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Detective Bridges*I don't care much in knowing how this monster was born, I have detailed case files on its existence and I know its patterns very well. I just want information on how it can be found and killed. * / To **** any normal monster, all you must do is set it on fire, stab it with a stake, and shoot it with a silver bullet. However, it is nearly impossible to **** a true monster. They are much too practiced with their lifelong art of darkness - its mechanization through deception. Naturally living in shadowy places, they have strategies that work intrinsically against your police background. This monster you speak of – it will drag you from crime scene to crime scene, blood splatter to blood splatter, hoping you turn towards the light of the wrong evidence. Too many days, months, years have passed, it will know the planned escape route perfectly. Every true monster's greatest enemy is the light, however, its very survival depends on the shadow the light creates. You could shine your brightest and try to catch it in the act, but those walls will be marked by your monster, already running in the graffiti of a victim's blood. You might even catch a couple look-a-likes, the ones that are too young to know of your patrol patterns, too naive of their rights not to break under your torturous questioning, giving you useless answers. But that one twisted, maniacal ******* you're wanting, Detective? You'll have to find it while it's resting. / *So if I cannot **** it in action and must find the monster while it rests, then it must have a home. What distant cabin of the marsh will it dwell in when I am there to capture it, to take it in chained for execution, to become this town's most needed hero?*
A Game of ChessI've studied the chess table and its consequent game. I know every inch of every square and what each can provide without doubt. I have seen the creatures of this world conflicting in their natural habitat, like an audience to a drama, watching them devour each other until the math proves the premise on a single side. I've moved according to their stride, like a dancer's partner, gliding across this checkered ballroom floor until the truth sets in stone. It's simple dialectics, a move is made and then, from the other, another follows. White conflicts with Black and Black counteracts, a perfect unity of opposites. Never jumping ahead of themselves, one piece at a time, it's a rising exposition from White's first movement forward, a heat creeping in increments on the desert surface. They're each a step ahead at every moment, each a worthy opponent for the other. The cold, morning mirage becomes blistering afternoon and only once does the volcano erupt from boiling sand, truly agape in a fiery victory. Do you hear that power in the distance? / A horn bellows and I move in the wake of the Divine Voice. I am but a cleric for his queen, yet the king requests my service in these grave times. This foreboding feeling leaves me truly afraid for my life, however, like a snowy dove's feather, I am called to the wind with my brethren towards the direction of the evil swamps. God has blessed our devout; the witchcraft of the Black Kingdom will surely fall to His mystic weaponry. / A farmer's strong-hand makes no strongman in the abysmal depths of this marsh. Tilling the land for fallen comrades, the breath of the Black Eye leaves me entrenched in a dripping terror, coating my lungs in a bitter molasses. I contain my sultry pearl of abandonment in the Clam of Defeat, knowing the king's life to be the insurmountable jewel I must truly protect. The following torture would be an endless excruciation heard from every corner of the world.
She Is.-----I hear her. The quiet spatter of Spring rain tapping against my apartment window. The gentle clouds walk in a cold blue light, shadowing the kitchen and dining area towards the back. I'm standing alone, in between and behind her breath, doing as I've always done: painting with her in the light that guides my hand throughout every movement of my wrist on the canvas. Those scentless, dollar-priced candles I buy for the night – they're just cheap imitations compared to what she sheds about this room right now. The candle's fire melted through my coffee table, damaged the expensive wood from which it was crafted. I can't possibly pay to repair it just yet. / -----But right now, it's her sound. She couldn't be much more or less without losing that utter perfection of pitch. Water against glass, it leaves my cracked body feeling wet sometimes. She whispers softly, moving my arm like a puppeteer does. I breath into what she breathes out, stroking to her heartbeat, coloring to her attack. She's relentless, leaving a rhythm that's never been properly diagnosed. I ask away, “Who are you, my lovely dancer?” / -----And it's true where she walks, too. Shadows hide behind every book, album, and film case that lay about my living space. They wait, all of them, on a single call of mine to turn and show their real selves to her ever-efficient gaze. She pierces them through, turns them to stone. The colors I see are subjective and factual, her perspective. She touches my hand to the brush, brush to the paper. I, letting her do this, then make my move.