Rico - Detours and Dead Ends

Detours & Dead ends by Aurelio Rico Lopez III HellBound Books Publishing LLC A HellBound Books LLC Publication Copyright 2017 by HellBound Books Publishing LLC All Rights Reserved Cover and art design by Chipe No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without written permission from the author This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are entirely fictitious or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental. www.hellboundbookspublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America A HellBound Books Publishing LLC Book Houston TX Salute mi familia. C ontents Skin Deep Play time THE NIGHT BEFORE Ceremony first draft Invisible Balance Gamer Bone dry (That might not Have been a lizard) Fill er up Alone in the yard, A loaded gun in one hand Monstrous The thing Symphony Hail to the king Fear of knowing Midnight serenade If youre cold, theyre cold Soup kitchen A special occasion Working my way to you s.o.b. Roasting marshmallows Ctrl, alt, delete Catch Flutter Richter (1257 A.K.) Losing it In sickness and in health, til death Better late than never Flat Thicker than water second genesis Frontline Wet market About the Poet I t's an impulse, A dreadful compulsion One I cannot rightly ignore That I base opinion Solely on appearance. I understand beauty Or lack thereof Is merely skin deep, That I am to see past One's physique before Condemning him And passing judgment.

Yet, I gaze into those dark eyes And the fat, forked tongue Dangling, eel-like from Severed, horned head And realize I do not Have the luxury of Getting to know a demon.

Sunlight glitters Off the water surface As the waves roll onto shore. Each of Poseidons saline curls Reaches its destination. Rhythm peaceful, relaxing. A Beach Boys tune plays From speakers in the distance, A pleasant background To the laughter and Whoops of joy of the afternoon crowd. An explosion of saltwater, A shrill cry of horror.

The sea churns red. Cheer turns to chaos. Swimmers paddle for shore; Many of those who make it Are trampled to death By the terrified crowd. As horrid as their deaths are, They are a blessing Compared to whats to come. Tentacles burst out of the sea As tall as skyscrapers. Appendages crash to the ground Plucking three, four people at a time.

It is over in five minutes, Just as the next Beach Boys song Comes to an end.

The shadow creeps through the house, Unseen and unheard. Fireplace warms the home, Though, in history, similar flames Had burnt witches and Outcasts at the stake. The air smells of gingerbread cookies, With an acrid hint of cigarette smoke, And stockings hang bloated like Giant, gravid slugs about to pop. Intruder ascends the staircase, Moving with surprising agility For such a heavy man. He heads toward the bedrooms And stops in front of the door Featuring a pirate ship and A sign that says: Intruders will walk the plank.

He smiles and pulls out a gift A small, yet heavy box, Wrapped in silver paper and Tied in a golden bow. He sets the present just inside Of the young boys door. Normally, he would leave it under The tree, among the other presents, But he wants it to be the First thing Paul sees in the morning. A gift for a fine, brave pirate Who had lost his mother A little over a year ago. The strangers smile vanishes as He glances over to the door that Leads to the bedroom of boys stepdad. He reins his emotions and returns Downstairs.

He remembers the heartbreaking letter The boy sent him, and learning About the shocking things he had To endure under the custody Of his legal guardian every night. By principle, the crimson-dressed stranger Could not take matters into his hands, But that didnt mean he couldnt help. This season was for the kids, after all. He just hoped the young pirate Would figure out how to work the safety.

The sun is a dearly departed relative Gently lowered Into its horizon grave. Splotches of orange, red, and blue Blot the sky.

The heavens weep, Casting droplets like A thousand condolences In attempt to assuage grief. The wind whispers A mournful hymn of loss As stars appear one by one To pay their respect, And night shamelessly saunters Without invitation Or provocation, A greedy mistress Intent on raising hell.

He purses his lips; Brows furrowed in concentration. Has to get message across. The message is key, Otherwise, whats the point? Might as well Pack up and go home. More and more, His followers grow.

Thank God for social media. But he knows fame is fleeting, Transient; You are only as good As your last work. No pressure. Yeah, right. He steps back to admire his work, Sheaths the knife, Wipes his blood-stained hands With a dirty rag, and wonders Will the critics get it?

I trip and get up, Hand pressed against my side. Blood seeps through My fingers, ignoring My pathetic attempt To staunch the wound.

Muscles burn as if They were doused in kerosene And set ablaze. Empty alley; I lean against the side Of the building for support, Vision clouding. I sense movement behind me, And I know hes coming To finish the job. Fight or flight. The fight is out of me, So flight it is. I stumble through empty cartons And a puddle of piss, Accidentally kicking a tin can and Scaring a pair of rats.

They squeak in anger, But I have more pressing matters To deal with. My assailant draws closer And I picture the knife in his hand. Up ahead, on the sidewalk, A man wearing dark glasses Turns to me. I wave frantically to catch his attention. If I can get him to help Or call the police As the blade buries itself Deep into my throat, The last image I see is the Walking stick In the witnesss right hand.

Under the sickly glow of A lantern resting on top of A pale gray headstone, The shovel cuts through the soil As a medical examiners scalpel Would a deceased body.Next page