Child of the Night

Living in shadows,

forgotten corners,

edges of sight

and sound, left

nothing but scraps,

leavings of a society

long forsken for

a promise, a dream

whose price calls

to me, night

after night overwhelming

wonder and opportunity

with need.

Addiction

Flutters of desire

sparking synapses

unrelated to the moment,

dragging attention

down dark roads,

excitement rising

at fond memories

until need overwhelms

or is boxed away -

caged unsatted

to stalk dreams

and quiet.

Storm Front

Candle light holds back

edge of darkness, storm

raging against windows,

battering my momentary

observatory, futile

watch-post against

natures destruction,

comforts fading as day

is swallowed by clouds

and thunder, leaving

wind, water and lightning

to ravage the street.

Dillan Blight: Paranormal Investigator

It took a day in the hospital before the staff became exasperated enough to give in and discharge Dillan. The bandages, cane and heavy limp were perfect parting gifts. Dillan sighed and stepped out of the hospital and started up the street into town. On the up side the town was small enough to get most anywhere on foot in half an hour. The downside being that there were no cabs and with the bad leg it was taking Dillan a bit longer to get around.

First stop, clothing store for some none battered clothes. Then, directions to the police station. Going without a gun in what could very well be t he town people were trying to get him to was not his idea of a great way to spend his time. Finally he made his way into the police station.

“I am here to see the Sherrif,” Dillan said to the woman working the front desk.

The woman gave him a disinterested look. Then motioned vaguely to the worn row of chairs against one wall. “Sit. I’ll let him know.”

Dillan stood a moment, watching her, then sighed and moved to ease himself into a chair. The woman at the front desk pressed a button on her phone and whispered into it, eyeing Dillan distrustfully the entire time. Dillan watched, waiting for sign of a quick response. When it seemed that none was coming, he leaned his head back against the wall and fished a bottle of pills out of his pocket, shaking one free. He dropped it in his mouth and swallowed it dry.

After what seemed an interminable wait, the Sherrif stepped out of the back part of the station. “Come on back, Mr. Blight.”

Dillan winced his way to his feat and made his way after the Sherrif. “No need to be so formal.”

“Well, Mr. Blight, I think it best to keep things formal sometimes,” the Sherrif answered and lead the way into a small office. He sat down in his big leather chair on the other side of the desk and motioned Dillan to the rickety looking wooden chair on the other side.

Dillan took the seat and waited for the Sherrif to get started. The two squared off for several beats before the Sherrif did finally start.

“Well, we took a look around. Found a few casings, but no sign anything else except a little blood where you probably got shot and slid into the ditch,” said the Sherrif, steepling his fingers and leaning forward. “Seems your story checks out.”

“I try not to make a habit of lieing to the authorities, especially when I know they’ll just go check on it,” said Dillan.

The Sherrif smile was all teath, “I also made a few calls back to your home town. Seems you tend to stir up some pretty wierd shit.”

Dillan couldn’t help but laugh a little, “Yeah, I do tend to find the stranger cases. Keeps life interesting.”

“Well, I’ll be keeping an extra bit of attention on you until you get yourself back out of here. We don’t need that kind of interesting occurance ’round these parts,” said the Sherrif.

“Hand me my gun and I’ll start looking into getting out of your hair,” said Dillan.

The Sherrif slowly reached down and opened a drawer, pulling out the revolver and holster, “Seems your ammo got lost somewhere in the shuffle. Paperwork and all. Very sorry about that, Mr. Blight.”

“Hopefully I won’t be needing them anymore,” said Dillan, picking up the gun and shrugging off his suit coat. He slid the holster into place, ignoring the glare across the desk. He took a moment to pull out the gun and check it, making sure nothing else was wrong beyond the missing bullets before tucking it away and shoving himself to his feet.

“I’m sure we can arrange you a ride to the next town, Mr. Blight,” said the Sherrif.

“No thanks. I’ll figure things out myself. I’d hate to impose any further,” said Dillan before turning and heading out the door.

The Sherrif called after him, “Keep your nose clean! We’re watching you.”

Dillan shook his head just a little and continued for the door. Good cleanup, high-end necromancy and the local law enforcement breathing down his neck. He was going to need bullets and a bottle. Well, maybe not a bottle. The pain killers said something about avoiding alchol. Damn. This was going to be a rough one. Dillan paused a moment to get his bearings straight, then wound his way back into town toward the local motel to get a room for the night. Hopefully they’d be appreciative enough to have a customer to give him some directions to the nearest place that sold ammo.

Balancing Demons

Another human paradox,

defined by contradictions,

endlessly struggling

to find middleground,

some firm place

to settle, build

toward permanence,

escape constant swaying

between nature and society,

desire and obligation,

all the while knowing

those demons

keep us struggling,

seeking something

always just out of reach,

no matter how easy

settling may be.

Routine

Another day escapes me,

slowly devoured

by nothing of consequence,

vanishing against

brilliant moments, flashes

of what life can be,

but so rarely is.

Dillan Blight: Paranormal Investigator

A door slamming brought him startling awake. The jolt to his leg made Dillan draw in a sharp hiss of breath as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. Al started up the truck and pulled back onto the road.

“Best drop you off where a doctor can tend to that leg, would seem,” said Al.

Dillan slowed his breathing, letting the throb fade enough that he could see straight again. “Normally I’d be more enclined to argue…”

“Argue, if it makes you feel better. Was meant as a statement, not a recomendation.”

Dillan laughed. “That seems fair. How far is it?”

“About half ‘n hour, giver or take. I’ll not pry into what you’re doing way out here not knowing anything about the area.” said Al.

“Your wisdom seems to know, no bounds, Al,” said Dillan, letting his eyes drift shut.

“I’ve learned a few things over the years,” said Al.

Dillan chuckled again and let himself drift back to sleep.

The bright lights and the fact that he was laying down didn’t help Dillan’s confusion as his eyes fluttered open. Panick welled up for a moment when he realized his gun wasn’t on him. He started to push himself up, but was caught by a nurse with impecable timing.

“I see you’re awake. Lay on back down before you burst your stitches or knock loose the IV,” she said, managing to get him laid back down, while adjusting his pillow and checking the IV all at once.

“What’s in the IV? Because I think I’m missing some time…” said Dillan, letting his gaze slowly circle the room. The drawn curtain didn’t let  him see who else might be in the room, but vague shuffling and breathing sounds certainly didn’t make it seem private. He spotted his things laying carefully folded in a chair.

“Just making sure you’re hydrated. We didn’t have your history, so we kept the drugs as minimal as possible to avoid possible allergic reactions. I think they managed to track them down now, though. We got your name out off of your driver’s liscence. One of the attendings found you asleep on the bench outside. Also, I’m afraid the sherrif is waiting to talk to you,” said the nurse.

Dillan shook his head slowly. “Right. He would be. I think I can manage,”

The nurse smiled and nodded her head. “Alright. I’ll be back to check on you before too long,” she said.

The nurse left, leaving him curtained off in his bed. A few moments later a man with short cropped graying hair and a uniform stepped in.

“Dillan Blight, Private Investigator. What brings you to our neck of the woods, Mr. Blight?” said the Sherrif, flipping open his notebook.

“Bit of bad luck and some blood-loss, mostly,” said Dillan blithely.

The sherrif frowned a little. “Mind telling me how you got shot and what you were shooting at?”

“Didn’t get much of a look. Somebody started taking shots at me while I was walking up the road into town. Managed to hit me. I squeezed off a few rounds and rolled into a ditch. By the time I could collect myself enough to check again, there wasn’t anyone around,” said Dillan.

“Hmm,” said the Sherrif, scribbling in his notebook, “and what were you doing walking down that road, anyway? We haven’t had any abandon cars reported.”

“I think I offended my ride. They let me out before I got where we were going,” said Dillan.

“And where was that, Mr. Blight?”"You know, I don’t quite remember yet. Little too much blood-loss today,” said Dillan.

The Sherrif scowled and flipped the notebook closed, leaning in close to Dillan. “Alright, Mr. Blight. We’ll look into the shooting. We’ll be keeping your side-arm at the station house. You can stop by once you’re well enough to be release,” the Sherrif said and turned to go.

“I’ll pick it up in a couple of days, then,” said Dillan.

“We’ll see about that,” said the Sherrif and left.

Dillan sighed and closed his eyes. “One of these days, I’m going to make a good first impression on the local law enforcement. And then repent before the apocolypse catches up with me.”

Dillan Blight: Paranormal Investigator

The day wasn’t getting any shorter and the trouble he was begining to have focusing was most certainly not a good sign. Dillan frowned to himself. Too much pain and too much blood loss was not a good combination on an empty stomach, dehydration and miles of walking. Faint movement in the distance snapped his attention back to the world around him.

Dillan pulled the rifle up to his shoulder and sited off into the trees. Sure enough another ambush was waiting for him. This time a pair. With bats, no less. Seriously, who animates the dead to serve as thugs with bats? Dillan shook his head, then steadied himself. He squeezed the trigger and nailed the first zombie-thug in the head. He over-corrected some sighting the second and clipped it in the shoulder with the first shot, getting a vague moaning-grunt noise in response. Before it could shuffle too much further in his direction Dillan lined up another shot and dropped the creature.

He waited, watching the surrounding trees to see if he was drawing any more attention. He gave it a solid five minutes before shouldering the rifle, reclaiming his make-shift walking stick and shuffling over to check out the thugs. Wooden bats at least. That was a point in the favor of the big bad villain. Proper thugs always used a good wooden bat. Other then that there wasn’t anything of interest beyond the same symbol that had been on the shooter. Dillan frowned to himself. Ammo was going to become a serious concern if he had to play drop the undead thug too much longer. Not to mention the fact that it didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere fast. He made his way back to the side of the road and cleared a patch of dirt.

You couldn’t spend all of your time around the supernatural without picking up a few tricks. Particullarly not if you wanted to stay alive. At the same time, Dillan had never had a talent for sorcery. In most circles, his tricks were laughable. Of course, his right hook ussually picked up the slack. This time though, hitting things was obvioiusly what they wanted him to keep at. Dillan settled himself on the ground and started tracing an intricate series of symbols into the dirt with the tip of one finger, leaving a small open circle in the center. He then ripped off a bit of bloody bandage and settled it into the center of the circle and began reciting something in a long-dead language, really hoping that he had his pronunciations right this time.

The faint flash and smell of brimstone seemed to indicate he’d managed something. As did the missing bit of bloody cloth and symbols. Dillan pushed himself up and made his way back into the woods, settling down in a small stand of bushes where he could watch the road without being easily seen.

It took about an hour, but a pickup truck finally came rumbling up the road. Just up the road from Dillan, the truck’s rear left tire suddenly blew out. The truck eased to a stop dead even with Dillan’s waiting place. A man in a stained baseball cap, faded black t-shirt and jeans and suprisingly nice boots stepped out of the truck and circled back to check the tire. The man just shook his head and climbed into the back of the truck, pulling out a star wrench and a jack and went to work.

Dillan gave it another moment, then pushed himself up. He emptied the ammo from the rifle and tossed it into the tree behind him, then shoved the rifle itself deeper into the bushes before making his way out to the truck, careful to make some noise and anounce his approach. The man glanced up from his spot, pulling the spare tire out from under the truck.

“Afternoon. Look rather worse for the wear. What happened to your leg?” The man asked in a steady drawl, continuing his work.

Dillan shrugged his shoulders a bit. “Must have drunk a bit too much last night. Woke up out here with a bad leg and a worse memory of the night before. Can you maybe get me back into town?”

The man stretched a bit and glanced up at Dillan again. “Get in. Be done in a moment.”

“Thanks. I’m Dillan, by the way.”

“Balthasar. Though most just call me Al.”

Dillan blinked twice at that, then circled the truck and climbed in to wait. Well, he’d gotten a ride at least. That had to be better then continuing to walk and hoping to eventually get somewhere useful.

Empty Thoughts

As quiet sets in,

heart echoing

in my chest,

decisions echoe

through empty rooms,

drowning out

another day’s work,

leaving questions

and worries,

certainty long lost

to years of life,

bad choices,

scars thrbbing in time

with ticking clock -

reminders

in spirit and flesh

of consequence,

of chances

become disasters.

Escape

Finding comfort

in her arms,

her smell,

my ward

against life

dragging me under.

Cares

left behind

while night

brings simplicity,

warm eyes

swallowing cares,

easing soul,

until dawn

creeps light

between blinds,

burning shadows,

leaving emptiness

she once filled,

her image

always fading

with the night.