a furious fit of fear and rage.

Looking back now, I think I already knew—she wasn’t there.
No one was.

As I stood there waiting, something in me slipped away.
In many ways, I feel like I’m still standing there—waiting for my friend to appear and tell me everything will be okay.

But I would never see Jane again.
I kept my promise.
In time, it would become all I had left of her.

Years later—long after those childhood days I so fondly remember—I sat alone in my bed. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t rest. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling for hours.

Eventually, I turned on the TV, flipping through channels, looking for something to pass the time. Then the sound of a man’s raspy voice snapped me from my daze.

On the screen was a story about a small coastal town in New England.
It looked like I was in my dad’s car, driving down Main Street.
I knew that place—even though it had been decades since I’d been there.

The raspy-voiced man told the story of a missing girl named Jane.

Her parents appeared, holding a photo of her—older now, somehow, in my memory. Crying, they pleaded for the safe return of their daughter. They explained in painful detail how one day, Jane had simply vanished.

I began to cry. I thought of our secret.
I wondered—had I done the right thing?

As I sat there, a deep sickness settled in me.

Then the voice returned with an update.
That very day, there had been a shocking lead in the decades-old case of a missing girl.

Construction workers, excavating the empty lot where Jane’s family home had once stood, had made a gruesome discovery.

The skeletal remains of a young girl were found—wrapped in several trash bags, buried beneath what was once the front porch. The house, the man explained, had burned down in the late 1990s.

The remains weren’t all that was found.
A rope. A note.
A small, heart-shaped pendant with the word 4-ever carved into the back.
Somehow, it had all survived—three feet underground, for twenty-seven years.

I watched in shock as a strange sense of relief washed over me.
The world finally knew what happened to Jane.

And I was finally free of keeping her secret.

I picked up the phone. Called the number on the screen.
And I told them what Jane had whispered to me that day on the beach.

I was finally free.
And so was she.

I miss you, Jane.





Named for Love & Beauty
(The Tale of a Ninja)
By
Keaton Foster

Draped in the blackness of night, cloaked in the darkness of his plight, a man stands high above—on a rooftop—looking across the distance between him and those he has come to kill.

His rage-filled eyes burn bright in the pale moonlight. His eager heart thumps along at a frighteningly calm pace. He has no fear, no worries about completing the task he was born to undertake. He has been preparing for this night for many years. He, above all, knows what he is—and what he must do.

His name is Akira Hideyoshi, and he is a ninja—a true master of the art of assassination. Silence has long been his weapon in the realm of death that unfolds before him and his kind. He has lived a lifetime of war in the dangerous existence he calls his life.

He delivers death in the most precise ways. He is calculated. He knows exactly what he does. Regret does not weigh him down. He has a clear conscience, for all those he has killed were most deserving of death.

He is violence in disguise. He is rage in calming form. He is a ninja—and the masterful ways in which he kills are part of his craft. He paints with a broad brush across a beautiful, blood-soaked canvas that unfolds before him.

In his world, murder and assassination are not the same. Murder is not his way. Those he kills are enemies of his family. He is a warrior, and the enemies of his home are those who shall receive the wrath he brings with his silent, deadly tools.

Skilled in the use of many instruments of death, Akira wields them all with absolute precision. His katana—she is his love in the darkest of ways.

The moon reflects off her razor-sharp edge as he unleashes her wrath. The sound she makes is silent, as the true weight of her falls. Much blood has passed across the folds of her blade.

In the darkness of night, he often whispers her true name: Aimi. No one hears her coming. No one knows of her dark truths.

Aimi is named for love and beauty—like the mother she once shared a name with. His father gave her that name, after the death of his wife, the mother of his only son.

She has always existed in the name of vengeance, in the name of death disguised as beauty and lost love. She is as old as the name of Akira’s family, passed down through the hands of his father and all his ancestors before him. Many foes have fallen to her.

Akira’s arsenal of weapons helps him deliver his message to all who will fall. He uses his skills masterfully. His garments of blackness conceal his shape as he moves through the shadows cast in the deepest, darkest of nights.

He is a ninja, an assassin—a god in a world of perceived godlessness.

Death, in the most brutal of ways, remains behind long after he slips back into the dark. He is a master of the katana. He wields it with absolute precision.

On this dark night, Akira has come to complete a lifelong task. He has been sent by his family name. He must kill the master of his family’s enemies—his power has grown too great. Akira must restore balance to the land of his fathers with a swift cut of his blade. He shall not fail. This mission shall be his last.

There will be no return. The odds are too great. He will—he must—succeed, whatever the price. Death has long been his way. On this night, Akira shall fall—and his katana will remain.

He slips through the shadows and dispatches several guards in the most silent of ways. They are unaware as death leaps from the darkness and grabs hold of them.

They make no sound—except for the dull thud of their bodies falling.

Once they are dead, Akira makes his way toward the master’s domain.

As he approaches, an odd feeling comes over him. The master, too, feels the same.

Sitting on his throne, the master waits for what he knows will be a hellish battle between two cunning warriors of death.

Silently, Akira approaches. He is within a single slash of his foe. The master feels his presence, yet remains still.

Akira raises his sword. He grips Aimi tightly.

Suddenly, the master stands and calls Akira into the light.

“Come out where I can see you. Come and face me. I can feel you there, hidden in the shadows. Step into the light, ninja.”

The duel the master seeks is the fight Akira has come to deliver. Akira steps forward to reveal all that he is.

Softly, Akira says,
“I have been sent by all those who came before me. I am your fate. Prepare to feel my wrath.”

The master replies,
“I have been waiting for you—for the end you offer. I am ready for the battle you bring.”

The master is a poetic man of war. He has long lived by the sword. To die by the blade will be an honor—but he will not fall without a fight unlike any Akira has ever faced.

Both Akira and the master stand with their katanas drawn.

Akira screams,
“The end is about to begin—for us both!”

In a dance of death, they begin to fight. Their swords scream for blood as they clash. The silence of night is broken by the sound of steel and rage.

A symphony of death unfolds. Back and forth they go, screaming, slashing. Akira wounds the master terribly. The master strikes back, driven by brutal principles.

The battle continues until both men are severely wounded. Fury has left them near death.

But the end comes faster for the master than for Akira. Still, the warrior in both men wants to send the other into the grip of death first. Akira somehow finds the strength to rise and deliver one final blow.

The master stumbles. Akira kicks him back down.

“You are as silent as I soon will be,” he growls. “You are closer to death than I.”

Standing over the master’s body, Akira thrusts his sword deep into his heart.

Only the sound of a final breath escapes.

The master is dead.

Akira screams,
“The enemy of my family’s reign has been destroyed with the point of my sword!”

But he too knows death is near. His wounds are beyond hope. He knew this would be his fate, as it was the fate of those who came before.

He lays down on the soft floor and stares up at the dull light leading the way. Blood pours from his wounds. He struggles to breathe as the coldness of death creeps over him.

The few guards he hadn’t dispatched rush in. They see their master dead. They scream in fury.

They run to Akira, standing over him with silent, vengeful faces. They raise their weapons above his failing body.

Before they strike, Akira screams his final words:

“I am a ninja. A warrior of death. An assassin of those who stood against my kind. I have lived by the sword—and now I shall die by the sword. What awaits me follows.”

The End





The Darkest of Conundrum
by Keaton Foster

"Inevitability always rings true."

Bullets fired in anger crack the sky above my head. Fear has long since settled in. I’ve become consumed by it—so much so that I no longer have the strength to flee.

Certainty crawls across my skin. In this darkest of moments, I will face the inevitability of all things. I no longer have the power to disbelieve: I am about to meet my end. Ready or not, death is coming. Soon, like all others, it will hold me tight in its eternal grip.

Broken lives and absolutes lay about. The end screams for me. The sum of all my fears is close—it stalks just beyond sight. I will see nothing. I will feel nothing. All that is to be will come quickly. I have long since prayed to my God for such things.

The battlefield burns with the funeral fires of the dead. A cavalcade of souls transcends from this earthbound prison to a place devoid of such pointless things. The clear blue sky bleeds true, as it always has.

"War is hell!" Whoever said that has surely been in this place that I am now. Somehow, they must have survived to tell the tale—a defiance of fate I fear I will not be able to duplicate.

Death is coming ever closer. It creeps. Soon there will be no one left here but me—for death to claim as its own. My life will end, just as surely as it once began.

Alone I sit. Alone I contemplate all that will certainly be—the end of this life I so foolishly regret. Fear has a stranglehold around my neck. I struggle to breathe as I desperately try to believe that there will be no tomorrow to set me free.

I refuse to concede to death and all that it means. My refusal will mean nothing—death does not care. It only does as it must, while we do what we can to avoid the finality of its promise.

The world around me has long since consumed me inside and out. I am being torn apart by all that is beyond my control. I have no power to decide what happens next. All I can do is live—until I am dead, which I fear will be soon enough.

All of this is as real as it seems—as real as I’ve allowed it to become. In the end, I will become one with my fear and all that it has done to place me in this, the darkest of conundrums.

Whisper Close

Huddled in a mass, I take shelter behind a sandbag wall. Only feet away, I can hear the enemy scream of all he wishes for me.

I have only a few rounds left in my weapon. All day I’ve been fighting. All day, my brothers-in-arms have been dying. I am all that’s left. I will be forced to stand my ground. I will be forced to face all that comes next—most of it alone.

Moments ago, a pair of fighter jets dropped a large array of ordnance on our position—usually a last-ditch effort to avoid being overrun by a fearless enemy with no concern for death.

A tactic referred to as danger close, the bombs did indeed land in our laps. Many of the enemy were vaporized. However, one of the bombs landed just far enough off-course to strike the trench my squad was taking cover in. Instantly, all eleven of my men were killed. I am the only one who survived. I am the only one who knows what it means to remain.

I fear such fortune will be short-lived. The enemy is coming. He means to kill me. He intends to stop my heart and shatter my life. I will fight back until my dying breath—but I know it will not be enough.

Closer now, just beyond the safety of this sandbag wall, the enemy waits. I take in one final, deep, chilling breath. I ready my weapon—each shot must count. Each round must shatter life. All of my training will come into play. I must rely on my ability to kill with impunity. I am a warrior—a killer of men.

I jump to my feet. Instantly, our eyes meet. The enemy screams. I say nothing. I let my weapon speak. With great ease, I squeeze it ever so softly. The bark of my weapon startles him. He screams for his kind. No words ring true as my powerful rounds hit him in the chest. He falls. Instantly, he is as silent as death entails. Forever, he has slipped into blackness.

There are others to take his place—others who share his hate for me. They are close behind. They scream of their god as they rush toward me. Again, I squeeze the trigger without regret. Several more follow him in death.

Then, a sound I knew would come: my weapon clicks. Empty. If I’m to have any hope, I’ll have to fight with my hands.

I drop my weapon. The enemy knows my defenses have weakened.

I slide my knife from its sheath. With absolution, I ready its blade.

“Come and get me, you motherfuckers!” I scream.

A lone man responds. He comes close. He slings his weapon over his back. From the look on his face, I know this is personal.

He slides his own knife from the sheath tied to his belt. He holds it with ease. He’s killed with a blade before.

I step close, grabbing his shoulders. I throw him to the ground. I fight like a man with everything to lose. I dive down onto his chest. He grabs my arms. He’s trying to fend off the blade. Back and forth we go for what feels like a lifetime.

Finally, after endless moments, I gain the upper hand. He’s on the ground. I’ve knocked his blade away. Now he’s helpless. Now he will die. I raise my knife high above his head.

“Die!” I scream.

He says nothing. Does nothing. In that moment, he seems to have surrendered. I’m impressed by his courage—his willingness to accept fate. I’m envious of his lack of fear.

I plunge my blade toward his heart—

One shot rings out, just feet away.

One of his brothers-in-arms stands close, weapon ready. A small charge of smoke rises from the barrel. A loud bark rings in my ears.

The round hits me in the shoulder. I’m knocked backward. My arm feels like it’s been ripped from the socket. Blood and matter spray from the wound. I won’t be getting up. I won’t survive an injury like this—not from such close range.

The man I was about to kill slides to his feet. He struggles to regain his senses. I struggle to make sense of what I know is coming.

I lie motionless. There will be no more attempts from me to avoid what’s next.

With certainty burning in his eyes, he appears above me. In his hand is a pistol.

With the same disregard for human life that I myself have shown so many times, he points the weapon down at my chest.

He screams, in broken English:

“Die!”

He fires once.
That is all it takes.






Shooting Strangers
by Keaton Foster
Flash Fiction

War is most certainly hell. It makes men do things they often spend the rest of their lives regretting. Marines are taught that killing the enemy will be easy — because the enemy deserves what's coming.

Pulling the trigger is hard. But when men must survive the perilous nature of combat, they do what they must. Right and wrong rarely enter the equation.

It becomes about survival — self-preservation.

In the mind of those holding the gun, it comes down to me or them.

—Shooting Strangers—

It is just another impossibly hot night in Kirkuk, Iraq. A group of young Marines is on patrol, setting up random checkpoints. These checkpoints are effective ways to catch insurgents moving through the city under cover of darkness.

Lance Corporal David Windmare is on his second tour. He has seen his share of firefights and death. He’s certain he’s killed quite a few insurgents — usually from a distance. By the time the area is cleared, the bodies are gone, collected by comrades to keep the Americans from knowing the real death toll.

But tonight, for David, the killing will be up close and personal.

His six-man team from Delta Company has just set up a rolling checkpoint on the main road out of town. Intel suggests two high-value insurgent leaders are trying to escape Kirkuk tonight.

Every team across the city is on high alert.

The company commander made it clear during the briefing: The men we’re after must be stopped — at any cost.

“At any cost.” It's the kind of phrase that justifies doing great harm to anyone who happens to enter a Marine’s crosshairs.

The first few hours go by fast. The team has stopped several locals — all clean.

Checkpoint procedure is simple: any approaching car must stop at a large portable sign explaining what to do. Anyone who turns around or ignores the sign and speeds toward the checkpoint will be fired upon. The sign is clear, and most locals know the rules. Few take the risk.

David leads the approach team — the most dangerous position at a checkpoint. He has to walk up to the stopped vehicles, rifle ready, while the rest of the team hangs back. Many Marines have been killed at close range or blown up by insurgents at checkpoints.

David always approaches with his M4 at the ready. If the driver so much as twitches, David will open fire.

A white taxi turns the bend and stops at the sign. The driver flashes his headlights — a clear signal that he understands the procedure. He sticks his hands out the window and tells his two passengers to do the same.

David advances, weapon ready. He knows basic Arabic and barks a set of standard commands. The driver follows them exactly.

He wants no trouble.

David checks the man’s papers and those of his passengers. All are in order. He scans the inside of the cab — clean. Then he orders the trunk opened.

The driver exits and walks to the rear. He pops the trunk. It's mostly empty. David searches it just to be sure — nothing.

He returns the papers and tells the man to continue through the checkpoint.

Just as the driver reaches for the car door, the sound of a speeding engine breaks the calm.

A small white van comes flying around the corner — too fast to stop.

Enemy. No doubt about it.

David screams in Arabic for the van to stop. The engine roars louder. No sign of slowing.

He has no choice.

David brings up his M4 and fires a burst of rounds into the windshield — right where the driver should be.

The glass explodes. Blood splatters across the interior. The driver is surely dead.

The van, out of control, slams into the back of the taxi at full speed. The crash is deafening.

David dives out of the way.

The cab driver isn’t so lucky. The impact flings him like a ragdoll. He lands on his head, his neck snapping instantly. The two passengers in the back never have a chance — they’re crushed.

David scrambles to his feet, reloads his M4.

As he chambers a round, the van’s side door begins to slide open.

David can’t see inside — but he knows it’s a threat.

He fires a full burst into the opening.

The door eerily slides shut again.

Some of David’s team rushes to his side. They surround the van, weapons drawn.

David moves forward and checks the front seats.

The driver is a woman. In the passenger seat beside her: a man, presumably her husband — dead. But not from bullets. His wounds suggest he was beaten, maybe tortured.

David moves to the side door. He grips the handle and yanks it open.

Out falls a young Iraqi girl.

Not an insurgent.

A child.

She hits the ground at David’s feet, eyes wide open, unblinking. Lifeless.

Her fragile torso is riddled with bullet holes.

David freezes.

The others gather around. One places a hand on David’s shoulder, trying to lead him away from the van.

He doesn’t budge.

He needs to see what he’s done.

"David, you didn't know," one of them says gently. "They didn’t stop. You had no choice. War is hell. Stuff like this happens."

"It just happens."

David looks inside the van.

There are several more children in the back — all dead. Much younger than the girl at his feet.

Each riddled with bullets from David’s gun.

That night changes him.

The guilt becomes unbearable. The pain — deep and unrelenting.

Years later, David is home. Out of the Marine Corps for good. Honorably discharged. Decorated.

He refuses to display his medals.

He’s no longer a warrior.

Now he’s a schoolteacher.

He wants to give back. To help kids. To make a difference.

During the day, when he’s busy teaching, he’s fine.

He gets by.

David has always done what needed to be done. He treats each school day like a mission — complete the objective.

The kids give him purpose.

But at night, when he closes his eyes — he sees their faces.

The strangers he shot.

The children.

War is hell.
And for some, so is everything after.






Bullets Do Such Terrible Things
By Keaton Foster

"The price of war is death."

Bullets do such terrible things — the smallest piece of lead sent forth in anger. Fired indiscriminately, no precise aim is required. Fate will certainly show it the way. A process of elimination has once again begun. It will end with my death. Part consequence, certain reality. We are all soldiers here, warriors of selflessness. My killer and I are no different in that regard.

I have always been well aware of the risk. My so-called enemy is well aware of his role in my impending death. Full of intent, he has long since wished me dead. Today his wish will come true, while my prayers will certainly go unanswered.

I will never see another new day’s sun, nor the smile of a child I have yet to meet. I will never hold my love close. I will never again feel the ground beneath my weary feet. I will only know the truth of what awaits — beyond this place, beyond this shape. A truth that I will never be able to speak of. Forever silent I will become.

Bullets do such terrible things — exactly how terrible, I fear I am about to find out.

It has long been said that in life — war, to be quite specific — is a matter of the survival of the fittest.

Today, for some odd reason, I feel sickened by all that I have done.
I feel regret for all the lives I have taken.
I feel regret for all the times I stood by and did nothing.
I wish I had never aimed down my sights.
I wish I had chosen my targets a little less efficiently.
I wish I hadn’t squeezed the trigger with such ease.

My weapon only fired because I was the one pulling the trigger.

Maybe these feelings are a message of sorts?
A reminder from above that redemption is required?

Regardless of the who, and the why, I will have to live with these feelings for the last few seconds of my life.

Moments ago, my so-called enemy screamed how much he hates me.
I was quick to reply: “You don’t even know me!”

He said nothing, but he was quick to counter with a bullet to my chest.
My flak jacket has done little to stop his intent.

In a moment undefined by conventional time, I am certain I will be dead.
My so-called enemy will have to live with all that he has done.
I can relate to the feelings associated with such a thing.

My name is Ryan Landowski, and on this — the day of my death — I am twenty-three years old.

I came to this place most willingly.
I wanted to serve.
I wanted to do my part.
I also wanted to go to college when this war was over.

Now, it is clear that will not happen.

All around me a hellish battle ensues.
Fellow brothers-in-arms kill without regret.
The broken, destroyed bodies of the enemy quickly begin to pile up.
The smell of gunpowder fills the early morning air.
The sound of each weapon being fired — a symphony of death — is deafening to all who still have their senses.
I can hear the commander as he barks his orders.
Young men on both sides carry them out.

I lay close to the fight, dying in a pool of my own blood.
I am trying to scream for a medic, but no sound is coming out.
No one sees me.
No one has spotted my attempts to be noticed.
They are too busy killing — too busy surviving the only way they know how.

My body feels cold.
My arms feel as heavy as thousand-pound stones.
My chest slowly rises and falls with each laboring breath.
I can no longer feel my legs.
My instinct tells them to move — they simply are not responding.

Here I am, lying on my back, looking up at the clear sky.
Only a few clouds linger.
The sun looks like a large orange eye breaking the horizon.

I can’t help but think of all that I am about to lose.
A single tear falls for me.
A river more will fall for those I love most of all.

I will miss this place, this shape.
I knew the risk, and up until this very moment, I was willing to pay it.
I am now certain I wish I had not put myself in such a predicament.

Colder and colder I grow.
My body no longer aches in pain.
I can feel nothing — the numbness my fear provides.

Slowly, I run my hand across my chest.
My tacky blood is the brightest of red.
A large pool of it outlines my shape in the sand.

This very spot will forever be the place where I died.
Once I am removed — once the stain of me is washed away — no one will ever be able to find this place again.

All around, the war rages on.
Death comes and goes amongst each side.
I can see a few of my brothers-in-arms lying dead only feet away.

Those left alive continue to fight with a now reckless abandon.
The barrels of their weapons glow red from the heat of each round fired.
Murdering each other is now the only agenda.
Rescuing the injured has taken a back seat.
At this point in the battle, I fear it has become a matter of survival for all involved.

Then suddenly — the battlefield falls silent,
Even as the war all around me rages on.

Death is closer — within my finalist of breaths.
Death has found me.
And it will now claim me as part of the consequence of what men are truly capable of.

Truly, the end.

Bullets do such terrible things.





Sibling Adultery
by Keaton Foster

"I am here because, as hellish as it might seem, I have a purpose."

For hours on end, I often sit with this blank screen before me. It screams of the nothingness that I know all too well. Such a continually expanding void has become my salvation. It forces my mind to race, quickening my need to convey all that I know I must.

My ability to express my deeply woven pain, my darkest fears, and my life has become a gift—a gift for which I have paid a hellish price. This gift has left me with a nagging sense of purpose where before I was sure there was none.

I know the way. I often go headlong into the absolute darkest of this place. Such a continuous journey has left me irrevocably changed. This journey has become my everything, within seemingly nothing.

I know what to say. As always, the page never remains blank for long.

Sibling Adultery

Father,

You took us down to your lair, and once there, you showed us that you did not care. You stripped away our youth, carefully placing it inside yourself.

You screamed in hatred as you raped us, one at a time, from the oldest to the youngest. Daughter and son, boy and girl, orifice to orifice—you spared no one.

Our maternal protector failed to save us. We had no chance against you. If she had tried, you would have destroyed her quicker than you ultimately did.

As a son of a monster with such needs, you made each one of us and then reclaimed your creations. You could not resist your own dark afflictions. You could not stop yourself—or so you whispered into our ears from behind.

We meant nothing to you as individuals. All distinction was quickly lost to the sickness that consumed you and devoured us. You showed us that you are a terribly flawed human being by making all of us the same.

Each one of us was unaware of the significance of the other during those days, and I fear that little has since changed. None of us knew the truth we shared. Living in a dream world full of lies, we convinced ourselves that it was not real. We kept our secrets close, and Father, you kept your own even closer.

After we grew up, all of us parted ways. Never again have we spoken. All secrets have remained. They will—and certainly do—lie with some of us in our graves.

Only a few of us remain. The pain was too great. Death came quickly. A life as broken as the one you gave us, the one you forced upon us, was bound to end long before its time. Only some of us who remain still suffer under the memories of your hands.

The others must endure something far worse.

Father, you have long since been misplaced, and I fear that the seeds of hate you planted have blossomed in many sadistic ways. The others are like you; they have continued in your ways. I refuse to be like them, like you, because I know that is what you desire most.

You are nowhere to be found. You admire from a distance. Fearful that some may seek revenge, you have become most afraid. I will not deny that there is much basis for your fear. Father, you should be afraid because such fear will show you how it feels to be us.

Feeble with age, you dare not stand up to us. You are far beyond the days when you could hold us in place. You have become weak, and we are now well aware that you would stand no chance against us.

As individuals, we would kill you if the opportunity presented itself. As siblings, we would murder you if we could collectively come together in our pain.

There once were more of us, but now that is not the case. It is the saddest of things for me to say, but many of the children you once enslaved have all but faded away.

A father should never outlive his children. A father should die long before them. Your continued life is a cataclysmic hypocrisy perpetrated upon your own children.

The self-inflicted deaths of your children have taken away the right of your death before ours. Even though, Father, they were self-inflicted, I assure you that your hand was certainly on the trigger each time.

The guilt you should feel pales in comparison to the pain you have brought upon your own children. I say *should* feel because I know you are incapable of such a thing.

Those of us who remain will linger deep within our darkness. For the most part, we will always be unaware of all that we share. We will never have the courage to speak of our shame.

I fear that my voice will remain insignificant unless another validates my own painful rendition of all that you did and all that has happened.

Father, I know that you will always be there, hiding among the nothingness you command. It is your own personal god, an absolute deity that you have come to find as an escape from all that you are and all that you have done.

I am certain, Father, that in time, death will come for you. Irony will dictate that it will come far too late. The world’s cruel ways will ensure that it arrives deep within the later part of your horrific life. You will suffer little because you have become quite numb.

When the end finally comes, Father, may you take your darkness and all that it implies with you to your grave. May it rest upon your chest like a stone of unimaginable weight.

Only then, Father, will you see all that you have done to us as individuals and as siblings.

You took us into the darkness and left us there,

Alone.







Wal-Mart-Apocalypse
By Keaton Foster

At a local Wal-Mart, a man stands facing away near an empty shopping cart. Bart and his wife Peggy approach. “I’ll take that, sir,” Bart says.

Bart puts his hand on the cart. The old man turns to face him.

“Jesus H. Christ!” Bart exclaims.

The man glares at Bart with vacant eyes.

“Uh… thanks!” Bart says as he takes the cart.

Bart can’t help himself. “Sir, excuse me, but you have something on your face.”

He points at what appears to be a piece of meat hanging from the man’s chin. The man runs his hand across his chin, and the piece of meat falls into his hand. Without pause, he flicks it into his mouth.

As soon as it touches his tongue, he says, “Braaaains!”

Bart quickly walks away—after all, he’s in a Wal-Mart.

Peggy follows Bart. As they reach the registers, a startling sight shocks Bart: all the registers are open, each staffed by a Wal-Mart employee.

“Holy Batman, look at that!” Bart says.

Easily bored, Peggy turns to Bart and says, “Lumpkin, I have to go pee-pee!”

Bart replies, “I have the list, so I’ll be shopping.”

Peggy heads off to the bathroom.

Bart reads the list to himself:

- Matches
- Boba Fett figurine
- Onions
- Light bulbs
- Turkey baster
- Spam
- Lady Gaga CD
- 30-day supply of morning-after pills
- …and a platypus

Suddenly, Bart spots an employee. “Sir, where can I find a platypus?”

The employee stops just feet away from Bart, points toward aisle 7, and says, “Braaaains!”

“Wow… Wal-Mart really does have everything,” Bart chuckles as he passes the employee.

After a few minutes in aisle 7, he finds the platypus. He continues around the store, gathering items. After about twenty minutes, he’s done.

Bart decides to detour to the electronics department. As soon as he reaches it, he’s transfixed by strange images playing on a bank of nearby TVs. On the screens are Whoopi Goldberg, David Caruso, and Jeff Goldblum.

In the scene, the actors appear trapped inside a closet. From what Bart can tell, they must act their way out.

“Oh, this is gonna end poorly,” Bart chuckles.

After several minutes of intense, overdramatic dialogue, David Caruso turns to the other two in the closet, tilts his head, slides down his shades, and says, “Braaaains!”

Suddenly, all three begin to attack and eat each other like cannibals who haven’t eaten a good steak in months. The scene is grotesque in more ways than could ever be conveyed.

Bart feels a soft tap on his shoulder. It’s Peggy.

“Uh… Peggy, where are your pants?” Bart asks, looking down to see Peggy standing there in mismatched socks and pink panties that say “Cutie” across the butt.

Peggy says nothing.

“Okay, honey, let’s go find your pants—again!” Bart sighs. “This is getting kinda old.”

Bart turns back toward the TVs.

He’s greeted by a lone Wal-Mart employee. Bart can see the man’s name tag on his blue vest: “Juan.” Below it, a small pin with a smiley face reads, “Zombie of the Month.”

Juan says nothing, but as Bart tries to pass, Juan screams, “Cerebro!”

Bart stops dead in his tracks. “Excuse me, el señor, but we speak English in these here United States!”

Juan attacks Bart like… well, like a freaking zombie!

Suddenly, other Wal-Mart employees appear, all shouting, “Braaaains!”

Bart quickly tosses Peggy into the cart. Using it as a battering ram, he plows through the first wave of employees like bowling pins hit by a semi—they go flying.

As Bart runs, he grabs his cell phone from his pocket. It flashes low battery. Knowing he’ll only be able to make one call, he dials his brother Wilbur.

“Wilbur!” Bart screams into the phone as he runs toward the front entrance. “Get to the Wal-Mart! We got us an illegal alien outbreak!”

The phone beeps and dies.

Bart slams his way to the front of the store, the employees giving chase. As he reaches the registers, he runs through the checkout, tosses a twenty-dollar bill down, and screams, “This should cover it!”

The large exit doors open wide. Bart runs through.

The old man screams, “Excuse me, sir, but I need to check your… Braaaains!”

Bart heads across the lot to the safety of his truck. He looks back, expecting to see thirty-plus employees on his heels. Instead, they stand just at the threshold of the automatic doors.

Bart grabs Peggy, places her in the front passenger seat, and puts the items behind her seat.

He opens the glove box and removes a Colt 1911 pistol, given to him by his daddy, who served in the war.

Bart pulls out the clip. “Dammit, only one round left!”

He pauses, then turns to Peggy. “Wait here. I need to go back inside. I knew I forgot something on that damn list!”

Bart turns to walk away. Peggy leans out the passenger window and screams, “Braaaains!”








Blasphemy's Wasteland
by Keaton Foster

“It’s always about choice.”

Birds of death, mechanisms of the end, swoop in. The enemies of my kind run, fighting to flee the hand of fate. They don’t stand a chance. A series of rapid thuds is the last sound they will ever hear. Aided by technology, the powerful rounds of the helicopter’s 50mm cannon find their mark.

A brutal form of death, dispensed with ease.

The same scene, the same fate, is being dealt out across the battlefield. Human beings are dying. The God of their choice is calling them home. Some are strong in their faith, knowing they cannot escape. Many go with ease, unafraid.

The God of our own self-righteous faith protects us over them—or so we have come to expect. We cheer in victory as we take lives with ease. We have become greedy for the blood of others. We will not be denied our well-deserved revenge.

Legions of men like me stand in line, waiting to kill in the name of all we have come to believe. Trained violators of God’s sacred laws, some among us would beat the enemy to death with Bibles if they could. Others would say, “God bless that man,” as they put two rounds into his chest.

True hypocrites in kind.

Our preferred tools are the man-made machines of death that serve us so well—tools that do only what we force them to do. Machines that kill without mercy, without regret. Machines that brutalize the enemy in every possible way.

I came here of my own will. I joined this mess, this quagmire of life and death. I wanted so desperately to get some—payback for all that was done. I lived by the motto: kill or be killed. I was never concerned with what it would be like to murder another human being. He was the enemy. His God was not mine. He deserved to die, and I needed to kill him.

The war has raged for years, and I have spent much of my early life serving the cause of my kind—until this day. A group of us went on patrol, searching for enemy combatants to kill, searching for death. On this day, we found it.

As we crossed the short distance between us and the enemy, something strange happened—something unexpected.

As soon as the attack helicopters flew off to refuel and rearm, we were sent in to clear any remaining enemy. Our goal was clear: kill anything that moves, anything not like us, anything that does not believe as we do.

That morning, before the mission, the company chaplain stood before our assembly and prayed for God to watch over us. He asked God to protect us, assuring Him that our cause was righteous.

Unlike many times before, I took no part in such hypocrisy. I had had enough. My once-impossible faith was misplaced. I could not ask for something I was sure I no longer needed. I said nothing to God. Others remained silent as well.

On this day, above all others, it turns out God was listening.

As we crossed a dirt-laden field, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted an insurgent hiding in a ditch. I screamed, “Take cover!” It was too late. As I did, he touched two wires to a battery connected to a massive series of IEDs lying just inches beneath our feet.

I wish I had screamed for my misplaced God to save me, but I did not. I know that regret was shared by others who neglected their faith on this dark day.

I felt nothing of death. It was instant for me and those close at hand. Dozens of us died. Even many who had prayed with the chaplain for protection were ignored.

Those who remained silent during the prayers were also taken in a flash. God failed us all, just as we failed ourselves.

I would like to say death was the end, but it was not.

Beyond the stained gates, high above a watchtower that climbs from madness to endless skies of blackness, sits a broken sun of a day long past. God is nowhere to be found. His message has betrayed those of us who once refused to listen to things mired in such importance.

He has long since claimed what was His, taking the masses whose faith was strong back to the kingdom of Zion. We are the remainder of an equation we had no part in—a mathematical illusion of numbers gone astray.

It is far too late for us. We can do nothing but lie here and wait—for what, none of us are certain. We had our chance, and now we face the cold reality of our regrets.

In blasphemy’s wasteland, there is nothing to save us from ourselves and the decisions we failed to make. The cold, hard reality of choice is that if you make none, you have made the most important one of all.

Now we must exist, no longer live, with the decisions we failed to make, because of our arrogance in thinking we were once beyond the grace of God.

Such an undeniable mistake.



Thank you for sharing your short story, "The Dig" by Red. Below is a proofread version with corrections for grammar, punctuation, spelling, and clarity, along with suggestions to enhance flow, consistency, and emotional impact. The story’s introspective, poetic tone and deeply personal exploration of pain, identity, and expression are preserved, with minimal changes to maintain its raw, confessional voice. Explanations for changes and suggestions for further refinement are provided at the end.

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The Dig
by Keaton Foster


“The truth resides between the lies we convince ourselves of.”

Deep within this broken body, bearing the scars of my young life, beats a most complicated heart. It rumbles to the sound of its own distorted rhythm, arrogantly and persistently thumping within the confines of this timeless masterpiece called human existence. I am unsure if even death will stop the true nature of its rhythm.

My endless eyes hold back a lifetime of sorrows. To all who gaze upon them, they appear as blank as the deepest space that exists far beyond the heavens above. Nothing shines in them anymore. Then again, I am afraid to say that nothing ever has. Their soft brown color hides all that I am from those who wish to know me.

My name is Red—a nickname that has stuck with me my whole life. It comes from my grandfather, Antonio Rowe. During his life, everyone who knew him for more than a few minutes called him Red.

He died several years ago. To this day, I miss him terribly. Since his passing, those who knew him well have started calling me Red. Maybe it’s because he and I were so close, or maybe I remind them of him. Either way, I am honored to carry his name.

My real name is, quite frankly, insignificant to this tale. I would even say it’s irrelevant to everything and everyone in any context.

The dig is the heart of this complicated story. It is where all my secrets lie.

**The Dig**

The dig is my place, my home away from all that troubles me. It is the only place I feel truly safe from everyone and everything that hurts me. Without the dig, I would be nothing. Without it, I would have nothing to believe in. Within the dig, I feel I am—and can be—something more than I ever thought possible.

My existence has often been mired in an endless stream of emotionless capacity. I have long been filled with too much absolute pain to feel anything. It has left me numb to all that once made me human. I have forgotten what it means to feel even the slightest bit alive.

I display who I am to all who read my rhymes. The tales of my real life are carefully woven into the stories I tell.

My words reveal the true nothingness within me.

I often try to mask it between each line. Some may attempt to solve the mystery of me, confined deep within the complex core of my being. Others will care little for my woes. Life is a cruel predicament we all share, and I suspect such truths are not widely appreciated.

Regardless of who reads what I write, all that I am is there on the pages I bleed. It is an endless display of my essence. Line by line, the message is clear to those like me. The words are clever ways for me to hide behind what they speak of.

I linger in their true meanings. Each word is carefully placed. I am never short of what to say. Words are my pain written out, the way I convey what it means to be me in this place.

Some have said it’s not fair. Many have wished they could write as I do. I am quick to reply that this perceived gift came at a terrible price—one I would not wish on anyone, least of all myself.

This gift is my ability to convey the reality of being human—not the human experience of love, joy, hope, or happiness. That would be too easy. I speak of what it means to be human in terms of pain, loss, hate, anger, abuse, and absolute nothingness.

I like to think I speak across the entire scope of what it means to feel empty—empty like the vastness that fills this void I call my emotionless existence.

I am the son of a fallen mother, the seed of a forgotten father. I have been torn down and left for dead too many times to count. Yet I have risen from the ashes of my life, despite all that has worked against me. My resurrection has come at a price. I have become a stranger within the confines of all I know and pretend to love.

The truth is, I fear love is a mystery to me. I have no clue what it means to truly love anything with certainty. I play along in this dangerous game, hoping to feel something beyond the nothingness I have always known.

Each day, I hope I am not sought out.

The dig is my way, my escape, my survival mechanism. It grants me the freedom to unchain all that waits within.

The dig is my sacred place of change, existing only on the pages I write. No one can take that from me; only death will silence my pen.

I have no choice but to obey what stands before me, calling me to leave my mark in this world beyond the death I am sure to face.

The dig is my place, my life, my escape.

My only way.

I am certain I shall feel as I do and write as I must to survive. The dig will remain my escape.

Long after I am gone, the words before you will endure, reminding those who read them of what it truly means to be human from my unique perspective.

The dig awaits…





Skies of Change
by Keaton Foster

Thomas James stands at the foot of his childhood bed in an empty prison he once called home. Impressions of pictures, once hung with care, and his bed are all that remain. Those in the pictures—his sisters, brothers, father, and mother—are gone, trapped within their frozen stares. They have left to find their own way in an unforgiving world. He is alone in the truest sense.

By the open door to his bedroom sits a suitcase filled with all that remains of his childhood. Everything that did not belong to him has been taken away. The house is empty of furniture and the past Thomas will never forget. Framed windows let sunlight in; there are no longer curtains to keep the darkness inside.

Thomas whispers a solemn goodbye to his youth. He grabs his suitcase and heads outside. He struggles to look back at all he has lost as he walks down the driveway. At the corner, he stops, tempted by the darkness of his youth to turn and face his past—it’s all he has ever known. Thomas is afraid; his heart races over what to do.

He screams at the sky, “Fear is the heart of love!”—a phrase his mother used to say, burned into the deepest part of his soul. He loved her most of all, and for a brief time, she was his everything. Of all who left him, he misses her most. Thomas turns the corner and walks away.

A lifetime later, he finds his way. He survives, moves on, and experiences happiness in small doses. He grows older, has children, and achieves more than the nothing he was told he would. He never hears from his siblings or parents again.

They are strangers to Thomas.

Years later, the darkness returns full circle. His mother, a woman he once adored despite all she had done, dies. A concerned stranger sends a note, a man unwilling to let her passing go unnoticed, certain he is doing what is right.

As Thomas reads the note, the darkness of those days floods back, filling his heart, finding its place. His precious heart aches as the darkness grips it tightly. He struggles to breathe, fighting to comprehend what is happening.

His once-blue sky turns gray. In a flash, he is returned to a world of dismay. A childhood ripped away, replaced by a prison of pain, comes crashing back. Thomas falls to his knees and cries as he hasn’t in years.

He is burdened by immense shame. For him, there will never be another beautiful day in the world he must now face without her—the mother of a life cast away. All chance of making things right with her has been stolen by death and darkness.

With the crumpled note at his feet and tears pouring from the depths of his being, Thomas speaks to the nothingness he always knew would come. Raising his arms to an unknown, he hopes his mother will hear him in her new prison, devoid of bars.

“Mother, I miss you in so many ways. Nothing will change now that your life has ended. I could never deal with the idea of never seeing you again, and now I won’t. I did nothing to deserve this fate you dealt us.

I always wished things could be different, but life has taught me that’s impossible. The same darkness is all I will ever know, all I will see. I know now that darkness is my only truth.

You are forever gone to me—a faraway dream and a terrifying scream in a wilderness of never-ending need. I have long wished for nothing compared to this hellish something I’ve been shackled to by you. Now that it’s here, it does nothing to replace my need for your love as your child.

You were, and always will be, oblivious to such things. You are far from me and my need to be loved by you. When you were alive, you showed no concern for me. I am sure death has changed nothing. To you, I was a passing thought, a nightmare of a being you wanted nothing to do with.

How you lived that way, I dare not understand, because I fear—and still do—that I could become just like you. I swore never to embrace that reality, yet it grips me tightly.

My world, the one you shaped, is unlike the one others live in. It’s a brutal view, set askew, showing me the darkest parts of human need—yours and mine.

When I was your son, you chose your need over me. Your sickness became your god, your absolute master. You were condemned, and now, so am I.

I did nothing wrong except be born, as you once so eloquently put it. You have no idea how that one statement, spoken in haste, has broken me forever. Being born should never be wrong, even for an unwanted child.

I miss you, Mother. That is all I can and have ever done. My once-blue sky has turned gray again. I am returned to a world of dismay. My childhood was ripped away, replaced by a prison of pain from which I now know there is no escape.

My fate was dealt by you long ago and today. You changed my world from the light of my life to a darkness I fear cannot be escaped in any way.

The skies of change have come, brought by you and the death of any chance we had…”



Deathblow
by Keaton Foster

“The theatrics of death have become a routine annoyance.”

Flesh and bone are all I have ever known in my world of terror and pain. I am a man of the darkest designs. I live, I breathe, I devour all who come near. I am death, as pure as that. I am death—it is a horrible fact. I kill because I want to, not because I have to. I kill because I am weak to the powers that control me. I kill not only for the thrill.

I kill because it’s my free will.

My name is an illusion, set to a broken language that need not be spoken. My name is a pointless attempt to identify all that I am and all that I am comfortable with. All that needs to be said is that I am death. I have been killing for quite some time. Only death itself will stop me.

I used to be normal—if there is such a thing. I had a job, a wife, a family. I surrounded them with a white picket fence. I gave them the security they desperately needed. I gave them everything, and then, thirty victims ago, I killed them both. I took back everything I gave them—and more.

The reasons why are unclear even to me.

I have no regrets, except one: I have so many others to kill and so little time to do it. I have an illness that, each day, takes the smallest increment of my life. Sooner or later, those increments will add up to the sum of my everything. Sooner or later, I will stand at the gates of Heaven, kicking and screaming, demanding entry.

He will refuse.

Until then, I will send God back His precious children, one victim at a time. Maybe then He will take me as I am. Then again, He is God—such a self-righteous son of a bitch.

Back to the business at hand. Tonight, I will kill my thirty-second victim. I will take her life. I will add her name to the trophy wall in my brain. I will leave her at the house of kings, on the very stoop where I myself shall stand. I will leave no note or sign that she was hand-delivered by me. God will know.

“Prepare to die, victim number thirty-two.”

I am his victim, and I have done nothing to deserve my end. Family and love are all I have ever known in my world of hope. I am a woman of the most optimistic scope. I live, I breathe, I strive to achieve my Savior’s good grace.

I am life, as pure as that. I am alive—what a glorious fact. I live because I aspire to serve my heavenly Father. I am strong because of the faith that soars within me. I live for the chance to impress my God. I live because my God has not yet sent for me. What is about to transpire is not Godly by design.

Fate has no role in what is about to happen to me.

My name is Elizabeth Hanson, and I am to be his next victim. I have a husband who adores me and two amazing little girls who will be devastated without me. I am a teacher by profession; my students will be lost without me. I never thought my life would end at forty-three.

I wish I had done more.

I have begged, I have pleaded, I have cried. All have yielded nothing but a crooked smile from the likes of him.

I am a deeply religious person, certain I am bound for the kingdom of Heaven. My slate is clean, free of sin. I am right with the Lord, ready for what it takes to have faith in something I will soon experience for myself. If I must die, I am ready—if there is such a thing.

I was driving home from work a few days ago. My car broke down. This man, who I thought was kind, offered to help. He gave me a ride, promising to take me somewhere safe. He promised I would be fine. He promised more than most. Now he has promised something else, and I am certain he means to keep this promise.

“I am prepared to die as your thirty-second victim.”

The strange man before me is death. I am life. He is hell; I am Heaven. He is doomed by all reason; I am immortal by right. I fear not what comes next.

Only he fears the uncertainty of his predicament.

He is readying his weapon of death, and I am whispering my prayers.

He screams, “I am eager to kill you!”

“Strange sir, I am not so eager to die. Could you find the grace to let me go?”

He snaps back, “No one—absolutely no one—will escape my grasp. I will hurt you in ways that go far beyond your blind, oblivious faith. You will cry and plead, but it will be pointless!”

“I will bash you repeatedly with this heavy club, and you will bleed profusely. I will relish my mastery of death. You will marvel at the heavenly Father’s doorstep. I will dispose of this vessel once called you in utter disgrace.”

“I fear not what you intend to do with this carcass. I am sure that, in time, those looking for me will find me and lay me in my final resting place.”

“Ready yourself; here comes the deathblow. It will be most final!”

“All I have left to say is that I am ready. I have made my peace. God will be waiting with a loving embrace.”

“I will hand-deliver you to Him. I have no words left to speak. My actions will say all that needs to be said.”

The deathblow comes quickly for victim number thirty-two.

“Victim number thirty-three, you’re next!”

The end…







Perfect Life
by Keaton Foster

“I will set you free, regardless of need.”

Breathe your calming breath, my love, my desire. In you exists all that I dare sire. Strangers we are, lovers in passing. The heir to my kingdom of nothing grows within the safety of your bosom. At first, you called it a mistake. I quickly assured you that life alone could never be a mistake.

For a brief time, we tried. Then, like all others, you surmised that I am a man of too many complexities. A relationship would be impossible. The dream of such a thing existed for a fleeting moment within me. The reality, from the start, rested with you.

You agreed to carry on, provided I would not be yours. You expressed fears about my ways. I agreed. You gave me an ultimatum, a condition of life: a chance to allow something, in exchange for promising a certain nothing. I eagerly accepted. You assured me I could not be part of our child’s life. I did nothing to deny you that right.

I agreed to turn and walk away—an act simple for a man like me to portray. For a moment, I cried inside, knowing I will never know our yet-to-be-born child. It is a price I must pay, the world’s cruel way. The totality of all need, a burden I alone will carry.

Before I go, before I walk away forever, I ask only one thing: a solemn moment to express this terrible mess to my yet-to-be-born blessing in disguise.

Here I am, kneeling before her grace. I lend an ear to the sound of creation. My words of wisdom will soon fade, but their intent is all that matters to me. I must speak, so that in the end, I too can find a measure of peace.

To them both, as one, I speak. My words scream of truth.

Rise and fall, live your life without regard for the wreckage you leave behind. Life and death for us all depend on what comes next. Do what you must, for yourself and our child. I will do the same. I know the need for such things. I have been forced to see, compelled to believe.

God has granted me a special gift—a gift that came at a hellish price. Within my secrets, I lament. Some pain I dare not express. The darkest of my truths I must keep close to protect you, my unborn child.

Someday, many star-filled skies from now, my words will find you. Curiosity about who I am will compel you. The complexities of your mind will drive your desire to know more. You will wonder why you are like no other. I will leave you the answers you seek, hidden within the lines I have yet to bleed.

I am me, and you will not be the same as me. Just enough of your mother will save you from a fate as dire as mine.

I know little of her, but I am certain she is nothing like me. Deep inside, she is a good person, searching to do what she must to ensure you a chance at a perfect life.

Live your life; never look back. Never forget who you are, even if who you are is yet to be defined. All things must bleed, all things must be believed, so that truth can be assigned.

No greater distance will ever be known. The space between us must grow. Yet, a finite amount of time will always remain, though how much will not be expressed.

Live as you must; I have always done the same. I am proud of you, stranger called child. Grow strong, fight any urge to give up. Make this world your own.

The end will find us both. In death, we will share the same silence God intended all along.

In some ways, we will be different. In vastly complex ways I dare not explain, we will be the same.

I am a poet, a writer of words, a lover of what it means to be a flawed human being. It is part of my survival mechanism, the purpose of a once-thought-unlivable life.

My words will be yours, my legacy for you and the world.

Do not blame your mother; I am grotesque to most. I am the creation of years of abuse, bearing many crosses, much pain to reveal. I do what I must, compelled in ways that may seem absurd to you and others.

You will seem perfect to most, but I know no one is perfect—not even in the slightest.

Do not miss me. In this life, I will be a stranger to you, but in the next, we will be as close as father and child should be. I promise you that, just as surely as God promised it to me.

This is the foundation of my belief, the key to my reason. Without it, I am not certain I could walk away as I now must. Goodbye, child. Goodbye, stranger. I will miss the life I dare not know.

Only in death will you and I be one. In that lies a flawless perfection we will never live to see. I will leave this place long before you—a comforting reality. Regardless of time, the end will be the same.

I must go. I must walk away. I must be brave. Grow, my child, beyond the confines of your mother’s bosom, beyond the mortal existence you have yet to experience.

Enjoy your perfect life…

Nothing else can be said; only words remain to be lent. I will express how it feels to have done such a thing.

I will bleed the truth, so that in the end, no lies remain to shield you from the likes of me.






Kneeca
by Keaton Foster**


Karbala, Iraq

All around lie dozens of broken bodies, mostly Iraqi civilians from the local Shia population. A massive VBIED has just detonated in the middle of the marketplace near the center of town—a marketplace often frequented by non-combatants who work on the nearby Marine base, Camp Victory.

A specialized unit of young Marines responds quickly. This security unit specializes in clearing areas of remaining insurgents after a VBIED or IED attack.

Among the unit is a fresh-faced Lance Corporal named Justin Howard, from Michigan. Just in from the States and Marine training, he is eager to see action—or to “get some,” as it’s often said.

He is eager for his first kill, perhaps too eager. He’s the first out of the Humvee, the first to start clearing alleys around the marketplace. A few others closely follow. Surgically, they clear each alley, moving in a wide circle away from the explosion site.

Meanwhile, waves of other military personnel from various branches descend on the site. They fight the fire and clear debris, searching for survivors. They’ve done this grim job hundreds of times, accustomed to such horrors.

In a dark alley near the explosion site, Lance Corporal Howard has somehow separated from his team. He’s alone in a world eager to swallow him whole, walking into a carefully set trap.

He moves from doorway to doorway, clearing each open area. Suddenly, a lone Iraqi dressed in white, wearing a red-and-white kaffiyeh, steps into view.

In newly learned Arabic, Lance Corporal Howard yells, “Halt!” The man stops in his tracks. Concealed at his side, he holds a compact AK-47. Howard doesn’t see the weapon. He approaches slowly, maintaining eye contact, finger on the trigger, ready.

The man begins speaking in Arabic. Howard shouts for him to be quiet and get on the ground. The man continues talking. As Howard gets within a few feet, a secondary explosion from a burning car cracks the silence.

Startled, Howard turns to look down the alley. The moment his eyes shift, the man in white acts. He raises his AK-47 and squeezes the trigger, but it clicks—the man hadn’t chambered a round after reloading. He fumbles to pull the charging handle.

Hearing the click, Howard spins back and, without hesitation, unleashes a full-auto barrage. Most rounds miss, but a few hit the man’s knees, sending him to the ground in agony.

The man screams, lying face-down. His legs, shredded at the knees, will never walk again. He will never rise.

Certain the threat is neutralized, Howard approaches, taunting the man—something he’s always imagined doing if he faced an insurgent.

“You motherfucking camel jockey, trying to take me out like a dog.”

Howard gets within inches of the wounded man and kicks away the AK-47. The man lies face-down, a pool of blood forming around his shattered legs.

Howard slings his M4 rifle over his shoulder and pulls a large knife from the sheath on his flak jacket.

“When I was a kid back home, we slaughtered pigs. We’d slice their throats to preserve the meat. I always got a rush from it. I reckon killing you the same way will be even better, you son of a bitch!”

Howard grabs the man by the shoulder, places the knife at his throat, and, with callous ease, slices from one side to the other. The man, still face-down, flops for a few seconds.

Howard watches, reveling in his first official kill. The man stops moving, stops living. Suddenly, voices echo from down the alley. Out of view but speaking clear English, one yells, “Lance Corporal Howard, you down there?”

Howard doesn’t respond; he’s not done. He wants to flip the man over and stare into his dead eyes, to burn the image into his mind. Confident there will be more kills, he wants to remember his first in Iraq.

He grabs the man’s shoulder and rolls him over with one swift pull. As he does, a loud pop snaps him from his reverie.

A shiny metal pin, followed by a small antipersonnel grenade, falls from the man’s lifeless hand. Seconds before Howard slit his throat, the man had pulled the pin and clutched the handle, ready to die—and take Howard with him.

Howard screams, “Grenade!” No one is around to hear him, to save him.

Lance Corporal Howard is killed instantly by the small, yet deadly, grenade blast.







The Waiting Room
by Keaton Foster

“The hand of fate is crooked and unjust.”

All around, white, sterile walls stare back at me. Vacant rooms line a long hallway, unfolding before me like an endless eternity of nothing. Each empty room waits patiently to be occupied. Many helpless people will come here; some will leave, others will not.

Before this night, I was someone else. Before this night, I had more to lose than the nothing I now call mine. Before this night, I had what I was certain would be mine for years to come.

My name is Michael St. John, and this is a story of sad truths—a story that must be told, just as surely as it had to be lived. I wish I could say this is fiction, but reality weighs heavily on my recounting of these events.

*Deep within the prison of ends lingers the silent king.*

The floor, with its evenly spaced tiles, shines under the soft, warm glow of fluorescent lights. Roving packs of nurses move quickly about. A few scattered doctors make their rounds. Soft beeps and buzzers echo, signaling the unfulfilled needs of patients in waiting.

Stretchers and crash carts line the glistening hallways. Crude, uneventful art adorns the walls. Every so often, the mediocre silence is broken by paramedics rushing in their yet-to-be-served patient. Everyone works as one to save the lives they are committed to treat.

I have been here before. Years ago, I sat in this very seat, waiting for my father to tell me of my mother’s certain death. I know the seriousness this place implies for all involved. This chair, with its oddly placed comfort, has drawn me in.

I count the seconds as denial builds within me. Time crawls at a snail’s pace for me, but for the sick lying here, I am certain time is a loosely defined concept.

I know what’s coming. A late-night call led me here. An accident, long waiting to happen, has occurred.

The doctor will soon tell me of the decision I must make for another. He will explain in cryptic terms that to live is to die one second at a time. In poor taste, he might use humor to slip beneath my skin, wielding his trade’s tools to offer false hope where there is none. In the end, I will decide when her final second unwinds.

When I arrived, nurses and doctors rushed about her room, shouting words of life and death. Now they move slowly, as if they have nowhere to be. Each passing second makes me more certain of what’s coming. All they must do now is tell me of my impending loss. I will be the last to know, the last to decide a fate not my own.

“How dare you!” I scream as a somber-faced doctor approaches from the end of the long hallway.

“How dare you take all I hold close!”

The doctor hears nothing, which is good because I am not speaking to him. I am speaking to God.

God does not reply. I am sure He will show me, in His own time, how to grieve the loss of everything.

Until then, I will do what I can—what is right, despite my selfish urge to do the opposite.

The somber-faced doctor says simply, “This way, please.”

An unsettling, crooked smile crosses his face.

The end of all I love is all he can offer. I follow him. He tells me how she lost too much blood, how her head was crushed, how there is no way to save her from her injuries.

I add quickly, “Or from herself.”

I listen. Each terrifying word burns into me as I struggle to breathe. Before I know it, I stand alone at the foot of her bed, staring at what she’s done, what she’s become. Once a vibrant beauty, she’s now a broken alcoholic who got behind the wheel one too many times.

I stand, seemingly lifeless, unsure what to say. I say nothing. The silence speaks volumes. As one day becomes many, all urgency blisters away.

Then, one day, the same somber-faced doctor returns. He explains, in his practiced way, that a decision must be made. There is no other way, he says.

For the first time in this ordeal, time moves at a terrifying pace. Hours become minutes, minutes become the shortest seconds of my life.

I stand alone at her bed, whispering to myself, “It’s time to set her free, whatever that may mean.”

With unsteady ease, I lean over and pull the plug.

All that remains is a steady, relentless…

beeeeeeeeep!









The Man Wearing a Most Unusual Suit
by Keaton Foster

Bobby D. McGee has just seen a man wearing a most unusual suit. Unlike anything Bobby had ever seen, it demanded investigation. He cautiously followed the man down the street to Eleanor’s Cake Emporium.

The man in the unusual suit entered; Bobby followed close behind. A bell above the door clanged as the man stepped in, then chimed as Bobby slipped through.

The man approached the counter, likely to order a cake. Bobby stood back, studying every detail of the peculiar figure.

Eleanor, of Eleanor’s Cake Emporium, emerged from behind a short door and said, “Kind sir, how may I help you on this fine day?”

The man in the unusual suit replied, “I’d like to order a cherry pie.”

Eleanor responded quickly, “Sir, this is Eleanor’s Cake Emporium. We don’t make pies.”

The man paused, eyeing the sign above the counter listing Eleanor’s cakes. At the bottom, it read: *We take special requests.*

“No pies, just cakes… then I must get a cake for this special day.”

“Yes, kind sir, we only sell cakes,” Eleanor confirmed.

“Well, then I’ll have a cherry cake with cherry frosting and a…”

Eleanor snickered and interrupted, “Let me guess, kind sir—a cherry on top?”

“Why, yes, that would be delicious. Can you make one for me?”

“Indeed. Here at Eleanor’s Cake Emporium, we can make any cake you desire.”

“One more thing, kind miss. I want the cake to look like a pie—a cherry pie, to be exact.”

“A cake that looks like a pie? Unusual, but it can be done.” Eleanor pondered the challenge.

“When can I pick it up?” asked the man in the unusual suit.

“Today’s your lucky day, kind sir. We’re slow, and since no one seems to be having a birthday, we can have it ready by noon.”

“Fabulous. I’ll return at noon for my cake made to look like a cherry pie.”

“Sir, I can’t help but notice your unusual suit. It’s lovely—the cut, tailoring, stitching, and that brilliant white color are fabulous. I’ve never seen another like it.”

“My mother made it for me. She was a seamstress. Today is the first anniversary of her death. The cake that looks like a cherry pie is for her. This is her special day.”

“It’s a lovely suit, sir, and I’m sorry for your loss.”

The man paused, then said, “Don’t be sorry, kind miss. She was a wonderful seamstress but a wretched mother.”

“Nonetheless, kind sir, she must have loved you to make such a unique suit.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied the man.

“I’ll see you at noon. Your cake, made to look like a cherry pie, will be waiting,” Eleanor said.

The man said nothing more. He walked out, saying “Good day” to Bobby as he passed.

Bobby returned a quick “Hello.”

After a moment, Bobby rushed out, determined to follow the man in the unusual suit. Scanning the street, he found no trace of him.

“Dammit, where’d he go? I need to know what he’s up to and what’s with that suit!”

Bobby paced outside Eleanor’s Cake Emporium, then realized the man had said he’d return at noon. Bobby would wait.

Time passed quickly. Moments before noon, the man in the unusual suit strolled toward the shop.

Bobby hid in plain sight as the man passed and entered. Minutes later, he emerged, carrying his cake made to look like a cherry pie.

Bobby followed closely as the man walked down the block. After twenty minutes, the man stopped before large iron gates bordering a cemetery.

He opened a gate and entered. Bobby, now closer, followed. After a few minutes, the man stopped at a grave, staring silently.

Bobby watched from behind a nearby tree.

The man whispered to his deceased mother, the seamstress who made his suit. Bobby couldn’t hear the words but saw his lips move.

Finally, the man did something strange. He tossed his cake, made to look like a cherry pie, high into the sky—ten feet at least.

With a twirl, he dropped to the ground, spreadeagled, likely atop his mother’s resting place.

The cake fell—*splat!*—ruining his white suit.

The man laughed.

Bobby, stunned, shouted from the tree, “Hey, man in the unusual suit! Why would you do that?”

Chuckling, the man replied, “I’ve always hated this damn suit. She made it the day before she died and made me promise to wear it every day for a year.”

Bobby said, “So?”

The man continued, “Do you know how hard it is to keep a pure white suit clean?”





Obsidian Darkness
by Keaton Foster

In the wilderness of ends, I wait, hiding in plain sight. No one sees me because they don’t—nor have they ever—wanted to see such a being as me. I exist because I must, condemned to this fate. I have no name, but the affliction of my ways serves as the only name I call my own.

*Obsidian Darkness.*

Down the path comes another, a being of seemingly insignificant proportions—a snack to feed my insatiable appetite. It is a lamb-like creature, walking straight to the slaughter. I stand still, motionless in my existence.

I wait, knowing nothing can stop such a creature from approaching. It will step within the snap of my cavernous jaw. Easily, I will end its pain, for in this wilderness of ends, such beings are meant to die, and I am driven to kill them.

Others could have stopped this lamb-like creature. Others could have saved it long before this place. But they did not, for they know the darkest needs must be met. Sacrificing one for another is their way—salvation at any price, so long as they do not pay.

Suddenly, the lamb-like creature stops. It speaks, its words flowing into the depths of the darkness. I take them in, for I have always known this moment would come. In a giant voice, screaming into the void, the creature confesses its truth.

“Numb and cold, right to the bone. Peering deep into the core of my being is a relentless chore. Hate-filled expressions have been jammed into my eye sockets, forcing me to see what we as a species can be, teaching me truths unknown.”

The creature continues.

“Monsters, I scream, but no one hears. They turn deaf ears and flee into the madness they once knew. They no longer know me. I wish I could say I care, but I cannot, for I am incapable of such a thing as caring for those who wish me this end. I am an emotionless chasm, spiraling toward solitude. I may be alive, but I have no heart in my chest. Where it should be is a screaming void—a shapeless place I’ve always called home.”

To this creature, I relate, for those words once poured from my own soul.

“Easily infected are my skin and bones. I am sick beyond all that can heal. There will be no saving me, nor this world. No one else knows the depths of this all-consuming ailment. It will someday take my life—life in the sense of breathing, thinking, knowing, expressing, not living. Living is mundane. Many do it without knowing why, facing each day without fear. For them, there are no roadblocks, no impassable divide.”

My heart quickens, for I know what the creature will say next and what it means for me.

“Nothing stands tall or hides in the depths of their eyes. They are unlike me, for I am unlike them. Screaming at the sky sometimes helps, but there is never a reply—same as always, same as forever. Only the blackness of night stands tall, true, and madness-enthralled.”

In unison, we cry, “Obsidian Darkness!”

The creature adds to its plight.

“This cannot be refused. It is my way, the heartbeat of my pain. In my chest, it grows outward, flowing without an end in sight. Strangers called friends have somehow become infected.”

The creature lowers its head.

To this creature, I relate. I have heard these words before, spoken from my soul. I step from the darkness into the presence of absolution. My time has come. I knew this day would find me, knew I would be set free as another beast claims this kingdom.

Revealing myself, I speak, “My replacement has come. This lamb-like creature is no lamb but a beast, dressed in the skin of a lone wolf of unimaginable depths. Obsidian Darkness, to you I relate.”

“Step back, creature—you are not safe. I have been forced to these darkened woods, this wilderness of ends, by my ways. I am no lamb, no victim. Step closer, and I will take your life,” says the creature, now a beast.

“Fear nothing for me, beast. I am like you; we are one and the same. I have no name, but in this place, I was once called Obsidian Darkness. Now that you, a greater darkness, have arrived, I will no longer be such a beast.”

“This realm you keep will now be mine?” the creature asks eagerly.

“Yes, this kingdom of nothing—its boundaries, feats, and titles—belongs to you now. The Obsidian Darkness before me warned of your arrival. He said a being of greater need would come and take my place, becoming the new darkness in this wilderness of ends.”

“What must I do to claim your throne of nothing? You cannot give it up so easily because of some tale,” the creature challenges.

“Obsidian Darkness you shall be, but first, you must take my life. You must set me free and condemn yourself to the nothing of this place and our ways.”

The creature, a beast in a lone wolf’s skin, does not hesitate. Its long-unfilled need for purpose drives it. It leaps for my throat. I do not resist. In its rage, it delivers me to my fate.

A new Obsidian Darkness now reigns.






The Ghost and the Dream
by Keaton Foster

“Some things are as real as you make them.”

Present

David lies in the warmth of his soft bed. The predictability of each worn spring lends comfort to his fears. Wrapped suffocatingly tight in his favorite blanket, he does all he can to avoid the cold reality strewn about. The wreckage of his life piles high in the corners of his room, leaving few places to escape the daily pull of his torment.

David’s life is a cataclysmic amalgamation of dysfunction and brutal abuse. Lately, his father’s beatings have become relentless, striking daily for the slightest infractions. David’s drunken mother does little to intervene, often passed out long before the violence begins.

David’s brother and sister suffer as he does. Most days, they remain locked in their rooms, too terrified to cross the threshold. To say David’s home life is broken would be a gross understatement.

David, a twelve-year-old boy, seems far older, as if he were twenty-five. Small, barely over four feet tall, he has dark blue eyes, heavy with endless sorrow. His short black hair and pale, freckled skin are often hidden under long sleeves in summer to conceal his bruises. His only refuge from the day’s onslaught is the late hours of night, when sleep brings peace to his world.

David covers his head and closes his eyes, praying for eternal sleep. “I wish not to face this place’s uncertainty ever again,” he whispers in a trembling voice. “I wish not to wake from the comfort eternal sleep offers. I wish never to see what lies beyond sleep’s embrace. Last night, in this same place, on the verge of sleep, I had a dream—a dream of a ghost. I screamed in horror, but no one heard me. I was not awake.”

The Night Before

David was in a deep sleep, locked in a realm of darkness. A ghostly figure appeared before him, glowing softly white. It floated as if carried by a light summer breeze, creeping ever closer. David was awestruck by the image in his mind’s eye.

As the ghost drew near, its soft glow turned blood-red, morphing into a monster with furious eyes and pointed fangs. It snapped and barked at David. He screamed silently, trying to escape. The beast chased him through the weakening realm of his mind, screeching his name in hatred, attempting to devour him whole. A blood-red trail marked the ground, tracing the distance within David’s terrifying imagination. As the monster closed in, inches away, David broke from his lucid dream.

Awake, he found temporary escape. Lying in bed, he wondered about all he had seen, unaware that the nightmare he thought he’d escaped waited nearby.

**Present**

It is early morning, long before the sun breaks the grip of night. David lies alone in his room’s darkness, fearing to fall back asleep, dreading the ghost’s return. As morning nears, he steps from his bed and moves about. Crossing the floor, he slips on a blood-red trail leading to the horror beyond his room. He stands frozen for several intense moments, resisting the terrifying dream now made real.

Scanning his room, David searches for anything to explain this. In the corner near his door lies a small, blood-soaked axe. Nearby are large bloodstains. A single set of footprints leads back to his bed. Hanging on the back of his door is a large, once-white sheet, stained the deepest red. His heart thumps wildly, his breathing erratic. His mind races with questions about what he has done. He knows he must find out.

Cautiously, he crosses the threshold into the reality beyond. A few steps in, he sees what has been done to his family. Before him lie the bodies of all he ever loved—his mother, father, brother, and sister—beaten, chopped, and broken into a blood-drenched mush. Their flesh bears scars as if from the ghostly monster’s fangs.

David screams in silence, unheard. He runs back to the comfort of his bed, to the safety of his blanket’s warm embrace. Curling up in fear, he hides from the pain beyond. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to accept what he has done. He longs to return to sleep, never to wake. He lies there, alone, for the rest of the day, wondering about his actions.

“The dark dream and the ghost that turned to beast were not real. The reality is that the beast was me.”

The End





Obsidian
by Keaton Foster

“Beyond the darkness is light.”

Morrow

Morrow fades, and I am certain I shall never see another. The sun’s sweetest kiss will never again set me free. An endless blue horizon of dreams ceases forever. This is my end. It has come.

A creature of unimaginable depths draws near. No resistance can defy the darkness he commands. He is man’s true master of fate. All who live must bow to his madness, must yield their lives to him.

I am no different.

He is the black wolf of death, finding me hiding among the shadows of my former self. His howl rips the air, his scream for my life beckons me closer. His teeth and fangs, stained with the blood of those before me, gleam. His empty stare presses upon my chest. Fear consumes me. I struggle to breathe. Resistance is futile; his power is too great. I must face him—I have no choice. He does what he must, as do I, a beast in kind.

Death will come swiftly, without joy. I am mere flesh and bone. He cares not for my voice; my words are empty. My blood is all he craves—the essence of my life, his to claim. Each drop will pour across his maw until I am drained of all vitality.

He finds me in this blackened cover, screaming my name. I must obey. I have little choice; he has even less.

Change

All around lie the broken, shattered bodies of my brothers-in-arms. Moments ago, the Humvee we rode in struck an IED. The blast killed everyone inside except me. Six young men, full of life, are now reduced to piles of flesh and blood.

Thrown from the Humvee, I survive, but my right leg is torn off above the knee. Blood flows unabated. Shock numbs the pain, leaving me cold. Unless I can stop the bleeding, death is minutes away.

Death has come, and as much as I wish to refuse it, I cannot. No one can save me from what has been done. My only hope is to make peace with God, to beg His acceptance despite my sins.

I remove my belt and tie it crudely around my thigh, just above the wound. With all my strength, I tighten it. Shock fades, and pain slams my chest like a sledgehammer swung by a thousand angry men. My heart feels ready to burst.

I sit in a pool of life turning to a stream of nothing.

I must speak, must beg forgiveness for my deeds. With an open heart and dire desperation, I begin.

“Dear God in Heaven, hear my sincere cry. I am sorry for all I have done or failed to do. I killed many in the name of war, of self-preservation, without regard. Then, I felt nothing; now, I feel everything. Guilt and pain flood me. I hate myself for believing my actions here were right. I see now that right and wrong are Yours to decide, not man’s. Your words speak of it, but we refuse to hear. Our arrogance led to this war of attrition, destroying each other and ourselves. Man has broken every promise, every truth laid bare.

“I am no different. I came here of my own will, driven by a lust for power over life, to maim and murder those who oppose what others deem right. Now I know You decide what is just. I am sorry for my ways, for the lives I’ve taken. In shame, I beg Your forgiveness.”

To the God of my choosing, I entrust my faith, my fate.

**Redemption**

The sun bleeds in the distant sky, a new day unwinding. A new world unfolds before my eyes, a shape that cannot be denied. Men in white stand in plain sight. Beside them, men once facing certain death now rest, having faced death and lived again.

I am one of them. God has heard me, listened intently. He blessed me with another chance to right my wrongs. My leg no longer aches, for it is gone. A bandaged stump hides beneath the covers.

I may not be whole, but I am certain I am now a complete man.

I know what I must do.

I will be sent home, far from this place, far from the temptation to kill under man’s flawed sense of right. I will never again believe in such things, only in what God has shown me.

He has given me a chance to make things right. I may not change the world, but I can change my life and, in doing so, shift the smallest piece of everything else.








The Kingdom of Dirt
by Keaton Foster

“The only God is the one of our creation.”

Come close—so close I can reach out and touch you, consume you. I will take your everything, leaving you exposed to a madness often unseen. When you think you’re ready, I will forcefully show you all I must.

These may seem mere words, but behind them lies great meaning—a truth I intend to reveal. Dare not look away; embrace all I say. Fear only the change implied.

A looming darkness waits, a sweltering madness festers. By the time I’m done, you’ll wish to escape this prison we call existence.

“Are you ready?”

A simple, rhetorical question, as if you could ever be ready.

Open your mind, and I will step inside, bringing one terrifying truth, one absolute that will never leave—a terror to behold, a madness that will encompass all you are and all you wish to become. A hopeless void, unfillable no matter how you try.

I am unlike you, but soon we’ll walk parallel paths with no turning back. They’ll never intersect, yet our end will be the same.

Peer deep, read each line carefully. Look into the folds of its meaning. Commit to it, remember it, repeat it aloud. Once you do, it will be woven into you. You’ll see, as I do, that life—the one you live, breathe, and believe—is a lie set to reality, confined by our mortality. A living anomaly, a blatant analogy set in motion by a being of supreme misunderstanding.

An Unredeemable Existence

I am lost to the wilderness, far beyond my flesh-covered prison of good intentions. To the kingdom of dirt, I have long transcended. Death is everything in this world of foolish things, the only promise within the nothing offered.

One day, the last of my mortal life, I stood upon a ledge of my choosing, wondering, contemplating. Hours felt like days as the world spun by, unnoticed. No one saw me in my most vulnerable moment, as they never had before.

I waited, crying a tear for myself and a river for others. I screamed of my fate, certain it would not be denied. No echoes returned, no visions of a better day came to save me.

In one final act of desperation, I raised my hands to the God of my creation and spoke few words: “God in Heaven, forgive me for all I’ve done, all I’ve failed to do. Save me from this ledge. Grant me strength and courage to step down.”

I waited, hoping beyond all times I’d turned to God that He was listening. I stood there, beyond exhaustion, wanting to believe He would save me from my humanity.

It wasn’t simple to step down, nor easy to walk away. Too much had been done, too much pain caused. My affliction ran deep. I’d become toxic to myself and those who needed me. Many loved me, but it was never enough. They tried to accept me; I tried to hate myself—a sickness born of my early life, spiraling into strife.

I waited as long as I could, alone on that ledge, saying nothing more, praying no further. I asked nothing God hadn’t already decided. The world spun by.

Finally, I could wait no longer. Hope that God would save me fell away. In that lone, terrifying moment, the truth I speak found me.

I screamed, “The kingdom of dirt awaits!”

God, of course, agreed in absolute silence.

I was a fool to think He would intervene, to save me from myself and the life He gave me. Like a million bricks, the reality hit: God has never forgiven us for the original sin, a sin carving a path through mankind’s history. He has long been done with us.

Trust me if you dare, or take your own risk. Put faith in something—you may be disappointed, but only by deciding for yourself will you understand what it means to live each second as your last.

I stepped from the ledge, my last chance at salvation. I’ve been falling ever since, into the spiraling blackness of nothing. The finality weighs upon my chest.

Death is only the end of our living being. Beyond that carcass lies something else—something you’ll wish never to see or feel. An endless, unfillable void, a vacant home where no one finds peace. Nothing in the truest sense.

I assure you, there was no other way. The kingdom of dirt is all we face.





Dirt Shoveled Over Shoulder
by Keaton Foster

“This is not what I intended.”

The final bell has rung; the caretaker has come. My life is forever undone. Alone, I wait in this box, locked away for eternity. I am solely to blame. On me rests the heaviest shame.

My stone reads, as spoken by my father: *Here lie the bones of a child broken beyond all that made him human. May he find peace under these tall trees that will live long after his day.*

My name is Eric, and I alone am responsible for my death. God did not claim me; the devil did not seek his dues. I am here by my own accord. Had I known what death truly means, I would have stopped what I felt was my only choice.

Three days ago, I sat alone in the basement of my childhood home, all day and night, contemplating the death I now desperately regret. My parents had left for a few days, on what they called a mini-vacation from me and my drama. My brother went to a friend’s cabin by the lake.

I was truly, completely alone. Motionless on the cold concrete floor, I stared at the rafters crisscrossing below the floors above. I counted each beam a dozen times, delaying what I was certain I must do.

In my skewed mind, I knew one supposed truth: I had to make them hear my voice, to see I was more than the nothing I’d convinced them I was through my terrible actions. I was a thief, a liar, a drug addict—a monster of a child on the cusp of becoming a true beast. I had few redeeming qualities for a seventeen-year-old boy.

Weeks earlier, my father warned that I’d soon be eighteen and could no longer stay. He’d had enough of my chaos. My mother agreed, weary of my cries for attention.

As I sat, pondering how I’d fallen so far in such a short life, the powerful effects of the pills I’d taken minutes before found me. They were my father’s, left from his knee surgery last year. He hid them well, but I knew his hiding places.

The bottle said take one daily for pain; I took sixty for a pain far beyond. The world faded. Shadows and tricks of light spun through my mind. The tiresome angst I’d carried lifted.

In my final moments, I heard the walls creak, the world spin. My heart pounded in my chest, my body begging for one more moment. Then, all went black, as if a heavy wall of nothing fell upon me from the greatest heights.

Now I am here, confined by death.

Those once obligated to love me have turned and walked away. In shame, I’ve left them. They will never again set foot on this sacred ground.

My time is marked. My name remains the only reminder of the existence I escaped. Long after today, if anyone seeks me, I’ll be easily missed among the legions lying nearby. The cold ground awaits; the feast of decades begins as I’m placed in this prison called my end.

The caretaker has begun, digging my perfect grave. A master of his trade, taught by death, he works in rhythmic fashion. I wait nearby, with no place to be, time meaning nothing to me.

I hear him whistle a song from a childhood long gone. It doesn’t take long to dig a hole of great depth. Others join, whistling as they work. I’ll remember each peak and valley of their song, with little else to do in the absolute nothing ahead. Time blurs for those who live; for me, it’s a haze of what was.

I hear the caretaker grunt, others follow. They place me in the deepest hole, mere inches on each side—a perfect fit, a perfect place to spend forever. At first, I hear only the final thump of my casket finding home on solid ground.

That silence is short-lived. The dark ground around me whispers.

The caretaker offers his prayer, as if aware I’m locked away, hearing every word.

“Dear God, bless this child. Hold him as close as death entails. Forgive him, for he knows not what he has done. I’ve done Your will, placing him in Your bosom. Now he lingers until You, sweet Lord, see fit to set him free.”

He whispers, “Amen.”

As always, dirt shoveled over shoulder. Each terrifying thud seals me away, encased by the earth placed with care.

The caretaker, like the others, turns and walks away, never to disturb me again.

Left to linger, I begin to whistle a most sincere song…







The Creature That Nobody Knows
by Keaton Foster

Story time at Fairfield Elementary School
Saco, Maine
April 1979
Miss Speed’s 3rd Grade Class

(One of the first stories I ever told.)

In the deep, dark woods beyond this very school lives a creature that nobody knows.

Some say it’s as big as a house, others as small as a mouse. Some claim it’s a kid who missed his bus one day and never left. Others whisper it’s a teacher, missing since the first day of school.

Truth be told, no one really knows what lurks in those deep, dark woods behind our school.

Worry not, my friends, for by the end of this tale, all will change.

One day, Tommy O’Toole, a 3rd grader, was playing with friends at recess, right after lunch. His teacher shouted, “Have fun, run, play as one! Get along, or you’ll sit out.”

All the kids replied, “Yes, ma’am!”

They dashed to the playground equipment.

As they played, the teacher stepped into the shade—it was a terribly hot day. Other teachers gathered, chatting about the day and their lessons.

While the teachers talked and students ran about, Tommy O’Toole climbed over the tallest fence—a feat that would turn his behavior card red, get his parents called, and spell trouble.

But that day, one of his friends had double-dog-dared him, and everyone knows what that means. Refusing a dare, especially from a girl he had a crush on, was unthinkable.

Unseen, he set off to find the creature among the trees, determined to see what waited. As he walked, the sun faded, though it was midday. An eerie darkness fell the farther he ventured from the playground and his friends.

A few times, he thought, “Maybe I should turn back. Maybe I should ask my teacher if creatures live in these woods. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that dare, especially from a girl.”

A thick fog formed. Trees crackled and swayed in the wind. Frogs and toads sang. Distant birds soared. Lizards leaped, butterflies fluttered, snakes slithered and rattled, hunting lunch. A stream murmured far off. A herd of unseen creatures rumbled.

The forest buzzed with life, but Tommy O’Toole ignored it, focused on finding the creature that nobody knows.

After what felt like hours, tired, he sat on a log, realizing he was lost. Unsure what to do, like most boys, he screamed, “Mommy, I need you! I’m lost among these trees. A girl double-dog-dared me. Help me back to school!”

No reply came. The silence was deafening.

Then, remembering his teacher’s words—“You can do anything you set your mind to”—he found the strength to be brave. He knew he had to fix his mistake and find his way back to 3rd grade.

Standing, he turned about-face, heading back the way he came. Oddly, it was dark as midnight. Fog hovered above the ground. The moon climbed high, with faint stars shining. It seemed midnight, though his watch read 10:45 a.m.

Tommy O’Toole feared the dark, a secret he kept. After all, he was in 3rd grade, barely nine. He pretended he stayed up late, but truth be told, he was in bed before sunset.

As he walked, he sang a song to feel safe, though he wasn’t:

*I am me, as big as a tree, and nothing can scare me.
I’m in 3rd grade at Fairfield Elementary.
Our mascot’s an eagle soaring high.
I’m only eight, but big as any fifth grader you’ll see.*

Again and again, Tommy sang, trudging back. The moon faded, the sun returned. Soon, he reached where his adventure began, but his friends were gone. No teachers remained—just an empty playground beyond the trees.

He ran as fast as he could. At the woods’ edge, a voice called, “Leaving so soon?”

Tommy turned white as a ghost. Like a little girl, he squealed, “Please don’t eat me!”

He searched the trees where the voice came from.

“Eat you? You’re just a child, and every forest creature knows 3rd graders taste like the funkiest cheese,” squeaked the tiniest mouse Tommy O’Toole never saw.

The End







Flashlight Fandango
by Keaton Foster

(A true story)

“What little happiness I have experienced is now mired in deep sadness.”

I have few fond memories of my childhood. Those who know me personally or read my writings know I went through hell in every possible way.

My three older brothers shared a similar fate. Because of that chaotic time, we’ve been unable to reconnect as siblings. Decades later, the pain of our past leaves us awkwardly devoid of any real relationship.

A sad truth I face daily: I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen or spoken to them in over twenty years. I fear there’s little I can do. It’s a well-substantiated fear.

I could reach out, but the damage of our early lives makes communication beyond our past nearly impossible. The reasons remain unclear, perhaps unresolvable.

Not all is lost, though. Of my brothers, I’m closest to my second-youngest, Russ. We speak rarely, with little in common and almost nothing to discuss, yet we try. I’m sure he’d agree. Our conversations feel forced, struggling for connection beyond pleasantries. I avoid the past; he brushes it aside, saying, “Screw them and what they did to us.” That sentiment hasn’t found a home in me.

I’m certain he harbors dark secrets I don’t know, just as I’ve never shared the terrible things that happened to me behind closed doors. I likely never will. Talking about them would only enrage us further. Shame keeps me silent.

My second-oldest brother, Steve, is a complete stranger. I’ve seen him once in twenty years, with no clue where he is or what’s become of him. He seems content to stay lost. I’ve tried to find him, but each attempt ends in a dead end. When he’s ready, he’ll find me. Until then, so be it. I miss the boy he was, not the adult stranger he’s become.

Coming from a broken, dysfunctional family like ours, I sometimes wonder if I’d recognize him in a room. I don’t think I would.

My third-oldest brother, Scott, is also a stranger. I met him once in twenty years, a shell of the child he was. I barely recognized him. We parted as quickly as we met. He left soon after arriving, never to be seen or heard from again. It was too hard for him to reconnect, and for me too.

Before he left, we had a conversation that lingers with me, a reminder that we were once just kids. He recalled how, long ago, we played a game together—chasing each other like fools in the dark, carrying flashlights in case we got lost or the distance grew too great.

We’d run through the woods behind our broken family home, guided by rustling leaves. Some nights, pale moonlight gave shape to the silent trees. The game was called Flashlight Fandango, our favorite among all we played. We turned to it when we felt most alone in our ever-evolving world of madness.

Our parents sent us outside to play while they fought the night away, arguing over their life choices. Ultimately, their selfish decisions broke our family bond. We children suffered at the hands of vindictive parents. After the summer of 1982, I saw little of my brothers.

They were taken to live with our father, a man I now call a stranger. He owned a small lumber company, and my older brothers were free labor. I was deemed too young, told to stay behind and care for my mother. She reminded me daily that I was like the man she despised.

Reconciliation never came. I miss those days in the woods behind our once-family home. I miss my brothers. When night falls, I think of them.

Sometimes, feeling most alone, I go outside and run in the darkness of this life I’ve faced without them. I carry a flashlight, hoping to see them under the pale moonlight.

When I feel most alone, I yell “Flashlight Fandango” into the dark.

No reply comes back.

I don’t suspect it ever will.

For Russ, Scott, and Steve: I miss you all deeply.





Necropolis
By Keaton Foster

"Death lingers between the next breath you take."

Forever, I am finally home. I am lost here in this place among cold, pale stones that stand as reminders of who we once were. In this place, in this form, I am as I was in life: completely unknown, blatantly lost among these monuments to lives long gone.

My fellow indentured servants lie around me in an endless sea of bones. I pray to the nothingness of this place as it surrounds us. Its bleeding silence comforts me compared to the noise of the life I left behind. I am just one, among far too many to count. I am as insignificant as the rest.

My stone is nondescript, identical to the others in my row. My name is there for no one to see. My birth goes unnoticed, as it did among the living. The date of my death marks my sad, premature end—just a date, meaningless to everyone, most of all me.

Etched in the stone that will forever mark my bones, words claim I am home with my one true God—not a God of my choosing, an unwise decision on my part. It’s a lie written for all time. Some would call it a parting phrase, common among the dead in some form or another. The truth is open to too many interpretations. To me, it means nothing.

I am eight feet down, sealed in a pine box—a blissful comfort compared to what goes on above. I am most alone, residing in peace. In this necropolis, I have found my home, as so many others have.

Necropolis

My name was John Lowell. I speak in the past tense because I am most certainly dead. How I ended up here, frozen for all time to come and go without me, is the true mystery of this tale. I am unsure of time in this present state. Day never comes here; only darkness resides.

I am unaware of how long I have been laid to rest. Frozen in my mind, my body remained motionless as I pleaded for mercy while they lowered me into this hole. No mercy was shown—none is to be had in this place, in this final form.

One sunny day, as I walked through the world of the living, the end came and snatched me from those who wished me to remain. I remember it well: I was gazing at an endless sky, thinking, *What an amazing day.* Soft white clouds filled the sky. Nature sang with joy all around. Nearby, children played in an open field full of dreams.

I had just finished lunch with my estranged friend Anne. We spoke of her long-lost parents and the rift that had kept us apart for years, its cause forgotten by us both. She talked of her children and her husband, Steven, describing her life as amazing. She asked about mine, but I had little to say, so I listened.

After our meal, we parted ways, promising things would change, that we would meet again soon. That *soon* would never come for me.

As I walked, the beauty of existence was shattered by the reality of life. Passing a park where children played, I was jolted from my peaceful daze by screeching tires. A driver, swerving to avoid a car that had run a red light, lost control. The impact was brief, minor compared to most, but enough to send the car hopping the curb before me. It spun, as if guided by fate itself.

I froze, rooted like a post, waiting for the end to cut me down. As the car rolled toward me, I saw fear in the driver’s eyes, mirrored by those around—except my own.

The car struck me, crushing me to the ground. Instantly, the world went black. The noise lingered for a split second—people screaming, yelling in horror. Then, more terrifyingly, the world fell silent.

The last thing I saw was the clear blue sky. Lying on the ground, as if granted a brief gift from God, I came to just long enough to see it one last time. Then the world returned to blackness, where it has remained.

Now, here I lie, cold and alone in the ground. My soul remains trapped within me, bound by the decisions I made. God has chosen not to set me free—an irony defined.

I may be dead, but little else has changed. I had no chance to make my peace or ask God to forgive what I know I cannot change. Fate has dealt me the cruelest hand.

Here I will remain, among others who hesitated, who assumed they had time to place their faith in something they could explain.

I assure you, there is nothing to explain. I learned too late that this is the point of all faith: undeniable, unquestionable belief.

Please don’t make the same mistake, for if you do, the necropolis awaits...







The Theory of Self
By Keaton Foster

"Knowing who you truly are is your only salvation."

Who am I?

It is a complicated question for which the answer still eludes me. I am a simple man in terrifyingly complex ways. I have seen and felt much in my brief life—certainly more than most. Much of what I have experienced has left me deeply skewed in my perceptions.

The reality of my past and present enslaves me, defining each day before it begins. I have no power to change what I see or how I perceive reality, as it all stems from a past that has long held sway.

I often whisper to myself, *It’s not fair*, as I gaze at the reflection before me. I have always wished for what I’ve lost to be restored. But the truth is, it is gone, never to return, no matter what I wish.

Defining one’s true self is far too complex. I am educated in the ways of hurt, suffering, and loss. I hold many credits and accolades in the truth of such things. I have a theory, but I lack the knowledge to confirm my hypothesis, for even I fall short in understanding my true self.

Each day, I wake like six billion others. I step from my bed one foot at a time, as it’s all I can do. I kiss my loving wife and hold my precious child, expressing my love in optimistic ways, for that is what they need most.

I whisper to myself, *Today is going to be okay. It has to be, because yesterday was so bad.*

I face each day with foolish confidence in what it will bring. I am naive, even after all that has transpired in my life. I am a fool lost in a false paradise, for the reality of me lurks in the shadows and tricks of light that cast darkness upon me whenever I glimpse the slightest bit of light.

My ideals plague me, affecting me deeply. I am human, and hope is my crux. It keeps me going when I lose the strength to proceed—a trait that not even the darkness within me has fully extinguished. It is my saving grace. I thank God for its existence, for it is one of the few things I can rely on.

My mind races in waves as an unseen clock ticks down the day. All that unfolds around me does so in climactic ways. I see things most have no clue exist. Light dances before my eyes as the daytime fades. Often, as noon approaches in my realm, all I see is total night. I spend the rest of the day finding ways to turn from the blackness of my life.

I am a student of chemistry, and the drugs I take have taught me much. I am a professor of confession to all who read between the lines I write. I live to convey what I know, hoping that somewhere, someone like me might find comfort and hope in my words.

I have no shame, for I am shameless in my ways. I have no fear of what I say, having learned long ago the reality of this place. I speak the truth—it is all I can do, all I know.

Reality is my path. I write to convey what it truly means to be human to those who live in a storybook paradise. I am not jealous of anyone’s ability to ignore the reality creeping in the darkness of this world. Why would I be? In the end, I would still be me. I only aim to ensure others have every chance to keep their perceived reality separate from the realm I inhabit.

I am not bitter or filled with hate, for those feelings served me poorly as a young man. There is no point in that path, for in the end, I will always be me—my certain reality.

The true path lies in the theory of self I convey. I must learn who I am through the medium of words—my weapon against all that harms me. They pierce the darkness of day.

Little by little, they tear down the walls that have long stood in my way. They cross all realms of reality and time, universal in their design. They leave lasting marks on the minds of those who read the meanings hidden within the complexity of the feelings I convey across these pages.

They will forever be part of me, for words are eternal. Long after I am gone, my child will have them to hold, to know me as I truly am. They will be my reality, written for all to read. Words are my legacy, for their power will endure.

I am no master poet or writer. I am only what I allow myself to be. I will change the world, one word, one sentence at a time. The world I change is my own and no one else’s.

If someone finds comfort in my words, they may claim them as their own. I am not greedy; I allow all to use my world to heal. I am not selfish, for that contradicts all I am and hope to teach.

One truth, clearly defined in this theory of self, is that I must either fix or make do with who and what I am. If I can, perhaps I can teach others to do the same.

I am on my way, for the theory is solid. Once I define myself for the world to see, the reality I perceive may shift from the darkness of day to the light of my dreams.

The hypothesis is well-researched, for the life I’ve lived has set the stage for a successful completion of a life with so much potential left.

It’s up to me, just as it’s up to you to read between the lines. The reality of it all will give us the strength to set ourselves free.

This is my theory of self, for all the world to see.








A Soft Repose
By Keaton Foster

"Silent sings the virtues of humankind."

**Journal Entry**
*June 23, 2003*
*Al Anbar Province, Fallujah, Iraq*
*City Outskirts*
*Task Order: Operation Aries*
*David Michael Salzmann*

Across the broken desert that stands between me and all I have ever loved lies my fate. It stands out there, alone, a beacon calling me close.

I have come halfway across the world to bring justice to those who stand against what concerns me most. I am a warrior, a true machine of war, a deliverer of destiny from afar. I have killed, and I fear I am not done killing. I have broken the bonds of God’s word. I dare not speak of my sins in detail, for they would be vastly understated.

Here I sit, within the confines of my skin, waiting for a suspected insurgent figurehead to show his face. I have been sent here alone, tasked to take his life if the opportunity arises.

I am not in any branch of the service, yet I serve the most powerful country in the free world. As they have many times before, they have tasked me to kill. I will not fail. I will not miss. If the enemy of my kind shows his head, I will be ready to take it off.

Some call men like me assassins; others, who know of my tasking, call me a death dealer. The truth is, I am a specialist, a perfectionist at what I do. I prefer to kill from a great distance, but if need be, I will kill within inches.

The end is all I have ever concerned myself with. The means are irrelevant. I work alone because, truthfully, few dare believe as I do. Few have what it takes to deliver death in such matter-of-fact ways.

The risks I take are substantial. If caught, I would surely be tortured for my secrets. I would say nothing. I would not break the bond with those I hope to protect through all that I do.

I have a family—a wife and a sweet, innocent child. As many would say, I have it all. They are unaware of the risks I take. To them, I am just another man sent halfway across the world to institute change—a diplomat of sorts, using words to influence others. Such secrets I have kept perfectly. They know nothing of who or what I truly am, nothing of the change I have wrought with my gun. Death is not as poetic as it seems; they would not understand, and I would not expect them to.

I have always kept this journal close. Should I not make it home, I hope it finds them. I can’t help but think that someday, long after this war, my words will mean something to them and to others.

The sting of sand burns my exposed skin. The heat is stifling here. A river of relentless sweat pours from my being. A faltering sun falls from a tortured sky.

Across the broken desert, shapes shift back and forth. Reality comes and goes on the breeze. I have begun to imagine things that are not true, to see myself as more than I am. My imagination knows no end within the confines of this charade I am caught in.

Just then, a strange, calming wind begins to blow from the east, carrying a song, a message of sorts.

A soft repose takes hold. Suddenly, I begin to forget why I was sent here. For the first time in my career, my purpose seems pointless. If I kill the man I was sent to kill, another will simply take his place. If I deliver his fate, another piece of my own life will be forever lost.

*All that follows was written in that most unique, life-changing moment.*

A soft repose finds me, and I begin to ponder such things.

In this life, we strive to live. Between life and death lies all that we are and hope to become. In the next life, we will cease to exist to those we hold close. Nothing is as important as remembering this as we navigate each new day.

I write this for you, humankind, and for them. Read these words aloud, letting each cross your lips. No truer words have been or will be so silently spoken.

Stop and take it all in. If you do, you will see the true beauty of things. There is much to see if you know where to look.

Hold all that you love close and let go of all that you seemingly hate. Wake each day and thank God for the chance to find your way. Again and again, you will be blessed with each new day. Never forget to lay thanks at the altar of your faith.

If your life feels astray, stop and say, *It will always be okay because tomorrow is coming. God’s grace will save me from all it means to be human.*

You must wait for its sweet embrace. God’s grace will guide you. His light will touch your face. He will send you a message as clear as the one sent to me now. Always have faith that a new day awaits and that all things will find their place.

In a soft repose, I have found a new understanding of faith.

I will walk away from all I came here to do. All I have done has led me to this place, and for that, I must seek God’s forgiveness.

What I once thought I must do has become insignificant. Now, a fate of greater servitude has become my path.

*(End Journal Entry)*

This journal entry is as real to me now, standing here in this house of God, as it was the day I wrote it in the desert.

In a soft repose, I now exist...






The Creature That Nobody Knows
By Keaton Foster

I’ve been telling stories since I was a young boy, and this is one of the first I ever told. It has been modified some over the years but remains mostly the same. I often share it with my elementary students, and they always seem to love it.

Once upon a story time at Fairfield Elementary School in Saco, Maine, April 1979, Miss Speed’s third-grade class.

In those deep, dark woods beyond this school lives a creature nobody knows. Some say it’s as big as a house, others as small as a mouse. Some claim it’s a kid who missed his bus and never left. Others say it’s a teacher missing since the first day of school.

Truth be told, nobody knows what lurks in those woods, but worry not, my friends—by the end of this tale, that will change.

The Creature That Nobody Knows

One day, Tommy O’Toole, a third-grader at this school, was playing with friends at recess. After lunch, his teacher, Miss Speed, shouted, “Have fun, play together, and get along, or you’ll sit out the rest of recess!”

All the kids, including Tommy, replied, “Yes, ma’am!”

They dashed to the playground equipment. As they played, Miss Speed stepped into the shade—it was a hot New England day—and chatted with other teachers.

Tommy crept unnoticed to the playground’s edge, where a five-foot-high fence separated it from the woods. When no one was looking, he climbed over, risking a red behavior card and a call home. A girl he had a crush on had double-dog-dared him, and that’s hard to refuse.

Unseen, Tommy set off to find the creature. He’d heard the stories and was determined to see it, even if it meant big trouble.

As he walked, the bright sun faded, though it was midday. Darkness grew the farther he ventured. He thought, *Maybe I should turn back. Maybe I should ask Miss Speed if creatures live here. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken that dare, even from a girl I like.*

A thick fog formed. Trees crackled in the wind. Frogs and toads sang, birds soared, lizards leaped, butterflies fluttered, and snakes slithered, hunting lunch. A distant stream briefly calmed him.

The woods teemed with life, but Tommy focused only on the creature, too far to turn back. After hours, tired, he sat on a log, realizing he was lost. He cried, “Mommy, I need you! I’m lost because of a dare from a girl I like. Please help me back to school!”

No reply came. Remembering Miss Speed’s words—“You can do anything if you keep trying”—Tommy found courage. He turned and headed back.

The woods grew dark as midnight, fog settling low. The moon rose, stars faint. His watch read 10:45 a.m., yet it seemed midnight. Tommy, secretly afraid of the dark, pretended to friends he stayed up late. In truth, he was in bed before sunset to “beat the darkness.”

Singing for safety, he walked:

*I’m me, big as a tree, nothing scares me.
Third-grader at Fairfield Elementary,
Our eagle mascot soars high.
I’m only eight, but strong as any fifth-grader!

He sang repeatedly. The moon faded, the sun returned. Soon, he reached the playground’s edge, but it was empty—no friends, no teachers.

Running fast, a voice behind said, “Leaving so soon?”

Tommy paled, screaming, “Please don’t eat me!”

He searched the trees but saw nothing. The voice squeaked, “Eat you? Children like you taste like funky cheese!”

It was a tiny mouse Tommy never saw.

The End...


The Creature That Nobody Knows
Written by Keaton Foster © 2013.





Shi No Tenshi
By Keaton Foster


In the absolute blackness of his plight, a lone warrior stands resolute. A cunning man, driven to avenge the death of one closest to him, a person he believed in above all. He will not be stopped, nor will he fail.

Shifting darkness cascades from above. Ghostly trees with twisted branches offer cover from prying eyes. Creatures greater than he lurk deeper within the shadows.

The warrior, known to all as Shi No Tenshi, is feared. Creatures avoid him, ensuring their safety, for tonight a beast more terrifying prowls.

The sky, like a master’s painting, bleeds through. A vacant moon stands tall, a beacon in a darkening world. Distant stars, perhaps long extinguished, shine on, their fate unknown to those beneath their light.

In the distance, men in black, wielding silent weapons, patrol—wannabe masters of the blade, false gods of death. They stand no chance. Their master warned them: Shi No Tenshi comes for him, and any who stand in his path will fall.

United, they fight, paid in looted gold. None will live to spend it. Shi No Tenshi rides a wind of madness, his blade, Kareta Hasu—the Dead Lotus, forged from a thousand folds—poised to pierce his target’s heart. No mercy, no compassion; only vengeance drives him.

He moves toward his end and theirs. Slipping through shadows, he cuts down the first guards before they can scream. He scales the outer wall, crawling past fire-lit pits and modern-armed patrols to reach the inner compound.

Shinji Aki Takeo, a crime lord who killed Shi No Tenshi’s father, sleeps within. A man of rage, unescapable fate awaits him. Shi No Tenshi, a master of death, knows no equal.

At the inner wall, he waits, evading guards. Patiently, he dispatches them one by one, dragging their bodies into darkness. Just before dawn, he enters the main house, once a guest, now a predator.

Standing over Shinji, he whispers, “Wake and fight me.” Shinji rises, donning armor and unsheathing his own storied sword. “I knew you’d come,” he says, ready for battle.

Their swords clash, a symphony of death. Guards approach, but time is short. Wounded, both warriors fight on. With a final surge, Shi No Tenshi drives Kareta Hasu into Shinji’s heart. “My father is avenged,” he declares as Shinji dies.

Shi No Tenshi, mortally wounded, lies down, blood pooling. Guards find him beside Shinji, their vengeful faces looming. Raising their weapons, they prepare to end him.

“I am Shi No Tenshi, warrior of death,” he proclaims. “I’ve lived by the sword and die by it, unafraid, for I’ve had my vengeance.”

The guards deliver their blades, and Shi No Tenshi falls silent.



Shi No Tenshi
Written by Keaton Foster © 2013.
Shi No Tenshi means “Angel of Death” in Japanese.



An Unrelenting Grudge
by
Keaton Foster

"There are always those of us who are one bad day from exploding."

He is an angry man with a hate-filled plan.
He will not be stopped.
His unrelenting grudge against his fellow kind is about to come full circle—on this most terrifying of days.

In his mind, he was driven to this.
This act has become his purpose in a world devoid of one.

While loading his duffel bag with an assortment of weapons, the killer—relentless in both mind and mission—recites each detail of what he’s about to do.
There is no one around to hear his madness.
No one to stop him, because this day has been in the making his entire life.
He has thought of everything.
Each second of his killing spree has been accounted for.
Each second he races toward his own end—as well as the end of so many others.

After loading up his bag in the back of his SUV, he heads for the interstate.
An overpass spanning eight lanes of highway will offer the best vantage point.
It’s nearly rush hour.
The road below will become a parking lot of soon-to-be victims.

He stops on the shoulder above the flow of traffic.
One by one, he unloads his weapons—heavily modified assault rifles with high-powered scopes and extended magazines.

At first, no one notices.
They are too busy living.
That is about to change.

The traffic thickens.
The road below becomes a sea of stalled cars.
A graveyard in waiting.

He raises the rifle, placing the crosshairs on the face of a man in a shiny new car.
The man seems to look back—almost as if he sees the madman poised to take his life.
But the shooter knows the distance is too great for such recognition.
He squeezes the trigger with the faintest hesitation.
The round finds its mark.

The first is dead.
The next come easier.

In minutes, he kills ten.
The more they flee, the easier they are to hit.

Age, sex, identity—none of it matters.
He kills with impunity.
He kills with an unrelenting grudge that strips away the last remnants of his humanity.

Shell casings pile at his feet.

A police scanner in his SUV crackles to life.
At first, confusion—no one knows where he is.
That buys him time.

But not time to escape—time to kill.

An eagle-eyed survivor spots him on the overpass and calls 911.
His position is relayed.
Squads are en route.

He always knew this would be his darkest day.

Still firing, he speaks aloud:

"I came here, to this interstate, to hunt.
This is payback for all that has been done by you—strangers living under the same sun.
I am a marksman at best, but on this terrible day, I have not missed."

The once target-rich environment begins to thin.
People are hiding, crouching behind wrecked vehicles.

He scans further downrange and spots three people attempting to flee.
He speaks again:

"Three in a row, line up slow.
Stand still, because I need just a few more kills.
Infamy awaits, and regardless of you—the human beings in my sights—it will not be denied.
Dozens lay dead at your feet, yet somehow you three believe you can escape.
Like lambs, you lead each other to slaughter.
I will do my best to make it painless.
After all, I am no monster.
I have only four rounds left.
If I kill all three of you, then I’ll be free to use the last on myself—or let the police take care of it."

The three stop near a crashed, burning car.
They believe the smoke will obscure them.
They are wrong.

He readies the shot and continues:

"Justifiable homicide or suicide by cop—either way, as long as I’m dead.
They’ll never know why.
All my secrets will die with me.
Before today, all seemed normal.
Those who know me will claim ignorance.
I won’t blame them for distancing themselves.
I am a hunter of men, a madman—and then some.
I was driven to this, but you, the people in my sights, did nothing wrong.

Except stand still, that is."

Slowly, with precision, he fires.
Three shots.
Three dead.

"The God of life and the darkness of death were certainly at odds.
Neither stopped me.
Fate was nowhere to be found.
On this darkest of days, there was only me—a man with a gun and an unrelenting grudge.
Circumstance and bad decisions ruled the hour.
What a life, they’ll say.
A terrible beginning—and now, here comes his terrible end."

The police arrive in force.

Squealing tires and shouting officers distract him from his monologue.

He exclaims:

> "It is my time!"

He rises, points his rifle toward the officers as they take aim.
He never gets the chance to fire his final round.

He is cut down.


The End.

An Unrelenting Grudge* by Keaton Foster
Copyright © 2011







Significant Event
By Keaton Foster


His mission, his chance, his everything hinges on making it home—to Earth, from the depths of space. He’s done what few dared: walked in cold blackness.

An hour ago, he was sent to repair a deep-space probe, the flight mechanic for a nine-man shuttle mission. Trained for three years, he’s now the sole survivor.

He clicks his coms, knowing his crew is dead, part of a debris field he drifts from, tethered to a shuttle fragment. A massive failure—perhaps an oxygen tank or booster—destroyed the craft. He’ll never know. Alone, he floats in darkness.

Below, Earth’s Eastern Hemisphere glows. Florida, his home, resembles a puzzle piece against a blue backdrop. Lake Okeechobee, a giant heart, lies ten miles from his family’s home. His wife and three daughters are likely playing in their pool, hundreds of thousands of miles away.

He’ll never see them again. Hurtling at seventeen thousand miles per hour, his suit’s oxygen will last an hour. He’ll black out, suffocate, or vaporize on reentry.

He clicks his coms, not for rescue but to tell his loved ones he loves them. “Anyone, please come in?” Silence answers.

The blast pushed him deeper into space. His frantic chatter burns oxygen faster. Alarms flash—twenty minutes left.

He thinks, then speaks: “Claire, my precious wife, you believed in me, pushed me to be a pilot, an astronaut. You sacrificed everything. Your eyes shone like a million lights at launch, but I knew you were scared—for you, our girls, and me.”

Tears flow. “When I blasted off, I felt you watching. Tell our girls I love them. They can look to the heavens, and I’ll be there, watching over them.”

“I love you, Claire. You deserve happiness. Raise our girls to chase their dreams. My only regret is I’ll never hold you again. Hold them close.”

He says no more. Drifting into deeper space, his death is swift, an instant end to God’s gift.

Forever, he remains among the stars…


Significant Event
Written by Keaton Foster © 2011.






Summer Love
By Keaton Foster

“Her name was summer love.”

I remember many summers of my youth, stories I must tell before my time is done. Stories rooted in truth are often the most powerful.

This is one such story.

It’s a tale of experiences so profound they shaped me. A story universal to us as individuals and as fellow human beings.

June 17, 1986. Old Orchard Beach, Maine

A warm breeze flowed from the east that summer day, tossing gray sand into tiny vortices along New England’s coast. Seagulls soared beneath soft, white clouds. The scent of ocean spray filled the air. Waves crashed rhythmically against rocks, harmonizing with nature’s sounds.

I was a boy yearning to be a man, caught in a vortex of teenage emotions and hormones. As the sun kissed my skin, I shuffled through the rough sand, gazing into the fading light, imagining what was yet to come.

The sun dipped below the horizon, its orange glow painting the clouds. Tricks of light danced as night advanced predictably.

Walking the beach, I glimpsed something—a girl, a beautiful flower waiting to be adored in the meadow of her youth. Her auburn hair shimmered in the pale light, her sea-blue eyes reflecting waves of youth. Her small frame glistened, wrought with the same sexual torment as mine.

I approached her, and we connected instantly, beyond explanation. “Hello,” I said; she replied. Our awkward chat about the beauty around us became a comforting ease. We talked for hours about being sixteen, the cusp of adulthood.

She was from Quebec, Canada, her family renting a beach house for the week. Her broken English and my limited French didn’t hinder us. We held hands, a catalyst for more. Walking miles of beach, we lost ourselves in youthful passion, our hormones a symphony of tension.

That night’s passion on the cool sand would linger forever in our minds, a glimpse of love we’d never forget.

As late night turned to predawn, we lay on the sand, exploring our young desires in a hypnotic embrace. No words were needed; our passion spoke.

We became one that night on New England’s gray sand, forever connected in our minds.

Morning waves woke me. Children’s laughter and the clatter of boardwalk stalls stirred my senses. I turned to hold her, but she was gone, the sand beside me shapeless. She’d left before daylight, and I understood why without regret.

I never asked her name, caught in the moment. Now, I’m glad I didn’t. I’ve spent hours imagining her face, her body a fire in my mind. Her name remains a mystery, better left unknown.

I’ll never kiss her lips or feel her embrace again. She was a stranger who changed everything—my first love, forever in my heart. I hope she remembers that night as I do.

This story is dedicated to her, the summer love of my youth.




Summer Love
Written by Keaton Foster © 2011.




Friction
By Keaton Foster


The shower water runs near boiling, glowing Aaron Campbell’s skin bright red as it cleanses what stains it. With forceful friction, he scrubs at all that defines him, all that he has become.

The four-sided glass enclosure steams, obscuring clarity. Around him, strangers in various stages of undress recover from workouts at the local gym.

Aaron, a middle-aged man from a small Connecticut town, calls himself a social misfit, fitting in with no one, far beyond mainstream society—out in the ether. He’s never sustained a relationship, convinced he’s destined to be alone, a conviction that serves him and others well.

His youth’s scars tell a horrific tale, each as vivid today as when inflicted. He knows suffering at a monster’s hands. A large scar above his waist, near his beating heart, traces across his ribs, a daily reminder of pain. Soapy water highlights its grooves, caused by his tormentor’s class ring, worn with brutal pride.

Aaron can describe the ring’s blood-stained letters and missing faux jewels. He wears his scars with shame, feeling his tormentor’s grip. In the shower, he traces each scar, their stories God-like in presence and relevance.

Above his right eye, hidden in aged skin, a scar reveals itself only in perfect light and darkest mood—when Aaron feels most alone. It marks the one time he resisted his tormentor, only to be crushed by powerful hands. He never resisted again.

When escaping his past, that scar reminds him how far he must go to be free. The boiling water feels good, proof he’s alive, briefly replacing unbearable pain.

Aaron rubs his soapy hands, counting small scars on misshapen knuckles, each a memory of blows endured trying to escape. A scar from a self-inflicted knife wound—when he sought to feel again—remains. He thought it would help; he was wrong.

Though healed, Aaron believes he still bleeds, an endless river in his mind. He knows its source and path. His body, littered with scars, defines and saves him. Daily, he sees and feels them, trying to wash them away.

They will always remain.

Aaron cannot escape the friction between what should have been good and what defies explanation. His scars, too deep, mark him as a victim forever.

He will never wash them away…




Friction
Written by Keaton Foster © 2011.







Heavenly Evil
By Keaton Foster

“We will all suffer at the hands of her beauty.”


A heavenly angel with soft white hair, soaked in God’s pure embrace, stands alone in the wilderness of mortal men. Unlike those who blindly pass her, she rejects their fate. They know nothing of her truths, nothing of who she is. Sentenced to this world, she refuses to be like them.

Her eyes, the bitterest blue, sting with pain, reflecting all she’s seen and now believes. Cast from her eternal place in the Valley of the Kings, thrown from Heaven to the mortal world of flesh and bone, she bears the weight of her fall.

The reasons for her exile are unclear. God forgives mortal sins but not those of His heavenly kind. He offers no explanation, no solace for her troubled soul—a bastard of intent, answering to no one, least of all His own. She vows He will pay, and so will we.

Once an angel of light, she now seeks absolution in darkness. Crossing unwillingly into the mortal abyss, her fall presses heavily. She wields her overpowering beauty like a sword of vengeance, her message retribution. A fallen angel, plucked from God’s bosom, her wings torn from her fragile frame, she remains potent.

Mortals cannot resist her will, her divine power to dismay. She rejects faith, betrayed by it, praying only to nothingness. Cast away, she must forge her own path, a lost lamb refusing slaughter. If she cannot soar with wings, she’ll trade them for horns and a pointed tail, sharp with disdain, embracing the darkness beneath.

She preys on mortal men, her beauty masking her intent. She aims to destroy in the name of retribution, serving a new master, a misplaced faith. With a blink of her eye and a whip of her tail, she’ll end the world to prove God’s error in casting her out.

The devil will triumph, for no man can resist her poison. It spreads like a plague, her once-white hair now raven-black, her vibrant eyes faded to nothing, her glowing skin cold and gray, burning to ash all she touches. Her new wings, black as her heart, herald her vengeance.

Those loyal to God will perish in the mortal realm. The devil will feast, and his fallen angel will have her say. God should not have forsaken her, should not have torn her wings.

She will make us all pay.

The End…




Heavenly Evil
Written by Keaton Foster © 2010.






A Child of Id
By Keaton Foster*

“Life Holds Me By The Throat.”

Without mercy, the wheel churns. The machine of life relentlessly grinds on, doing what it must while we struggle to survive its hostile intent. A machine, it knows nothing of the feelings we hold close, nothing of what it decimates in its careless motions. The effect of all cause, it devours everything in its ever-widening path.

All born must face an end. Death is relentless. We fight ceaselessly to survive.

The world turns, good things out of place. The true darkness of our shape has emerged into the light, the sun too dim to keep it at bay.

This is my lesson, one I know brutally well. I see what most refuse to face. Unlike them, I cannot turn away. Headlong, I confront all that comes.

Hear My Voice Within This Wilderness

What did you give me?
What did you take?

I am a child of id, a breathing culmination of sin, a forsaken bastard of skin. You gave me life, strangers I call mother and father, then burned it away. You razed what you created.

I am your failed attempt at normalcy, abated, hated, persecuted for my role in the nothing you bestowed. Hypocrites, you live righteously, screaming to your god while I plead to mine. We seek the same, but my need isn’t forgiveness—I’ve done nothing to warrant it.

To you, I’m an afterthought, lost to your past. You left me to roam among the masses, ignored, a life of uncertainty assured. I’m the equivalent of refuse, meant to be flushed away, reduced to the nothing you intended.

I slip into the deepening darkness of my being, far from daylight, never to be seen again. Darkness is all I know, all I dare call home.

As you said when I was your burdened child, my life is unwanted. Yet I’ve learned no life is unwanted. Each breath is a small victory, a triumph over death’s nothing.

This is a sad price, paid for your mistakes. A crushing reality, the heaviest stone upon my broken body, aged beyond years, left in dismay by you alone.

Before me lie eventualities—anomalies of human grotesqueries, the culmination of a child, a boy, a man. My smile, broken as a child hiding behind time, masks a falsehood undefined within this prison of a life I bleed.

Few look beyond my brown eyes into the void they hide—a nothing stretching beyond exploration, past livable life, beyond human comfort. There I reside, sent by you.

Tainted within and without, I am the sum of your deeds, those who gave me life. This life, undone, leaves me floundering, wondering what I’ve done.

A child of id, I’ve become.

This is your doing, not mine. Pray to your god for what you need. I have nothing to give, a mere bastard of skin.

I live, despite your pretense otherwise.

These words I lend to you, mother and father, strangers I once knew…



A Child of Id
Written by Keaton Foster © 2011.