The Face Of A Killer – Part Two

Philip began to pick himself up from the rubble. Though he loathed the gods, he was still fearful in the very presence of one. He assumed that chopping off the head of Zeus would cease the relentless worship by his people, he had never considered the gods would retaliate.

Zeus did not move. Philip armed himself with the temple’s sacred shield and spear, hoping that they would be able to keep him safe should Zeus hurl a lightening bolt. He slowly circled back towards the temple doors. If the shield wouldn’t protect him, perhaps he would be able to escape. But every thought about living through this fled in an instant, as Zeus smirked.

A Future Email – Part Two

(Be sure to read Part One here.)

I hit “send” and the familiar whoosh sound announced that my email was sent. The email that I wrote to my future self. I waited a moment before I went about doing any other work, fully expecting an automated response to come back saying that the email couldn’t be delivered.

I waited, took a sip of my coffee. I leaned back in my chair and stretched. I wondered if Al from accounting had updated the fantasy football pool. I leaned back into my computer to message him. There was an email notification.

The One-Eyed King – Part Two

(Don’t miss the beginning of the story. Read Part One.)

No one saw Ciaran come down from the North, but the legends say that he rode a dark rain cloud, just over the ground all the way to the gates of Camelot.

The great city was a shell of it’s former self. The doors no longer hung on its hinges, but sat sadly by, becoming fire wood for the guards the kept out the undesirables. But doors or guards would not have been able to resist Ciaran. His entrance wowed the people, sending murmurs through the ranks of people. It went all the way up to the Stewart, the seat-holder king.

The Monk’s One Word – Part Two

(Make sure you read Part One here.)

No one suspected that one word would have such power. The crowd that had gathered was still. The Internet stopped; no tweets, no status updates.

“Life.” The word hung in air, as the mystical monk stepped down from the podium. As mysteriously as he appeared, he vanished. The world sat waiting, expecting more, anticipating an encore, but none was given.

What did he mean? It was the question in the silence that everyone seemed to be asking. It was on the face of all those there in the crowd, and on the lips of every news anchor. What was the life the monk spoke of?

That was when things took off, in the worst way.

A Brain To Pick

Some people collect coins. Other collect rocks or postage stamps. My father-in-law collects the dead spark plugs out of antique cars. But I collect something really different. Something that me bugged by the CIA, arrested, sent to Guantanamo Bay, had my citizenship revoked, and then raised to the heights of the medical community.

I collect human brains. And no, I’m not any kind of scientist.

The Last Speaker

(Editor’s note: All italics words are added for clarify, either for grammatical clarify or for translation purposes.)

I am the last known speaker of a dead tongue. It was passed down from chief to chief, through my people for thousands of years. It was never written down until now. Ours was a spoken tongue, deeply rooted in our history.

Tallied Tattoos

It comes with the territory. I get asked to draw some weird stuff.

I’ve done baby faces on 300 lbs. men’s biceps. I’ve done “Love ya, Ma” in anchors, as guys leave for the Navy. I’ve done flowers and “Sisterhood of Yaya Traveling Pants” or something on so many sorority girls, I started doing it eyes closed. I’ve done sexualized versions of every cartoon character, almost every Bible verse there is, and then a mash-up of those two.

Lost and Found

Every archeologist hopes they are the one that finds the “big one”.

We all want to find the Ark of the Covenant. We all want to be the one that uncovers the Spear of Destiny. We all want to have our name printed in the byline, under the headline, “Noah’s Ark Found.”

The Dad Came Back

“Why is there a priest in our living room?”

Mom was arms deep in dirty dishes when I asked, and very unlike her, she didn’t hear what I said. That was another hint that something very wrong was happening here. I took a step closer, putting my gym bag on the kitchen chair.

“Mom? Why is there a priest in the living room?”

It Wasn’t My Dog – Part Two

(This is Part Two of the story. Make sure you go back and read Part One.)

Mrs. Grumplehorn was still waiting. I had told her the “truth” was coming. She had gone from “eyebrow furrowed angry” to “arms crossed, toe tapping angry”, anticipating my answer.

I knew what I was doing. I was milking her silence to irritate her more. Don’t believe me when I actually tell you the truth? You will suffer. I’m an honest kid. My dog did eat my homework; the evidence was still dripping in my hand.

“Thomas?”