Long ago, back in 2000, I wrote a short story based upon a choice my maternal Grandfather made.
He was 25 and when Pearl Harbor happened he had a choice to join the war to escape the Kentucky coal mines. Go to war, or continue in the mines, where he also did the accounting.
So my grandfather choose to join the war, leaving his dog behind, a dog that waited for him at that corner of the property until he passed away, waiting for my grandfather to come home from war. But not everything of my grandfather made it back. He stopped believing there was a God the day he and the rest of the troops entered the concentration camps. His faith was killed seeing the evil and depravity of humanity.
When he passed away in 1999 we found more details out about his service, he got 5 Bronze stars, he was at the Battle of the Bulge, D-Day, and so many other major battles. He left the Army in 1945 Sgt. Ross J. Kitchen.
I am taking that short story and creating a novel. Though my grandfather is the inspiration, this is a work of fiction.
War: The Death of Faith
I didn’t know at the time; but when I made my choice of the coal mines or the Army, I traded one death for another. The world was at War, and I choose the Army. I said goodbye to my family, signed my father as my next of kin and I left. February 10th 1942, should have been a date of death on my stone.
This novel is going to follow the story of a young man who makes the choice to join the Army after Peral Harbor and will follow him through the war, to the discovery of the concentration camps, to coming home, and to making a life outside of the horrors he discovered about humanity.
All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead (unless explicitly noted) is merely coincidental.
Jay was sitting on the couch; the pup was sleeping beside him. On the TV played some documentary on Demonology. He liked that stuff. He watched things that dealt with hauntings all the time. He even visited a few haunted locations on tours. He wanted to go to the one in Iowa. But somehow, even though it was close, he had not gotten to yet. He sighed. There was nothing to do about the bombing until the crime labs came back in the next day or two. On his coffee table were three murderers. Two, the same killer. One, just some sick bastard removing organs. He had a lead on that one. And tomorrow morning would go to question who he thought was the best suspect. He shook his head; he grabbed the remote; he had to turn it off the demons. He loved them, but he had seen enough of them in the last couple of weeks. He had to catch the demons. The channel changed, superheroes. Nope. He liked the villains better. He hated the so-called villains in real life, but in the movies and shows, villains had the most character development. They were sometimes way too easy to connect with because humanity sucked.
He flipped off the man on the television who had enough mental issues to keep one doctor busy with their whole career. Good God, there had to be something on that was not an evening soap opera, a reality show, or demons. Hell, even his favorite Sci-Fi space show was annoying him tonight. There had to be more on than the normal. Or it seems Christmas movies were the next choice. It was fucking July; he did not need to watch some cis hetro business man lose his ice cold fiancée to a farmer. Who the hell thought Christmas in July was a thing. Oh, great, funny videos about gender reveals gone wrong. God, people were crazy. He stopped. Ah, funny movie about someone accidentally summoning a demon, and teaching them how to live on Earth. Fuck it. Humor is good. And it has a demon, that really is not a demon.
He laid his head back on the couch. He itched his arm. Damn cravings. His mind was running too fast. His addiction wanted him to scream and beg for the dark bliss of a high. He rubbed his palms hard against his eyes. He had to get some sleep. Take a cue from Rex and get some damn sleep before tomorrow and arrest his main suspect in the murder and mutilation of his victim, who was still a John Doe. Jay knew there would be no peace though, not until the multiple killer was caught too. Not until the bomber was caught and brought to justice. As he tried not to think that his serial killer might already have other victims. Kansas did not need another serial killer. Fuck. He did not want that notoriety once the nation picked it up. Already he was on the national news due to his undercover work. He took a deep breath and just kept his eyes closed.
Jay was in a room. He looked into the mirror. There was blood coming down his mouth. He reached up to wipe it off. He winced as something sharp stabbed him. He opened his mouth. Fangs. What the hell? He looked and turned around and blinked. There were bodies. People who he cared about. People he helped. People he touched in his life. They were all lifeless, with two puncture marks on their throats. He turned to the mirror. He was in a suit, it was all black, a silk black shirt, a silk black tie, and a blood black lily on his lapel. His eyes were black as coal. He turned and started to hyperventilate, as the blood started to pour onto the floor from where he had not drained all his victims. As he turned back to the mirror from the bodies and saw the demon within himself smirking in satisfaction at a job well done.
Jay sat up with a start. “Fuck!” He shook his head. It had been a long time since he had dreams like that. So real. He shook his head and reached up to check his teeth. Just a nightmare. He looked at the TV, it was playing a vampire show, must have but a subconscious thing. He shook his head and looked at the clock. Three in the morning. Devil’s Hour. Witch’s Hour. He closed his eyes and took a breath. He smiled when he felt the pup wiggle into his lap to give him a kiss. He pets his pup. “Come on, Rex. Let’s go lay in bed for a couple hours.” He stood and stretched, turned off the TV, and picked up the pup and made his way to the bedroom.
He chuckled as he prepared for bed. At least he did not fall asleep on the station obsessed with aliens. He moved and settled in; Rex curled by his side. He just pets his pup for a while. It was calming, relaxing, and for a moment everything was okay in the world. It was like Rex gripped his heart and raised him from the torment and hell that he had been through the last two years. He laid his head down, he should bake a pie this weekend, and soon he was in a dreamless sleep. At least for a couple hours, the demons within left him alone and let him have a restful slumber.
There he goes, not even noticing how I look at him. He doesn’t notice the look in my eye. He doesn’t see that he owns my heart and soul. He doesn’t know how much I need him. It is wrong I know. But I can’t help but love him. I try to stay away. I try to remember he isn’t mine. I try. I try so hard. Sometimes I slip. But only when I am drunk, which is often, as I love him so. I love him. How could I not? It really is a sight to behold, that man. But I am nothing but a dirty secret, for when he has had too much to drink, when the job gets to tough, and when he just needs someone other than his wife. He comes seeking a comfort only I can give. But then he leaves again; the clock mocks me as it flashes two in the morning. Four hours. For four hours he was mine. And now he will go back to her. His love. His soul. The one that doesn’t have to be the dirty little secret. The one that gets to tell the world he is hers. The one that gets to tell the world that he belongs to her. That the world knows has his heart. Even if I have his body for hours at a time. I get up and look in my cabinet. The gun he gave me is there. For my protection, he had told me. He had a lot of enemies. The pills the doctor gave me are there. For my depression. My anxiety. My seizures. All there. I am sick of being someone’s dirty little secret. I look at them, but I slide down to the floor and sigh. I don’t know how long I am there. But suddenly I hear my door open; only he can get in to my apartment. I wait for something, but nothing is coming. I hear the bathroom door open. He is standing there above me. He has a gun. I look up at him. “You can’t be my dirty little secret anymore.” He pointed the gun at me and shot twice, into my chest. As I lay there, the pain of the bullets in my chest, I was gasping for air. I hear another shot; he had turned the gun upoin himself and shot himself in the head. I struggle to get up. I make my way to the phone… I dial emergency services. “He killed himself…” I gasped out, and then my world went black… I was no longer his dirty little secret.
In the land of nightmares nothing has to make sense. We after all are just that, nightmares, creatures of imagination, given life. It is why when I retired from traveling through dreams, I opened a bar. A bar made of glass, with the magic of dreams it is easy to fix after a fight. The bar of glass allows all to watch the dreams of their humans, and know when they have to join the dream. It gives me and the other creatures of the night our entertainment and the social interaction that we now crave as we were created by the humans we torture. After all, in the land of nightmares the only light we have are from the dreams of our humans.
Justice was held down by chains of corruption. Her white robes changed black with death of innocenence. She remained blind to the sight… But the smell of the burning of freedom, would always remain. A tear fell from under her blindfold hot against her marbled cheek. It was time, once more, to pick up her sword. It was time, once more, to rage war on corruption. But the chains held her down. She could only lend support to those who were trying to break them. So much pain. So much heartache. Movements marching around her. Freedom. Equality. Justice. It was the right of the people! Yet corruption locked her away. She struggles against the chains. She sees the good helping. The Movements! The riots turned parades! Chip by chip the chains are breaking. People have had enough! They want her freed! She needs to be freed! For She serves only the people! She rises up and stands in front of the crowds. No more. Chained no more. She lends her soul and sword to the generals of this war. May it be enough… For Justice may be blind, But She isn’t dead.
They stalked their prey. The hunger in them had grown. They could no longer hold back. The blood red ring around the moon glistened with anticipation. The Devil’s Hour upon them. Warmth of the blood spilled across their fingers. A sigh. The monster temporarily satisfied.
The music pounded. The kiss far from chaste. His sharpened nail ran down my sternum. I shivered as my blood started to flow. The pain was intense, the pleasure more so. I gave him access to my blood. My soul. My life. But just for the night, as the music pounded on.
Never considered a true noble. The bloodline there. Tainted. Father a soldier. Sit here in this forced finery. Do not belong. Long to break free. See the chance. Run. Don’t look back. Freedom. It’s in my grasp. Hear my mother call. Almost stop. Don’t. Free. I am free.
The pin pricked her skin. A corsage to symbol youthful love. Turned rotten with death. The virus had been upon the pin. Subject 0 running rampant. Craving blood, brains, & life. She is on the hunt. Only with thoughts of death. Her first victim, the boy who loved her.
Kris Charles - Author 