Katze's NaNoWriMo Journal

Writing Prompt First Week of June

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 16:49:22 GMT

Be All My Sins Remember'd

It was late afternoon and dusk threatened as I turned off the country lane onto the driveway. There were no other cars around, so I pulled up to the cemetery gate and parked on the rutted drive. I had intentionally planned the trip for dinner time, hoping that the graveyard would be empty. It was empty all right, actually, deserted was a better word, almost creepy, as the sun sank lower toward the horizon and shadows lengthened.

Taking a deep breath, I entered the gates, hastily drawn map in hand. I still had no idea what I was expecting from this visit. I had not seen Wade since the breakup over twelve years ago. We spoke on the phone, once, when I called to offer condolences after hearing that his father had died. I was in Europe at the time, working in Paris, and the overseas connection was terrible. We did not stay on the line very long. I have no idea if Wade was comforted by the call, but I certainly was not. I had bad dreams that night, and a vague sense of unease remained with me for several days. I decided there and then, to have no further contact with Wade Fletcher.

So, here I was, on the ten year anniversary of his death, breaking my own rule and visiting his grave in the middle of nowhere as twilight settled around me. Blackbirds perched on the branches of trees, stared at me as I passed. A lone squirrel scurried here and there searching for who knows what, oblivious to my presence. A soft breeze rustled through the leaves, sounding like snatches of a whispered conversation.

Wade’s grave was as far away from the gate as possible, in the oldest part of the cemetery. I wanted to get back to the car before full dark, so I picked up my pace a bit.

The Fletcher family had some of the most elaborate and expensive headstones I had ever seen. I guess in this part of the county, the bigger your grave marker, the more you were loved. I knew I was being snarky and disrespectful, but a long dormant anger had started to burn deep in my chest and continued to grow with each passing step. Winding back and forth between the statuary, I finally found Wade’s plot and knelt to place a single pink rose at the base of the angel that guarded his final resting place.

The statue stood a good six feet tall, wings spread, ridiculously thick hair falling in long curling ringlets to rest on the shoulders of a flowing robe that covered all but the tips of the angel’s toes. He wielded a broadsword and his stony countenance suggested that if push came to shove, he knew how to use it.

The epitaph on the headstone was even more pretentious:

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

If there was any man on the planet less like the melancholy Dane, I would put my money on Wade Fletcher. There was nothing noble about Wade. He drank too much, was physically and mentally abusive and just plain mean of spirit. To this very day, I have no clue why I was unlucky enough to fall in love with him, or why I stayed as long as I did. However, that was all water under the bridge, and Wade was dead now. He could never hurt me again... not that I would allow such a thing to happen.

I stood and brushed grass clippings off the knees of my jeans and moved to sit on a stone bench beneath the watchful eye of the pissed off looking angel. With the setting sun warm on my back, I turned my thoughts to the time Wade and I spent together, trying to uncover something, anything deep within that might allow me to mourn his passing. Try as I might, there was nothing. It was not like I was happy that Wade was dead, I simply was not unhappy. A heavy stone lifted from my heart. I was at peace, which is just as good if not better than happy.

As the last rays of the sun abandoned us, I glanced up at the angel, and even he seemed a bit less pissed. I stood and bid the angel farewell, turned and finally left Wade Fletcher for good.

nanokatze
Written: June 9, 2009
Word count: 756

2

Writing Prompt Middle Week of June

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 16:46:26 GMT

Seven for a Secret Never to be Told

I leaned forward slightly in my chair, back rigid; staring intently as the bailiff instructed the witness to place her hand on the bible and swear to tell nothing but the truth.

I discreetly rubbed my shoulder against that of my client, a gentle reminder that he was not facing this ordeal alone. I slid the obligatory yellow legal pad closer, and quickly scribbled, ‘only circumstantial evidence’, 'no eye witnesses', and 'no direct connection tying you to any of the victims', before sliding it far enough to my left so that he could read without obviously pulling his attention away from the witness.

There was absolutely no doubt that this was going to be a difficult case to win, but certainly not impossible. My client had been accused of abducting, raping and murdering seven young women. As I mentioned before, the prosecutor possessed only circumstantial evidence, yet he managed to convince a grand jury to bind Donald Eugene Comstock over for trial – charged with seven counts of first degree murder, with special circumstances.

Yesterday had been a fairly routine day. Several times during the jury screening and selection process, I noticed Comstock seemed at best uninterested and at worst, bored.

What Mr. Comstock did not realize was that I managed to secure an almost perfect panel of jurors. Predominately white working class males, either widowed or divorced, and the few women selected were single or career minded wives without children. None of them apt to empathize too strongly with the grieving families whose murdered daughters had brought us all into this courtroom today.

The evidence issues were dispatched quickly, earlier this morning. Our opening statements were made just before lunch break and now as the trial resumed, the prosecution had just sworn their first witness: Judith Taylor-Hodges, laboratory technologist and forensic chemistry expert.

I smiled easily at the defendant as one of the minor players on the prosecutor’s team led Taylor-Hodges through the paces, describing her credentials and establishing her worthiness to be granted expert witness status.

When the honorable James Carlyle presented me the opportunity to cross-examine, I offered him my most blinding smile and nodded. I stood, shuffling through my papers, deliberately delaying the moment when I made eye contact with the witness.

I purposely straightened my jacket and approached the lectern, “Ms. Taylor-Hodges,” waiting until I had addressed her before looking the witness square in the eye, “I would like to ask what, if any, evidence from the seven crime scenes matched Donald Comstock’s DNA?” I glanced over to the jury, continuing quickly before the witness had opportunity to response, “DNA samples voluntarily submitted by Mr. Comstock, before he was ever taken into custody, providing any assistance possible, to aid in the investigation of these horrible and tragic murders.”

“Well…” the woman stammered, “None. As I stated earlier, there was no DNA recovered at any of the crime scenes, except for that of the victims.”

“So, you are stating for the record,” I continued, while scanning the jury panel, meeting and holding the gaze of every member, before completing my question, “Not a single scrap of forensic evidence links Donald Comstock to any of the seven victims or crime scenes?”

The woman’s hand fluttered, settling on her glasses, straightening them unnecessarily, “Uhm, no… er, yes.” She shook her head, and breathed deeply before trying again, “Yes, for the record, there is no medical or forensic evidence linking Donald Comstock to any of the victims or crime scenes.”

~*~*~

‘That upstart, that… that… whelp is stealing this case right out from under my nose,' I had heard about Landers, how he was regularly making waves in the public defender’s office. Obviously, my staff had not done adequate research. This kid was good, really good. However, he was not going to make his bones at the expense of my reputation. I had not spent seventeen years clawing my way up the ladder to lead Prosecuting Attorney, to allow some no name, court appointed D.A. in an off the rack suit rob me of this conviction.

Yet, Landers had sliced through my forensics expert like a knife through hot butter, asking point blank questions about evidence linking his client to any of the gruesome murders.

Of course there was none, but that was not the point, goddammit! This witness’ testimony was meant to shock and confound the jurors with technical jargon and minutiae, and, more importantly, allow me to introduce grim descriptions of the poor dead girls, guaranteed to break even hearts made of stone.

Well, whether by luck or by skill, Landers had won the first round. Judge Carlyle called it quits for the day, after Ms. Taylor-Hodges was dismissed from the witness stand.

Tomorrow would be different ballgame; it was time to pull out the big guns. I planned to start the morning session by reading a list of the victims’ names and ages. I would have one of the junior staffers hook up his computer with the projector thing, and as I intoned each name, he would project first a picture of a smiling, happy vibrant young woman followed by a stark crime scene photo of her violated, lifeless body.

After the jury had those disturbing images in their minds, the rest of the trial would be a cake walk. Each time they looked at Comstock, they would see a desecrated broken body, dead by his hands.

Why, if Judge Carlyle were to poll the jury before lunch break, Comstock would be hanging from the rafters before the afternoon session resumed.

I had Comstock’s juvenile record as a backup, too. It would a bitch, convincing Carlyle to admit these previously sealed records into open court, but it served to show motive and pattern behavior. When Comstock was sixteen, he was arrested and charged with indecent exposure after urinating behind a bush near a public swimming pool filled with elementary school children.

The medical examiner was scheduled to testify as well, providing every horrific detail as to how these unfortunate ladies were tortured, raped and murdered. The same physician had examined each of the seven mutilated bodies. He also has a European accent, so he would come off as important and more knowledgeable to the jurors.

I had to admit that Landers had me rattled, but I would win in the end. This case would be won by evoking an emotional response from the jury, not by evidence or a lack thereof.
Truth be told, by the time I was finished with him, Comstock would be lucky to get the needle. There would be no way in Hell he could possibly survive a life sentence in any prison in this entire state.

~*~*~

I spent the entire lunch break in my chambers, debating on how to instruct the jury. This case was one of the most difficult I had ever presided over. The crimes were brutal, depraved and tragic, without doubt. However, the lack of hard physical evidence was just as appalling.

Kramer had done his best with innuendo and circumstantial evidence, but for the most part, he manipulated and then played on the emotions of the jurists.

Landers, on the other hand had effectively dismissed testimony from every witness, consistently hammering home the fact that there was total lack of physical evidence or eye witnesses to tie Donald Comstock to any of the murders.

The defense had successfully provided reasonable doubt, at least in my opinion. How the jury would interpret this information was a totally separate matter.

After both lawyers made their closing statements, it would be left to me to provide instruction to the jury members before they retired and discussed their decision. I had to make it understood that if they held even a single shred of doubt about Donald Comstock’s guilt, then they were legally and morally bound to acquit. However, I could not imply that this is what I wanted or expected them to do. They must take the facts, evidence and testimony into consideration and make a unanimous decision, without outside influence.

As a last resort, I did what I always did in such dire straits: I called home to talk with my wife. Somehow, she always managed to help me see things from a safer place; separate from the anxiety, fear and grief swirling and hovering above everyone and everything the courtroom, shading and coating every thought and action.

Just before donning my robes, I took one last shot of courage from the bottle of Jameson’s in my desk drawer. With a final sigh, I signaled the bailiff to announce my entrance.

~*~*~

The guards lurked by the holding room door, staring at me like I had grown a third eye. I sat quietly, maintaining composure, despite the shackles round my wrists and ankles.

It was simply a matter of time now; the jury had retired to deliberate my fate. All wishful thinking aside, there was simply no other choice; they had to return with a verdict of not guilty. The judge had done everything but order them to acquit.

I had to admit, Landers lived up to his reputation. He had done a wonderful job preparing my defense, not to mention discrediting almost every single witness Kramer, that joke of a prosecutor had called.

Soon, I would be a free man again. I had no idea how much I missed my apartment, my own clothing and my mementos, until there was potentially an opportunity to see them; to touch them again.

I owed Harlan Landers so much. Not just my freedom but my life, my reputation and standing in the community. Unfortunately, I was a man of modest income. I had no way to repay such a substantial debt, at least with monetary compensation.

I figured in lieu of payment, I would show D.A. Landers my gratitude and appreciation in a way that everyone could live with…

I would take a pass on the lovely blonde woman I had seen leaving the courtroom on her victorious husband’s arm: the delightful Mrs. Caroline Landers.

End

nanokatze
21 June, 2009
Word Count: 1700

Mon, 08 Oct 2007 21:53:15 GMT

I found a new prompt community to spur my daily writing and help nurse along my story.

7_days at Insane Journal prompt for Monday, October 8: Dark

Title: Hank's Horrible Night [working title]
Author: nanokatze aka Katze
Prompt: Dark
Word Count: 1630
Fandom: Original character fiction
Rating: G [for this segment]
Author's note: Work in progress. This installment consists of two prompts approximately eight hundred words each.

Prompt I: A table full of men are whispering.

August, 1962
It seemed like Hank Travers had been angry all summer. Seriously angry with his step-father, Ted Langley, for demanding that Hank take a part-time job, instead of spending the summer before his junior year hanging out with his buddies. Furious at and betrayed by his mother, Edith, for siding with Ted, rather than her own flesh and blood son. However, Hank reserved the balance of his rage for Mr. Hennessy from across the street for stepping in to offer Hank a job at the country club’s restaurant in such a generous fashion that Hank had no hope of refusing him.

Of course, Mr. Hennessy, the country club manager, had an ulterior motive. He knew Hank was sweet on his daughter, Carol Jean. By providing Hank with a job, Hennessy looked good in his daughter's eyes, and while Hank worked evenings at the club, he wouldn't be around to spend time with Carol. Two birds with one stone, a game winning home run for old Hennessy, by anyone’s standards.

Yes, Ted and Mr. Hennessy had made short work of his social life, without batting an eye. Hank had to ride his bike to and from work. During the summer, the city bus made its last run at nine thirty and he did not clock out until ten, sometimes later, when the restaurant was crowded. This meant that Hank had to leave home at noon to clock in on time and after eleven when he arrived home each night to fall into bed exhausted.

Washing dishes was hot steamy work, but it kept him busy; no time to watch the clock. Not to mention, out of the executive chef's line of fire. That man could peel the skin off of a fellow, when he started on a tear. Chef's language could put Ted to shame, if one of the line cooks earned his wrath.

Truth be told, working in the restaurant's kitchen wasn't so bad. A couple of the waiters were college students home for summer break. Occasionally, they would invite Hank to step outside the back door with them for a cigarette break. They told hilarious stories that made Hank laugh so hard he got embarrassed. Once or twice, he was even offered a smoke, but Hank declined, rather than explain to Mom and Ted why he reeked of cigarettes.

Tonight had been rough from the start of the shift: A wedding party had booked the restaurant's banquet room from eight until eleven and one of the busboys called in sick. Chef was in a bad mood, anxious that the bride’s father, a local bank president, was satisfied with the service. Everyone in the kitchen was on the receiving end of his evil eye, even Hank, for the slightest infraction, real or imagined. The waiters were responsible for helping bus their stations, so they were short tempered as well as overworked. No relief in the form or smoke breaks or funny stories loomed in the foreseeable future.

At nine forty-five, just as he thought he might get out alive, the maitre'd rushed in and informed the kitchen that one of the remaining busboys had been sneaking champagne all evening and was too drunk to continue working. As a result, Hank received a field promotion in the form of a white linen smock flung at his face. The maitre’d told him to 'get his ass in gear and start busing tables in the banquet room, pronto'. If Hank had any questions he should ask the waiters, but stay out of their way and under no circumstances was he to engage the guests in conversation.

Hank called home to tell his mother that he would be late and said he’d call just before he left so she would know when to expect him. Edith insisted on speaking with the maitre'd, but he had already left the kitchen. Mom swore she didn't doubt her son's word, but if Ted were to ask, she must be able to say that she had received confirmation from an 'adult in charge'.

Swallowing a thick lump of resentment, Hank covered the mouthpiece, made a whispered explanation and then handed the phone to the chef. He wet a comb at the sink and fixed his hair. Slipping on the starched jacket, he grabbed an empty cart, and headed toward the banquet room, shoulders slumping lower with every step. If possible, his spirits dropped even more as he passed a bank of windows in the main dining hall. It was raining. He would drown on the ride home or catch his death of pneumonia and no one would care.

Things could not get any worse. Or so Hank thought.

The first sight that met his eyes as he entered the banquet room was a group of somberly dressed old men sitting at a small table in the corner whispering animatedly, gesturing and throwing baleful glances at the door.

* * *

Prompt II: Dark

One of them made eye contact with Hank and he tapped his closest neighbor's arm. In a heartbeat, there was silence at the table, and worse, each one of them was staring at Hank. He felt hot and slightly dizzy. Realizing he had been holding his breath, Hank released it with a cough and lowered his head. He hurried to push his cart toward an empty table, feeling their eyes upon him still, burning holes into his back.

Chip, one of his favorite waiters nudged Hank with his elbow. “Looks like you have a fan club, man.” He grinned and winked, “Too bad it’s a bunch of old geezers instead of those beauties at the bride’s maids table.”

Hank ducked his head to hide a smile, “Shut up, all I did was walk into the room. I wasn’t picking my nose or anything. I don’t know why those old farts keep staring at me.”

“Well, you’d better get over there quick,” Chip laughed. “They’re waving and trying to get your attention, buddy. Don’t want to keep your fans waiting.”

“But, I’m not supposed to talk to the guests!” Hank clutched at Chip’s sleeve nervously, “What should I do?”

Shrugging, Chip gently shoved him forward, “Push your cart over there. Start bussing their table and see what they want. Even if the boss notices you talking to them, he’s not going to fire you. There isn’t anyone else to do the job. You’re safe. Go find out what they’re up to, man. Maybe you’ll get a big tip for your trouble.”

Hank started toward the old men, uncertainly slowing his stride. He felt hot and dizzy again, but kept going. He nodded to one of the old men while reaching for an empty plate. Hank nearly screamed as bony fingers clamped down tightly on his wrist.

“You’re Harry Travers’ boy?”

His head snapped up when he heard his father’s name. “Uh, yeah . . . I’m Hank, uh, Henry Travers, Junior.” He couldn’t stop stammering, “Did you know my dad . . . uh . . . sir?”

Wisps of white hair floated around the old man’s head, age spots giving his scalp a dirty appearance. Intense cornflower blue eyes locked on Hank’s face as his grip tightened, preventing him from pulling away. “Yes, you’re Harry’s boy, I’ll warrant. You’ve got his look and if you do as you’re meant to, you’ll do your father proud, Henry Travers, Junior.”

Another old man, reached to swat away the hand clutching Hank’s arm, “Bah! This is neither the time nor place for it, Basil. You’ll scare the boy, or worse, convince him that we’re simply a bunch of addled old codgers.”

He turned and offered Hank his hand, “Hello, young Travers. I’m Geoffrey Grayson. The crazy man trying to hold you captive is Basil St. John. I’m sorry for the dramatic introductions.”

Hank wiped his hand on the front of his smock before offering it to Mr. St. John, “Hello. It’s nice to meet you, sir.” He began to relax but still cast a furtive glance over his shoulder.

“Your supervisor won’t bother us, Hank. Don’t worry,” St. John stated, “But, as Grayson said before, this is not the place to discuss business. We are in serious need of your help, son. When will you finish your shift?”

Confused but growing curious, Hank thought a moment before answering, “I imagine Chef will let me leave after the guests are gone and the room is cleaned up.” He blushed slightly, “I’m just fifteen, sir, so he’ll try his best to send me home before midnight and leave the dishes to be washed tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Grayson nodded, “That’s just fine. We’ll wait in the parking lot for you. Don’t mention this to anyone, Hank. Gather your bicycle, just like any other night, but ride to the northern corner of the parking lot. It’s nice and dark there, less chance of us being noticed or disturbed.”

St. John agreed, “Yes, that’s perfect. After our business is conducted, someone will drive you home. We don’t want your mother angry or worried that you’re not home when you’re supposed to be, especially since you’re already running later than usual.”

Before Hank could reply a napkin slapped against the side of his head. He turned quickly to see Chip motioning for him to get moving, while simultaneously pointing toward the suddenly interested maitre’d.

“I have to go, Mr. Grayson.” He quickly loaded his cart with dessert plates and coffee cups. “I’ll meet you and Mr. St. John in the north corner of the parking lot just as soon as Chef says I can go.” He shoved his cart forward to the next table, proud that he had not looked up again from his work.

To be continued

Daily Writing Exercises

Fri, 05 Oct 2007 04:23:53 GMT

It's that time again. Nanowrimo lurks just around the corner and I plan to get a head start on the daily writing bit, this year.

First writing promt: A table full of men are whispering.

word count: 482

A table full of men are whispering.

Hank had been angry all summer. Angry with his step-father, Ted, for insisting Hank take a part-time job, instead of spending the summer hanging out with his friends. Angry with his mother for siding with Ted, rather than her own flesh and blood son, but mostly, he was angry with Mr. Hennessy from across the street for offering Hank a job at the country club in such a generous fashion that Hank had no hope of refusing him.

Mr. Hennessy had an ulterior motive, of course. He knew Hank was sweet on his daughter, Carol Jean. If Hank worked evenings at the club, he wouldn't be around to spend time with Carol.

Hank had to ride his bike to work, because the city bus made its last run at eight and he did not clock out until ten, sometimes even later, when the restaurant was crowded.

He had to admit, working in the kitchen wasn't so bad. Washing dishes was hot work, but kept him busy; no time to watch the clock. Plus, a couple of the waiters were college students on summer break. Occasionally, they would allow Hank to step outside the back door with them for a cigarette break. They told hilarious stories that made Hank laugh so hard he got embarrassed.

Although, tonight had been rough from the start of the shift: A wedding party had the restaurant's banquet room booked from eight-thirty until eleven and one of the busboys called in sick. Everyone in the kitchen suffered the chef's wrath, even Hank, for the slightest infraction. The waiters were responsible for helping bus their stations, so they were short tempered as well.

At nine forty-five, just as he thought he might get out alive, the maitre'd rushed into the kitchen and informed Hank that he had been promoted. He handed Hank a white linen smock and told him to start busing tables in the banquet room and said that if he had any questions to ask the waiters.

Hank called home to tell his mother that he would be late and promised to call again before he left so she would know when to expect him. His mother insisted on speaking with the chef, of course, she didn't doubt her son's credibility, but if Ted were to ask, she could say she had confirmation from an 'adult in charge'.

Swallowing a thick lump of resentment, he handed the phone to the chef. He wet a comb at the sink and fixed his hair, and then slipped into the starched jacket. Grabbing an empty cart, he headed toward the banquet room, grumbling the entire way.

The first sight that met his eyes as he entered was a group of somberly dressed old men sitting at a small table in the corner whispering animatedly, gesturing and throwing baleful glances at the door.

Too Much Time on my Hands

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 00:54:24 GMT

exercise: place your character in a waiting room.
posted at originalit
author: schadenkatze
word count: 1183

I cautiously opened the door, hoping I’d misread the directions and had entered the wrong room, but no such luck. Glancing around, I immediately noted drab walls and metal folding chairs. As I walked toward the check-in desk, the sound of my shoes striking the concrete floor made me cringe. I was sure I heard echoes reverberating with every step.

Others had already arrived and taken seats; most glanced up as I passed but no one made eye contact. I pulled my driver’s license from my wallet and presented it to the clerk, who handed it back along with an adhesive nametag. In a hushed and oh, so serious tone, she informed me that I must put it on right away and remove it only after leaving the premises.

The room felt stuffy. Luckily, I had remembered a handkerchief that morning, and used it to mop my forehead as I headed to the sitting area. I found an empty row near the back and took a seat. Shifting and re-positioning my legs, trying to find a reasonably comfortable position in the metal seat, my movements caused the chair to scrape loudly across the concrete, drawing disapproving stares from the clerk and several of the seated guests. A vague feeling of nausea made my surroundings even more unpleasant.

Two rows ahead of me and a little to the left, I recognized a couple I had met several times. I could tell from their posture, huddled, husband’s arm around wife’s shoulders, heads pressed together, that neither was in the mood for small talk. For that matter, neither was I.

I checked my watch and sighed, still ten minutes to go . . . if everything went smoothly. To kill time, I went over my mental checklist to make sure there was a good reason for me to be here, especially this fucking early in the morning. I glanced over at the couple again, Harold and Geneva Adkins, and knew this was exactly where I should be.

Danny Wayne Jackson, who should have been a poster child for pro-choice advocates, stood accused and convicted of rape and murder. The Adkins’ daughter, thirteen-year-old Carrie Anne was his victim.

My name is Mike Reilly, and I serve as assistant to Donald L. Uptmoor, the best prosecutor in the state. Uptmoor has not lost a single capital murder case, since the governor appointed him District Attorney.

Every young lawyer in the D.A.’s office would lay open a vein to be included on one of Uptmoor’s cases. I pulled a few strings and seriously depleted my bank account bribing clerks to get my name at the top of the ‘available’ list. When my name was finally selected, I was to assist in the prosecution of Danny Wayne Jackson.

As the new kid, I got all the grunt work, including picking up kids from school, dry cleaning, Chinese food, and anything else the senior staff might think of. No matter, I was in the presence of greatness, working a case that received nationwide media coverage.

Hours at the police station going through Jackson’s criminal records, long nights in the legal library researching obscure cases that the defense team might throw at us, finally paid off. Except . . . one of the facts I discovered is a secret I will take to my grave.

Initially, police officers picked up Jackson on a vagrancy charge. He had been drinking for days and while in the drunk tank, admitted his crime to another prisoner, and was overheard by a jailer. The police pulled Jackson into an interrogation room, ignoring his demands for a lawyer and forced him to sign a confession. When a court appointed attorney finally did arrive, he made no effort to contest the illegally obtained confession.

I knew Jackson was guilty. I knew that if I brought this information to Uptmoor’s attention, then he would be obligated to inform the defense team. They, of course, would insist that the judge strike Jackson’s confession from evidence. Without Jackson’s confession, we had nothing. Jackson’s lawyers would insist that he recant his confession and claim he was lying to impress the other prisoner. The jailer’s testimony would then be deemed as hearsay and ruled inadmissible. The judge would have no choice but to dismiss the case and Jackson would be free to rape and murder again.

To make a long story short, Uptmoor won the case and Danny Wayne Jackson received a sentence of death by lethal injection. Uptmoor had another case to try. He could not get away to witness the execution but felt someone from the D.A.’s office should attend. I volunteered, to show I was a team player, as well as to pay penance for my sin of omission.

Two armed guards opening a heavy black curtain drew me back to the situation at hand. Behind inches thick plexi-glass, Danny Wayne Jackson lay strapped to a wheeled hospital gurney. A clergyman stood near his head speaking softly, while the warden pronounced sentence and asked if Jackson had any last words.

With effort, Jackson lifted his head. Even from a distance, I could see the look of terror on his face. He mumbled something indistinct, or maybe I simply chose not to hear his words. That isn’t exactly the truth, because I know I heard him say “I didn’t do it,” before his head dropped back onto the pillow.

The nausea returned, this time not quite so vague, accompanied by slight vertigo as I watched an attendant step forward to insert an intravenous needle into Jackson’s arm. Sweat beaded my forehead but I stared in fascination while the doctor drew liquids from two separate vials into a sterile syringe. I wondered at the time why he took such precautions, since Jackson was in no danger of contracting any sort of infection.

When the doctor turned toward the gurney, I had to look away. All my resolve vanished when faced with the reality of watching a man die. In the end, I concentrated on the back of Harold Adkins’ head. Geneva turned, pressing her face into her husband’s shirt, but she did not weep. When Adkins’ shoulders slumped, I knew it was over. I released a shuddering sigh, not realizing until then that I’d been holding my breath. Adkins lifted his wife’s face, placing a tender kiss to her forehead. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he clutched a framed picture of Carrie Anne. Geneva gently removed the photo from his hands, placing it in her purse.

I thought I might cry as we filed silently out of the viewing room, but the emotion quickly passed once I had left the prison grounds. Even the horror I had just witnessed was not enough to destroy the peace and sense of justice I felt, knowing that Jackson got exactly what he deserved.

I was fine until that night, when I went to bed. The morning’s events refused to let me sleep. I kept coming back to the same question: When faced with certain death, why would Danny Jackson continue to proclaim his innocence?

Sisters

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 00:53:49 GMT

vignette written for the 'uncomfortable dialogue' prompt at the originalit comm.

Sisters by schadenkatze
Word Count: 500

“Hey, did you see the pictures from my cruise, Dee?” Andrea tossed the photo envelope across the sofa to her sister. “As soon as I have time, I’m gonna stick ‘em all in an album, you know, something scrap bookish.”

Denise nodded, flipping through the images without really seeing them. “Andi, we need to talk.” Taking a deep breath, Denise reminded herself that she was not going to be angry or judgmental. She placed the envelope on the coffee table and turned to face her sister. “I’m really glad that you and Mark hit it off so well. I’m thrilled that you can afford to take cruises and drive a new car . . .”

Andrea cut her off, “Yeah, it’s about time, too. I didn’t think I’d ever find a man who could take care of me like I deserve.” She smiled and slapped Denise’s leg lightly.

“What I’m trying to say is,” she swallowed and licked her lips, “Baby girl, you owe me.” Denise stared into her younger sister’s eyes and willed her to understand. “When Mama died, I took you in, no questions asked. I put the baby in bed with me, and poor little Nathan on the sofa, so you could have a room of your own. I never asked you for a dime. Even when you got that part time job that didn’t interfere with your scholarship you never offered to help out.” She stood and walked around the room, deliberately not staring at all the expensive knick-knacks and souvenirs occupying almost every flat surface. “My paycheck can stretch only so far. Government cuts have taken almost half of my food stamps away, but my kids still gotta eat.” Turning back to face her sister, “Do you understand?”

Andrea sat silent, anger and resentment obvious in her expression. Finally she spoke, “I gotta look nice for Mark. It’s not like I spend all this money on clothes and a car, just for me, ya know?” Unconsciously, she smoothed her hands over her blouse, “He needs me to look good to impress his boss and the clients we entertain.”

Heaving a resigned sigh, Denise nodded, “Yeah, baby girl, I understand. I guess what I’m asking then, is for a loan. Nathan needs new shoes and school supplies. I need groceries. Can you see your way clear to loan me a couple hundred dollars? I will pay it back as I can.”

Placated, Andrea nodded, “Sure thing. Let me find that damned ATM card and we’ll go down to the corner store. You can even drive my car, if you want.” She rummaged through her purse for keys and bankcard, “I won’t say anything to Mark about it . . . and, you can pay me back a little bit each week, okay?”

Denise turned and walked out the door heading deliberately to the passenger side of Andi’s car unable or unwilling to muster a smile or reply.

Cheap Therapy

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 00:53:11 GMT

drabble posted at originalit comm.

Cheap Therapy

His mother had seen him cry, fifteen years ago when his sister died. She’d said nothing; smart woman, his mother. He left that night.

Stupid thing was, right now, he had no fucking idea why he was crying. He’d paid for a fuck but somehow the world had turned upside down. She talked softly, acted like she knew him. Shifting her weight, never releasing her hold on him, cupping the back of his head like some goddamned infant. And suddenly, here he was, sobbing on her tits.

Yeah, the bitch had seriously fucked up. He just might have to kill her for this particular indignity.

Grave Secrets

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 00:52:34 GMT

original fiction posted for the originalficfest community challenge.

Grave Secrets
by schadenkatze
word count: 2500
rating: R for language and violence

Title: Grave Secrets
Author: schadenkatze
Rating: PG13 for language and violence
Prompts: "That fire and brimstone preacher has a secret!"
New Orleans and cemeteries

Grave Secrets

My name is Dan Walker, although nobody has called me that for better than a hundred years now.

I started life in the Ozark Mountains of southern Missouri. My people emigrated from Wales as indentured servants and first lived in St. Louis. After earning their freedom, they moved south, to the mountains, a more familiar terrain. Pa worked the lead mines, and Ma taught us kids to read and write using the Bible and a couple of books given her by the family she’d worked for.

When I was nineteen, the war of Northern aggression broke out. Missouri and Kentucky ignored President Lincoln’s order to send troops to support his Union army and voted to remain neutral in the conflict.

Overcome with patriotic duty and the need to fight, I ran off to Ohio to enlist. The men in my company took to calling me ‘Missouri’, and joked about my hillbilly accent but for the most part, it was all good-natured. We were a team, we had to trust and rely on each other to survive and win.

In January of 1862, the general received orders to send all available troops to Louisiana, to join with other forces to capture New Orleans. As soon as hard winter broke, we started the long journey south.

Even back then, I knew my way around the woods and could climb trees good as any squirrel. I was a crack shot with a rifle, even if I do say it myself, so I always led scouting parties or acted as sentry when the unit stopped to make camp for the night.

One night in late April, we’d finally crossed from Mississippi into Louisiana and the General asked me to take a scouting party and move on ahead about two miles. If we encountered other Union soldiers, we were supposed to speak with their officers and provide the location of our camp.

I picked two men and we lit out as soon as the sun went down. There was no moon that night and it was slow going through the woods. We stopped in a narrow glen to rest and have a smoke, when something swooped down on us from the trees. First off, I thought it was a hawk but it was just too fucking big.

The thing was incredibly fast and there was no light to draw bead on it. Before I knew it, this thing had killed both my men and tossed me to the ground; my rifle went skittering off into the brush. My head hit hard, but that made no real difference, because this thing was so fast and strong that even in broad daylight, I wouldn’t stand a chance. It latched onto my throat and bit down so hard, I knew I was going to die.

I woke up a while later; it was still full dark. People were rummaging around the glen: Rebel soldiers, on their own scouting mission. One of them saw me and snatched me up, “This ‘un be playin’ possum, sir!”

They fell on me like a pack of dogs, stole my boots, ammunition, even my tobacco. Someone threw a rope over a tree limb and they hung me right there. Not one of those yellow bastards asked for my last words or offered to say a prayer over me . . . they didn’t even ask my name.

Next thing I knew, I woke up inside a box. I was never Ma’s best student, but it didn’t take long for me to figure out I was buried alive. I began shouting and beating on the top and sides of the coffin, flopping around like a fish out of water.

At first, I thought it was because I was so scared that I broke through that wood so easily. I didn’t try to reason why I wasn’t smothered from all the dirt until long after I’d dug out of the freshly filled grave.

I fell over on the grass, panting like an old hound and stared up at the stars. After a while, I realized something was different. I could see and hear better than ever. The light from the stars was so bright to me; I could read the names on gravestones four and five rows over from where I was standing.

About then, I realized something else. Overwhelmed by thirst, I felt weak in the knees from need of a drink. As I looked round for a path or gate, some way out of the bone yard, I spied an old rummy staggering alongside a row of graves.

I was on him like a hog on slop; I tore out his throat, swallowing great gouts of his blood before I came to my senses. It was too late for the old man, though. I thought I’d be sick from what I’d done, but I felt like a brand new man. There was a buzzing in my ears, a powerful strength coursing through my veins. I felt I could take on the whole Rebel army and win the war, single-handedly.

I swapped out the old man’s clothes and tossed the body in my grave. I shoveled the dirt on top of him best I could and stamped it down good with my boots.

I guess it was probably more than six months before I found out there was a name for what I was . . . and that there were more of those like me haunting New Orleans.

---

“That is simply unacceptable. I expect my orders carried out within the week, Deacon. After all, the Lord speaks through me, right? This is not my will, it’s God’s will. Make it happen.” Lonnie Roy Boudreau, New Orleans’ latest up and coming Pentecostal preacher slammed the phone hard enough to jangle the ringer.

Lonnie Roy cringed at the inevitable comparisons to Jimmy Swaggart, but what was there to do? Their backgrounds were quite similar. Both grew up poor, felt the Lord’s call to preach at a very early age, and knew how to make money hand over fist.

They both had secrets but his was nothing so mundane as sleeping with prostitutes. Lonnie Roy’s secret was far more dangerous.

Boudreau had not only a secret, he had an enemy; one might go so far as to say a mortal enemy. Teddy Dufrene was another mover and shaker in the upper echelon of New Orleans’ Pentecostal circles. Dufrene was the proverbial thorn in Lonnie Roy’s side and his secret would be the means of Lonnie Roy’s deliverance of Teddy Dufrene.

---

Boudreau’s secret.

Now, I never was much for church attendance and after . . . well, let’s just say I had even less reason to darken the door of any cathedral. But, I do think that any man who lead the righteous should do more than pretend to live the life.

Boudreau didn’t. He claimed to speak God’s word, told others how to live, went so far as to tell his congregation how to vote in local elections but Lonnie Roy lived a lie.

By day, he professed to be led by the Light, but at night he worked the dark arts. He lit candles, created potions, spells and hexes.

The hex he worked on Teddy Dufrene bound me to them both.

---

Boudreau cursed himself a fool yet again for not carrying a flashlight. The cemetery was deserted. The caretaker passed out drunk in his pickup near the back gates. He crept carefully along the path, feeling bulky and awkward. The satchel swayed dangerously on his back, its contents clanking together and his arm grew tired from holding the oil lantern in front of his face. Surely, he must be close, now.

There, to his left. Boudreau smiled, feeling power suffuse him, adrenaline induced sweat stinging his eyes.

He balanced his lantern on the gravestone, lips moving as he read the epitaph:

Here lies Dan Walker
A good son and loyal soldier
Died 1862
In service of GOD and his country

Lonnie Roy knelt and delved inside his satchel, reverently laying out his tools and softly mumbling incantations. He sprinkled a circle of salt around him for protection and stood, a dagger in his left hand, a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue in his right. Boudreau sliced the dagger through the air, sketching powerful symbols. He turned first to the north, taking a mouthful of whiskey and spitting it into the air. After turning to repeat his ritual in all four directions, Lonnie Roy returned his attention to the grave before him.

“Dan Walker, powerful man, worthy soldier, you who have come to a bad end, I beseech thee.”

Kneeling again, careful to remain inside the protective circle, Boudreau placed his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, sprinkling the outrageously expensive whiskey generously over the grave.

“I come to purchase from you, Dan Walker, a small portion of your grave dirt. I bring fine spirits and silver coin. I ask for dirt that covers your head and heart. With your assistance, I can perform most powerful wonders. Hear me, Dan Walker, and accept my offering.”

Reaching inside the bag once again, Boudreau removed a small sandwich bag of dimes. He pressed them, one by one into the ground, creating sacred patterns and symbols. Finally, he uncorked a small amber glass bottle and filled it with loose dirt from Dan Walker’s grave, careful not to spill any.

After returning everything to the satchel, Lonnie Roy made short work of destroying the salt circle with the heel of his boot. The graveyard dirt was the final ingredient to create a Do Harm to Others hex. If things worked properly, Teddy Dufrene would be in a world of hurt by tomorrow night.

---

Dufrene was definitely in a world of hurt.

I’m not sure exactly how many nights after Boudreau’s ceremony at my grave, I woke with an overwhelming compulsion to visit a house in the Garden District. With all the magic worked in the Crescent City, I have no idea how I’d managed to be spared before now, but there was simply no way I could resist the command worming through my brain.

It was late summer and the moon was so bright, people were out in the streets like it was still midday. I made my way to the District, unsure where I was going, just that I would know the house when I saw it.

---

Dollie Dufrene had fallen head over heels for the house, the moment the realtor had pulled her Cadillac into the lane. The cobbled drive and brick retaining walls softened by the riotous wild flowers that made up the front lawn.

Teddy was nervous, the house was too expensive; the affluent congregation of his new church had agreed to provide them a parsonage, but this place was simply too much. Sure, the real estate agent was a church member and stood to gain a huge commission, but he and Dollie could not maintain this exclusive lifestyle if he did not succeed in making the church board happy. Worst-case scenario would mean disgrace and eviction. Almost as bad, would be losing the house to the bank, should the city’s economy take a drastic turn.

He and Dollie prayed and fasted for two days, awaiting the revelation of God’s will, before making a decision.

Now, Teddy could not imagine living anywhere else . . . until recently. The past few nights, Teddy had experienced difficulty sleeping. Stress, worry and even fear had held his mind hostage.

That crazy Lonnie Ray Boudreau had been making noise at recent council meetings. He had singled out Teddy as example of everything that was wrong with modern protestant tenets. Teddy suspected Boudreau of trying to steal his congregation, and then prayed for forgiveness for presuming to know another man’s heart.

Last night, Teddy had sat downstairs reading his bible and praying for guidance. He was sure he’d heard someone outside and turned out the lamp, sitting silently in the dark. When his eyes finally adjusted, he espied a face peering at him from the window.

It was there only for a second, but Teddy was positive of what he had seen. A lean face of a young man, dramatically pale in the moonlight. Shadow obscured his eyes, but Teddy felt as if the boy had looked directly inside him and knew his heart.

Spooked and shaken, Teddy had jumped at every noise for the rest of the night. Even praying for peace had provided little comfort.

---

It’s not within my nature to feel pity. I am a predator, and as such feel nothing but hunger when faced with my prey. It was no different with Teddy Dufrene, except I felt a dull rage at whom or whatever compelled me to torment this man.

I toyed with him, appearing at a different window each night, intentionally allowing him to see me. Several nights, I entered his home, moving items, hiding things, making my real presence known. I could do him no physical harm. The spell that enthralled me made me to know that I was there only to frighten this man, drive him insane with fear, but forbidden to touch a hair on his head, or any member of his family.

---

“Dollie, honey, I’m okay. I want you to stay with your Mama and have a good time. I’m fine, I promise.” Teddy strived to force sincerity into his voice. He’d sent Dollie and the babies away, intent on blessing the house and sending this demon right back to Hell, where it belonged.

He started at dusk, first to the kitchen, invoking God’s word through scripture and prayer, marking the lintel of every doorway in the sign of the cross with anointed oil. Dufrene tarried and prayed, begging his Heavenly Father to cleanse his house and free him from the unearthly torment, even comparing himself to Job in the level of his suffering.

When he’d finished, Teddy settled on the family room sofa with a sense of satisfaction and growing peace. As the shadows grew longer, Teddy sighed and reached to turn on a lamp.

As light infused the room, he found himself face to face with his dreaded spectre. The pale youth, little more than a boy, had eyes that glowed as red as smoldering coals. Their gazes locked for what seemed an eternity before the creature hissed, baring fangs. He charged, moving so fast Teddy’s eyes could not follow the movement. Throwing himself to the floor, Dufrene rolled under the coffee table, shrieking for God to deliver him.

Thinking the demon banished, Teddy crept from his hiding pace and climbed unsteadily to his feet. He turned only to find it standing directly behind him, a cruel smile on its bloodless lips.

Teddy fled the house screaming, cross and Bible still in hand. Neighbors found him wandering the street, babbling of eternal damnation and lakes of fire.

----

After Teddy Dufrene’s admission to a state run mental facility, the bonds surrounding me were broken. A little investigation on my part, culminating in a pilgrimage to my long unused grave led me to the right reverend Lonnie Roy Boudreau.

I’ve waited an entire month but now that the moon is full again, I think I’ll pay Lonnie Roy a visit tonight

Working Title

Mon, 09 Oct 2006 22:16:33 GMT

I have a working title for my novel now . . . I'm calling it Smoke and Shadows, at least until inspiration strikes and beats me into submission.

Thu, 05 Oct 2006 13:00:24 GMT

Hey, all --

My user name at NaNoWriMo is damagecat and my profile can be found HERE

Virgin Post

Wed, 13 Sep 2006 22:00:07 GMT

This journal shall henceforth be designated as National Novel Writing Month Receptacle.

I have a very vague plot outline and a couple of character sketches so far. I don't want to get too involved this early, since the purpose of NaNo is to write a novel in thirty days.