Flash Fiction #4

Fourth installment (Note that this is depression related)

Flash Fiction #4 – Soulful Muse

What have I become? Tears rolling down my cheek. My hands shaking. A lump in my throat. A knot in my stomach. Apprehension in my mind. Depression pulsing through my body. It is through. It seems like the end. Is it?

It is through depression that my thoughts are the most philosophical. But why should I bother? To please a bunch of people I don’t even know? To reassert who I am as a person? To fulfil aspirations I had as a kid? My mind is all fuzzy.

Cramped. Constricted. Verging on insanity. The walls close in. I am trapped. But this isn’t tangible. It is my own mind. I am my prison. The sky is grey. The air is dank. The rain is weighing on me.

In the mystic lights of the dawn there is a glimmer of hope, the start of a new day. A fresh opportunity? A second chance? Is that all dependent?

I have all these ideas but I always back away… why is this? I vow to myself that I won’t do what I shouldn’t be doing but I always give in. My lack of will, lack of resistance, is my downfall. Writing it down is therapeutic? Maybe but what will stop me? Someone? Anyone? Something? Anything? No.

I am my own worst enemy yet I am my only saviour. Only I can break free of the mental prison, the bars that criss-cross over my eyes, my thoughts, my feelings, my decisions. And so it is that I bite the bullet and seek help within my own soul. Meditating on what my suppressed feelings of many years are trying to tell me. Is it rooted from years ago? Are these the resultant emotions of past failings? Lost feelings? Child-like confusion?

There would only be one way to find out… and I am to take that path and hopefully come back holding myself up to the world again.

Works of Sean T. Poindexter

I recently made acquaintances with another American author. This time it was the delightful Sean T. Poindexter, an author at Crescent Moon Press Inc.

[Quoted from his Facebook fan page] Sean is an author of urban fantasy, paranormal mysteries, and horror. His first novel is being published by Crescent Moon Press, release date is TBA.

Sean began working on the first book in the series in November of 2008, while still working full time for the State of Missouri. Though Sean has been writing most of his life, he did not consider writing professionally until he was inspired to do so by a terrible vampire movie. During the film, Sean amused himself by imagining the vampires being attacked by a dragon. Sean has remarked that he often does this when bored or annoyed–though sometimes he uses Vikings, zombies, or Cthulu in place of dragons.

His literary influences include H.P. Lovecraft, Anne Rice, Charlaine Harris, and R.A. Salvatore, among others. In addition to writing, Sean enjoys watching and reading science fiction, fantasy, horror, and thrillers. He also plays Xbox and collects firearms. Sean’s background in sociology, criminology, and philosophy are heavy influences on his work, as well as his experience as an investigator (former) for the State of Missouri.

From my little interactions with him via Twitter and Facebook I find him to be a very interesting person with heaps of taste and know-how!

If you want to follow his tracks then here are his sites:

Twitter

Facebook

Facebook [Fan Page]

Website

Here’s hoping he has many more followers to come ;-P

Flash Fiction #3

Here is an attempt at a style of writing I have not done for many, many years!

Flash Fiction #3 – Sweeter Than Wine

His lips moistened, something sweet about the tender kiss that sent his mind wild with hidden realms of ecstasy. Tingling sensations shot through his spine with the intensity of a thousand suns, sending him to the highest clouds of heaven. Her luscious laugh was musical and as soft as cotton.

‘How did we end up like this?’ he asked, his hands slipping around her svelte waist.

Her big green eyes gazed up at him, locks of her amber hair falling around her petite features. Her smile warmed his soul, her resonating radiance permeating his skin with sincere adoration. ‘I don’t know where it’s all come from,’ she replied coquettishly.

He kissed her again. ‘These things happen,’ he breathed huskily.

Her body shivered in his embrace, the prospect of the inevitable mixing with her feelings of the giddiness rattling around her head. ‘Are you nervous?’

His dark brown eyes, as deep as wells, averted from her gaze with reluctant acknowledgement. ‘I have to leave, but only for a short while.’

‘But each moment without you is a moment I grow more and more sad. I miss you so much when you go away.’ She looked away then stepped back to look at him more intently. ‘I’m scared that you won’t come back this time.’

His stomach knotted, the realisation of the impact his actions were going to make. His mouth dried suddenly, despite his valiant attempts to roll the saliva around. ‘These past few weeks have been hell for us. I promise I’ll come back alive.’

She grabbed his forearm, clinging onto him like a child with a teddy bear. ‘If you come back dead then I won’t be a happy bunny.’ She attempted a smile.

He levelled his eyes to hers and kissed her tender lips longingly, maybe for the final time.

A single, solitary tear rolled down her cheek; a reflection of how lonely she already felt inside.

… it was the last time she saw him alive.

Flash Fiction #2

Here is this week’s installment.

Flash Fiction #2 – Through the Storm

His fingers rested loosely around the trigger as the desert sun grew closer against his skin. Trickles of sweat beaded down his forehead making their own streams. A determined wind blew the powdery sand across his field of view. He recoiled, his rifle angling to one side as he did so. He retook his position and breathed heavily. The scope zoomed in slowly and he observed his team mates edging along a wall, assault rifles in their gloved hands. He brought his hand up over his scarf-covered face and pressed against his headset.

‘Blue Fox this is Eagle-eye. Hold position. Two tangos patrolling southern entrance. Will take them out on the quiet.’ Without waiting for a response he brought out a suppressor from his utility belt and proceeded to screw it on the end of the barrel.

His stomach flipped when the echoed shockwave of an explosion rang in his ears. He rapidly removed the suppressor and threw it to one side, retaking his scope. A mine had gone off. One of his team mates had lost his legs, blood spurting onto the baked ground. Another had lost a good portion of his face and lay lifeless to one side. The other four were backing off, screaming orders to each other as enemies, now alerted, scrambled into action. It was then that the firing began.

His remaining friends went down one by one like dominoes in the wake of a playing master. He squeezed the trigger. One down. He squeezed again. Another dropped. A third shot. He heard the readying of a gun behind him. He dropped the rifle and rested his head on the ground.

‘Get up,’ said a voice in a native language.

He obliged them and stood up slowly. Hands in the boiling hot air he turned around to see a lone man, his face shrouded in a red and white scarf, a pair of brown eyes squinting at him angrily. As the man motioned for him to start walking, something awoke within the sniper. His heart hit hard against his chest. His arms moved fast and furiously. He grabbed the gun with one hand and pushed it away, enough time for his pistol find its way from his belt and let off three fatal rounds into the man’s gut. He kicked the body to the floor.

There was no time to hang around. He grabbed his rifle and moved away, refusing to take a last look at his dead comrades. Lord knows what those people would do to their corpses.

People had lost their lives… and for what? The gratification of the politicians who would tell the populous back home how sorry they were for the deaths of their military personnel? Those guys have no clue what their decisions have done to the families of these soldiers, to the soldiers themselves, and, more importantly, the countries they fought for and against. These people here in this desert land are protecting their homes – they are doing just what any of us would do if it were our country, yet they are painted out to be the enemy…

The sniper spat into the air. ‘Fucking war!’