The world has already been explored, our mores have already been shattered. Now we are all languishing.
The wars have been fought. All strength spine and defiance has wormed its way into words of decadence.
The old world is a dying white protestant corpse.

And his word has blanketed the complications of life.

The world that takes his place will not crush his head with a steel boot. It will watch him struggle, brandishing himself on the floor, as the androgynous stormtrooper picks flowers on martian missions.

And that fear of each other will replace with a refreshingly empty experience.

where the universe is bare, and the names are stripped of us.


Attack, break smash destroy in the name of frustrated broken grasps at love. Where can we find what fulfills and what satisfies?

Life in it’s drunken spun out deception. Where does the line of polite break against the vulgar?

We slip out one day after the other into the next again and again within the fallen foes of ended times. Tin solders standing against the blowtorch. All spinning in a gangly and imposable blended existence.

It’s just a thrown spiral arm obliterating its way to creation.

valkyrie, “do you recognize my voice?”

So I recently watched The movie Valkyrie which was the story of an assassination attempt on Hitler. Anyone who grew up watching the history channel before it became all aliens and puns on pawn might have heard about it and throughout the whole movie I was expecting what to see at the end. What I didn’t realize was how close the Germans were to actually overthrowing Hitler’s regime and ending the war.

It got to the point where the reserve army commander had arrested the entierty of the SS and had an order to take Goebbels and Hitler’s inner circle.
The coup de ta was so close under the assumption that Hitler was dead. Except the something like the scene below changed the reserve commander’s mind from following through with the coup.

“Do you recognize my voice?”


“nein it’s me…you know yah?”

“pshh, uhh, not sure. say something again?”

“How could you not tell who I am from my voice?”

“People sound different over the phone, I don’t know what game your playing at. This is a serious situation.”
He puts down the receiver and points a gun at the propaganda minister. The cyanide capsule clicks in Goebbles’ mouth and the government changes hands ending WWII.

I don’t know, I know suspension of disbelief and all, but I can’t imagine that’s how it went down.

That said, this scene was very powerful

The uniforms seemed pretty accurate and there must have been a pretty good production budget for the Messerschmidt in the beginning and the desert battle. That said again, Nazi’s talking with British accents never really stuck to me. Everyone but Tom Cruse had one.





The meeting room was full. All men with blue suits augmented by subtle pin stripes and matching ties. Their hair was combed over to the side and the fibers shined under the low key corporate lighting that illuminated the blue carpeting, white walls with drab pictures of flowers, and  furniture that looked like furniture. There was a window which took up the whole wall looking out over the early afternoon city. It was hazy with smog and the glass buildings defiantly stood erect reflecting the dulled blue sky.   The only thing that stood out was the black onyx table they all sat around. It was rectangular and a pane of eighty pound glass was laid on top of it. The table surpassed any common word of description; to even call it a table would cheapen it’s aura. It emanated the power of  a black hole or a monolith drawing in all the dull blue as though light could not escape it except in that mundane shade. It seemed as though it would have belonged in a space station or the banquet hall of an Evil Wizard.

The reflective pane showed back the ceiling lights and the gruff faces collared by their starched white shirts. They looked around at each other in complete silence but with knowing stares that communicated the allies and enemies between them. The intensity of men with deals forged in blood and Iron. Men who knew their score with the world and wanted it all for themselves. Their eyes showed the types of men they were. Some had dagger ed eyes that showed their animosity. Others with inward pools cultivating their calm and calculating demeanor.

All the seats were taken except for the head of the table. The chair was a Claude Geroux, ergonomic “sitting utility”. It was the same black shade of the table where the others sat in commonplace office chairs with blue canvas. Behind the head of the table was a large plasma screen TV.

As the men folded, unfolded, and professionally fidgeted with their fingertips, they glanced over at the chair, waiting for his arrival. Some glanced at the door, it was white and the knob was dull silver with a flat lock you turn rather than the one you would push in. There was no window showing the hallway on the other side of the wall, and the anticipation of the door moving was a growing tension. One flabby necked man found that a dopple of sweat had slid from his temple.

Then from the hall, the sound of a slow beat of a drum droned at just enough of a decibel to be heard by the waiting.

Some gulped, others closed their eyes. One man, the head of accounting, Shlifkin was his name, he began to glance around nervously  and beads of sweat formed all across his face. He wiped his brow and looked over towards the door and then to the others.  They all were grim faced and remained silent. Shlifkin began to shake. The drums were growing louder from outside the blank white door. He looked out the window and the glass seemed to constrict his throat just from his vision. The pictures of flowers, the white walls, and the lights, all began to take on the demeanor of morbid smiles moving in towards him as the drums beat louder. Closer as the footsteps of death.

Across from Shlifkin, a younger man with blonde hair glanced over. This was Taout from Marketing, newly promoted and confidant with youth. Yet his confidence began to ebb away when he saw Shlifkin’s state of paranoia and fear. He was shaking in his arms, now up on the table and fingers running through his combed hair. Taout stared down at him as another beat came from the hallway. Shlifken looked up and his shaking and broken eyes met Taout’s concerned stare. Taout slowly nodded forward, questioning Shlifkin’s will.  But the Accounting head only buried his face back into his hands.

Taout turned forward where the older department heads were watching the door with fear feigning ambivalence as the drum pounded again just outside the door.
Taout took a file from his briefcase he prepared for the meeting and knocked the pages of his menella folder into place on the tabletop. The older man to his right grasped his hand and shook his head, motioning for Taout to put it away.

The drums had stopped and the silver handle of the white door turned. A pencil broke loudly in the room between a liverspoted hand.

The door flew open and from the top corners of the door, two red banners slid in on poles. A hand shut the light switch.

The banners came in and at the end of them, two bearers stood with spiked helmets. They came in an ordered fashion, one after the other and ceremoniously walked down both sides of the table. The drums beat louder and the sound of an electric guitar with heavy gain striking power cords could be heard meshed with high strung picking. Two women garbed in Black leather jackets marched in with Kettle Drums Beating heavily and followed, orienting themselves on either side of the table. Marching behind were the Guitarists with their Amp Bearers groveling beneath their bezerker shredd. The heavy drums and guitar hit a crescendo with a chorus filling the room singing in high Germanic. The chorus members filled the room masked in leather bands and in heavy black robes and stood in front of the window in rank in file one by one, blotting out the sunlight like bricks to a tomb. The room darkened and only the thin rays between the blind singers that caught the dust fell on each member of the board room’s face.

The company was followed again by two more drummers with snares followed by bassists and their bearers. Garbed in spiked leather war gear. The procession surrounded the men at the table with a hail of noise and power. Two more Bannermen came in and flagged either side of the table with blood red flags. The music drove up and to the point of peircing height with deep driving harmonies and blistering solos. The glass window shattered and in a swirl of musty air the robes of the chorus whipped around sending the light of the dark room fluttering. Yet the blinded singers held their ground and rose somehow higher before the air returned to a shifting stillness and silence filled the room.
Shlifkin had released his bowles from fear.

Then from the door. One final figure emerged. The door was too short for him so he broke the top of the frame with a mailed hand. His face was covered in a helm that had only five vertical eye slits  and a tapered spike from the back. His shoulders were great spiked steel and he walked calmly over to his chair. His long red cape complemented the Abysmal black suit and tie he wore contrasted by a red shirt underneath. The flag bearers, Singers, and Musicians all stood at attention. Streams of light showed the huge spiked form move next to his ergonomic chair.

His helm moved downward to the chair. It was tiny by comparison.

The words that emanated from the helm were gravelly and in accented in some kind of Prussian or Balkan.


An intern garbed in rags came in from the hall and bowed very low.

The helmed man was a mountain before the weak pasty kid.

“Remove dihs fromen mein sight, Bring en mein chair!”

The last section of his order thundered through the room. The men at the table winced. The intern wheeled the Geroux chair out. A moment later three interns forced a throne which was twice their size into the room and placed it down at the head.
The interns then flead bowing as they moved out.

A man in a long black trench coat appeared at the Helmed giant’s side. He whispered into his ear “Send them…to ze mail room.” The order was responded with “Yes Exekutive Oberst Amtes!”

The helm swiveled forward, The Spiked, suited Executive looked over the table between the banners. The men all looked over waiting for what he would say.


Shlifkin, soiled, sweating and ragged, looked up. Tears and mucus streamed from his face. “NO, PLEASE EXECUTIVE!!!”

The Executive held up his mailed hand to silence. “Shkiming off ze top vill not be tolerated. You will hear from our lawyers.”

Shlifkin stood, the guitarists and drummers stood at attention behind him as the members of the board watched. Taout held his file folder against his chest as Shlifkin moved clumsily around the table and fell to his knees at the executive’s side. “I beseech you my Executive!! SPARE ME, I WISH TO MAKE AMENDS PLEASE!!!”

The helm stared ahead for a moment as the poor sight of Shlifkin shriveled next to this monster of a man. Then it turned “You can withstand…the trial of penitence?”

Shlifkin looked up, his mouth agape with despair. “no….not that…anything else please.”

“You have betrayed me who put my trust into you…You must undergo the trial or be…sacked, sewed, and drained of essence.” The voice behind the helm said coolly.
Shlifkin’s eyes searched the ground before out of some spasm  more than a decision he said “I will”.

Without further bantering the helmed Executive Held his hand up and said “Away with him.”

Two Ubermanagers dragged the pitiful sight of Shlifkin out.

“The others who were in kahoots with taking office supplies will be delt with. Close the door.”

The door swung shut and the light fell on the board members, blocking out everything else.  but the shining top of the black table and the helmed executive.
The eye-slits fell on Taout who looked back in confusion.

To be continued….


Subtlety is Everything

Subtlety is everything
People are removed from depth.
So I wont say anything deep to you.
Because we have been there before, we have ridden into the winding corridors and through the trailing fields of stars.
Its soooo pase now right?
But the formula has never changed.
That transcendental clockwork God, communicating to us through nature. Different ways to explain things. Different perspectives.
into the vast coolness.
Swim breathless, far into that unknown aimlessness
And find
And find
Find Everything.
Love, hate, fear, sadness, ecstasy, gravity, pulse, rhythm, systems, forces, fractaling. A beat echoing through time and space. The chemical reaction we make, and the great organism of the world. The world as in all potential.
But I wont talk deep
I cant do it. For the endless meaning of words becomes second nature parsimony.
So I wont go through the effort.
I can be the usher, but no man can be the true explainer.
You explain yourself. And I will silently walk and smile in the wind.
Like dust
or an aroma.
But now you see
I cannot be
The crafter of the -ism’s tale
But rather, I, you will find
Am not a man at all.
I am words on a page.
I am a container,
Set upon a stage,
And I am just a retainer,
Built to withstand the power before it fades,
And I am an entertainer,
For it is the best excuse.


     Light and screens dominate our world.
Great deceivers and illusions
Magic? Of course
Some would laugh at that
But look at what we can do and tell me it is not
Because science is m-

I’m not gonna talk deep to you.
No, I offer no wisdom here. I impart nothing to you just as you would impart nothing from me.
I will only give you what I think you expect to hear:

And light flutters of water droplets fall from the sky, they fall upon your cheek, that supple round dip of skin. They cling to your fibers and your smile shines into my soul.

But then as time does, the droplets fill the valleys. They start to bloat the rivers and rush the streams. The water rises and fills the field, it fills the hill, the cliff the mountain.

And you are filled and so waterlogged with time, with life, that you burst through lyses. And float through the filled up water.

So there you go. Its all there, Life, Death, Beauty, Happiness, and something terrible but perhaps it is not.
Ah, but I’m not scoring any points for pulling you out of that. Or putting you in.
I wont talk deep.


Prayer to the North God

I awake today  towards the force of your magnet.

I thank you for this day that I might live as a vessel for good and clarity.
I ask that serendipity fall kindly upon me and that all whom I touch be blessed,

That the winds be cool, yet clear and clean across my mind,
That all I receive can be given away.

That what ripples from my being can transmit well to all creation around me.

That all conflict ebb as the spring snow thaw and fellowship arise from it’s melted waters.
And if I live in a cruel world, give me the strength to carry on.
And If I live in a kind world, give me the strength to carry on.


Independent Wrestling

Independent Wrestling- 2012
Jason Pratley
    On Saturday April 7th at 7:00 PM, some people were at home with their families before the coming Easter holiday, others may have been celebrating Passover with a seder dinner. Perhaps some were just at home like any other Saturday. Yet at that time over 50 or 60 people were attending an independent wrestling show at the heirloom arts theater in Danbury CT.
    The Ring was set up in the small darkly lit hall of the heirloom with ample space for spectators on the floor as well as in the balcony bar. The stage cut one side of the ring off, yet it was used anyway by both wrestlers and the band, Remarkably Average, which played during the intermission. As people found their way in, a buzz of excitement circled the sizable gathering as they waited for their favorite champions to battle for their entertainment. The Empty ring hung quiet and luminescent until the first ringing of the bell shattered the world into chaos and disorder.
    The independent wrestling organization “Interspecies wrestling” or ISW had for the second time produced once again the one and only Bonnner Jam! Their website attested to the fact that “Bonner Jam, the second coming” would contain neither “boners” nor “comings”, but was just good clean fun for all ages.
    Mat Ack, one of the main organizers of the event, said that Its odd and, to some, off-putting name came about after the previous champion’s tag team partner. The champion “Twiggy”  had a partner named “Boner Jam” and the name was stolen as a joke.  It was said to attest to the, ridiculousness and zany antics that would ensue.
    Mat had this to say, “What we want is for someone who has no idea what is going to happen or even be a fan of wrestling to go hand have a good time anyway if we can get 100 people to come to an event called boner jam, then we know we are doing something right.”
    Much to this writer’s surprise, the Independent wrestling gambit has a fairly large following of people .  The first indication was the line stretching nearly to the parking lot.
    Kaitlin Diemond drove nearly 7 hours from Buffalo just to get there. Kaitlin is a Canadian citizen where she sais that ISW organizes events in her homeland where she also participates.
“Oh yeah, its all over Canada” Said Katlin “im used to going to Quebec or Ontario, its cool that its down here.”. When asked why she enjoys independent wrestling she said, “It is the best combination of Physicality and drama. When I was younger I thought that there was just the wrestling on TV”  
Kaitlyn, who is also a wrestler, said that she had got into it because of her brother. “When I was little I just had to do whatever my brother did, but the difference was that he lost interest and I never did.” Kaitlin had been participating in Karate and Drama since she was three years old, and she began training to be a wrestler since she was 14  .
She wrestles now in Canada, but she came down with her friend Jodi D’Milo who fought Addy Starr in the fourth round to show her support.

The first match was a one-on-one for the title where, recovering addict from rehab, Pinky Sanchez, faced off against, the Axe (deodorant) wielding, Frankie Aryan.
 In a series of insults and retorts, the two broke into fighting before the bell and proceeded to throw, body slam, elbow, clothesline and suplex for a good 5 minutes before a dive knocked the two from the ring. Smacks and Jabs were thrown as the two battled around the ring and onto the stage where Pinkey proceeded to play the Remarkably Average’s drums with Frankie’s head.  A retort from Frankie rendered the two incapacitated for a moment before Frankie was thrown from the stage, over the ropes and back onto the ring while Pinky fell between the stage and the ring, nearly on top of several spectators.
    The match proceeded with Frankie claiming to support “the responsible use of drugs” where Pinky attested to the “power of Jesus”. Their arguing was cheered with chants of “drugs” and “jesus” by the rowdy crowd who could not be contained as the two commenced to bash each other.
Frankie’s attempted to break Pinky of his new strait edge lifestyle by throwing a cigarette box of “cocaine” into his face. Pinky was down for a moment in disbelief, but within a few moments Pinky was repeatedly elbow slamming Frankie with unrelenting blows to a chorus of “SHAZAM!” with each hit.   
Surprisingly the overall victor was Frankie when he pinned pinky after a leap from the corner of the ring.
The event continued with many different people and wrestlers which included a baguette wielding chef, a Zombified Frankenstein, a panda vs a serial killer, a hobo, lobster, and a Japanese fighting expert,  as well as many others who fail to come to mind. Such things as keyboards, golf clubs, wiffleballs taped to wiffleball bats, Barbie dolls, a boogie board, cantaloupes, pictures, and Chicken wings were used as various weapons at one point or another. Not to mention the table slamming finale.
After the event I had a chance to talk with Frankie Aryan.
 “think of a wrestler as an independent contractor.  There are various organizations all over, of which ISW is one, and we travel around to where shows are happening or we get calls from previous places.” Apparently Frankie had to attended a wrestling school for around 5 years before becoming an independent wrestler what is what he is doing for a living now. He had this to say, “I love it, but you get out of it what you put in. Sometimes I hate it, when you have a bad match or things aren’t going right, but I think its worth every minute.”
Even the referees were legitimate. Anthony Greene, a independent wrestling ref, said that he’s been through Boston and Ohio between different organizations regulating fights. “this one is all he he ho ha, but its good”.
The heirloom arts theater has seen ISW events three times before in the past, and Mat Ack says that while the next one may not be a boner jam, it will certainly be happening again. “Independent wrestling has a Diehard following of crazy yet creative and passionate people, and we’ve been lucky enough to carve ourselves a niche in the world where we can express our energy in a fun and different way.”

The hard Seattle Rain Jason Pratley


In the republic of Seattle, rain fell among the tall skyscrapers to the ground below. Bridges crisscrossed above, silver and shining wet. Their indomitable prestige and the power they emanated were designed to represent those living up above. Bridges spanned in networks from building to building and even on the chance that the sun might appear in the sky, those below would never know. The long steel and glass causeways were scattered with figures of the elite and mighty. Everything was clean and waxed. Shinny shoes against shiny floors. Segways and trams rolled along larger streets that tunneled through building after building suspended high above. And even above those, speeders flew at blistering speeds on digitally marked highways in the sky. All was chrome and shining silver.

At street level, the artificial lighting and graffiti left the world below in a darkened grey haze, drench-marked with the ever falling rain. The old busted neon lights, the inoperable stoplights, and the  cracked streets of a once thriving downtown only pressed to those living there that their lives were decaying against the foundations of those above. The skyway bridges on high funneled the rain together and fell to the grey earth in sheets and veritable waterfalls that bore holes in the sidewalks and asphalt.  Obsolete cars slogged by, sloshing through the endless puddles and potholes, barely pushing through the rain. It seemed as though the sides of the buildings were melting with the bleeding colors of the paint.

Water ran everywhere, flowing down slimy alleyways and past huddled figures with forked words and shifting eyes. Lone and forgotten shapes trudged along the buckling sidewalks along concrete walls. Glossy coats and black hoods pulled tightly to stay the cold and rain. People did not walk down there, they crept. Whether it be from one thing or another, man, woman, child, they all moved as creatures in the night, afraid of the light, and afraid of each other. Every few hours a shining police car would romp through with flashing lights and search lamps towards some shootout or robbery or escapee.  

On one corner in particular, against the brick, there was a flickering green and blue neon sign. Just to the left held the spray painted letters U-N- so that above a heavy metal door, the sign read “The UN- Lucky 17”. The one dingy window next to the door casted a reddish glow out onto the sidewalk hat mixed with the colors from the sign. There was a crack that ran down the center of the streets along with deepening ruts from the cars. The street lamps buzzed and flickered.  All around the bar were old stores shielded with gates or sheets of metal.  A man looked about as he walked quickly. With a hiss into the gutter just outside, a cigarette dropped.

Through the heavy door and down a hallway lit by one hanging bulb, a red wooden door was the gateway to a dimly lit, smoky room. It had once been a very classy establishment. Red tables under red shades around hanging lights stained brown with tobacco. A round wooden bar area stood across from the door on the opposite wall. To the left a stage and a few collected tables sunk in a low space.  A lone man with sunglasses stood on the platform and smoothly wound a slow soulful pitch on his saxophone. Its tune casted a weaving a velvet ribbon around the room as the notes spiraled through the minds of the patrons, each one of them lonely at their tables staring off as though they were trying to touch something long forgotten. The tune listed around the room, down the hall and out onto the street when the door opened for a moment.

                The barmaid looked out the window as she cleaned a glass with an old rag, up through the rain at a rare space in the buildings that saw through the skyways and speedercars to the sky. The dark clouds covered  everything but to her it was a feeling of solace to know that beyond those clouds a starry sky existed.

                “-I missed this place…” came a voice that struck her back to where she was “ …No matter how bad things are, walking in here spurs you on to be unlucky again tomorrow.”

                She didn’t need to look down to remember that voice. She knew it all too well despite the time that passed.

                “What has it been, a year?” He said        

 “Its been three …” she said taking her gaze down from the sky and looking straight through the window at the derelict street.

                Through the reflection in the window she could faintly see the profile of the man who sat at the bar. He was a tall thin dude with a black suit. He had messy short hair and a scar along his cheek. His coat and hat hung neatly on the rack by the door dripping rainwater to the floor.

                “why did you come back?” she muttered as her eyes closed.

“I left before saying goodbye” he said smiling putting up his elbows on the bar.

 His gaze fell upon her in a comforting glow.  The music wound behind them as the tink of ice in glasses could be heard from the dining area. A lonely soul sat with his jacket and hat still on at the end of the bar while he nursing a whiskey sour at the end of the bar remaining unnoticed.

 “You shouldn’t have come back. After you killed those people.” Her words were cobalt.


“For tonight”  he said looking up from his hands  “Can’t we just pretend that things worked out, that things aren’t so bad?”

She felt her chest well up and a tear in the trickle of water down the window. She put her face in her hand and said.

                “…Just ….go”

He sat quietly in the space between moments. Then as he was about to get up,

“why did you come back!?” she said loudly into her hand.

 He sat in motion his eyes widened.  The man at the end of the bar looked up.

“If you had just left I could have forgotten all about you and got on with my life, but you just had to…” She threw the rag hard against the windowsill.

“… I wanted to see you again, especially after what happened, and especially before what needs to happen”

She began to let her sadness slip and her face tightened with stifled breaths and sobs.

 “but if that’s how you want it-“ He got up to leave and turned.

She composed herself as best she could and felt his hunched body amble over to the coat rack. Paralyzed by the implications, the love and the pain of memories she did not move.

He looked back one last time while he put his coat and hat back on. She had her finger between her lips and held a glass across her midsection. Unturning she stood like a beautiful statue, her green eyes glossy in the window and the red ribbon in her hair. He left without a word.

Too late she realized why he had returned.

She turned quickly  “wait-!“

His black coat fluttered around the corner and out the door

                Huddled in his coat he stomped out the door and made a right around the corner.  Through the hard Seattle rain like an endless stream of muck on his mind. He frowned with his head low, but he couldn’t let this stop him. He came back to Seattle to settle a score, why he had been run out of his business, why he had spent the last three months running from gangsters and police.

Then a shrill faded voice


He turned his head- and saw her standing in the rain on the corner, arms stiff, getting drenched by the downpour. 

She looked up at him as he approached, his face softened, the tears were masked by the rain. Her eyes flicked as raindrops ran over her eyelashes. Then as they neared, they felt themselves pull together out of some force beyond them. Under the rain and the skyscrapers in the depths of scum ridden streets, they embraced and kissed passionately, letting the rain fall as though for one instant their cares were nothing, that time and memory fell to the pavement with the streaming raindrops and splashed apart.

Through the cold water they felt each other’s bodies pressed against each other, their warmth, and breath for one sweet moment of peace.

Then, after some time, he pulled away.

He looked at her for a moment and she looked back to him, into those wild blue eyes.

 “…now you can start to forget” He said

He was about to leave but she pulled him closer. The water soaked them and she needed to yell above the crashing water.

“I Love you Deren” she  began “I’ve always loved you and you know that…But I can’t bear to go on wondering whether you’ll be alive or not tomorrow. Why don’t we just get out of here, we can go north together.”

 “Once I take care of that two faced bastard and his crew, you won’t have to worry”

“For God’s sake don’t you hear yourself!? How many people will you kill over this! You’re a murderer! ” she said gripping his coat harder.

He pulled backwards and walked off.

Then, as she stood watching him in the storm, a figure ran around the corner behind her. She heard his footsteps and turned around. It was the man from the end of the bar. His jacket was pulled up tight around his face. Why would he need a drink that badly to run outside?

“no” she whispered.

The man raised a gun towards Daren who was walking hurriedly but unaware of Sora who stood watching. She ran at the assassin.

“STOP DON”T DO THIS!” She yelled out

Daren looked back at the sound of her voice but didn’t comprehend the imminent danger and continued.

The assassin tried to knock her aside, but she latched on to his arm. The man tried punching her, but she twisted his arm back and brought her foot underneath sending him to the floor with a crash. The assassin dropped his gun and quickly Sora scrambled to pick it up. The assassin pulled a knife and started to get up quickly.

The gun shook in Sora’s hand  “Don’t get up! Or I’ll shoot…I’ll kill you!” her eyes strained as she looked down at the assassin.

                In her mind she reeled, she couldn’t kill him, she pleaded over and over in her head for him to run away, leave and go on living.

                “Your no killer” said the assassin “guns are for bad people, give it here!” He rushed at her; the knife bit into her side, the gun went off.  She felt the defining bang and the mechanism of the trigger before anything. The assassin expired with the exit wound knocking his hat off and collapsed to the ground in a puddle. The scene stood in front of her of the dead man in the rain. She killed him.

                The gun suddenly felt like it weighed a ton in her hand, and she dropped it into the gutter and it fell through a storm drain with a splash. Looking down she saw the knife, and the blood seeping through her shirt and flowing with the rain like the graffiti on the walls. She gasped for air and tried to cover the blood. She fell, a feeling a numbness tingle through her, stemming from the blade. There next to the assassin, the blood mingled in the running street water under the skyscrapers.

                She muttered as the headlights from Daren’s car casted out to the street from an alleyway.

“don’t let them kill you.”