hours

On such a restless night
Upon the hour the clock did strike
Through the sound did I move
My longing heart did prove

I looked ‘round
The garden wall torn down
How deeply my heart did ache
And wish to tremble in its wake

I will search till I wake

In the air, still and sleepy
I found the moment breathing
The night began to swallow
The shaded footsteps I had to follow

Wanting the moment
I was struck, though hesitant
I moved through the garden
The ground began to harden

On such a night so restless
Betrayed by the heart within my chest
I called the name
And fared the same

So it ends, I’ll haunt the halls
I’ll accept the hand as it falls
But I cannot look to the day
For I have been swept away

And I will search till I wake.

Welcome To The Continental!

Ah, another one. I know, I know.. it's tedious, boring.. sitting in front of your monitor reading another short story. But that's why I'm warning you. If you're totally not interested, no worries! Just pass go, collect your 200 and move on to the next. If you are going to hang and read it (which I'd very much appreciate, of course) bear in mind that I wrote this just yesterday and haven't really made any corrections. It's a very raw piece, rudimentary, at best. There are lots of things to fix.. it doesn't really flow very well, I noticed while skimming it last night.. but that will be taken care of in the next draft.

Those of you who are still reading and who will read through the story, I'd like you to be my editors. Critique the fuck out of it, I welcome any and all comments.. it's the only way I'll get better. Again, it has not been corrected or revised in any way.. I won't do that until I discuss it with you.

Thanks! Welcome to the Continental, we do hope you enjoy your stay!

"Welcome to the Continental, sir. We have a very special room for you, please follow me." The red uniformed bell hop, smiling with the whitest, shiniest pearls, greeted Albert. "You are a celebrity in our establishment, and you will be treated as such. The management thanks you for finally making it, we expected you much earlier. You definitely surprised us with your delay but we're glad you're finally able to grace us with your presence. My name is Jem, I will do whatever I can to make your stay with us as enjoyable as possible." He flashed another brilliant smile at Albert. His teeth were perfectly straight, a smile fit for Hollywood. But Albert saw something else. It happened so quickly he wasn't sure. The teeth morphed, became sharp and spiny, like fork tines. He dismissed it, though, like he would an annoying fly buzzing around his head.

Dressed in his best Armani, he followed the bell hop to an ornately crafted elevator. Jem pressed the call button and Albert could hear gears and cables grinding. Jem's uniform, he noticed, was not just red, though, it was the deepest red he had ever seen and it seemed to be glowing. Everything around him seemed to be glowing. There were women scurrying over the marbled flooring like busy little bees in the cathedral sized lobby. Some were polishing the distinctive hand carved mantel above the vast fireplace, some were cleaning the deep leather chairs and sofas. Others were shining up the windows and glass tables. Most were raven haired with green piercing eyes, a thought that perhaps they could all be related crossed his mind. He wanted one and would have one, by day end. But he hadn't the foggiest idea of how he had arrived at this hotel. It had been just the day before that his lawyer, Jonathon, sat with him, in his cell and had dinner. But he was out now and maybe being released scrambled his brains a little. It did happen. Cell mates of his who had been behind bars for many years became acclimated to a caged life. Upon being released they wouldn't know how to deal with society again. Often they'd have nervous breakdowns and sometimes they'd commit suicide.

The elevator arrived and the red clad bell hop pulled the gilded gate open and gestured for Albert to enter. Gears and wheels and cables began their grinding. Down, they went, slow and steady, further and further. The ground floor must've been feet above by the time the elevator had shuddered to a stop. Strange, Albert thought, most high end hotels keep the rooms above the earth's crust, not below it, but he wasn't going to question. He was out, away from that horrible prison, and he didn't want to jinx the impossibility of such freedom.

Jem led him down a long corridor carpeted with rich colors intertwining in vibrant designs that seemed to slither, as if the entire cushy flooring was a writhing, serpent dance. But that was impossible, almost as impossible as his newfound freedom. It was cold, too. That was the second thing he noticed. He could see his breath. Jem read it in his eyes and remarked, "it's cold, the boiler doesn't heat the lower floors very well. But your room is plenty warm. Remember, we've been waiting for you and everything has been prepared with the highest of standards for your stay." Albert's heart fluttered when Jem's grin showed spindly teeth again.

They walked for a few more minutes until Jem finally stopped and stood in front of a room at the very end of the corridor. Large, heavy mahogany double doors gated the entrance. A brass plate reading 777 glinted in the low lighting. Jem pulled a large golden key out of his pocket and turned it in the awaiting key hole. Blasted by the warm air gushing out of the opening the two made their way in. There were no bags, Albert realized, but maybe they were to come. He still hadn't any idea of where he was or how he got there. He was just relieved to be out of the cell that took five years of his life.

The suite was decorated with antique, dark wood. A sleigh bed covered in a deep red duvet sat in the center, full of pillows, beckoning Albert to, finally, a peaceful night's rest. He walked into the gleaming en-suite bathroom. It held a clawed bathtub large enough for five people. The antique spigot shone brilliantly and revealed his reflection. He looked good, damn good. He turned to the mirror covering one entire wall. Yeah, he did look good. Receded hair had grown back, many wrinkles the last five years of captivity had drawn were faded. His eyes were bright and clear no longer suffering the plaguing dullness. He had color in his face, looked well fed and yet in better shape than he was at eighteen. There was a fluffy (red) bathrobe and matching slippers in the corner, next to the basin. Along the counter top he noticed designer (red) carved soap. Jem made a clicking noise with his tongue and Albert realized he was waiting for a tip. He reached into his pocket, as if he had been doing it everyday for the last five years, and pulled out a large wad of one hundred dollar bills. Albert's eyes widened, he hadn't seen that kind of cash in a very long time. But he had to be rich. His suit was expensive, the hotel was expensive. Maybe his lawyer arranged all this. He made a note to himself that once he was settled in, Jonathon would be the first call.

Jem left without further ado, gracing Albert with a small bow before exiting. He realized that his body ached terribly and maybe climbing into that large tub would be the best thing in the world. He thought that if he could relax, he might be able piece together this very strange jigsaw puzzle he had found himself in. He ran the water hot, steam filled the bathroom. He walked back into his suite and began to undress. Being in the joint gave him discipline he never had while growing up. He arranged his shoes neatly under the bed, hung his suit up and deposited his dirty underwear and socks into a laundry bin just inside the bathroom.

He looked through his jacket and found a full pack of Marlboros and a glowing (red) lighter. How that ever got in there he didn't know. But he knew he wanted a smoke and knew that was the right place to look for such things. He strolled to the mini bar, grabbed a cold beer and the (red) ashtray sitting atop the bar and made his way into the bathroom. Out of the corner of his eye, through all that steam, he thought he saw a glimpse of smoking, charred skin on his back. He looked again and saw only smooth, supple skin, stretching under his flexing muscles. "Getting out of the joint has really done a number on me," he said to the steam. "Guess I'll need a couple of good nights sleep before I come to grips, huh?" He chuckled to his distorted image in the mirror and turned to the bathtub. The curtain was pulled. He cocked his head to one side, "now I know that was open when I ran the water. We ain't what we used to be, huh, mind?" Again, he chuckled. He grabbed the center of the (red) curtain and pulled it back. He placed one toe gingerly in the water. The warmth circled and he stepped in, bent his knees and laid back on the cool porcelain. "Ah, now this is the life," he sighed. He placed the ashtray on the lip of the tub and opened his beer. He took a long, hard swallow, lit the cigarette and closed his eyes. It was only a few moments later when he drifted off, listening to the sound of the fan spinning above.

White tipped mountains, fresh, bubbling brooks, green meadows and a lovely girl of 17 or 18 dancing, naked in front of him, greeted his eyes. Her body was perfect and her long, blonde hair glinted in the sunlight. She was calling to him, stretching out her flawless arms. He floated to her and lowered his face into her full, ripe breasts and began to devour them. Then it turned dark and he could hear screaming. He was standing now in an alley, holding a bloodied knife, looking down on the limp, bloody body of the radiant creature he was just fondling. He heard sirens wailing, getting closer. He began to run but slipped and fell in a puddle of blood. Her skull had been opened up to reveal jellied, gray brain matter and clumps of red streaked blonde hair. Her eyes blinked at him, her mouth gaped wide and he saw those teeth, again, Jem's teeth. The sirens were gaining and he had little time to run. But he was frozen, staring at those green blinking eyes and that freakish, curved mouth full of pointed teeth. He felt the bile rising from his bowels and began to throw up. She laughed with a low animal sound and started to rise, holding her arms out. "Oh, lover, it's your turn, now. It's your turn," she didn't speak it, she was growling He screamed and tried to move but he had become glued to the sidewalk. Her hands were around his neck, scalding his skin. Fire was burning in her eyes and he could smell cooked flesh emanating from her mouth. And those teeth, shiny and wet and elongating and getting closer to his face with every second. He could only scream. He woke with a start, shivering from head to toe. His throat was raw from screaming. He leaned back on the now cold porcelain and rubbed his closed eyes. He felt for his beer, took a sip and spit it out realizing it was warm. He rested his hands back into the water and noticed something chunky, floating on the surface. He could feel it hitting his legs and feet, too. He opened his eyes, not believing what he saw. Thick red liquid splashed against the sides of the pristine tub. Hundreds, hell, maybe even thousands of putrid gray, bloated and gangrenous severed fingers, all without nails, rose and fell in the small red waves. A rotting stench filled his nose. He began to vomit and slipped as he leapt out of the bathtub. His head hit the porcelain and he vomited again, slipping, sliding in all that red stuff, fingers everywhere, bumping into him. He grasped the edge of the tub, smearing his bloody prints and lifted himself out. Burning flesh, he knew the scent, replaced the rot. He turned his head to the mirror and saw smoke rising from his back. His skin burned and he watched as the impossible reflection of himself bubbled and blistered and blackened. Thick, gagging smoke filled the bathroom. The fan coughed and sputtered and finally stop whirling. His eyeballs bulged and burned while green acid poured from them. His face began to melt, dripping down onto his charred chest. His left eye slipped down his cheek and hung by shiny red and black smoking tendrils. He was still screaming, of that he was sure but the pain, the pain and the horrible vision were to much to bear. He sank to his knees, holding his liquefied face, trying to make sense of it. "It's just another dream," he screamed. "This has to be another dream!"

He writhed on the floor, it seemed, for hours. His body wracked and burned. His skin stuck to the (red) bathmat and peeled off in layers. The agony pushed his mind to the limits. That's when Albert saw them, each one, laughing at him. Nine naked, bloody women, all with those horrible teeth and with that low, growling laugh. They stood over him. Nine index fingers, without the nails as if they had been pulled out, pointing. He pounded the floor with what was left of his hand and tried to beg for forgiveness. But his smoldering tongue tumbled out of his mouth with a dull thud. There was only a gurgling sound coming from the back of his throat. His tonsils exploded with two loud popping sounds. Hot lava poured on his vocal chords, down into his stomach and out of his nose. His mouth filled with the volcanic acid, thick and slow, scalding what was left of his lips and chin. The women enclosed him, cutting off the light in the bathroom, cutting out the air, too. They clawed at his blistered skin. He was horrified to see one, Bridget, he remembered, eating a panel of charred skin from his foot. At the sound of the door the monsters backed away (but they weren't monsters, were they? No, they were women, women he knew and loved very deeply in his own way) and Jem strolled into the bathroom. "Sir?" He inquired, "Mr. Polk, are you enjoying your stay?" A snarled grin spread across his face, revealing pointed, wet, long teeth.

****

The sun was shining and it was hot. Too damn hot to think. But that was Texas in the summer, for ya. Jonathon blinked at the blazing sun and wiped his forehead with his red handkerchief. He always had it with him, considered it lucky, in the way football players considered certain jerseys or jock straps or socks lucky. Today he needed all the luck he could get. He had been a defense attorney for over 20 years and had won nearly every case. He was the best of the best. He knew most of his clients were guilty and hell, they deserved to burn. But a few weren't and he had saved their lives. That's what he prided himself on. There was always a chance that maybe the feds had caught the wrong man and he could be heralded as a life saver, but that was rare. Mainly they were guilty as sin. Some even confessed to him. But his job wasn't to be god damned Mother Theresa, his job was to buy them a get out of jail free card, pass go, collect your damn two hundred bucks and sail right on out of that hot seat. He laughed to himself, he always laughed to himself when he called the electric chair the 'hot seat'. He believed strongly that he wouldn't survive being a defense attorney without a sense of humor. He unleashed monsters into the streets, he knew full well and had to laugh. It was the only thing he could do.

It was three in the afternoon. Mosquitoes chewed at his bare arms as he walked the steps up to the entrance of the federal prison. He swiped at one and it smashed into bits leaving a bloody trail. "Damn 'skeeters," he muttered under his breath and entered the cool building. "Afternoon, Bob, how's the wife?"

The guard looked up from his book and smiled, "doin' fine, doin' just fine, how's your new grand baby?"

"Oh, she's as pretty as a peach and as calm as a cool, summer's night."

"Well, that's good to hear. Have to empty your pockets onto the conveyer belt, Jon."

"Yes sir. More picketers today, I noticed." Jonathon said as he strolled through the metal detector.

"Yeah, they've been comin' in waves since about noon. Wantin' that boy of yours to stay alive, you know. Shoutin' out there, causing quite a ruckus."

"I know it." Jonathon gathered the contents of his pockets and made his way through the prison to the viewing room. A wall of plexi glass separated the onlookers from the chair, from the final moments of a monster, convicted. Kept them far enough away from where the 'sparks would fly', another favorite saying of his, but close enough to see the smoke rise. Family and friends of the nine women his client raped and murdered had taken the best seats. Many tear streaked faces looked up when he entered and he saw hatred replace the grief. Yeah, well, somebody has to protect the fuckers, he thought, due process, innocent until proven guilty. If he didn't do it, who would?

Albert Polk, chained at the hands and ankles, shuffled to the 'hot seat', flanked by two guards, on the other side of the glass. A Catholic priest stood on one side of him, signing his cross with floaty, long fingered hands. Jonathon's thought drifted to the night before, to the steak and lobster dinner and German chocolate cake for dessert he had shared with his doomed client. He had thought about those nine women and how they hadn't the chance to have a perfectly cooked last meal. No last requests, no priest praying over their dying, pillaged bodies. Just that crazy stinkin' face of Albert Polk leering over them, eyes wild with excitement and insanity. His drool and cum mixing with their blood. The lights began to flicker and brown out, it pulled Jonathon out of his thoughts and he saw the last few twitches Albert's legs gave from the electrical current. He was dead, gone and dead, a right fine crispy critter. Some in the audience clapped, some vomited in the bags provided by the prison, some cried and some just sat silently in horror.

The gatherers began to get up and slowly trudge out of the room. Jonathon rubbed his eyes and shook his head. One monster less in this world, one monster with all of the evidence clearly pointing its finger at him. Albert deserved worse. He should have been tortured to death in prison but he was mainly kept in solitary and always closely watched by the guards. They wanted to see him burn, Jonathon guessed, wanted to watch his skin smoke and limbs twitch, by their own hands. Albert had been raped, at least, several times a night for nearly a month straight. There was only so much the guards could do, after all. He was a skinny little pussy and Jonathon knew he was a very easy target for the big motherfuckers. But he deserved worse. He deserved to have his fingernails pulled out, one by one, with a pair of pliers, just like he did to those women. He deserved to have his hair ripped out and his brains bashed in with a dull carving knife, just like Albert did to those women. But he didn't get that. He got a steak and lobster dinner with chocolate cake for dessert, a priest to wash away his sins and an electric bolt to stop his heart.

Jonathon roused himself and began to leave after the room had emptied when something (red) caught his eye, on the floor. He leaned down and saw it was a business card. The moment his fingers touched it he felt a cold chill run through his legs all the way up to his spine. Hands trembling, he turned it over. Something was printed in a shiny, black, curly font. The kind of font his daughter picked out for her wedding invitations, six years before. He moved the card in front of his eyes, trying to sharpen the letters to where he could read them. "The Continental," he said, squinting at the delicate lettering, "Your Stay Is Our Pleasure!" There were numbers (777) embossed in the top left hand corner. Sweat ran into his eyes, he felt stifled and scared shitless, looking at that card. He dropped it and turned to leave. Throwing a glance back, he was mortified to see it burst into flame, leaving only a blackened spot on the concrete floor. The smell of burning flesh hung in the air as he wiped the beading sweat from his forehead with his lucky (red) handkerchief.