Five Short Stories & Twelve Poems


"Death’s Kiss"

My name is Jack. I grew up on the streets of New York. Regardless the time of day, through my eyes the streets always looked like midnight. Didn’t matter the season, New York was always as cold as a frost-bitten day in January. Hardly a good vision, but perfect for a guy like me. And with so many people crowded into such a small place, I could always blend in and there would be an ample supply of victims.

My father abandoned me before I was born and my mother was a heroin addict who prostituted herself to make money for the drugs, and for me. So pardon me if I seemed angry most of the time.

The truth was I was angry most of the time. I am, at this moment looking down nearly 900 feet from a sky scraper window. Examining the little dots, which the people down there look like. I contemplate shooting the window out and jumping. Staring out the window, I feel cold and alone and life means nothing to me. But life has never meant anything to me. I guess that is why it has always been so easy for me to take it. Let me tell you what brought me here this icy day in December.

Growing up, I spent hours in motel rooms, watching my mother ply her trade, as I was not yet old enough to wait outside. At first, when I was very young I would watch as each of her customers came and went, each leaving money on the bed. Once old enough, I did step outside and quickly became a product of the streets and by the time I was 16 years old, my six foot tall – 240 pound frame made it easy for me to mug people and rob stores. And when I wanted a woman, I would simply take her, rape her and kill her. I could not just go to a hooker. I grew up watching my mother hook. The thought of going to one repulsed me, and paying for a hooker would just remind me of my mother. By my seventeenth birthday I decided to leave my mothers’ world and strike out on my own. I never saw my mother again nor did I care and never gave it another thought.

By the time I reached twenty-one years, my mother had died, and I became what my court appointed doctor called sociopathic and a psychopath. I had been accused of killing seventeen people over the years, but not one of the accusations made it to court. I was protected from the many lie detector tests by the fact that I had no conscience. I did what I wanted, when I wanted and never thought twice about the results of my actions or the consequences. I knew that I would never get caught. The bodies of the people I left behind were mutilated and destroyed, so that only their DNA could be found. And although I never tried to hide anything, I guess I was naturally good at what I did, and I never left a trace of me behind.

I was full of rage in my youth. I looked at the city, with all of its people on all of its streets, and I hated everyone. I mean really hated them. I would walk down the avenue, looking at them all and thinking how much satisfaction I would derive from taking my knife and slicing their bellies open. Pounding the knife over and over again into their chest. I really felt that I would feel some release if I could just once, smash someone’s face in with a big rock.

short stories final

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