"A Father's Love" - Third in the four-part series 'Hoof' - Mixed media on plywood. My 182nd painting.

Henry marches a naked man into his kill room. On in years with a rotund build - his gait unbothered by the .38 at the back of his neck.

“Stop. Turn around.”

 
His hands bound in front, Henry pushes him backwards onto a chair with several nails protruding upwards from the seat. Pain forces a grunt. Henry pulls the hood from his head.

“What the fuck is this?”

 
Henry treads across the cold, unaccommodating room and leans against a table - staring the man down through his pig mask.

“Who are they? You think this scares me?”

Kenneth and the teacher are seated only a few feet away at ten and two o’clock.

 
Henry approaches with a roll of duct tape and secures the man to the chair.

 
“If you’re gonna kill me, get to it. You’re not doing any weirdo faggot shit!”

Henry finishes and throws the roll across the room. He backs away, facing his guest.

“Is that why you took my clothes? Why you’re naked too? You sick fuck!”

Henry steps forward, looming over the man.
“You don’t remember me.” he declares.

The man fidgets on the small but punishing chair.
“No, I don’t know any sicko freaks.”

Henry removes his mask and takes two steps back.
“And now?”

He scrutinizes Henry’s face.
“All I know is you’re one ugly son of a bitch.”

Henry walks to the table and returns with a barber’s strap - which he abruptly slams across the man’s face, twice. Left cheek, then right.

“Do tell when I’ve jogged your memory.”

The speech impairment, the slight hobble in his step. Neither artifact giving him away.

He collects a chair from the corner and takes a seat halfway across the room. A pristine quiet falls gently over the entire space.

“I swore to myself that this day would come - and here we are.” Henry begins.

He stands and paces methodically, like a tiger scheming in its cage.
“How does it feel to be on the receiving end?”

The man is silent and expressionless.

 
“It wasn’t even all the beatings I got - it’s what you did to her. That’s why you’re here.”

His movements swell with decades of unprocessed rage.
“That time she stopped you from almost killing me.” Henry pauses, balling his fists.

A disgusting grin slowly takes form across the man’s face.
“There he is, all grown up - little faggot retard cripple.”

 
Henry burns holes through him with his eyes, then strides to the old tool box. Atop the rusty pile of implements - a weathered but razor sharp machete.

“She always made such a fuss over you. Little shit. How is Dottie?”

Henry lays the machete on his chair and moves towards his guest. A solid right hook ejects a tendril of blood from the man’s mouth.

“You don’t get to say her name!” he quietly roars through clenched teeth.

Henry picks up the machete and is seated.

“You had me on the floor - kicking me, punching me, swearing, screaming. A seven year-old boy.”

The man snickers at Henry’s painful recounting.
“You were a spineless little fuck. Momma’s boy.”

“She ran up from behind, put her arm around your neck, pulled you off me.”
“Anything for poor little Henry.” the man mocks.

“You pulverized her face for that. Knocked eight of her teeth out. Broke her jaw in six places.” Henry says with a slight tremble.

“She should’ve known her place, let me make a man of you.”

Henry rises from his seat and drags a small wooden table towards his former step-father, leaving the blade on top.

“She passed three years ago.”

The captive sits quietly.

“Tonight, I keep my promise to her.”

Henry stretches his arms and back, cracks his knuckles and starts in slow and steady. The first punch claims two teeth, the third fractures the jaw, the fifth breaks the nose. One after the other, blood covering face and fists.

 
Twenty-three jabs later the older man is transformed, identifying features lost in the swelling. Alive but only just.

 
“We’re nearly there.” Henry informs.

He moves the table close and frees the man’s arms from their duct tape bindings, placing them across its surface. The man grumbles before a spate of wet coughing.

Henry holds his left arm down and raises the machete.
“You will never strike another in anger.”

The blade drops with purpose - left hand removed. Then the right. The man so far gone his only response is a sharp cry followed by child-like whimpering. He lies slumped over the table, blood pooling from the wounds.


“Goodbye Arthur.”


Henry returns to his seat to watch the man expire.

"Long May You Wander" - Second in the four-part series 'Hoof' - Mixed media on plywood. My 181st painting.

The chair creaks beneath shifting weight - rapid, irregular breathing from the occupant tightly secured to its wooden frame. The room cuts through him with icy precision and unbending silence. Henry tears the blood-stained hood from his head, revealing the night.

“What in the world?” the man exclaims.

He’s met head-on with a butchered corpse seated at arm’s length in front of him.

“Oh lord what is this?”

Henry’s first victim keeping a keen eye on present company.
“And why are you undressed?”

The mask and boots being Henry’s only attire.
“I guess this is a reunion of sorts?” Henry announces.

The older man wriggles on the seat.
“Who are you? What am I doing here?”
“First, an introduction.” Henry offers.

The man takes quick stock of his surroundings.
“A former pupil. Hazard a guess?”
“I’ve utterly no clue! Is this your handiwork?”

Henry circles his old classmate then moves to a standing position behind his former teacher.

“Kenneth Anders.”
“I remember that name! Bit of a rounder he was, but all boys are at that age.”

Henry steps to the front of his guest.
“You facilitated his terrible behavior.”

The elder man looks up at Henry.
“I’m sure I’ve done no such thing!”
“Liar!” he screams.

The man flinches.
“And who are you then?”

“Every day - in class, the halls, the playground - I would be on the receiving end of his scornful abuse. You did nothing! As though he had your blessing. Like I deserved it.”

Henry’s impediment in speech becoming more pronounced as emotions heighten.
“Not only that but you never declined an opportunity to ridicule me either - especially in front of the other students.”

A once enlivened face now drains of conviction. The former educator sinking into the sins of his past.

“It’s you - the Saffles boy.” he mumbles in faint confession.

Henry pushes Kenneth’s chair closer to his guest. Near enough to taste the rot.

“I did nothing untoward! T’was merely a case of boys being boys! The folly of youth! We all take our lumps!”

Henry strolls across the uninviting room to the old wooden tool box where a claw hammer catches his fancy. He turns to face the man.
“This is a vile overreaction! Nothing worthy of such heinous measures!”

Unhurried, calculated, each step - one foot, then another. Henry dissolves the distance between himself and the quarry.

“You cannot put this right with such dreadful acts of violence! What’s done is done!”

Henry stands hulking over the desperate, self-righteous individual.
“You’re an abomination! No better than a rabid beast!”

 
Henry removes his mask and glares into the man’s eyes.
“You do not have to do - “

Interrupted by the crushing force of steel to his kneecaps. Three to the left, three to the right. The older man shrieks, receiving nine strikes of the hammer on each leg. Then, a show of his weak bladder.

Henry steps back to allow the man breathing room. He can only manage grunts and whimpers.

Back to the tool box to exchange the hammer for something more surgical and befitting the occasion.
“You are a sick, murderous wretch. Your day will come.”

Henry situates himself behind the chair, a knife with razor-sharp serrations placed against the old man’s throat.

 
“May you forever wallow in your own cruelty.” Henry says in parting.

The blade rips into an artery, working from side to side, penetrating front to back. Short work was made of removing the man’s head, which Henry gently places upon his blood-drenched lap.

“Dismissed.”


Now, an audience of two.

"The Day is Come" - First in the four-part series 'Hoof' - Mixed media on plywood. My 180th painting.

 

Henry exits the quick-shop, bag in hand. He shuffles down the sidewalk and enters an alleyway - stopping at the rear of a car from which noises emanate. He stares at the trunk, muffled grunts and haphazard kicking.

 
A stray cat several yards away catches his attention, before darting between dilapidated slats of an old wooden fence. He moves through the darkness, reaching the spot where the feline disappeared.

 
Under the pale flicker of a street light, Henry retrieves a small can from his bag. He opens and dumps its contents onto the ground and returns to the car. The trunk has gone quiet - he watches and waits. Moments pass, the cat emerges to find the food. Then, a surprize -

 
One small kitten appears, then a second and a third. They join mother in the tiny feast. He knows it’s not enough. He sets his bag down and revisits the shop, returning with another.

 
He glides cautiously towards the little family - they spot him and scurry back under the weathered planks. Henry kneels and opens three new cans.

“It’s alright kitties, I have more food.”

He stands and moves briskly up the alley. Again, the fur family sneak back out one at a time until all four are devouring the delicious morsels. Henry looks on, smiling.

 
More noise from the trunk. Henry throws the lid open, glares at the source of the bother.

 
“Shut up! Almost there.” he growls, punching the troublemaker and slamming the trunk closed.


A simple metal building with its corrosive display presented as an otherworldly way station against a backdrop of eerie light - a haunting, dank glimmer from a waxing gibbous orb high overhead - the scene, one of marvel yet chilling and vampiric.

 
Within the tumbledown structure, many several miles from anywhere, an impenetrable hush fills every battered inch of its modest space.

Lashed to a wooden chair - a man wearing a dirty grey hood shakes uncontrollably as urine drips from the seat. Henry stands just feet away - naked barring a black set of scuffed tactical boots and a shield crudely constructed from a pig’s face, strapped on like a hockey mask.

Henry snatches the hood, the man yelps - squinting in the dim, confusing light.

“Oh God, what is this? Who are you?” he blurts.

Henry is statuesque, dismantling him with silence.

“Why am I here?” he challenges with cracked voice.

Henry turns, takes three steps, then does an about-face.
“You are not a nice person.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

Henry moves forward, circles the chair, stopping behind.
“You are not a good person.” he adds and coasts across the room.
“What the hell does that mean?”

Reaching down into an old mahogany tool box, Henry takes up an item in each hand, then redirects his focus.

 
“You did terrible things to me as a child.”

The man’s breath gallops upon witnessing the objects Henry holds.
“What do you mean? I don’t even know you! What the fuck did I do?”

Slow and menacing, Henry advances towards the individual fastened to the chair, halting posterior.

“Every day in school - the torture, the names, the beatings.” he informs, tapping a pair of pliers on the man’s right shoulder.

Sweaty and breathless - he squirms in his seat, fighting the restraints.
“You’ve got the wrong person! I never did any such thing!”

Henry steps around to the front.
“It was you!” he screams, inches from his face.
“No! I swear, it wasn’t!”

Henry kneels, unlaces and removes his boot - exposing the remnants of his birth defect.

He gazes down at Henry’s deformity with glassy, bloodshot eyes.
“See?” Henry corrects.

He puts his boot back on and grabs his tools.
“Oh God, oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no!” he whimpers.

Henry stands before him, lightly tapping the pliers and fish gutting knife together.

“We were kids, just children! Please, don’t, don’t do this!”

Henry stomps on the man’s right foot, grinding his boot in.
“Open your mouth.”

The childhood bully weeps, squeals.
“Now!” he yells.

 
The man obeys, his quivering lips reluctantly part.
“May you be absent of voice in the life to come.”

Henry clamps the tongue, pulling it nearly from the root - then hacks at it with rage and frenzy. The man bellows and gurgles in the appropriate manner.

“Hoof!” Henry howls, raising the tongue to the heavens.

 
The throttled man gasps, shrieks and gushes blood.

Henry sets the pliers and pound of flesh down a few feet away, returning to him with the knife.

 
“Back to the stars.” he softly declares.

The seven-inch blade plunges into the dying man’s chest, cutting, twisting through bone and cartilage - removing his heart. Henry delivers both trophies to the old tool box then carefully paces back to his guest.


He removes his mask and crowns the deceased man with a severed pig’s head.

Hoof

Peoria, Illinois - April 1980.

Henry Saffles, 29, was born with a club foot and cleft palate. His early days of school were vexing - relentlessly beaten and bullied for his disabilities. Cruel and hateful name-calling rang out from every direction - pighoof, crippletard.

I was always the outcast.

A kind, gentle soul my mother would say but behind that unfortunate facade, buried in shame and shadow, a tormented and violent creature. One taught by tragedy to gnash at the chains of decency - shackled by an absurdly indecent society.

Forced to tolerate the vile acts and sickness of others in the name of convention - keeping in line, taking the high road, turning the other cheek - all just infantile pretense for the weak and self-deceived. No more will I play along.


People always made me out to be a monster. 

Maybe it’s finally time to prove them right.



Hoof

The Day is Come

Long May You Wander

A Father’s Love

Unrest



A four-part writing/painting series.

Coming soon.

Update on 'Alone'

I'm shelving the project for now. Going to work on something else.
No teasers until it's completely done. Hopefully it'll end up there.

"Away From it All" - First in the four-part series 'Alone' - Mixed media on plywood. My 179th painting.

 

Mooresville, Indiana - June 18, 1993.

It’s official - I’m the brand-new owner of a big ass farmhouse! Minus the farm. Two stories on three acres. I’m surrounded by gorgeous woodlands! Morning walks in the fall, I can already feel the cool air on my face, the crunch of dried leaves underfoot. This is where it all starts!

 
However, a heaviness lingers. The previous owner - an elderly woman in her nineties - passed away here. She lost both her husband and only son in the Second World War. France or Poland I think. After that, her health went into steady decline until the unfortunate end.

But things begin anew!

 
The realtor met me here just after lunchtime with the keys, congratulated me and was rather quick to be on his way. Seemed a bit off but I suppose his day is full.

 
Got everything moved in, only what I had in the truck bed, just need to unpack and put it all away. Still house poor! I’ll be on task Monday to get some furniture.

 
Until then, it’s simple living - my old sleeping bag and collapsible camping chair. May even sleep outside, soak up my new environment. I’m so excited!


Sunday - June 20.

Good Sunday Morning! Slept a little better last night. A few blankets under the sleeping bag made all the difference! First order of business was coffee, which I’m still presently enjoying, then - I flushed the sertraline. I’ve had it with nausea, headaches and spontaneous dry heaves. Fuck all that! Gonna look into something natural, maybe find an apothecary or herbal shop. There has to be something local to fit the bill. I’ll add it to my list:

- bed

- sofa

- table/chairs

- fridge & stove

- typing paper

- natural pick me ups

 
Just the essentials for now. There’s plenty of time to fill this place with all the comforts of home. Speaking of essentials, I’m starving! I think a quick trip to my favorite guilty pleasure - the golden arches - is in order! Then maybe a little wander around town to see what’s what. It’s so quiet I can actually hear the birds and the wind in the trees. This will be the best chapter of my life!


Beth would have loved it here.

Alone [intro]

Moira Finley, 41, florist - is embarking on a new path to find her place in the world.


Cleveland, Ohio - June 14, 1993.

My ex-therapist always suggested keeping a journal. So here we go I guess.

First day as an unemployed florist. Months in the making but I did it - I sold the shop! Twelve years of blood and sweat. Just couldn’t do it anymore. My heart wasn’t in it. Such a shame when our love for things falls cold. No more settling for safe and familiar.

I want to feel alive again!

So with these two packs of ballpoints, stack of spiral notebooks and mom’s old typewriter - it’s now or never - I’m gonna start writing! Got enough savings to coast a few months before having to get a “real job” - I really think I can make this work.

Friday I close on the new place. The truck will be loaded and Cleveland in the rear view. Here’s to fresh starts and a new life!



Alone

Away From it All

Things Amiss

Stirrings

No Uncertain Terms



A four-part writing/painting series - initiating contact, soon.