My third painting

 "A Difficult Place". Acrylics on canvas. Took about an hour and change.

Random excerpts from non-existent stories - III

There would never be forgiveness for what she'd done. So running was her only hope to stay alive. Sitting in that fog-drenched alley was comforting. She felt safe, hidden. It was only a few minutes past three in the small hours but her faculties were sharp. Part of that was the crank but most of it was a different kind of rush.

Zara put it into gear and pressed down on the gas, guiding the '69 Mustang out onto the side street. Both her jeans and dark brown leather jacket were ripped in various places that spoke of a struggle. She looks up into the rearview to verify the blood running from her nose. One black eye. A busted lip. More blood on her cheek, but it's dried. Her night had been full. It was time to get as far from there as she could on the quarter tank of gas she had left. She checked her pockets. Fifty-two and change. Forty for gas, the rest for incidentals. Whatever it took to put as many miles between her and Little Rock as possible. She could sleep once daylight brought her to Wichita Falls. Until then, white line fever.

The roads were always dead at this time of morning. She liked it. In fact, she preferred it. People weren't high on her list of acceptable company. Her best friend was freedom. And if you stood between her and that special need, you'd see the wrong side of her personality. Her youthful appearance and pixie haircut whispered cute and innocent - but that's the last thing she was! Twenty-seven years walking this Earth taught her a few things. One of which was to never trust anyone. If you had a pulse, you were her enemy.

Only a few more blocks to the highway. The amphetamines were pumping, she was grinding her teeth and stomping her left foot hard and fast but there was no music on. Then, her life changed. Blue and red flashing in the rearview brought her dreams of getting out crashing down. Not enough gas to try and run.

Life will always bring you the inevitable. Whether that's good or bad all depends on you. Water the flowers, not the weeds. She pulled over and killed the engine. Slowly, she reached over into the passenger seat and carefully brought that .357 into her lap.


She knew she would never be able to explain that body in the trunk.

Random excerpts from non-existent stories - II

A man sits duct-taped to a folding metal chair in the backroom of a liquor store. He's badly beaten. Blood has painted his shirt as the man dealing the pain sits across from him taking a smoke break.

"You sure you don't want one?" the man asked while holding up a pack of cigarettes.

"Nah, I quit." said the beaten man.

"That's good. It adds years to ya life they say."

Another man stands feet away, watching it all play out.

"How long you gonna beat me for?"

"Til we get what we need..."

"Well I already told ya, I don't know nothin'..."

The seated smoking man stands, flicks his cigarette butt and rekindles the relationship between his right fist and the bleeding man's face. The sounds of thinly-fleshed bone fill the room with a dank thud. Every blow, turning the man's head, sending tendrils of blood onto his already stained clothing.

"A name. That's all. And you can walk out of here. No hard feelings." promised the man with raw knuckles.

"I can't give ya what I ain't got. So go fuck ya mother, ya fuckin' pig."

The man stood there, looking down on this worthless small-time thug. An "associate" of some very powerful people. But on his own, he was nobody. A big nothing. One thing for sure, he could take a beating!

"Let me try..." said the other man.

"Be my guest."


If this prick didn't break soon, Newark Bay would have one more resident lining it's littered floor.

Random excerpts from non-existent stories - I

 "Jesus, Mary and Joseph... he really went nuts this time."

Two men witness the end result of their boss's rage in what used to be a warehouse depot station.

"We're gonna need more bleach." he said before walking back to the car.

"There's four bottles! It's enough!" his associate assured.

Blood pooled in the deeper recesses of the old battered concrete flooring. This wasn't their first time hitting clean-up but it was the worst scene for them yet. Limbs of the fallen lay in small piles like a nightmarish collection of discarded doll parts. The smell of blood was so strong in the air one could barely keep from retching. Tasting it. Feeling the murderous death that only just hours prior took place. A slaughterhouse where the meat was left to rot.

"You ready?" he questioned while sliding on a pair of latex gloves. 

"This is fucked up." replied the younger man holding the two half-gallon bottles.

My first ever painting!!

 Acrylic paints on canvas. Took about 90 minutes.

The Inevitable

 The concrete steps were cold and damp but she didn't care. There was more on her mind than getting her jeans wet. Tapping both feet to an imagined rhythm, Emmie lost herself in a train of looping logic - the how's and why's. The outcome. How she would get past what now lay before her. Then, the taste of blood. Gently, she suckled her bottom lip and thought of only one thing: Vengeance. A light mist blew across her bruised face as she pulled a broken cigarette from the pocket of her flannel. It was alone. Apparently her lighter took leave during the struggle. Fuckin' junkies. Always trouble. Their loss becomes yours. Ever-imposing upon you whether intended or otherwise. "May they all die a cruel death" she thought. 

Her phone rang. Pulling it from her right front pocket, her jeans now almost completely soaked, she looks down to see a withheld number.

"Yeah..." she muttered in monotone. Five seconds pass before she speaks again.

"On my way." she said before quickly returning her phone to its home in denim.

Emmie was tired and it pulled on her every inch but this was no time to drag. Thirty minutes to get to her destination. This was her end of the road. She had a cop to kill.

The cold hard Truth

 Everything's a lie. Nothing is real. And it all ends in tragedy.