Artistikem

kbennettbooks:

Here they are:

1. Write

2. Think about what you wrote

3. Be nice to someone

4. Read something

5. Don’t whine

Enjoy!

I fell very much in love with a boy one day,
he had brown eyes, brown hair, brown skin,
as if the Caribbean sun had painted him
with the sultriest color, if there has ever been.
He taught me how to stare,
of course I only knew I was doing it when he turned angrily at me;
he taught me how to sit,
sideways so I could pretend I was listening to the teacher while admiring him;
he taught me how fast my heart could beat.
Yet there was something he taught me that I can’t forget still,
that when someone hits your food tray from below,
meat patties fly high in the air and when they land on your uniform, they stick.

I’ve been a really bad blogger as of late. Twitter friends know I’ve been up to my head in school work and haven’t been able to blog in a while, so I thought it would be nice of me to post something I’ve been working on, since my brain’s too fried right now to come up with something clever enough to put here. So I’ll leave you with the second chapter of a story I finished some months ago and for which I’m writing a sequel during NaNoWriMo (not that it’ll be happening in 30 days but at least I’ve started it).

I want to thank my wonderful friend @showmyface for her support.

Chapter one can be found here: The Caregiver, Chapter 1

Chapter 2

    My first evening in Sayer’s mansion passed quietly and without much trouble. Helga came back with his meds, repeated a hundred times how his doctor, Dr. Hart, mandated to keep him in his bed at all times and showed me how he liked his tea made, for whenever George wasn’t available. Of course Mr. Sayer didn’t comply with the staying in bed part, so I let him be and went to sleep early.
    On my second day I met George, or should I say, saw George’s frown float around the house without having more than a “top of the morning” and an about face. The man with long arms and skinny fingers wouldn’t talk to me, or even look at me. At one point I tried to step in his way so he would have to at least stop one second and acknowledge my presence, however, it didn’t work, nothing did. By nightfall I had given up for the day and when Helga came by and asked me if I had met him I told her we had gotten acquainted quite well. If he didn’t want anything to do with me, I wouldn’t push him. He was only ten years younger than Sayer, so I had no intention of starting and argument with any of them.
    Late on the third day Helga brought a list of errands for me that Mr. Sayer dismissed the moment she was out the door. Finding myself without work in my new workplace, I retired to my room and went through my clothes, uniforms and the little things I had brought… for the hundredth time. This was going to be harder than I thought.
    It was around ten in the evening when I was wandering around the house and saw the lights in the office were on. I walked towards it like a moth to find Mr. Sayer sitting behind his desk talking on the phone. As soon as he saw me I tried to make my escape.
    “Scarlett?”
    He saw me. I froze, then decided that since he had called my name I couldn’t ignore him, so I turned on my heels to see him hang the phone and beckon me into the room.
    “You shouldn’t be walking around the house this late, Mr. Sayer.”
    “What other lies did my sister tell you? What else did she instruct you to prohibit me?”
    “Pretty much everything that isn’t you staying in bed the whole day.”
    He chuckled, finding it funny somehow, while I stood behind an elegant leather chair with my hands clutched to the seam.
    “As much as I love my sister,” he walked around the desk, “I can’t let her do this to me. She’s always been very possessive but this has gone too far,” he leaned back on the edge of the desk with his arms crossed over his chest, “that was why I asked her to find someone that could take care of me apart from George, so I could get her off my back.”
    “Whose instructions should I follow, then?”
    “When Helga is around you act as if hers, but really all I need is someone to be around so she stops harassing me about being ill and sleeping all day. You can do whatever you want, really, I have things to do and I must get back to them as soon as possible.”
    “I understand.”
    “Good to know that you do. Now, would you be nice enough to bring me some tea? I know I shouldn’t be asking you this but George is out and won’t be back until early morning.”
    “Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.”
    I ran quickly down the stairs to the first floor and made the tea as Helga instructed me. I took a lot of care on how I placed everything on the tray so I could keep them that way through the flights of stairs back to Sayer’s office.
    He waved for me to come in the moment I reached the door, all the while keeping an animated conversation with someone on the other side of the phone.
    “Call me if you make arrangements for next Thursday, Max. See you then.”
    “No wonder your sister is so worried about you. Making plans already?” I said as soon as he hung up.
    “You brought only one cup.”
    “The tea is for you, Mr. Sayer.”
    “Don’t you like tea? It’s very soothing, helps me sleep when I’m stressed.”
    “As a matter of fact I do like tea.”
    “Then,” he rummaged inside one of his desk’s drawers and took out another cup, “have it with me, it may be the first of many. How do you like this place so far?”
    “It’s a beautiful house. I like it very much,” I felt so at ease as he poured tea in both cups and slid one to my side of the desk that I was starting to talk to him like I would talk to a friend. I straightened my back in an effort to straighten my demeanor.
    “Are you keeping the job? You know you can walk out whenever you want if you don’t like it.”
    “I’ve been here for only three days and so far so good.”
    “I do hope you stay. This house feels so empty sometimes, it makes me want to get out running like a mad man. Sit down, you don’t want to drink your tea standing up.”
    “Yes, Mr. Sayer.”
    A noise came from a floor below, startling us both.
    “It’s too early for George to be back.” Another noise and Mr. Sayer left his seat and went to a window. “Drunk kids in the street.”
    He walked away from the window and back to the desk when another noise, this time louder and closer than the first, was heard. We exited the office together; I tiptoed while he tried to step very slowly so his shoes wouldn’t make a sound, and searched for the source.
    We kept looking down from the third floor to the second but saw nothing. Then I went into one of the bedrooms and saw a shadow by the window. Mr. Sayer tried to pull me back but I didn’t yield. What I did was pull a 22 mm gun from my pocket and quietly sidestepped close to the wall towards the window.
    The silhouette of a man came to view and I pointed my gun at it, ready to confront whoever was outside the glass and crawling on the walls of the house. I could feel my own panting as if the whole room was beating along with my heart, as if it knew that my finger was tightening its grip on the trigger little by little.
    “Don’t shoot the glass, it’s bulletproof,” Sayer whispered to my ear.
    Then the shadow disappeared and we both thought it was gone. When I turned around Sayer was right behind me, his whole body stiff and his hands making fists.
    “The drunken kids, I believe,” I commented sarcastically as I lowered my gun.
    “Where did you get that gun?”
    Then came the bang on a back door and I rushed into my room, pulled my luggage from under the bed and took out another gun, my handy 9 mm. When I came out of the room Sayer was emerging from his office with a 40 mm and was shocked to see me holding a different gun next to my face.
    The noise went off again and all shock was left behind as I hastened down the stairs. He stayed behind. Not that I cared, I had to check on whatever was happening before him.
    I strode across a hall into the kitchen and saw another silhouette through the glass on the back door. It froze, as if it was looking at me, before turning to run away. I shot once and the bullet bounced right off it, hitting a wall, a lamp.
    “Fuck!” I ducked until it stopped. The whole house was bulletproof.
    I unlocked the door and sped through the grass into the backyard while the silhouette kept running in zigzags, dodging my bullets. Then a second silhouette appeared out of nowhere and I could see the shiny metal gun glinting under the lampposts. Before I could shoot it, it was dead on the floor. I instinctively looked up and saw Sayer shutting a window on the second floor. This was my cue to go after the other one, the one that had stopped to see the fall of his companion.
    I ran towards it and managed to close the distance between us before it realized I was near. With its eyes still on the corpse, it pointed another shiny gun at me and squeezed the trigger once, missing me by inches. Not that it cared, because it was still standing in the same spot when I got dangerously near.
    “Who are you? What are you doing here?” It didn’t answer, so I pressed my gun to its temple, “answer me!”
    It dropped the gun, took off the black mask that covered its face and his white skin contrasted the black of his suit. It was a young man, probably in his twenties, the point of his nose was red and tears were rolling down his cheeks.
    “I’m new to this.”
    “Who sent you?”
    “I can’t tell.”
    “For fuck’s sake, just answer the fucking question!”
    “I can’t! They’ll kill my family.”
    I cackled like I hadn’t in a very long time, “they must be dead by now, and you’ll be dead also if you don’t answer me.”
    We both heard the steps of the limping Sayer as he slowly approached us.
    “Scarlett, go back inside!”
    “I’ve got it Mr. Sayer,” I turned to speak to him, “don’t worry,” and was startled by him shooting the guy before I did. The kid had picked up his gun and was about to shoot my flank without me noticing.
    “Get in!” Sayer roared, grabbing me by an arm and pulling me back into the house.
    His face was flushed, his brows furrowed and his eyes didn’t meet mine until we were in a study on the first floor where he pushed me to a chair, took my gun and his, placed them on a table and pulled out his mobile.
    “George, we have two dead squirrels in the backyard,” he said before hanging and turning back to me, “who are you?”
    His enraged eyes were peering into mine and I could feel the trembling creeping up from my feet, through my legs, my torso, down my arms and to my hands.
    He took his gun back from the table, cocked it and pointed it to my head.
    “My name is Scarlett Lang.”
    “Who sent you?”
    “I was recommended by Rafael Cisneros when your sister went to him searching for a caregiver,” I gulped before proceeding, “my grandfather owns the shooting range Cisneros uses to train his men.”
    “Cisneros? You know Cisneros?”
    “Yes. Adrian Lang is his name, my grandfather’s I mean.”
    The canon of his gun cut through the thickness of the air between us, dispersing it and redistributing it around the room as he pulled it away from me.
    “Helga,” he said to himself, “she means good but in her effort she has exposed me. There is no doubt someone sent those kids because she’s being followed.”
    My mouth felt dry, my heart was racing so fast I thought it would drill its way out of my chest.
    “She knows that you handle guns, doesn’t she?”
    “It was one of the requirements for hiring me, that I could help protect you. After the attack on you and your family she’s worried you’ll suffer another one.”
    “That is why I stayed here, to make sure it doesn’t happen again. Now tell me, are you even a real nurse?”
    “Yes, sir, I am.”
    “Well,” his face relaxed and with it my trembling disappeared, “those two were young and inexperienced, it won’t do much to see what the security cameras recorded, we stopped them on time,” he said as he looked round, then turned to me, “and our teas must’ve gone cold. If you ask me,” he gave me my gun back, “it’s time for bed,” and limped out of the room.
    “Night, sir.”
    “You can keep the job, Scarlett,” his voiced traveled through the hallway, “couldn’t have found a better match for this myself.”

Steven arrives at the park early the next morning, sits patiently on the same bench, and waits for Giana to show up. Over an hour later, she appears and sits beside him gasping for air.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to run,” she is quick to take two books from her bag and give them to Steven. “I brought two because I didn’t know what kind of poetry you liked best. One is a compilation of classic authors; the other has new ones, so you have a large selection to choose from,” she speaks fast, like in a hurry.

“Is everything all right? You sound aggravated,” Steven takes the books but keeps his eyes on her.

“Yeah, sure. Everything’s fine,” she smiles as her breathing normalizes.

“Boyfriend problems?” he chuckles.

“Nothing like that,” she laughs with him, “I’m better off alone for now.”

“Are you sure about that?” Steven gives her a mischievous smile as he starts sliding his fingers through the pages of the classic poetry book.

“More than sure. But let’s talk about something more interesting. Did you watch the news last night? There was this massive car crash…”

“I don’t watch the news,” he interrupts her, “and don’t want to hear about them.”

“Topic discarded,” Giana raises her eyebrows, “you must not be easy to put up with. People say the same about me.”

“I wonder why,” his sarcasm comes with another smile. “Would you like to join me for a stroll?”

She can’t suppress the huge grin that draws itself on her face. She is pleased to accept, and must contain her excitement when he shows some enthusiasm in their conversation.

“What about that guy? The one with the spike cuffs and biker boots?” Giana asks when the topic of finding her a boyfriend comes up.

“Spikes are a cover up for sissies,” his answer makes her giggle. “Look at that one,” he points at a young man jogging with headphones in his ears and muscular arms and legs, “young and fit.”

“Not my kind. Too much into his personal appearance.”

The trail leads them into an area where the trees get thicker and the shadows bigger.

“So,” Giana breaks a short silence, yielding to her curiosity, “do you still use your powers?”

“I’d prefer not to talk about that,” Steven walks with one hand in his pocket and the other holding the books, his sight on the ground.

“I suppose you do. I mean, you used them when my laptop slid off my lap.”

“That was just a reflex,” he tries to cut the conversation short, “and I would appreciate that you never mention it again.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that… it must be great to…”

“No,” he snaps, stops, and turns to her “it’s not good, it’s not great, it’s been a curse.” Steven’s face is flushed with anger, “I knew this would happen,” he mutters and starts walking away.

“What? That what would happen?”

She follows him through the field of trees. His long strides make it difficult for her to close the distance between them. She struggles to keep up with him until she can’t anymore. He is nowhere to be seen, everything around her is either brown or green. Looking round, she decides to walk back the same path they came when someone calls her name. Steven is there when she looks back but there is something different about him. The trees, the sky, even he looks brighter.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she smiles in relief.

He smiles back. “Thank you for the books, I will start on them as soon as I get home. They will be of great help to feel less lonely at night. But you know nothing about that.”

“I do. A lot actually.” His sudden change of mood, the new lightness in the atmosphere, his smile, it takes a moment for her to process it.

They start their way back through the woods, their steps landing softly over the beds of leaves.

“How come? Such a beautiful young woman?” he walks beside her, holding the books behind his back.

“I don’t consider myself to fit into the beauty standards.”

“You do for me. Many young men don’t have the slightest idea about real beauty.”

Giana glances up at him as soon as he says this, her spirit lifted by the moment. “Why are you suddenly so charming?” She stops when she’s able to see the bench in the distance.

“I’m sorry if I’ve been rude to you. There are things that I don’t like to talk about, things I’d like to forget.”

“It’s my fault. I won’t mention them again.”

“I know you won’t,” he puts a hand on her shoulder, sporting a tender look on his face. “After twenty-eight years of not having contact with people, you are the first person I’ve talked to. Now I seem to know why.”

“Why?” the obligatory question comes up her throat like an arrow.

“Because you need a friend,” his smile is warm and bright. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he adds, taking his hand back to his pocket.

All of a sudden, Giana feels as if she had been floating and her feet have landed back on the ground. Steven was touching her forehead with the tip of his fingers and is now pulling them back.

“Wait. What was that?”

He starts walking away.

“Wait!” Giana calls him back but is ignored.

At that precise moment, she remembers his most controversial superpower: the ability to project fantasies into people’s minds. Now she can’t make out what was real and what was a fantasy.

She lets him go with a sigh and watches him disappear in the horizon before heading to the park’s exit.

Chapter 2

 

The beautiful morning scenery is cut by the blade of Steven’s deep grunt. When she looks up, he is there, staring at her and the computer on her lap.

“What do you want?” he blurts.

That question wasn’t what she had been hoping for. She had been sitting on the same bench for more than an hour, for the second day, waiting for him to appear.

“How did you learn about me? I mean, apart from your mother’s incident, of course,” he sits as far from her as the bench allows.

“She kept track of you since the day you saved her until the day you disappeared. My mother was one of those who didn’t think of you as a bad guy,” she notices his nostrils flaring as she says this, “and I’ve seen you around here, sitting alone on this bench.”

“What do you want from me? Just tell me and get it over with,” his tone is straightforward and a bit rude.

Giana puts her laptop away and sits sideways to face him before answering. A female runner passes by and Steven’s eyes appear to follow her, but he’s just staring blankly.

“Nothing, really. Just a little conversation. What have you been up to?”

He turns slowly to her, raising an eyebrow when he meets her smiling face, “you’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not good at small talk, specially with strangers.”

“Oh, dear. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Giana Armstrong,” she stretches out her hand and this time he shakes it. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Waldorf.”

“Dennis,” he corrects her, ”I’m not a Waldorf anymore.”

“Okay,” Giana checks if anyone is eavesdropping on them before proceeding, “but are you still Steven?”

“Steven Dennis,” he peers at her over his shoulder, his white skin contrasting with his dark chocolate jacket.

“Do you like books?” Giana rummages her bag until she finds one, “I work at a bookstore and just finished reading this novel, it’s really good,” she hands it to him, eager for him to take it.

Steven takes a look at the cover before giving it back.

“Don’t like to read about crime,” he’s quick to look away.

“Oh,” she puts the book back inside her bag, “maybe you can tell me what you like and I can get it for you.”

“Look, you seem like a very nice person, but I’m not in the mood for conversation right now,” his tone gives away his annoyance.

“I know I can be annoying sometimes,” Giana pulls herself away from him after noticing that she was involuntarily getting closer than what was comfortable for him.

Steven feels her pulling away and regrets being rude, “I do like poetry,” he mumbles, and is strangely happy to see her smile resurface.

“Then I know exactly what to bring you tomorrow,” Giana leaps to her feet and the leaves under her boots crackle, “see you then.”

“Wait,” Steven stands, trying to stop her from walking away, “why are you leaving?”

“I have to get to work.” She reads the time on her watch and starts walking away backwards, “I’ll see you tomorrow, same time?”

“Sure,” he stays behind, watching her go. He then buries his hands in the back pockets of his jeans and can’t help but smile at her hair swaying to the beat of her steps.

Michel Foucault on writing

This is the book I’ve been talking about publishing for a very long time. I’ve sharpened my knives in case those ‘the whole world will hate me’ fears come back, hope it doesn’t or we’re all going to die I’ll have to take my pills again.

Nah. I don’t take pills, even when everybody thinks I should. But that’s a whole other subject and we’re here to talk about THE BOOK.

The Last Superhero is the story of Steven S. Waldorf, the last superhero to roam the Earth. His superpowers include telekinesis and the ability to project fantasies into people’s minds. Orphan since an early age, he grew up with no family, no mentor, nothing. After many years of doing both good deeds and evil crimes, society points him as ‘controversial’ and he decides to exile himself.

Fast forward twenty-eight years. He’s slowly making his way back into society when he meets Giana Armstrong, a young woman that not only recognizes him, but knows everything about him. They become friends and a love story starts developing between them while she uncovers the truth about him: where he comes from, what he was, what he is, what torments him and how much he needs to be saved from himself because, as the song goes…

…even heroes have the right to bleed.

Comments, love, hate, any kind of feedback is appreciated!!

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Chapter 1


For the last two months, Steven Waldorf has made a routine out of sitting alone on a park bench. After twenty-eight years of living in what he calls a voluntary seclusion, he has allowed himself to enjoy at least an hour of fresh air and careful observation of the people that visit this particular park. He’s sitting there, under the blue, cloudless sky, looking around in silence with his arms crossed over his chest. His gray hair is blown by sudden gusts of wind that deliver the morning smell of dew still alive under the shadows of tall leafy trees.

Runners catch his eyes and he follows them until they disappear. Pigeons walk their way around the dirt looking for something to peck. Steven observes and sighs.

“Good day,” a young woman says to him, “is this side taken?”

His eyes turn slowly to her as he shakes his head. She smiles, sits next to him, and quickly opens her laptop.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” she asks as if to strike a conversation.

“So it seems,” he answers reluctantly, not used to chatting with strangers.

“I just love the smell of dew. I love to come here this time of the year. Autumn is my favorite season.”

She notices he’s glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. What she doesn’t know is that all he is really doing is trying to get a picture of whoever is annoying him. Her computer sits on an uncomfortable angle over her lap, her smile is wide under her dark eyes, framed by her brunette hair.

“Do you come here often?” she proceeds.

“Yes, every day. Do you?”

Their glances meet for the first time when, in a flash, she feels her laptop sliding down her legs but then flying back up to her lap. Her eyes bulge, trying to figure out what’s just happened.

Steven turns to look away, rearranging his arms back to being crossed over his chest.

“Oh my God! What did just happen?” she turns to see Steven looking rather tense.

“Did you just…?”

“No.”

“But I saw you…”

“No.”

“You caught it midair… But you didn’t touch it.”

“No.”

Her surprise is big enough to make him jump from his seat and start walking away. She shoves the laptop into her bag and runs to catch him.

“Sir, don’t walk away. Please!”

He ignores her call as she tries to keep up with him. Once she’s able to reach him, she pulls him by an arm.

“What!?” he cries, visibly irritated.

“I think I know who you are.”

“You don’t,” he pulls his arm from her grip and starts walking again.

“Mr. Waldorf?” she’s able to stop him in his tracks, “Steven Waldorf?”

Steven turns on his heels and walks to her with raging eyes. “Look…” he points a finger severely at her face.

“Giana,” she starts leaning backwards as he towers over her.

“I am not who you think I am, Giana,” he sneers, his eyes narrowing further with every word.

“Yes you are,” she’s determined to confirm his identity, “you are Steven Waldorf. The superhero.”

He’s amazed by the fact that she keeps talking even when he’s trying to scare her off with his stance and expression.

“How do you know that?”

“So you are Steven Waldorf,” she wants to sound as if she isn’t shaking inside and seems to be hiding it very well.

“What if I was?”

“Then… It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Waldorf,” she stretches her hand out for a handshake but is left hanging. “I would like to thank you for saving my mother from falling off a cliff when she was young,” suddenly her words seem to have the power to soften Steven’s stern look, “she always meant to thank you but never got the chance. Then you disappeared and everybody thought you were dead.”

“Steven Waldorf is dead.”

“I never believed that, and if I ever found him, I wouldn’t tell he’s alive.”

Giana’s eyes sparkle, fact that makes Steven extremely uncomfortable. He stares at her for a moment before walking away with his fists clenched at his sides.

She watches in silence as his khakis and brown jacket disappear and sighs, excited about her finding, yet worried about how that first impression had worked for her.