Embrace Darkness

A loud roar shocks me awake. As I sit on the edge of the bed cursing my misfortune, depression grabs hold of me. My vision deteriorates to the point that all I see are shadows dashing across the room. Maneuvering throughout the modest studio apartment is challenging since objects appear to come alive before me. A dim light or a sunlit room, it doesn't matter for darkness gradually closes in.

Afflicted by this cursed condition, insanity threatened to rule my life. Carmen, my birth mother and a total stranger to me since she gave me up for adoption years ago, convinced me to seek medical assistance. I caved in to get her off my back. The dreaded condition is named after some man. At the moment his name escapes me since my thoughts are consumed by my ineffectiveness to pen a new poem.

Ah, to write poetry, real poetry, a poet must experience life. As a consequence of having to claw my way just to attain the little I have, my poems are about dark, sinister things. My readers call my work evil and disturbing. The screen holds the title to my next masterpiece.

Fall Into My Darkness

My sense of hearing increases when my sight diminishes. The building's pipes rattle and cling as steam rises to the other apartments. A critter scurries across the linoleum, its tiny paws pitter-patter until it takes refuge under the stove. Somewhere in a nearby apartment, a steady hum gnaws at me to the point that I grind my teeth. The screen, I must concentrate and find a verse.

Come, shed the light and embrace my darkness.

The steady hum is accompanied by a loud thrashing.

I shout, "That damn Mrs. Cabbage Patch is washing clothes again!" Hoping the thin walls won’t muffle my objection.

At last the noise stops and is followed by a high nasal voice bickering about an old machine that is good for nothing. The comparison reminds me of Carmen. I glance upwards, recalling my part-time mother's smoky voice. I remember how the dried up old hag cut through me with her dumb stare. Her spidery fingertips drummed on the kitchen table in annoying repetitive fashion, followed by meager attempts at words of wisdom.

I continue with another verse.

Drop your inhibitions and be free, like me.

"Yea, right. Who am I trying to kid?"

When I think about my birth mother I wish I was deaf too.

My focus shifts to the white stove. A shadow covers most of it, allowing for the lower right corner to glow bright. My ears prick at attention, straining to pick up any sound made by the mouse that hides underneath. Mrs. Cabbage Patch's bickering turns to screams. Then I hear what sounds like a slap, followed by crying. Mr. Cabbage Patch establishes the natural order of things in that apartment.

With eyes wide open I follow the ballet of shadows as they dance throughout the room. I swear one shadow in particular looms larger than the rest and moves closer. Without realizing, I finally exhale. I can't recall holding my breath but this condition is getting worse.

Think about something else, Raul.

I rise from my bed and recite out loud, "I am Raul De Rosa and I'm not afraid of you."

The shadow freezes. A chill runs through me. I swear red eyes beam at me. No, it's an illusion. Two red light bulbs flash when someone rings my apartment. A buzzer rings a second later. I cross the room, press the speak button on the intercom and ask, "Who is it?"

"It's Momma."

God! Not again.

"Let me up, Darling."

I do as she suggests since all prior arguments proved pointless. I open the door and let out a loud sigh. Knowing every inch of this place, I sit on a wooden chair by a small round table. I press the power button and a tiny radio comes to life with smooth jazz sounds. Carmen's footsteps overtake the music and her familiar odor of stale cigarettes gets uncomfortably closer. Cold lips press against my right cheek and with smoky voice whispers, "How are you tonight, son?"

"Must we play these games, Carmen?"

She ignores my invitation at starting an argument and turns the clock/radio off. My head pounds so I massage my temples with my fingertips, resting my tired orbs.

"You know, you shouldn't listen to loud music."

I don't tell her that my eyes are shut because I can't stand the sight of her. However, curiosity forces me to glance in her direction. Although the shadows distort my view, I can feel her dark orbs penetrate my defenses, showering me with pity. It’s as if shame radiates over me like an angel witnessing a child's innocence escaping his soul.

She goes to a wall and flicks the light switch on. I brace myself for the usual comments.

"What a mess! This place definitely needs a woman's touch."

Her sandals click clock until she lines up behind me. "Huh?" She gasps.

That's new.

She traces her thin digits across my back. I jump at her icy touch. "Raul, how'd you get these scratches?"

"Scratches?"

"Did a cat get in here?"

"Of course not." The woman is off her rocker.

"I'll get some antibiotic ointment."

It's not until I smell alcohol that I remember my dream.

“You really should think about remarrying.”

My mind wanders back to last night’s adventure. I was in the shower when the scent of lilacs reached my nostrils. I went for a towel and heard something fall in the room. Tying the towel around my waist, I peeked around the half-open door and saw a shadow of a woman moving on my bed. Unlike real-life, in the land of dreams, my vision is excellent.


As I closed in on the apparition, her feminine outline became more defined. Her dark frame featured chocolate skin. Frizzy long hair covered her face but it wasn't until I noticed a bulge in my towel that I realized she was naked.

“Ouch!" I yell, "What are you doing? That stings!"

“Oops. I’m just disinfecting the edges with alcohol.”

Tuning Carmen out I recall water streaming down the small of my back. The stark contrast between my soaked, hairy, pale, rough skin and my dream girl's shiny, smooth body made me want to devour her on the spot. She held out a long-nailed finger and beckoned me to join her. Bongos echoed throughout the room announcing my willingness to let primal urges take over.

Moans accompanied the primitive pounding as her pink tongue drank in the quick-drying moisture. I wanted to return the favor but she demonstrated uncanny strength. She held my arms at bay as her tongue maneuvered down my neck, to my chest, and over a nipple. She stretched it with her teeth. More moans escaped me. Before I could utter another sound, her lips slowly pinched down my ribs and over to my stomach. She licked my belly button, fixing her moonlit colored eyes on me. Those orbs of desire ignited passion in an otherwise gloomy soul.

Allowing her ferocious voracity to consume me, I closed my eyes and images of a beautiful, black panther, slashing its tongue over my aroused towel-covered member made me coo. Its head nudged against me again and again, making me harder than anything in recent memory.

Carmen interrupts my thoughts, “Raul, if you ask me, you should get a new girlfriend. That meter maid of yours is masculine.”

“Flora is a detective and she’s all woman.”

Carmen begins to slowly spread lotion on my scratches lulling me back to my dream world.

I reopened my eyes to see my dream girl’s frizzy hair covering my belly-button. The towel disappeared and she did things with her lips I didn't know were possible. My fingers got caught in her curls. She answered my soft caresses with caring strokes of her own working me to a state of delirium.

Then my mind wandered as I envisioned the panther's long tongue slash about as if it worshipped the skeletal remains of a prized catch. In my vision, our eyes locked causing uncertainty to pulse through my body like a bolt of lightning thrashing through human bones. The beast roared, perhaps smelling the stench of fear. Panic consumed me. I expected to see the black beast chewing on my member, but instead; the mysterious dark lover continued to work me over. With every hungry motion, more moans filled the room.

“Raul, are you listening to me?”

“Huh?”

“I have the perfect woman for you.”

Ignoring Carmen, I lick my lips recalling my encounter. When the pleasure became most intense, my dream girl smiled, purred, and guided me inside her. I didn't have time to think, nor did I worry about anything else. My only desire was to release my inhibitions and let loose. She bounced on me to the primal rhythm as if calling a most powerful god to feast on a virgin sacrifice. I dared not shut my eyes for somewhere deep within me, I suspected this dark goddess to be a panther. Her moans increased until they sounded like a large feline's roars. The harder she pounced, the stronger I felt linked to her primitive beast. Questions popped into my mind, but just when I was about to ask one, she rolled me on top of her and screamed with pleasure. Our stares infused, but unlike with the panther, fear dissipated permitting lust to rule the night. Her eyes seemed to say, "Work me harder, faster." The deeper I thrust, the deeper she dug her nails into my skin. Sweat or perhaps blood trickled down my back. At last, I accompanied her cries with my own until I gave her my essence. Upon my final shutter, I awoke to find my pillows soaked and the sheets stained.

“Remember son, I know what’s best for you.” The stench of stale cigarettes mixes with rubbing alcohol, snapping me back to reality. The shadows lift enough to see her lips pucker. She kisses my cheek and says, "Get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow." She finally leaves closing the door behind her.

I dismiss her with a wave wishing Flora was here to bop the old hag for me. I turn on the radio, oblivious to the time on its digital face, change the station to easy listening tunes, and sit at the computer, refocusing on the first stanza.

Let's see, where was I? Oh, yes...

Come, shed the light and embrace my darkness.
Drop your inhibitions and be free, like me.

How does my condition make me feel?

Clouds dampen your spirit surrounding you with
Gloom while intoxicating shades clutch your breath.

I wonder what's more dangerous: sleep or staying awake? The shadows continue to dance, lulling me to a hypnotic stupor. I leave the computer, lie on the bed, shut my eyes and the adventure begins.





A thick blackness surrounds me. I rub my arms trying to keep warm. Goose pimples brush against my fingers. I let out a breath expecting to see white smoke but the air is so thick that I wonder if blindness has won. I pinch my chest. The feel of the erected nipple makes me wish my dream girl was here. Without making a sound, I stand still, listening to the dark void that engulfs me. In this abyss my thoughts control my movements. I glide forward at blazing speed expecting to see a change in my surroundings, but all I get is colder. As I contemplate stopping, wind begins to howl. No not wind--whispers. The darkness is alive. Screams fill the void. What I thought to be a howling wind is in fact, cries of terror. I shiver as chills attack my body like army ants biting down on soft skin. The constant shrills force me to cover my ears. Just when I think insanity will have its way, a familiar odor begins nauseating me. I know that scent but I can't identify it. I cover my nose and let the ice cold cut my skin. Madness.

Tears roll down my cheeks and quickly ice up. Despair pounds my chest. Guilt slaps my face. I know I'm not alone, yet loneliness consumes me. I feel it pulling pieces out of my heart. The screams are everywhere; above, below, next to me, and somehow, inside me.

"Please make it stop!" I shout, only to hear my words echoing back but not just in my voice. Women, children, and men, repeat my pleas. At first they mimic me one by one, then in unison. Liquid oozes out of my ears and hardens. My cry repeats over and over, creating a chaotic symphony.

That smell is so much stronger now. It's everywhere. The noise suddenly stops. My stomach growls as if wolves battle in a murky pond. A thick liquid squirms past my throat and exits my mouth. Expecting vomit, my eyes bulge at the length of the rotted mass pouring from inside me. What the-? I reach to feel the liquid. I want to scream but I can't. Is it my tongue? God! It's cold and slippery and reeks of rotted meat. At last it comes to an end and I tremble as I hear it slither away.

Silence. A crystal globe sits at the center of mystical clouds. The strange mist covers me as I glide towards the light. Then, a vibrating, soft moan comes out of one of the clouds but the stench still lingers throughout the abyss. Giggling turns my attention to the right of the moaning shadow while somehow, a smaller shadow laughs. Its chuckles sound innocent and feminine. The familiar yet elusive odor is not as strong but persistent like a child begging for a toy.

With the force of a sledgehammer, memories pour in. The smell-- it can't be.

Images strike my mind. Clara, my daughter, sitting in the bathtub, blue lips curled. "Don't hit me, daddy."

With eyes popping, I soak in the scene. My little girl, bathed in crimson water. I feared the worst.

"What happened, Baby?"

"I don't know," she sobbed.

I lifted her up, inspecting her bloodstained body. After a few frantic seconds, I smiled then laughed. Clara crying and me laughing; what strange sounds we made. "Honey, it's all right. It's called menstruation. It's early but not fatal."

It took me awhile to get her to stop shaking.

Now the little shadow permeates the stench of fresh blood and laughs. While it laughs I cry and remember that my daughter is dead because of me.





Shaking and sitting on my bed, it takes me time to register a buzzing sound. I know I'm awake yet images of my daughter's tearful face linger in my mind. Then, without warning, her tiny body changes to my mysterious lover. The dark beauty opens her mouth well beyond human capability, overtaking her own face until her sharp teeth stretch from chin to forehead. A feline's roar drowns out my door's buzzer. It's not until I sense desperation that I focus on my actual whereabouts.

I shake my head and mumble, "Get a grip, it's just a dream."

I let my favorite person up to the apartment. Before my vision begins to fail me again, I recall Flora's features. Long black hair and olive green eyes accompanied a smile that warmed my heart. In addition to being easy on the eyes, she gained my admiration when she brought my daughter's killer to justice.

"How are you, Raul?"

The wonderful smile I remembered is missing. Her cheeks, no longer pink but a shade darker tells me she's disturbed about something. Her long, soft hair is disheveled making her appear older. Her childlike voice lulls one to believe she's just a frail, innocent creature until reality strikes. Instead of returning the greeting, my exuberance gets the best of me.

"Are they going to fry the bastard?"

Sometimes my condition worsens and the shadows cloak people. It pleases me to see Flora more clearly than I did my mother. She looks away and fiddles with her hands.

"Flora?"

"They just released him."

"What?"

"Raul please," she places her hands over mine, trying to get me to open my fists. "Listen to me, I will get this guy."

I shut my eyes and recall the smug look on Brandon Pope's face. His fat dimples displaying for the cameras. "You've got nothin' on me." He smiled at Flora and winked at me.

The anger that burned through my veins then, returns with a vengeance.

"Raul, let me do my job."

"How could this happen?"

Her words fill the air but all I hear is tainted evidence, corrupted DNA test and the details that follow drown out by my screams. For a brief flash I notice perspiration collecting on her brow. It's as if the angrier I get, the clearer I see, but when I look away from Flora the shadows begin their dance and I swear the smaller shade fills with mist.

"I'll get him. I promise." She caresses my cheek but I pull away as if jolted by electricity.

"Why?" My teeth clench. Energy surges through me awakening my other senses. The small, cloudy mist sobs much like my Clara.

I grab Flora's shoulders; search into her eyes, and say, "I will have justice."

She leans forward. A sweet raspberry scent begins to cover me, triggering memories of our past romantic encounter. She kisses my neck and hugs me. Before any love trance can take hold, I glance behind her and watch as a large shadow forms into a panther's head. It opens a wide gape as if roaring. Somehow, I hear its beastly cries and I finally understand what must be done.





A man with normal vision may become blind when rage consumes him so how much blinder am I? Despite seeing as if through a funnel, negotiating the hallway and the entry to the elevator prove effortless but I understand my journey will be a challenge. I grip one hand on my cane while the other latches on the door handle. A hint of white beams shimmer off parked cars bouncing glare in a crossed pattern. The scent of moisture in the air reveals that I am ill equipped to deal with precipitation. As I tap my cane on the pavement, images of my daughter's killer, smiling and winking, his smug look taunting me, drives my desire for vengeance forward.

My thoughts turn to Flora and my fabrication of going to bed and allowing her to make things right, stab me like a dagger to the gut. Her skeptic tone lifted the veil of lies but in the end, she gave in to common sense. After all, how can a partially blind man go after a dangerous killer? So, she left me to my devices.

As I take short steps away from my haven, dark shadows flow in all directions. I'm left to my memory as to the way to the killer's lair. I sigh and mutter, "How can I be so stupid?" The loss of my daughter lingers in my tongue, bitter and nasty. I spit on the ground, disgusted with my constant poor judgment. Brandon Pope was someone I befriended until he went missing with my daughter. The jovial fellow had a way of making people feel safe. In spite of his six-foot, bulky frame and piercing blue eyes which highlighted chubby cheeks, he carried himself like a gentle lamb. I found out too late his capacity for evil.

While I pause to gather my thoughts, the panther shadow appears, roaring before me, then blows off. I follow believing that revenge will be mine. The powerful cloud moves at a deliberate pace. Other shadows form at my sides as if establishing a protective barrier. Street lights illuminate a narrow path. Voices. Voices of men negotiating. Some want smack, others sex. As I continue along, I wonder if they notice my presence when all of a sudden, a woman, surrounded by pink clouds, steps in my path. "Do you need some love?"

The dark shadows overtake the pink clouds until darkness surrounds us. I strain to look at her but a veil of blackness hides her face. "No thanks. I'm just passing through."

She doesn't move and I worry that the panther shadow is too far ahead.

"Hey, you're blind, aren't you? I'll give you a discount."

I think, Get lost, but I say nothing as someone wearing silver wingtips steps forward. A man's voice booms, "Leave el ciego alone!" I know ciego means blind. I storm forward, cross the street, listening for any approaching vehicles. I make it to the panther's shadow. It turns the corner and heads up the stairs to a train station.

I recall visiting Brandon Pope four train stops away. A plan starts to formulate in my head. I go through the turnstile and follow the panther shadow to the middle of the station. In my mind, I can see myself strangling Pope. Through the wind's steady howl, I almost don't hear a strange but familiar clicking sound. In fact, I wonder if hallucination has its claws on me. I ask, "What did you say?"

A male's raspy voice hisses, "I said, give me your money."

The shadows move from me to a thin, scruffy haired man, clearing my vision. His torn jacket matches his hole-filled jeans; his pimple face is gaunt like a zombie's. A small twenty-two caliber pistol slides in his wormy fingers. In the blink of an eye, I press a button on my cane and a twelve inch serrated blade extends out of the tip. Mimicking a Samurai's precise swooping motion, my makeshift sword strikes what I hope to be metal, but a horrible crunching of bone confirms that I'm not used to seeing so clear.

He shrieks and jumps while he tries to hold his bloody partially severed left hand in place.

"Oops, I missed the gun."

"Bastard!" His screams pound my eardrums.

I contemplate picking up his gun but the surrounding black shadows turn crimson so I move away, closer to the edge. Where's my ride? A strong howling wind competes with the rattling of an oncoming train, signaling for me to push the button again. The blade retracts, invisible and safe in my walking stick. The stench of urine and blood assaults my senses. The vagrant's cries compete with the train’s powerful entry. As soon as the steel snake stops, I tap the cane on the floor and enter the subway car. My expectation of a delay fades when the doors close and the train moves forward.

I grin. Brandon Pope, get ready to be skinned alive. "Excuse me, sir, but is that blood on your walking stick?"

The shadows begin encircling me again but my vision restores just enough for me to see a sweet elderly woman staring at me with brows lifted.

I smile, deliberately avoiding eye contact and say, "Fear not sweet lady for I must have scraped against a dead cat."

She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head in disgust.

I pray that clarity remains with me long enough to bring justice to a cruel, unforgiving world.






Anger is good. I read somewhere that anger lets you know you’re alive. In my particular case, anger clears my vision. As images of my daughter’s burial flash before me, heat rises to my ears. Raindrops brush sporadically across my brow. A cool wind helps spray the precipitation along the window of a brown Crown Victoria. I head straight towards Brandon Pope’s duplex thinking of how I’m going to torture the low-life. Only a faded outline of the panther’s head glides before me. The dark clouds that accompanied me earlier are gone. Since my vision is near normal, I hold my cane by its handle without letting the tip touch the ground; much like an officer holds his nightstick.

I almost fail to register the near isolation. The street features few parked cars. The stairs leading to Brandon Pope’s building are empty. A brown rat rummages atop a tin garbage can.

I pause by the steps and look up to the fourth floor window. Pellets pounce against my face. I could swear there’s movement by the half open window. If Pope spots me first, I’ll lose the element of surprise. I grin at the thought of Pope worrying about what I will do to him. As I reach for the lobby’s door handle, someone clears their throat behind me.

Suddenly, I recall one bad thing about anger; it can make you blind. One of the parked cars, a blue Crown Victoria, belongs to Detective Flora Snow.

“What are you doing here?”

I turn to see her scowling at me as if I were one of her suspects. She looks so beautiful when she’s angry. “Did I ever tell you how cute you look with red cheeks?”

Flora taps a black, leather, pointed boot on the bottom step while she leans her right arm on her right knee. Her soft hair begins to curl as raindrops beat on her. “I take it that your condition has improved?”

“It’s a funny thing.” I pause and ask myself, should I tell her about the panther shadow? “Apparently, when I get mad, my vision gets clearer.”

“Damn it Raul! We go in together. Stay behind me.”

She shoves me aside and leads the way. We try to tread lightly but the old wooden stairwell creaks and groans, ruining any possibility of a surprise approach. When we reach Pope’s door, it’s ajar. Flora wraps her free hand around my chest making sure I stay behind her and pulls out an impressive Sig Sauer P220 nine millimeter pistol. We enter the well lit apartment. Old newspapers and magazines scatter across a brown sofa, spilling to the floor. Each step we take sounds like we’re walking on cracked eggshells instead of the chipped square patterned linoleum. I stay in the living room while Flora checks the bathroom.

“Raul, get in here.”

I enter hoping to find Brandon Pope lying in the tub, his wrists slit, demonstrating the ultimate remorse for killing my Clara, but instead; there’s an empty grime-filled bath tub. Large black circles threaten to eat the drain as if the tub suffers from gangrene.

Flora’s trembling arm taps against me, drawing my attention to her wide eyes which are facing the mirror.

“Oh God!” I mutter, my grip tightening on my cane.

The mirror is plastered with pictures of Flora’s nine year-old niece. The sweet redheaded child is shown hugging her dad in front of a school and other shots of her playing in a park.

Ring.

We both jump as our focus shifts from the mirror to a small black cell phone that lies on the bathroom sink.

Ring.

I reach for it but she grabs my hand. “It could be a trigger mechanism for a bomb.”

Ring.

Her stare is glassy. I remember Flora telling me about her days as a demolitions expert with the United States Army.

Ring.

I clear my throat and whisper, “I know it’s for me.”

Ring.

She reluctantly lets go of my arm. I answer the phone.

“Hey poet, tell that bitch if she wants to see her niece alive again, to take you home.”

The line goes dead. I know the line is disconnected but I yell anyway, “Pope, Pope!” as if by some miracle he will reconnect again.

“What did he say?”

Anger is bad. The shadows lift away when I’m angry. The panther of vengeance has abandoned me and I know that somehow, the darkness protects me. What good is having my sight if I can’t find the killer?

“Raul, what did he say?”

“Take me home.”





Flora runs ahead of me, into my apartment building. I struggle to keep up. The macho in me blames my inferior physical conditioning on the soaked jeans and slushy sneakers. When I finally reach my apartment, the door is wide open.

“Flora?”

She yells, “All clear!”

I go inside while she holsters her trusty nine millimeter pistol and scratches her head.

I scan my apartment, grateful to have full use of my vision. Nothing seems out of place. The small radio sits on the wooden table along with antibiotic ointment and rubbing alcohol. The bed is unmade.

“Why would he tell you to come back here?”

I slush over to my computer, leaving small puddles with every stride. I move the mouse and see that my poem is still open but no longer the main feature on the screen. On the internet, my email is open to a message from Brandon Pope.

Interesting poem. You have one hour to complete it and email it to me. If I deem it good, I’ll tell you where you can find the girl. If it’s not to my liking, tell the detective her niece will meet the same fate as your daughter. Check out the attachment.

I open the file and stand in awe at the video playing before me. My mother, Carmen, tied up next to Flora’s niece. The old hag sports bruises on her cheeks and a split upper lip. The little girl whimpers, her mouth sealed with duck tape. Tears paste long, red hair to her cheeks while her green eyes bulge. I sense the child's innocence peeling off her bit by agonizing bit.

“He knows this is personal.” Flora hugs herself, trembling.

I hand her a towel and sit on the chair to keep my knees from knocking. Shaking my head I tell her, “The reason he befriended me was so I could write his memoirs." I cover my face with my hands.

“Stop blaming yourself for Clara’s death.”

Turning away, tears cloud my vision. I write about darkness and I’m familiar with seedy characters, so why didn’t I see what Pope really was?

As if Flora’s reading my mind she says, “He fooled all of us.”

“What kind of poem can I write in less than an hour? The bastard knows it could take days, maybe weeks to complete a poem.”

“Look at the video again. Can you identify his surroundings?”

I fight off the tears and utter, "No."

“Forward me a copy of that video.” She kisses my left cheek and adds, “Please Raul, write your best poem while I search for my niece. Oh, and send him a message for me. Tell him they’ll be no trial when I catch him.” She runs out and leaves me with her lingering scent and a feeling of hopelessness.

I move the cursor and click the mouse. My poem is back on screen.

I whisper, “Fall into my darkness.” I think about Brandon Pope and get angry again. I must remain livid to keep the shadows away. My fingers begin a frantic dance and my lips quiver. Heat. Fever. My body shakes but I strike the keys with reckless abandon. I type for what seems like hours. Droplets of perspiration fall on the black keyboard. I glance at the monitor. Gibberish.

“No!” I delete all the new words, keeping my original stanza intact. I check the white digital clock which doubles as my mini stereo. Forty minutes left and I haven’t made any progress.

Shadows begin to form around me. “Not again, not now.” I hug myself in an attempt to stop shaking. Finally, I peel off my clothes.

Thunder strikes in the night sky. A black cloud covers me. The room gets smaller. The shadow world merges with my terrible reality.

“Raul.”

I turn and see my dream girl. She grabs my shoulders with her long nails. No, they’re not fingernails, but talons. Blood trickles down my arms. I expect her to open her mouth wide to bite my head off but instead, she whispers using a voice from my past, “Look into my eyes.” She sounds like my late wife, Sarah.

As soon as I focus on my dream girl’s eyes, I’m transported to a dark room where images of past dreams flash before me. With every spark of light my knees wobble as the room spins. I gasp and reach towards the heavens. Just when I think I’ll pass out, flames surround the light, each flicker carry my worries away in the dark puffs of smoke, clearing my head. At last, Sarah kisses my lips, overwhelming me with her tender, rosy fragrance.

“Sarah,” I whisper, “another child is in danger.”

She holds my face in her hands and says, “Embrace the darkness and you will see.”
I pull her closer until we are hugging. Her smooth skin changes to fur. The Black Panther roars, opens its mouth, and lunges to tear my head off, but then I find myself at the computer, no longer fighting my blindness, embracing the surrounding shadows.

I mumble, “Forget about the video, forget about your stupid mother, let the words flow.”

A glance at the clock reveals there are fifteen minutes left. This is what comes out.

Fall into My Darkness


Come, shed the light and embrace my darkness.
Drop your inhibitions and be free, like me.
Clouds dampen your spirit surrounding you with
Gloom while intoxicating shades clutch your breath.

Fear not the tender cloak of invisibility
For at night dreams are born.
Daylight suffocates creativity and roasts
Inspiration originated by solemn reflection.

Darkness empowers the imagination, creating
Magical possibilities until life itself
Reveals a fire of burning questions dangling
Within your reach, lifting your soul.

Come, pick the fruit of knowledge.
Spurn the erosion of sunlight and dare to
Share with me immortal vitality by
Springing one sweet tender kiss.

My talons, I swear are but a tool to
Slice through burdens created by
The light's distorting reflection.
Fall into my darkness and forever be free.


The shadows subside just enough so I send the poem with one minute remaining to the horrible Brandon Pope. After a few tense minutes, I receive a live feed from my enemy.

“Hey Buddy. Cool poem. I did you a favor.” The video camera moves around what looks like a basement, then focuses on Carmen, her hands cuffed to a pipe on the ceiling and her throat is sliced open. “I know, I know, you won’t miss her. Well you’re welcome.” He smiles and moves the video showing Flora’s niece. She’s alive.

“You of all people should understand. Children, they smell so new.” He takes a bushel of her hair and sniffs it. “Hmm, so good. I loved the lines, share with me immortal vitality by springing one sweet tender kiss. Nice touch.”

He alters the camera to provide a close-up of his eyes. “Those lines prove it. Why do you think I chose you Raul? You are just like me.”

I shout at the screen, “Never!”

“Who better to write my memoirs than a horror writer?”

I hear the panther growling by my ears, its intense hot breath seers the hairs on the back of my neck.

The video shows Pope produce a knife.

“Damn it, I know where you are!” I reach for my soggy pants which still lay on my desk, squeezing, looking for my cell phone.

Pope lifts the child’s head so she faces the camera.

My stiff fingers maneuver clumsily through the pockets.

Pope sniffs her hair once again and places the knife under her chin.

I pull out the phone, I can’t see if it’s on or even if there’s any battery life left in it, but I dial Flora’s number. Each strike produces a stabbing pin prick up my fingertips.

“Time’s up Raul.”

The video feed cuts off.

“NO!” Flora’s phone rings once, twice… my heart wants to break through my chest… a third ring goes unanswered, and I feel feint. On the fourth ring, Flora picks up but there’s no answer.

BANG! BANG!

I hold my breath. Then I hear Flora’s soothing voice, “It’s alright honey. Auntie’s here. Raul?”

“Flora?”

“He’s dead. The son of a bitch is dead.”

“Oh thank God! How did you know where to find him?”

“He told you where he was when he said to take you home. He’s in your old house, where you lived with your family.”

I try to tell her I know but my lips curl. I’m sobbing. I’m sobbing for my wife Sarah, for my baby girl Clara, and for all the children Brandon Pope was able to kill. I even cry for the woman that brought me into this rotten world, my mother Carmen. Just when a wave of calm threatens to take over, I continue crying, this time with relief.

At last I'm alone in front of my screen, wondering if I've written my last poem when the darkness surrounds me. Someone taps my shoulder. I turn and see my dream girl. She whispers, "Enjoy your peace for vengeance isn't the only thing that lays in the darkness."

She turns into the Shadow Panther, roars and fades into the dark clouds. As the blackness engulfs me a steady calmness quiets my fears. I embrace the darkness and feel its power. I wonder if I'm finally free. Then, from a distance, sirens scream, the neighbors bicker, and a panther roars with the promise of new battles to come.





6, 233 words