I was correct in my last entry, Paulo continued to ask questions, his infatuation with ideals not holding him back from questioning my directives. I have been making inroads with the natives, the key, as any church founder of Christianity could explain, is to bend the teachings of both the population in question and the faith you wish to instill until they seem indistinguishable. Give the savages the utter belief that their gods are in fact merely a mask worn by the God you wish for them to worship.
Pen scritched on paper, each line carefully drawn with the care that the artist showed no other object in this world. With every stroke, the artist added detail, or the hint of detail, so true to life, that it seemed to breathe on the page.
“It won’t be good enough.” The subject of her art rasped. She didn’t answer, taking time to sketch the curve of a cheekbone. “It won’t work.” It mocked.
She paused then, her face, which had been a passive mask as perfectly placid as any stone bust, suddenly broke into a snarl. Wordlessly she crumpled her beautiful sketch and threw it at her tormentor. It landed amidst the bones, disturbing a spider that had made its home in the desiccated ribcage. Slowly, the artist regained control of her breathing and began to sketch again, ignoring the hundreds of similarly wadded pieces of paper lying around her.
My name is Fray Jose Martinez, and I came from Spain to the New World in order to bring the savages of this land to the worship of my God. I keep this journal now, so that those that come after me may continue this holy work, and understand how the divine came to inhabit this place.
He stood silently waiting, above him, the bare light bulb flickered sporadically. It had come to this, not in any organized or planned way, but through synchronicity. There was nowhere else he could be. There was nothing else he could do. Outside the world was deathly silent. It was gone, all of it. All that remained were these walls and the flickering bare bulb. There would be nothing soon. He faded along with the world.
You read that right! Madness Heart Radio is now available on iTunes, you can go there at any point and listen to me read these stories, twice a week! Holy Moly! Please remember to subscribe, rate and leave a review on iTunes, it really does make a difference! (click the heart to go there now!)
Michael approached the front doors of Douglas Security, ready to begin his first day on the job. It had been a long job search, jumping from industry to industry, lowering pay expectations and finally, just looking for anyone who would take him on. Security was certainly the last place he had thought to look, but his friend, Nathan, had suggested it, even said he could get Mike into his firm. Michael was a big guy, and he had gotten into trouble more than a handful of times. It’s part of what made finding a job so difficult, even with experience and a good CV, few people could see past the words felony charge or aggravated assault. Nathan assured him that privatized security wouldn’t bat an eye, so long as he wasn’t a thief.
Introducing a companion podcast for Madness Heart Press. We record an audio version of each story, for those of you who don’t have time to sit and read, you can listen to the author read each story while on your way to work, or wherever you enjoy podcasts. You can get to the podcast in the sidebar, or you can find it on iTunes.
Worth mentioning, our theme song is ‘Cavalry in Thousands’ by Tengger Cavalry.
Walking through the field of dead grass behind the apartments, I noticed it was dark. It was only the early afternoon in Texas. Overhead, what had been a beautiful clear day was overcast, the clouds storming in swiftly from the west to create a blanketed sky. I watched the clouds for a moment, standing alone in the field of dead grass before I felt the too long, cold fingers, grasp and pull me down and under.
“Prime numbers are what keep us safe, what stands between us and them, they are the only thing in place that stops . . .” Marcus trailed off, probably seeing the look of pity and disbelief written across my face. We were in a small cafe in a seedy part of town, sitting over coffee that smelled like it had been brewed from recycled coffee grounds in a pot that was never washed. It wasn’t the sort of place I had expected to meet with him.
Marcus had been a brilliant student in high school, his understanding of physics and mathematics rivaling that of his magnet program teachers. His ego, combined a lack of interest in anything any other high school aged kid cared about made him unpopular. I had been his friend, if only in passing, maybe I was one of his only friends. Maybe that’s why he was reaching out to me now. His e-mail had been cryptic at best.