The conflict has begun...

A time for all things.

Life destroys us without cause.

Cursed to walk alone.




March 2026

"The Confession pt. 2" - Final in the three-part series 'Heretic' - Mixed media on plywood. My 178th painting.

 

The video resumes and Darcy returns to her chair. Mute and despondent, she stares at the floor. Moments tick past, she rises and steps out of view.

 
There’s a tapping sound, like plastic on a hard surface - then a swift snort, followed by two sharp sniffles. She re-enters the frame wiping her nose and is seated.

 
Her attention settles on the table, the release of tears - she lifts the bottle and pours one more, without drinking.

“The night of the 11th, it was after midnight - maybe closer to one, making it the 12th - my birthday. I broke into the daycare.”

She takes a healthy pull from the glass.
“I almost talked myself out of this one.”

She wipes her eyes and face.
“But I had to see it through.”

Darcy takes a long, deep breath. Her expression contorts, she sobs with mournful abandon - covering her face with both hands - the tormented wailing muffled.

She finds a break in the upheaval.

“I went into the kitchen, looked around. There was a giant pitcher of fruit punch or juice in the fridge. It was nearly full.”

She tilts her head back, rolls it side to side.
“I had ten bottles of eye drops - six into the pitcher.”

She reaches for the glass and finishes its contents.
“There were two plastic containers of cookies on the counter. A bottle in each.”

Darcy turns sideways and doubles over in her chair - howling, convulsing as she wept.

“I saw the news report and knew I’d made a horrific mistake!” she concedes between sobs.

“Twenty-seven babies! Three to six years-old!”

 
She screeches a few unintelligible words, guilt and shame eating her alive.
“I didn’t want them to have a lifetime of suffering!”

The fury settles, she catches her breath.
“I was wrong.”

She blots her face with the hem of her shirt.

“I truly believed this was the only way of granting mercy on the innocent - but it wasn’t.”

Darcy stands and walks out of frame. Close to a minute elapses before her return. She takes her seat, throws the glass into the kitchen and chugs from the bottle.

 
Her dead eyes grip the camera lens -

 
“That’s all.”


The detectives watch Darcy end her life with a self-inflicted gunshot.

"The Confession pt. 1" - Second in the three-part series 'Heretic' - Mixed media on plywood. My 177th painting.

 

Two detectives are seated in a conference room at a large formica topped table. Across from them - a television set with built-in DVD player. The forensic materials specialist enters.

“Digitized copy of the confession tape.” he says, holding up a disc.

He slides it into the player.

“Ending is pretty gnarly.” he offers through a repressed grin.

The men stare at him blankly.

 
“Enjoy.” he adds, then takes his awkward leave.

The video begins with snowy screen carry-over from the VHS source material, then a few jumping horizontal lines complete with monochrome pushing its way into color - finally, the main attraction.

 
A young woman enters the frame and sits on a wooden dining room chair, one of three in view. A whiskey glass and liquor bottle occupy the table. Her appearance is haggard - eyes red and vacant, dark mousy brown hair slightly tousled but greasy and matted in places. Faded, ripped jeans and a wrinkled blue flannel shirt.

 
She starts off slow and timid - her obvious struggle for words and stammering make the first few minutes a chore. After a sampling of the bottle, her stride is found.

 
“Once I decided to embrace this new perspective, that Earth was a prison for souls - and there was little anyone could do to defeat the endless loop of reincarnation cycles - I committed to what I felt had to be done.”

Darcy pauses briefly.

“I would liberate them from their flesh tombs - so that they might know something beyond this captivity.”

She runs her left hand through her hair.

“Figuring out who to free first wasn’t easy. I’d never killed anyone before. I was scared.”

She stands and paces in and out of frame while talking.

“Then it came to me - I’d pop my murder cherry on a cop.”

The men exchange a transient glance.

 
“The more I thought about it, a strange excitement took hold. Who wouldn’t want to dust a fuckin’ pig?”

Darcy takes her seat and unbuttons the flannel, exposing a washed-out black t-shirt underneath, peppered with an array of holes and gashes.

She rubs her face with both hands.

“I staked out this house in a nice neighborhood - old married couple. Caught on to their routine.”

Darcy pours a drink and takes a sip.

“Last Wednesday night I made my move - after they left I broke in through the back patio doors and called 9-1-1. Pretended I was being beaten by my violent husband, needed help, please send an officer kinda thing.”

She takes another sip.

“I fucked the place up a little so it looked convincing, left the front door cracked - with all the lights off, I hid in the hallway bathroom - ready.”

She tilts her head back, looks at the ceiling and yawns.

“I got quite the surprize though.”

Darcy stands and begins pacing again.

“I heard the cop enter and announce himself, then there was talking - two people - I panicked. Didn’t plan on killing two cops.”

She rolls up her sleeves.

“He called out to me, asked where I was. I yelled back in the best frightened voice I could muster - it happened really fast.”

She rubs the back of her neck with her right hand and returns to her seat.

“He pushed the bathroom door open with his flashlight. I was huddled on the floor against the wall. When he flipped the light on I had already turned around - shot him in the face. The second cop was just behind, got him in the shoulder. He went down in the hall. I was quick to my feet and with a third and final shot. Again, to the face.”

“Fuckin’ cunt.” mumbles one of the detectives.

“I got the hell outta there. I was parked a couple blocks over next to a field, drove straight home - pulled the car into the garage that night.”

 
She glances off camera and laughs quietly to herself.

“Once I was home, showered, my clothes burned - I wasn’t afraid. If I’m honest, it felt good. Really good.”

Darcy leaves her chair, walking out of frame into the kitchen. Restrained grunts evolve into loud bellows as she kicks and punches cabinets and possibly the wall.

 
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck you, goddamn fuck!”

A full minute of this before she returns to her seat. Tears mark her cheeks - her bloodshot eyes find the lens, she screams at the top of her lungs. Several intense but stifled sobs before wiping her face.

 
She takes a stabilizing breath.

“No regrets.” she admits calmly.

Darcy trickles two fingers of bourbon into the glass, rolls it around and takes a drink.

“Couple nights later I went to the church to handle the pastor and his wife. There was only one car in the parking lot, figured it was just him. Didn’t know she was there too until after.”

She takes another drink.

“I ran inside, scoping it out, to see if anyone else was there. Halfway down the hall I was met by the lady. I put on my best hysterical act, claiming my crazy boyfriend was after me. She took me into a back office where her husband sat at a big desk shuffling papers.

She closed the door and I pulled out the gun. Told them to get down on their knees, hands behind them. She started crying but they did as they were told. I cuffed them - compliments of the dead cops - made them sit back-to-back in the middle of the floor.

He started bargaining - ma’am, I don’t know what’s happening but can you let my wife go? You can keep me just please let her go. She teaches Sunday school. I told him to shut the fuck up. I opened my backpack and got to it.”

Darcy lulls into a pensive state.

“First, I soaked a rag with ether, knocked ‘em both out.”

She clears her throat and pauses.

“Then I covered their heads with plastic bags, duct taped tightly around their necks.”

She leans forward, pinches the bridge of her nose.

“I didn’t eat at all that day, felt so sick. Must’ve been the crank.”

For a short interval, she falls still and silent - then looks directly into the camera.

“I need the restroom.”


Darcy moves to the camcorder and hits STOP.

"I'll Be Waiting" - First in the three-part series 'Heretic' - Mixed media on plywood. My 176th painting.

 

Kansas City, Kansas - March 14, 1990.

The dusty and worn video camera emits a faint whistling as its internal mechanisms work together to slowly spin the tape forward.

Darcy leaves her chair and steps out of frame. The sounds of a phone call being made.

 
[Ringing]

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?”
“I’m the one they’re looking for.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m the one they want - the three recent events in the news. It was me.”

She leaves the receiver to hang from the wall.

 
“Hello? Ma’am? Are you there?”

Darcy returns to her seat - picks up the glass, throws it across the room - then grabs the bottle and takes several heroic swigs before slamming it back down.

She reaches onto the chair beside her, a .380 comes into view. She rests it on the table. A desperate, prolonged gaze into the lens.

“That’s all.”

Darcy lifts the gun, places the barrel to the roof of her mouth and pulls the trigger.


A few seconds pass and the tape runs out, the camcorder shuts off.

Heretic [intro]

A disheveled young woman, manic and flustered in movement, sets up a video camera facing a small dining table where sits a lone glass and bottle of bourbon. She hits record, checks that it’s rolling and takes her seat.

“I don’t know how to start this - “ her voice scratches.

She clears her throat.

“I need to say some things first. I am not crazy.”

She takes a measured breath.

“I am not crazy!” she yells into the camera.

She pours a drink, swills about half then returns the glass to the table.

“There are dark forces working against me, against all of us.”

She nervously rearranges the bottle and glass.

“We’re not supposed to be here - and this is never going to end.” her words quake with dread.

She finishes the drink, pushes out a labored breath and stares at the table, then at the wall behind the camera.

“People live their whole lives in fear of going to Hell. Not knowing - we’re already there.” she says, wringing her hands.

The increasingly agitated woman leaps from her chair and paces in and out of frame.

“We’re tricked into coming here.”

Another strained breath before being seated.

“Sometimes under the threat of force, like we have no say in the matter. Souls are trapped here, in this prison colony - our suffering is their food.”

She leans back in her chair.

“Escape is made to look impossible.”

She locks onto the lens, unblinking.

“The worst part is - I’m beginning to believe it.” her tone quiet, conquered.

She shuffles in her seat and refills the glass.

“Under this impression, I made decisions to do what most would consider terrible things - but I really saw no other solution. I did not take pride nor pleasure in these acts, they were done simply because they had to be.”

Tears run, her face twists in pain.

“I wanted there to be another way - there wasn’t.”

She empties her glass and stares hard into the camera.

“My name is Darcy Alban. I was born March 12, 1961.


This is my confession.”



Heretic

I’ll Be Waiting

The Confession pt. 1

The Confession pt. 2


A new three-part writing/painting series - splintering into forever, soon.


Coming 2026.

Heretic [teaser]

This world has always been ruled by evil. Men of no morals with great ambition who fought to the death to keep their secrets while bowing to and serving the Old Ones.

They were lied to by demons. We were lied to by them.

Centuries of subversion gave birth to all the deceptive religions, corrupt political systems and institutions that paved every society with the worst of intentions. Now, entrenched in these false beliefs, these chains of delusion - we flounder in the darkening chaos that grows more powerful with every mind lost to its lure, every soul trapped in its treachery. This prison we know as home.


Earth is not the place you think it is.



“Heretic”



Coming 2026

"Samsara" - Final in the three-part series 'SICK' - Mixed media on plywood. My 175th painting.

 

Conway, Arkansas - May 10, 1995.

Five years of my life just pissed away locked up in various mental facilities - and what good has it done me? I’m still fucked up, unable to fully function in society like all the other boys and girls. I know it doesn’t sound like much in the grand scheme of things but I’m only thirty-one, so five years is a much more significant chunk of my life than if I were an old fuck of sixty or something. It’s having that feeling of running in place while the rest of the world keeps passing you by.


It’s way overdue that I start making up for lost time.


“What’s the plan for today?” Linda asks.
“Probably just hang out here - maybe take a walk later.”
“That’ll be nice, fresh air.”
“Then I was gonna go see Judy.”

Her eyes glance off the back of his head as she crosses the room.

“You think that’s a good idea?”

He takes a breath.

“There are some things I have to say.”
“You need the car?”
“No, I’ll get a ride.”

His aunt breezes past touching his left shoulder.

“Be careful.”

 
She grabs her purse, pulling out her keys.

“Chinese tonight?” she asks smiling.
“Sure.”
“See you later.” she says exiting, closing the door behind her.

Caldwell abruptly leaves his seat, moving to the window. He peeks through the curtains - watches her reverse from the driveway and disappear up the street.

 
He strides briskly down the hall to her bedroom. He’s frenzied, searching - then - paydirt! Nightstand, bottom drawer.

He gathers his things and makes a call.

“Hey, can you pick me up?”


HALF AN HOUR LATER

Caldwell sits shotgun in Samantha’s car out front of The Builder’s Barn - a local big box hardware store.

He studies the entrance then lowers his eyes to the dashboard.

“I can’t do this today.”
“Don’t sweat it, they’re always hiring.” she assures.

She starts the car.

“Where now?”
“Can you take me a couple blocks from here?”
“Sure.”

She puts it in gear and coasts from the parking lot.

“I’ll give you a shout later, if you’re still up for what we discussed.”
“OK.”
“Turn right, here.”

They enter a slightly-rundown residential area.

“Slow.” he says.

She eases on the brake.

He scrutinizes the homes as they creep past.

“Drop me at the stop sign.”

She finishes the block, stopping at the sign.

“You need me to wait or anything?”
“Nah, this is good.”

He jumps from the vehicle, shuts the door.

“Call ya later.” he says through the open window.

She drives away - he walks back up the street.

He crosses the yard of a pale marigold house, approaches the door but before he can knock he’s met by a grizzled older man bearing the look of half biker gang member, half druggie burnout.

“Hey man, what’s goin’ on?”
“I’m here to see Judy.”
“Oh yeah, cool man. I gotta go handle some shit but I’ll be back tonight, you be around?”
“I’ll be here.” his voice and expression in deadpan.
“Killer, I’ll bring some beer. Catch ya later.”

The man trots through the yard to an old beat-up truck, hops inside and drives off.

 
Caldwell enters the living room, his mother slumped in a ragged recliner - nodding hard from the needle still sticking in her arm. He removes his backpack, sets it on the floor and takes a seat on the couch.

“What do you want? I’m paid up, don’t owe you nothing.”
“It’s me, your son.”

She wallows in the chair, one side to the other.

“Ain’t no son of mine.”
“You don’t recognize me?”

 
He lifts the backpack onto the couch and reaches inside.

“Recognize this?” he asks, holding up a folded extension cord.

Her eyes roll around, not taking notice of the object in his right hand.

“No matter what I did, how good I was - you always found a reason to use this on me.”
“You were always a disobedient little shit.”

Caldwell stands and advances towards the junkie, relocating her to a wooden chair a few feet away, ties her hands together behind her back with the failed conversation piece - then returns to his seat.

“What the fuck is this? Why are you even here?”

 
He removes a box cutter from his bag, places it on the coffee table - then the .38 he borrowed from Linda, holding it on his lap.

“Oh you gonna shoot me now?”

“You were supposed to love and protect me - but you beat and neglected me, offered me up to dealers and sickos. How could you do that to your own child?”

She issues a bit of starch to her back.

“I showed you the real world, made you a man!”
“You made me a monster!” he screams back.

 
A quiet moment.

 
“Doesn’t matter, no woman will ever want you no how.” she slurs through an opiate haze.
“You’re a sick fucking cunt and the world will be a better place without you.”

Through the fog of addiction, her head raises and eyes beam with anger.

“I’m still your mother!”
“NO! You don’t get to use that word anymore!”

The air chokes with decades of brokenness.

 
“I kept you alive.”
“You ruined me!”
“I gave you what you needed to make it.”

His eyes redden, releasing streams of saline. He sets the gun on the couch, picks up the box cutter and moves again to his captive audience.

“Deep breath.” he says softly, standing behind her.

She fights against his hold.

 
“You were never fit to live anyway.” she seethes.

He jams the blade underneath her left ear, pulling it hard all the way to the right - her words followed by a river of crimson spewing from the gaping wound.

 
He sits across from her, his soon-to-be former matriarch, smoking a cigarette. Their eyes holding one another as she bleeds out.

 
The front door opens.

 
“I forgot my wallet.” the scruffy man says as he’s met with the gruesome scene.
“What the fuck?” he cries.

 
Caldwell thumps his half-smoked cig across the room.

 
“You’re back early.” he declares calmly.

Without hesitation, he raises the .38 and puts two in the shocked man’s face, who hits the floor like dead timber.

Not part of the plan. This would complicate things. Discharging a firearm would no doubt grab the attention of those nearby - and in broad daylight.

 
“Fuck. Fuck! Shit!” he yells and runs to the window to peer through a gently-lifted blind.

 
He turns to witness full view of the fruits of his labor. Each empty vessel compounding the pain of the other. One of intention - the other, a spontaneous loose end.

His chest heaves with panic.

He looks away, paces frantically, guttural sobs overtake. Then a final look at what he had done - she’s gone but his torment remains. It fills the room with a bitter agony, his hands tremble - of all the times it played out in his head, this was never the ending he imagined.

 

Caldwell moves cautiously to his backpack, reluctantly retrieves a generous length of rope, picks up the bloody box cutter and trudges from the living room, through the kitchen, disappearing into the garage.