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Brendan Watch May 2014
Maybe it was fate in the threads of that
skirt as short as temper and temperance
that ended the ellipsis breathing.
A dancer needs an answer
on life enhancers, dear romancer.
Your smile was more than good enough.
I drank of it, the cup of Christ that turned
my blood into whining moments of
insecurity.
Call security, you say, making the call on
what I am because I am transparent,
transdimensional, traversing the bridge
of your nose with my high-risk eyes.
You say that I am, and they cry.
As your hands ticked at your clock-click keyboard,
I waited, passed the time wondering the
difference between naive and navel.
Harm came like rain in winter, the words
of Zephyrus slipping from between those
amber lips, lithe on naked fingertips.
You take the names of gods in vain,
into your veins, let them convert only
the white blood cells. You'd crucify
me for vanity.
You accuse the recluse of abuse,
and it suits you, tailored because
hatred sized you up the moment you met.
The orchestra disbanded, the buds of May
have yet to burst, yet to blossom like you
say you always will,
but the spring in your step when
you walk away from the last word
tells me more than the chirping birds
nesting in your hair.
You remind me of Paris
on the walls of Troy,
thief of hearts and fool indeed.
Bringer of fire, brander of hell,
but only because you were already the
Tartarus Employee of the Month and
enjoying Elysium.
This is the
beautiful mystery
undone as her clothes and
naked as the day Rosemary Matron gave her
to the world.
This is the beautiful mystery
returned to voids as tangled as her hair,
the nonspace between the curls hiding
secrets and conviction.
This is the beautiful mystery
concluded, all the movements of
her symphonic body no longer to allure.
This is the beautiful mystery
answered, the riddle of the Sphinx
leaping from the pillar, a killer
not quite so strong as her eyes.
This is the beautiful mystery
laid to rest, buried alive in a life discarded.
This is good-bye.
An answer to my nearly year old "Beautiful Mystery" poem, which won hearts for far longer than its subject matter cared to keep mine.
Andrew T Hannah Mar 2014
The memory seems more like a never ending dream. Actually, it is a nightmare replaying constantly in my head.  I close my eyes and that’s all I can see.  Even after all these years. It’s like someone got a red-hot brander and seared the inside of my brain with it. I tried to drown the memories out, but they always have a way of crawling back up to the surface. Its something I have to deal with for the rest of my life.
      I can’t help but look into the cold, blank eyes. The last time I saw them, they were a bright, beautiful, blue and gleaming with potential. But that dramatically changed. Now all that’s left is a hollow, dead stare from a stranger I use to know. I feel goose bumps rise all over my body. My hand rests on her cold, stiff shoulder. How long has she been here? Her porcelain skin was already beginning to have a bluish tint creep across it. I know it’s too late, but I try to shake her and call her name hoping for a miracle. The pools of scarlet collecting around her head quiet that hope and desperation. It’s a silent reminder that’s there’s no way to fix this, that the deed is done. It something I’ll have to deal with for the rest of my life.
      Tears stream down my cheeks; I can’t seem to make myself move from that spot to get help. It felt like I was frozen in time looking at the empty shell of a fallen friend. She picked the time that she was left all alone to succumb to her poisonous thoughts. Her mother was away on business, her brother was at his shift for work and she and I weren’t speaking at the time.  She probably truly felt alone. Still, I should have known this was going to happen.  We got into a huge fight a few days before all of this happened. She was upset with me because I brought up how her self-destructive behavior will impact her greatly in the future and how she should talk to a professional for help in order to fix her deep seeded emotional trauma. Unfortunately, she took this as a sign of me abandoning her in her time of need.  That was on a Thursday. She didn’t speak to me for two days, I received word from other people that she was abusing substances and self-harming yet again. That’s when I was fed up with this petty argument and went to go clear things up with her and try to help. I’ll never forget the day I walked to her house that Sunday afternoon.  When I got there, the door was unlocked so I knew she was home. I called for her, but didn’t get an answer. A pang of worry creped in the pit of my stomach. I raced up the stairs to her room and saw her motionless body at her desk…
      I hear the front door open and someone coming up the stairs. It was her older brother. I call to him in broken sobs. He rushes in and freezes as I did, taking in the sight. He calls 911 and runs to her side, crying. It seems like endless hours of waiting for help to arrive. As we wait he pulls her in his arms and cries uncontrollably asking how and why she did this. I look up at the desk and fine two letters; one has my name on it. I pick it up and slide it into my coat pocket. When the police arrived with the ambulance, they took the other letter for evidence. After she was removed from the room, the officer asked her brother and I questions then left us alone in her room.
      I stayed with him that night. He called their mom and she was on the first flight back. The entire night he and I just sat on the couch silent. We both felt numb. My best friend, his sister is dead.  After his mom got back home, she set up a funeral for her daughter. She avoided the news and paper by having a small gathering for family only. I was never given the chance to say goodbye to my friend. Instead I just sat in my room with her letter gripped tightly in my hands.
      Fast forward a few years and I’m in my bed writing this very story. I still keep the letter, but it still remains sealed. Maybe someday I’ll have the courage to open it and read her last thoughts for me but for now, it stays hidden safe in my drawer. I still stay in touch with her brother, and we both continue to heal over time. The memories will always stay with us though. It’s something we’ll just have to deal with. Now I know that she did what she had to do in order to finally have peace. She felt there was no other way. I just wished she held out for  a little bit longer to see that life may be hard but it does get better and its worth fighting for. If I learned anything from that experience, it’s that. She taught me the value of life. She taught me to always be strong and not to cave into the pressures and struggles life brings. Because of her, I am the person I am today, and she will always remain in my heart.
Die arendgod was reeds verswelg
Agter sleepvoet trapsietjies
Wat met motreen sy voetspoor laat

Menigte kleure het deurmekaar gedreun
Om hul water afhantlikes met 'n bulderende
Brander van stemme te dra

En die skerts wat dans oor hulle skouers
Dan af traan om met hulle verwante menigte te vereenselwig

Die gedreun van stemme bereik 'n stilte vol antisipasie
Die bekoordes vind hul ligging ...
Op hul merke...
Gebore vir die oomblik...
Kneukels raak wit van koue en klou...
Iewers flits 'n meganiese weerligstraal...
En ons swem rugslag in die sproeireen
Blind Aesthetic Feb 2017
"I think I still love you"
Said the branded to the brander
But it was a burning pain
Not a burning passion
That they felt
After their first love
Left their mark
And went away
Kate Deter Mar 2014
In the deep shade cast by a towering mountain
Lies a monstrous warehouse. And inside this warehouse
Is column after column after row after row after row
Of shelves, shelves, shelves, more shelves,
Fading off into the gloom of the farthest corners.
And on each of these shelves sit dolls—
Hundreds, thousands, millions—billions?
And each of these dolls is defected.
The reason for the defect is branded across the forehead,
Melted plastic forming the biting words:
Pathetic.
Weak.
Prideful.
Snappy.
Self-centered.
Egotisti­c.
Stupid.
Ignorant.
Useless.

And on and on and on these dolls sit,
Shelf after shelf, row after row, column after column.
The dolls gradually age—slowly, almost unnoticeably.
But they age. Each is an “improvement”
Of the one next to her.
The newer model would get though a bit more,
Last just a bit longer, but still fail at some point.
And so the brander draws near, and brands the skin,
Melting plastic to drip softly down as tears.
But the doll can’t cry.
She’s already been shut down and awaits
The day the space next to her will be filled.
Lot Feb 2018
Is it emulation or imitation?
Don’t both equal copy and paste?
But a cookie-cutter dream gets hard to be,
especially out at sea
I gasp and splash,
but my system crashed
So I try to pass and grasp,
but sink further from the grass
I am an iron anchor upon the seafloor,
shedding flakes of red rust,
just left to be an empty husk
The harsh salt water: my liquid brander
Conformity leaves me an empty-hander
I always seem to be going through a rough patch in my life, trying to keep up all of my masks doesn't help.
Kurt Philip Behm May 2024
Chapter 13: An Uncertain Trail  
Cutty was once again headed down a trail with an uncertain end.  He didn’t feel good about the riders ahead or what their true intentions were.  Jimmy had said: “They are probably cowboys from the Bar Circle T Ranch,” but he had only been guessing.

He charged up the rapidly darkening trail…  

The only thing he was sure of was that he was forever duty-bound to a code that had taken him captive so very long ago.  It never mattered the circumstance or the odds of success.  When her voice called—and his honor was once again at risk—everything else became subservient to his sense of duty.

It had first called his name in Central Park over twenty years ago.  He had been hunting pirates behind a pond, on the east side of the park, when the message was first handed down.  It was delivered in the scream of a young girl coming out of a small cave on the far side of the pond.

As the bats flew out of the cave, all of the other boys ran.  Cutty never wavered, as he covered his head and charged.  Inside, was a defenseless seven-year-old girl who had wandered away from her nanny.  Cutty covered her with his jacket and led her back outside. As the other boy’s heckled and jeered, he never stopped or even looked their way.  That young girl’s name was Miss Shepperd, but Cutty had heard the nanny call her Destiny—Destiny Shepperd.

Cutty was now riding his five-year-old horse at a full gallop and the white sweat from the horse’s withers had covered his trousers.  His knowledge of tracking was enough to tell him that the shoe prints were becoming more pronounced the further west he rode.  He was gaining on them.

Five miles later, there was less distance between the front and rear hoof prints of the riders ahead.  They had slowed down.  They were now either cantering or walking their horses. Cutty decided to get off and walk his horse until he was sure.  He knew his horse could use the rest, and he needed the quiet to be able to hear what might be up ahead.  

He walked for twenty minutes, as the tracks in front of him became fresher and fresher.  There was no doubt in his mind that the riders ahead of him were walking their horses too.  

It was now late into the evening, and he thought he heard voices coming out of the trees ahead.  As he edged closer, he could smell wood smoke and hear the sounds of a fire.  Cutty knew the other mounts would smell his horse in the night air before he got much closer.  He decided to tie his horse to a tree thirty feet off the trail.  He had learned from the Gurkhas in Nepal how to move soundlessly through the brush.  He held his sword close against his body, as he advanced through the dark.

The trail started to enter a deep ravine.  At the bottom, he could see five horses all tied together.  Fifty yards past the horses was a raging fire.  These men were not worried about being seen.  Cutty listened for voices as he moved past the horses.  The sounds that he heard in the night air were emboldened with inebriation.

These Men Were All Drinking

“Good,” Cutty said to himself.  “A drunken adversary is only half the threat that he is when sober.  This adjusts the odds a little more in my favor.”  Still, Cutty wasn’t going to take anything for granted.  Five drunken cowboys, if that’s what they were, could still be a lot for him to handle.

He checked the cylinder of his Colt .45 to make sure it was fully loaded.  He didn’t want to repeat the mistake he had made when rescuing Adrian on that hill in Portugal.  After chasing the Basque Assassin, Bakar, through the hills above Lisbon, he had forgotten to reload after shooting at him and several of his men.

He was sorry now that he hadn’t asked Jimmy for his Colt, Model M1902.  It would have given him eight rounds in case the six in his Colt .45 were not enough.  The Colonel had always told him that, … “In direct confrontations, there is very little chance to reload.  Most fights are over by then.”

The M1902 was a semi-automatic pistol developed by John Browning for Colt in 1902.   It was an improvement on an earlier design.  The military version had a square and lengthened grip frame allowing it to carry an additional round in the magazine.  It fired eight rounds of .38 ACP from its six-inch barrel.

With his Colt .45’s capacity of only six rounds, Cutty would have to be deadly accurate with each shot.

DEADLY ACCURATE IS WHAT HE HAD BEEN BEFORE!
  
As he came out of the woods and passed by the horses, he tried to move quietly so as not to startle them and give himself away.  
The lead stallion whinnied as Cutty brushed by him in the dark.  The noise was loud enough to arouse two of the men and they came to investigate.  Cutty moved further off into the shadows until the men were satisfied that the horse had only been reacting to a small animal in the brush.  The two wobbly figures mumbled to each other as they walked back to the fire…

“We’ll teach that filthy redskin a lesson about wandering this far off of the reservation,” the bigger of the two said.  “His body will only strengthen our story about the missing cattle.  When we get done with this running iron he’ll wish we had killed him when we killed his horse.”

All five men were now seated again around the fire and passing two bottles of whisky back and forth.  There was no sign of Not-Many-Prisoners anywhere.  Cutty said a prayer that he was still alive.  Based on what the one cowboy had just said, he was pretty sure that he was.

But Where ?

A running-iron was a free-handed branding tool that allowed the cowboy to create a design of his choice on the animal with its hot glowing tip.  Unlike the forged designs of most branding irons, the running-iron allowed the brander to change, or go over, an existing design making it a favorite tool of rustlers throughout the west.
Cutty circled around the ravine to get closer to the fire.  The five men had continued to drink, and their words got louder as their attention span’s diminished.  As the sparks danced in mock adoration …

Cutty Started To Plan


Chapter 14: Right Toward The Fire

He looked down at the gleaming brass on his blouse.  As an afterthought before leaving home, he had stuffed it into his satchel.  He wasn’t sure why, but he thought that maybe—just maybe—it would be useful in some way.  The buttons were now alive in the distant glow from the firelight.  They would appear as multiple sets of eyes coming out of the dark.

Cutty looked intently at the five men as they continued to pass the two bottles around.  Their faces were greasy and unwashed, and they sat with a demeanor that gave away their intentions.  They were among the lowest of men ...
  
These Men Hadn’t Seen A Washtub In Over A Year

Cutty remembered back again to his cowboy friends in Abilene and Dodge City—they looked nothing like this.  They had been righteous and straight, and their posture and speech only reinforced their true makeup.  They were nothing if not respectful of those around them and totally dedicated to their craft.  Cutty appreciated that. Their loyalty to the ranches they worked for equated to his unwavering commitment to a life of duty and honor.

Those Men All ‘”Rode For The Brand”

He had developed a kinship and brotherhood with those cow hands back in Kansas, and he had made himself a promise to one day go back and visit them again.  He knew as he made that promise to himself, going back was something he had never been able to do before.  He hoped  this time it would be different.

“All right, who’s going first?” Cutty heard from the cowboy seated at the far end of the fire. “Who wants to put the first mark on that filthy redskin?”  “I’ll do it, Jack,” said a man seated ten feet to his left.  “I’m going to burn a dark groove right between his two beady eyes.”  
“OK, Pete; you and Bill go get that stinking Piegan.”

At this point, Cutty had not seen Not-Many-Prisoners, but he knew he had to be close.  The two men walked toward where the horses were tied and within five minutes were back.  Each man had Not-Many-Prisoners by an arm, and the Piegan Elder was slumped forward and struggling to walk.

Cutty Had Walked Right Past Him

“I don’t think he liked being tied to that horse, Jack.  He about pitched a fit when we cut the ropes and took him down.  Bill gave him a good jolt to the head with his Peacemaker to get him to behave.  I don’t think he’ll give us any more trouble.” “Good, you and Bill tie him to those two small cottonwoods over by the water.  Then we can let the real fun begin.”

Some Of These Outlaws Were Carrying Colt .45’s

Cutty couldn’t believe that he had walked right by Not-Many-Prisoners when he had entered the ravine.  “How could I have missed him so close in the dark?”

Not-Many-Prisoners had been tied cross-saddle to the biggest of the five horses.  It had been the fourth one back as Cutty passed by in the dark.  After tying him to the saddle, the outlaws had covered him with a canvas tarp making him impossible to see.  It also made it almost impossible for him to breathe.

Not-Many-Prisoners was lucky to be alive.  Had Cutty been able to see and untie him, it would now be two against five and they would still have had the element of surprise working for them.“I wonder if Not-Many-Prisoners knows I’m here?  He may have heard me as I walked by, especially when that lead horse whinnied, and has kept quiet to protect me.  Or, he may have been in such rough shape, that he missed me entirely.”

Cutty wasn’t sure of Not-Many-Prisoner’s mindset but he was sure of one thing ...he didn’t have much time.   As the vile, and now drunk, outlaws tied Not-Many-Prisoners to the cottonwoods, Cutty hurried back to the horses.

He quickly and quietly untied them from each other—he needed to make a statement.  The cowboys were still drunk, and a drunken man’s imagination often gets the better of him.  He was hesitant to do it, but he felt he had no other choice…

He Unholstered His Colt


Chapter 15:  A Different Brand Of Justice

The horses had been bound together with a technique that Cutty had never seen before.  They had all been tied to a forty-inch branch that allowed them to move freely and graze without getting tangled.  It lowered down as they fed and then rose when their heads straightened back up.

Cutty vowed to remember this for the future.  It provided for both security and a limited amount of mobility.  It had been invented by the Cheyenne and was used extensively throughout the southern plains. The Colonel had been right when he said: “The Native Americans are noted for their prowess in stealth and tactics.” Cutty untied the horses from the branch, and—with three of the reins in his right hand and two in his left—started to walk them slowly toward the fire.

He knew his next move would be costly, but he needed to create as big a diversion as he could.  It would only leave five shots in his Colt, but the effect would be worth the bullet, at least that’s what he hoped.
.
He Reminded Himself About Hoping Again

The Colonel had warned Cutty repeatedly about hoping.  “Wishing for a certain outcome is not worth the mental effort you will put forth.  Keep your attention focused on the task at hand.  That will afford you the best chance of success.”

Cutty slapped the lead stallion on its **** as he fired his Colt up into the night sky.  At the report of the gunshot, all five horses took off toward the fire like they were being chased by the underworld god, Hades.  Entering the mouth of the ravine, there was not enough room for them to go around and avoid the fire.

They Charged Straight Through

The horses charged across the fire as the five cowboys looked on in drunken horror.  There was smoke and flying embers everywhere.  Two of the cowboys at the far end stood up and tried to run but were trampled by the horses before getting very far.  The lead cowboy, Jack, managed to get to his gun before leveling it in Cutty’s direction and firing.

Cutty redrew his Colt while dropping to one knee.  He sighted his big .45 and fired before Jack could get off a second round.  The bullet went straight through Jack’s right shoulder causing him to drop the big Peacemaker as he fell back away from the now-scattered fire.  
Cutty picked up Jack’s gun and ran toward where Not-Many Prisoners was tied.   As he cut his restraints, he handed him Jack’s gun saying: “There are five shots left in the cylinder.  Here’s six more rounds in case you run out.”

They both turned to face the startled cowboys who were now crawling through the dirt trying to make sense of it all.  With a KIAI that none of these rustlers had ever heard before, Cutty advanced.  One by one, he grabbed the men and threw them face down onto the dark ground.  He then yelled to Not-Many-Prisoners: “Tie them up with their hands behind their backs.  I’ll tie the one that I shot after I check on his wound.”

The KIAI Had Been For Not-Many-Prisoners Benefit

Cutty checked on Jack’s shoulder.  It was bleeding profusely, but it was a clean wound and the bullet missed any bone or cartilage as it passed through.  Cutty grabbed the bandana from around Jack’s neck, ***** as it was, and wrapped his shoulder.  “This will help to stop the bleeding,” Cutty said.  “Keep pressure on it with your other hand.  It’s better than you deserve, but you might just live if you keep it from bleeding out before you get to a doctor.”

Jack had been staring at Cutty’s blouse as he doctored his wound.  “So, you some kinda government agent?” Jack asked, as Cutty started to walk away. “I’m a Major in the United States Army here to investigate charges that rustling has been taking place on government land.  I can see now that the rumors have been true.  In addition, you were getting ready to commit capital ******.  I am ordering you, and your men, to stay here until my detachment comes back to pick you up.

If you’re not here when they arrive, they will hunt you down like the wild dogs that you are.  I need to get this Indian Scout back to headquarters. We know who you work for and what you’ve been doing.”

“You Are All Under Military Arrest”

Cutty tied Jack’s right hand to the top of his other arm. He knew he had just stretched the truth, but he wasn’t above doing that if a man’s life hung in the balance.  He looked across the scattered but still burning embers.

Not-Many-Prisoners had a look on his face that Cutty had not seen from any of the Piegan Elders before.  El Cristo had been the first to look at him that way when he had mortally wounded his son, Elligretto, in Seville.  His expression transcended the present moment as it acknowledged Cutty’s immortal warrior spirit.

Not-Many-Prisoners ran into the darkness in the direction that the horses had just gone. In less than ten minutes he was back with all five of them in tow.  “How was he able to find them in the dark and to have done it so quickly?” Cutty wondered.
  
Horses, when frightened or startled, will often run for miles without stopping.  He was sure when he fired that shot from his big Colt, those five had been both.  The Colonel’s assessment about Native Americans—a breed of men Cutty had only met once before in Abilene—rang true again tonight.

At West Point, Jimmy had been masked in eastern tradition hiding the best parts of himself.

Cutty Jumped On The First Horse As He Yelled

— The End —