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ᴊᴀᴍᴇs ᴛ. ᴋɪʀᴋ

03/24/2019 04:01 PM 

Losing Anchor.

Losing Anchor [Pandora’s Box story arc]
“I kept my eyes tightly closed. I didn’t want to open them, fearing what I may see. The eerie silence made it all the more frightening as my body remained stiff in the corner of the cold room. I knew that I was stronger than this; braver. I knew that the option to fight was there. But, it was as if a dominant force, determined to watch me fall to my knees, suppressed all of my will power to fight back. Even though my body was stationary, it felt as though my heart sunk several floors below me as I finally took a small step forward, hesitantly opening my eyes slowly as I did so. But as soon as I did, I immediately regretted it. This body of mine caught up to my sinking heart rapidly as I fell into a black void- a white room suddenly engulfed in intense darkness, I was seemingly devoured by it. Not only was this space absent of light, it was as if it was absent of any feeling of hope. I tried to scream out. No sound. The void devoured that too. At some point, I stopped falling, and suddenly, I was suspended in the air by an invisible force. My sight tried to pierce through the darkness, but I could see nothing. Then, abruptly, without warning, a cold hand gripped my face, and pulled it forward, its’ nails drawing blood from my cheeks. In the short distance, I could see a face begin to become more visible. But the closer it pulled me in, the more I began to struggle. It was becoming more and more apparent, that this creature was no human. It’s face was ashen and bloodless. With eyes a vivid yellow with crimson pupils, it widened to the sight of me, as my own eyes widened in fear. It opened its mouth, and ejected a plume of black smoke into mine, causing me to choke.”

Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy leaned forward towards his Captain, James T. Kirk, as he continued to confide in him his experiences, in which the good doctor knew wasn’t a mental deterioration. Something was legitimately haunting Kirk, and this wasn’t the first time this has happened. The one thing that McCoy was sure of, was with the Captain in a weakened state due to the trauma caused by the C’Thele, it was easier for these inhuman and malicious creatures to penetrate Kirk’s mind.

“Jim.” McCoy attempted to reach his Captain. “Jim, look at me.”

“Forgive me, but I’d rather not.” Kirk’s voice was cold. “I can still taste it… the smoke…”

“Why won’t you look at me?”

“Those eyes… I could see those eyes everytime I go to sleep…”

“I’m losing you, buddy. Come back. Jim. Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why? Why won’t you look at me?”

“Because that thing, Bones,” Kirk began. “It’s standing behind you.”

McCoy turned slowly, only to see blinking computer panels.

But in Kirk’s eyes, the dark figure stood there, silently taunting as it bared teeth to grin.
❖    - Captain James T. Kirk.

Capricious Marauder

03/24/2019 03:31 PM 

Writing Sample

(My reply to a starter for another SL I have with Jesse on a different site, if you would like a writing sample):


The dull beating of bare knuckles to wood sounded strangely hollow at first, interrupting the tranquility of the dirt lane stretching up the hill, past an increasingly sparse row of houses to Charlie's intended destination.   The small but clean cottage in the outskirts of St. Joseph was owned and inhabited, according to recent property records, by one Thomas Howard, a good Christian cattleman with a dutiful wife and two well-mannered children.  There was, of course, no public mention of the name Jesse James in connection with the unassuming cottage, and why should there be?  After all, Jesse had become an outlaw not only to the Republican establishment he had violently railed against since his teens, but also to the current political line of Secessionists restored to power in Missouri.  Save for the lingering sympathizers and believers in the Robin Hood myth still holding some association with the names of Frank and Jesse James, the actions of the latter had become, at least to authorities both within and beyond Missouri's borders, less worthy of admiration and more a desperate spilling of innocent bloodshed to keep old grudges alive. Who would expect the notoriously restless Jesse James to be living a quiet, respectable existence in St. Joe?

The clatter of small feet rapidly scurrying past the other side of the door could be heard, seconds before the knob was pulled back and the figure of a woman appeared before the screen separating herself from the visitor paused on the front step.  Her dark hair swept up from her neck and an apron secured against her bodice and skirts, the woman blinked at Charlie with a faint smile and polite but wary kindness reserved for any strangers who showed up at her home while her husband was not at home.  Her plain face, while pleasant enough, was that of a woman who may once have been considered lovely in her youth but was now marked by strain and strife, the resignation to a life of disappointment she still hoped to improve. "May I help you?" She inquired simply, her tone also kind enough, and while her face may well already be gaining some familiarity for Charlie, she did not recognize him at first, after the nearly eight years since she'd last laid eyes on the man.

When he hesitated there on the step, his manner awkward as he perhaps struggled for words he so rarely uttered voluntarily, the woman's expression changed from one of intense study to one of gradual recognition.  Her dark eyes widened in surprise once her memory revealed what she in fact already knew but had forgotten after the passing of time. "Charlie? Charlie from Texas?"  She must have perceived either a nod from the man or he offered some other indication to the affirmative, for Zerelda Mimms, known affectionately as Zee, Jesse's first cousin who had married the outlaw years earlier after a nine-year courtship, was opening the screen door and ushering Charlie into the house with a quiet but decidedly warmer smile.  She had come to know Charlie somewhat when she and Jesse had honeymooned in Sherman, Texas, her outlaw husband introducing Zee to a man Jesse, at the earlier age of 19, had first befriended way back when the James Brothers had taken shelter from Missouri law enforcement at Belle Starr's ranch in Scyene, Texas.

Already having met Charlie previously, Zee would be able to spare Charlie further stress of having to speak if he did not wish to, recalling his frequent use of hand signals, even pencil to paper, in most communication when she was around.  Well, he always had been polite in her company, as well, while the more gregarious Jesse had been only too willing to help fill in the silences with his booming presence and seemingly telepathic ability to help vocalize Charlie's needs when other, less patient, people were around.  Even if Jesse's occasional mean streak did also provoke him into a dreadful teasing of Charlie's little notebooks on occasion.

Not being the sort to interrogate a man about his journeys or motives, so accustomed was she to the unorthodox and hardly enviable lifestyle she shared with Jesse, Zee spared Charlie the stream of rapid-fire questions he might otherwise be peppered with from other women. "Je-"  She caught herself just in time, even if the correction wasn't truly needed for a man who knew Jesse long before he'd adopted the alias, Thomas Howard.  "TOM's not home yet, although he's expected any minute, now.  Why don't you come inside, have a seat in the kitchen, maybe some coffee while you wait? Oh, Mary, do let the gentleman sit!"  The little three year old had been clinging to the back of a kitchen chair, peering out from the safe perch while her mother answered the door.  Her older brother was nowhere to be seen, out with his father on whatever outing they would be returning from momentarily.

While Zee provided refreshment to her husband's unexpected visitor, another twenty minutes or so would pass before heavy footsteps were heard at the door, crossing the threshold with the comical strain of a man pulling a seven year old boy from his shoulder. "ARRRG! You're gettin' to be too heavy for all that, Tim, gonna give your daddy a heart condition, more'n likely, then you'll be carryin' me.  We're home, now, Mama! Oh, there's my sweet girl, Mary, you lost a shoe again outside, here, little darlin'. Keep that on, right proper, Sweetheart."  Jesse's voice, even in the passing of time, would have sounded almost the same to Charlie, albeit deeper, as it drifted from the parlor into the kitchen where friend and wife still remained.  Not so impressive in stature, truth be told, Jesse gave the impression of being taller than he was, filling the room with his lean bulk and giving further rise to myth and rumor exaggerating his actual physique.  The children's giggles and squeals of delight as he briefly teased them en route to the kitchen filled the space, along with the echo of his boots against the hardwood floor until he halted his steps, looming in the doorway.  Only when Charlie turned to glance in his direction, did Jesse blink several times, his mind rapidly connecting the dots to recall the reasons for the familiarity of Charlie's features, fingers keenly aware of the proximity to the contents of the gunbelt worn beneath his heavy coat.

"Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit.  Is that really you, Charlie Mayfield?" Jesse never had been fond of cussing, and so his words, if not his bloody, vengeful deeds, were rarely composed of anything more than mild curses or playful and terse metaphors.  They were both older, certainly, and the effects of longterm angst, paranoia, suicidal depressions and simmering rage had deepened the lines around the outlaw's still piercing but now hauntingly melancholy blue eyes.  Lifelong insomnia had permanently darkened the circles under Jesse's eyes, an affliction he long shared with Charlie and had served as a catalyst for their friendship years ago, camaraderie fueled by late night talks during which Jesse had forged a curious bond with the frequently speechless son of John Wesley Hardin.  Despite Charlie's conflicted ideas on the lawlessness Jesse ruthlessly embraced, Jesse had found a brotherly affection for Charlie, defending and encouraging the other man almost as often as he could cruelly tease.

"Well, c'mon, now, stand up and let ole Jesse get a better look at you."  The fatigue marking the posture of Jesse's shoulders lightened suddenly, a shadow momentarily lifting from his features until he was all smiles and eagerness to embrace his friend with such welcome surprise.  Indeed, a sort of relief had settled into Jesse then, a lighter end to what had actually been a most unsettling week for a man with dwindling options and a war with ghosts raging in his tortured mind.


Clairvoyant Protector

03/24/2019 03:10 PM 

Find You

“I know how it feels to lose a loved one.” She murmured as she sat next to him on the couch, her head on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort and closeness without trying to be too close. She had been able to feel his pain and other pulsing emotions even before he’d been fully through her front door. She had known who it was pulling up to her house without even looking. And now that he was there, she wanted nothing more than to offer the little comfort and understanding that she could. She couldn’t fix anything for him, but she could make sure that he knew he wasn’t alone and even after…everything, she didn’t hate him or think any differently of him. No matter how he felt about himself.

“I know it’s not the same situation. It never is. So, saying ‘I understand’ always seems almost…stupid to me. Something I never want to say because no one understands completely. So, I’ll just say ‘I’m here.’” She paused for a moment to let the simple words that weren’t so simple at all sink in. “No matter what, I’ll always be here.” It was more of a vow than a mere promise and one she meant with every fiber of her being. “When you’re lost, I’ll find you. I’ll see you and make sure you can see yourself, too. Someone has to see the real you. And I do.”

Again she fell silent for what seemed like a long time. She didn’t expect him to speak or to really respond and that was okay. He didn’t have to talk. She just wanted him to listen and to believe that he was safe and loved with her. Even now, especially now. She didn’t ask what he had done that had brought him to her in the state he had been in before she had helped him get cleaned up. If he wanted to tell her, he could. If he didn’t…she wouldn’t try to force him. And after what he had been through…she really wouldn’t blame him either way.

Shifting slightly so that she could look at him, she watched him for a moment and then spoke again, making sure he was looking at her first. “I love you, Nacho. Even if you don’t love yourself. I can do enough for both of us.” He was one of her best friends and though she had said that before, had made sure he knew she considered him family, she wasn’t sure she had actually ever said she loved him. Those three words that didn’t always have a romantic connotation attached to them, but were sometimes the most important three words in the world.

“We don’t have to talk more tonight.” She told him after making sure he had heard what she said, whether he actually believed it right now or not, that he knew she meant it. “Or we can if you want to. Either way, I’m just…going to stay with you, okay? That would make me feel better.” She knew he wouldn’t turn her away when she put it like that and she was sure that it would be better for both of them if she did stay right there with him.

Pulling a blanket up around both of them, she leaned into him one more time, one arm holding the blanket while the other snaked around him in a comforting embrace, just holding on because someone had to. She was almost surprised when one of his arms went around her in return, though he still didn’t say anything and she sighed a little as they sat there in silence. Together because sometimes that was all that was needed to get through the darkest of nights. Someone to face it with you.
Face the darkness together.

cυrѕed.

03/24/2019 02:55 PM 

Owes List.

WHO I OWE



WHO OWES ME
Hope-R-3-14-19
Damon-R-3-24-19


LAST UPDATED ON 3-24-19

pompadoured cadaver.

03/24/2019 02:30 PM 

D*CK IN A BOX INTRO

He was surrounded, and it was embarrassing.

Thanks to his mind being busied by other things that weren’t work, he found himself slipping. Except this slip got him landed right in the middle of an Organization strong hold that got him captured. He felt every single bone in his body back against the floor as he felt a bulldozer of a man tackle him to the ground, driving his fists across Fletcher’s face repeatedly. “Alright, alRIGHT!” He choked out, “Mercy!” He snorted with laughter as another fist struck across his bloodied face. This was pleasurable for the man who sat atop him, driving his fists across his face. Fletcher could tell by the slight erection his assailant was pressing against his chest. Barf.

Before long they had injected him with something that made it felt like his whole body melted into a puddle of warm water. He began to giggle like a small child, his limbs flopping around like he was swimming through a lake that was being warmed by the hot desert sun. His vision blurred and sounds of the voices around him seemed like fait echoes of nothing, dissipating into a mist. As they drug his body from the poorly lit room he continued on his giggling, begging the boys to stop for ice cream. “C’mon dad!” He chirped as they struggled to get him out. “I’ve been such a good boy!” The knocked his head against the door, and again on the lip of the trunk as they tried to shuffle him into the car. They grunted and cussed at him as if it were his fault that he had no muscle control whatsoever.

Fletcher wasn’t sure what they Organization had in store for him but he didn’t get any chance to truly worry about it, anyway. Soon his vision went black and he didn’t remember anything except waking up with nothing but his head in a brown box, on the inside of the lid was a small sparrow sticker. The sticker brought him very little comfort but it was enough for him to stay silent until he was brought to his next destination.

The Man on the Inside:

Jeremy Peterson lived a simple enough life. He was a member of the Organization but not in the same sense as the rest of them. Thankfully for a weasel like Jeremy it wasn’t that difficult to become an otherworldly paper pusher, which is exactly what he happened to be in his actual life before he died. In the confines of the Organization walls, however, he was a very obedient and mindful little servant. Except for the small part of him who knew that the work he was doing was wrong, whether he ever wanted to admit it or not.  Light brown eyes thumbed through paperwork as he scanned shipping labels for the numerous boxes that he was in charge of shipping.

An unknown part of the Organization was the fact hat they had a way of dealing with rogue agents who didn’t wish to fall in line. They were able to remove their heads and ship them off to different warehouse they had around the world where they kept the brains of rogue agents would be subjected to biometric feed back training to recondition their brains to be better able to work. These heads were hen reunited with bodies the Organization kept on ice in separate facilities. This specific was only requested for the most heinous of offenders, the ones who wouldn’t budge against their humanity when it came to being locked away in purgatory.

Jeremys purpose was to make sure that the heads and bodies made it to where they were supposed to be heading, while also making sure that the paperwork on these bodies were filed appropriately. He would brag about how wonderful of a life it was to just stamp boxes with addresses all day and return to his cold and lonely life outside of work. He said that it made things simple and it kept him out of the field work. That was, however, until he met up with Fletcher.

Good ol’ Fletchy boy had found out about the recalibration effort to ensure that The Organization had entire control of their agents. He approached Jeremy who threated to call the authorities on him. Fletcher laughed, shoving the limp man into the wall, holding him there by the collar of his shirt. “Nah, I can see it in your eyes,” Fletcher said with a sneer as he shook his head. “I hate to tell you this, but if you have to tell someone that you’re going to do something before you uh… do it. It means you won’t. If you were going to call the “authorities” you’d have done it already.”

“That’s no-“ Jeremy tried to say before Fletcher smacked him across the mouth.

“Don’t lie, it’s not a good look for you.”

He dropped the man to his feet, situating himself within his own clothes. “Tell me about the heads.”

“Why? So you can continue on your fruitless quest to try and prevent in the inevitable?” Jeremy said as he wiped a dab of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Yup.” Was all Fletcher said as he walked over to the water decanter in the corner of the room, serving himself a paper cup of cold water.

“What are you really doing here?” Jeremy said as he went to sit back behind his desk, shuffling papers around to look busy.

“Got a bone to pick with an agent in a not so great way. We go way back – y2k times.” Fletcher said as he crumpled the paper cup and tossed it, trying to make it to the trash can but ultimately missing it. “Heard her head was making the rounds for going AWOL.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes, flopping down into his desk chair. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His voice waivered, no strength to be found in his tone or the glazed over look in his eyes. Fletchers reputation followed him, he really was the talk of the building most days. Jeremy was well aware that not doing what Fletcher wanted only meant more struggle in the long term. It was best to just do as he wished and let him be on his way, it was the only way that mitigated unnecessary suffering.

“I mean we can do this the hard way, or the hard way. I know what your body can be put through, and I’ve got all night really. Maybe we will start with your finger nails, and then just increase the pressure the longer you want to pretend like you actually give a damn about maintaining your reputation around this place.”

Jeremy slammed his hands down on the table, bringing himself to standing. His puffed out hot breaths of anger, frustration twisting his features. “Why me? Huh? Of all the God Damned targets that you could have, why did I come up on your radar?”

Fletcher leaned in, eye his counterpart with a joyful gleam in his eye. “Because you’re the guy. They’re getting ready to make you the lead on this whole head operation here. You’re gonna be the guy making the calls here real soon. And I’m here to enlist you into the resistance. There’s going to be some agents coming across your desk that will need recalibrating and I need you to make the call not to. Admit it, you don’t want to live this way. You know that it’s wrong and you only do what they tell you do because they hurt you, and continue to hurt you. I know. But imagine if they weren’t allowed to do that anymore – doesn’t that sound nice?”

Jeremy collapsed back into his chair, a morose look overcoming his face. He sighed, shaking his head as he brought his thumb and index finger to pinch at that bridge of his nose. “Alright, you’re right… f***. You’re so f***ing right.” He huffed and puffed as he shook his head. He wasn’t sure if it was because he Fletchers amazing way of making an entrance of the reputation that preceded him throughout The Organization but Jeremy was in. Begrudgingly so.

Obviously, there are a lot more dirtier details to their relationship but what it boiled down to was the fact that Fletcher gave Jeremy a large sheet of stickers with little red and orange sparrows all over him. Jeremy’s brow rose, very curious about what the hell he had just been gifted. Fletcher didn’t bother to tell Jeremy about the fact that he collected stationary with sparrows on it in honor of his mother, but reassured him that these sparrows were going to make sure they were able to safely communicate with one another. From then on Jeremy would mark all correspondence with the sparrows to let Fletcher know what was safe information that the Organization didn’t have yet, and what their next move was.

When Jeremy had heard a few guys bragging about sacking Fletcher at an old drug den, though, he was very curious as to what they were going to with him. So many times they had captured him before, and suddenly the idea of Fletcher rolling over on everyone he had snared in his liberating grasped dawned on Jeremy. That’s when he came to his office and noticed that there was some surprisingly questionable paperwork that had come across his desk. Apparently, there was shipment of heads leaving that day that needed immediate attention and shipped outside of the usual rotation. People at the top were worried that Fletcher had eyes on shipping schedules and they wanted to ensure that there wasn’t going to be a soul alive that would intervene in what they had planned for him.

However, they weren’t expecting Jeremy.

He was able to remember that one time Fletcher had told him to keep an eye out for a specific name. He never told Jeremy what was important about that name, only that if it ever came up. He did some research only to find out that the person Fletcher had been referring to was Amber Hemingway, a famous ABBA impersonator. Jeremy wasn’t able to piece together why this old woman was so important to Fletcher but he was able to make the executive decision that the only thing standing between Fletcher having his brain recalibrated was getting him into the hands of someone he trusted. Considering that Jeremy wasn’t in the business of keeping talking heads under his desk, he just assumed this girl was the next best shot. He looked up her P.O box online, and hoped for the best.

In the shipping room Jeremy opened up about seven boxes of heads. Each head drugged and unconscious, no doubt to ensure safe shipment. Fletchers head was off away from all of the others, in a different box than all of the rest. Jeremy knew they were being serious about getting him to where he was supposed to go and he just assumed that Fletcher was lucky that his inside person was the person in charge of the logistics. [[ Oh yeah hey hi! I am so glad that you have read this far, I’m really hoping you are enjoying yourself so far. This has been put here to tell you that you need to include your favorite fruit somewhere in your audition post so that I’m aware that you’ve read this short story thanks! ]] He placed a sparrow sticker on the inside of the lid of the box to hopefully bring his frenemy some comfort, and then changed the shipping label on the outside. Jeremy would lose his life for this, but his sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. He was a key part in ensuring the survival of the rest of the world, washing his soul clean of his previously transpired sins.

A HEAD AT HIS SISTERS:

Amber very rarely picked up her own mail. It was actually very common for her secretary to do it and then leave it in the doorway of her house. Fletcher had heard the exchange between the post officer work and the secretary come to pick everything up. His eyes peeked open slowly as the drugs began to wear off. He could hear the whirling of machines around him but he had no clue where he was. He was going to start shouting before he realized that someone had poked a hole in the box on accident to let him some light. That’s where he saw the illuminated sticker that reassured him that he wasn’t in Organization clutches. But when he heard his sister Ambers spoken, that’s when he began to devise the best plan to scare the ever-loving sh*t out of her.

Inside the box his head remained, staying as quiet as he could. He could feel every single bump and lump of the trip but to see the look on Ambers horrified face as she opened a box with a head in it just brought him so much sadistic joy. He listened to a brief exchange between Amber and her secretary about menial things that didn’t truly matter and felt when he was carried inside.

“How strange, I very rarely get boxes that don’t come from Prime.” Amber said as she gauged how heavy the box was. “What’s in here? Rocks?” She giggled a big, giving it a shake. That’s when she slammed the box down on the table with a thud, resulting in a small, quiet, “ow!” to come from the confines of the brown walls.

Amber spun around, looking at the box curiously. She swore she heard it make a noise but she wasn’t able to process that it actually came from the inside the box. She looked around for something to open it, settling on a knife that she had pulled from the block in her kitchen. She spun the box around to gain a better angel before sinking the blade into the tape line. No sooner had she done that Fletcher began to scream loudly from the inside of the small box.

“OW! OH F***! OW, MY EYE!” He shouted out, giving up his plan of playing dead as she pulled the box open.

Amber began to scream like a little girl, letting the whole neighborhood know that she was upset.

Something in her, though, demanded to know what the hell was in that box and she began to rip it open. As she peeled the tape, pulling back the brown flaps, she found her brother… well… part of her brother, grinning up at her.

“Hey sis! Bet you barely recognize me with all the weight I’ve lost!”

Amber shrieked again, shoving the now open box to the floor. Fletcher hit the ground with a thud, his head rolling across her living room. She shrieked louder when she realized that what she was experiences was not, in fact, a hallucination.

“FLETCHER??!” She said breathlessly, slowly walking over the head of her brother that was now facing the wall. As she walked over to him, she heard him making some noise, and she assumed that she had broken him in her fit of rage. However, as she got closer, she realized that he was trying to push his head over by using his tongue. “What the f*** is going on here?” She said, her voice still frantic and shakey.

“I went on the Jenny Craig plan. Really helped me drop some useless weight.” He said sarcastically, still staring at the wall. “Guess there went my career in stand-up comedy.”

It took entirely too much convincing to get Amber to pick him up and place him onto the table, but she did. As she stood before him, her arms cross in front of her, she listened to everything that Fletcher told her. Everything about getting captured and the man that he had on the inside that was obviously in charge to getting Fletcher to her.

“I mean, okay I get that.” Amber said, feeling the toll of the experience weigh down her 65-year-old heart. “But what the hell am I supposed to do? Seriously, Fletcher, this is freaky, even for you.”

“We gotta get my body back.” Fletcher said, sitting on a serving tray on the table. Amber said it was because she didn’t want to chance him staining the oak of her table.

“Where do we even start looking?” She said, still concerned that there was living, breathing Halloween decoration now sitting on her table.

“I know just the person. I need you take me to [ B L A N K ]!”


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