This someone in the mirror (A short story/reflexion)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

Have you ever had this curious sensation, when you look at yourself in the mirror and wonder who is it that the glass is reflecting?

Of course, it’s you. Here you are, this is you, physically at least.

You move your head, you realize that you’ll never have the possibility to see yourself with your own eyes, you need a mirror or a photography.

This is a curious and powerful moment. Everything that is happening, everything you lived through, every damned second of you life have been happening in that head, that head reflected by the mirror. This is you, your physical entity.

While thinking about this curious feeling, your thoughts lead you to the infinite of space, the universe.

You realize how futile the human body is compared to the apparent endlessness of our world.

After this weird feeling, which started to become an overwhelming one, you are confronted with death.

Am I really alive? Is this really my reflexion in that mirror or what I think I look like? Is it someone else? Am I really alive? What does « alive » mean? Living? I can see my face, it’s physical, my existence take it’s form in that body of mine.

And what if I die? Am I already dead? What if it was all a lie? What if this life I’m living is just my imagination? Do I really understand that I am real?

As you asking yourself those hypotheticals questions, imagine you see the reflexion in the mirror moving, reflecting you, but it’s start to move on it’s own, it is not reciprocating your movement but live and act on it’s own accord.

Imagine that you follow the movement of that reflexion.

You are becoming the mirror.

You are the reflexion now.

You’re in the wrong side of the glass, if there ever was a wrong side.

What are you really when your one true self is looking at the mirror?

Other than that, when your independent reflexion leave, you are nowhere, in a place where existence isn’t real, imagine space but you can’t move and at the same time you’re drifting slowly. You can see but you see nothing. You only really exist when the other you present itself in front of the mirror.

But let’s go back, you are yourself now. The reflexion in the mirror is living its life.

It’s something frightening to see your body living a life of its own. A feeling of loosing control slowly overwhelm you. What does your body do? What’s life in this reflexion for the other you? How do you think you’ll feel? Like this is not really you? This other body that look exactly like yours live a life that is completely different from the real one. Yet it’s your body that you can see. Is that other physical life completely at the opposite of what your current existence is? Are you the same entity?

What if that reflexion start noticing you and realize that you are his reflexion? Do you think you would talk to each other? What kind of questions would you ask to that other you? What kind of question will he ask you?

Imagine seeing this reflexion of you passing through the mirror, touching your face.

You can join them or let them join you.

What will be you decision?

What if life was nothing but a very long and painful hallucination? A farce? A joke? A simulation?

A simple, yet sophisticated, reflexion of you own thoughts?

What if since the beginning, you don’t exist? Never was and never will be?

Your physical being is just a reflexion. From a mirror, a photography, someone eyes. You only really exist inside your mind. So, should we really put this much importance towards apparence? Shouldn’t we trust what we feel instead of what we see?

Our world is inside our minds. Individually and collectively.

Jaskiers

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Waiting For The Sun In L.A. (A Short Story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

Ophelia lived in a downtown L.A. Her dreams place to live in.

Since very young, she wanted to become something. Someone different than her mother and father. All the kids got dreams, and a lot of them wish to become a star, a singer, an actor. Being worshipped, being rich, living in a huge mansion. Then they grow up and reality strikes their little beliefs and put them back into reality.

For some, the dream still holds firmly in their mind. They don’t want to give up, not now, not while they are still young and have time to progress, learn and work for them. It often take an early calling, a long-time practice to become successful.

You also have to make connection, travel to the place where the important peoples lives and hang out.

That’s what Ophelia had planned. She could sing, dance and act. She was an attractive young, white girl, blonde hair and blue eyes. She had success in that little conservative town of her in Minnesota. She discovered at this small town how powerful the power of beauty is, especially on men.

She took advantage of few of them, but this was for a good cause. She would not forget them once at the top of Hollywood.

The young women borrowed money to pay for acting class, acting turned out to be more complicated and subtle that Ophelia first thought. She kept working hard, but never had the feeling of self-satisfaction. From her own perspective, her progress in acting wasn’t satisfying. She still had her look for herself, the thing that will gave her Hollywood on a plate. At least that what’s Ophelia believed. Hollywood was the sanctuary of body-worshipping wasn’t it ?

She took up singing class too. She was decent at it, her hope for fame raised even more. Why not become a pop star ? Their’s singers that aren’t that good but still make a career for themselves because they have the good the look and an attitude.

Continuing on her quest to find her real calling, Ophelia borrowed even more money for dancing lessons. She knew she would not become a dancer, and nobody really considered a dancer a star. It was just to better herself, give herself more tools to succeed.

She had boyfriends. More or less, she used them for money, and they used her for her body.

Once she gathered enough money to go conquer the West. Ophelia drove to Hollywood, ready to own the entertainment industry.

Her beauty gave her access to powerful men. Powerful men that gave her a flat in that downtown L.A. where she’s still living in as you reading this.

After false promises by those men, the young women decided to hunt for fame by herself. Going from casting to casting to never having a call back.

Until her good star intervened.

One day, some men in the street asked her for her contact information. He needed someone like her for his project.

Arriving in the studio of that mysterious artist (or businessman) the aspiring actress had to undress in front of the camera and have sex with him.

And she did. That’s how Hollywood worked right ? Nothing new in having sex in exchange for a part in a movie. Plus, she came out of there with a good amount of cash ! This was probably the start, finally, of her career !

Execpted that this sex session ended up on internet. Without her consent.

And the businessman contacted her again. The returns where insanely positive ! The public wanted more of her. More of her nakedness having sex in front of a camera.

She took the opportunity.

Ophelia became a star, a pornstar.

Her family cut ties with her, she was alone. Alone but making money. Not rich thought.

She was famous. Kind of.

Was she disappointed ? Yes.

Did she felt trapped ? Not really. Porn stars have become regular actresses and singers after finding stardom in the porn industry. She will use pornography as her springboard to stardom, the real one.

But people only saw in her the pornographic actress.

She was in fact trapped.

Ophelia still live, hoping for a miracle that will probably never happen. But she’s got hope and nobody can take this out from her. Not you, not even me.

Jaskiers

Waiting For The Night In New York (A Short Story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

The putrid smell of the street, the trash bags scattered, the rats, the cigarette butts, the stray dogs, the cold wind, the incessant passing and honking of cars, peoples going places or arguing with each other, all of this and more, Billy was used to it.

Becoming a singer, like Dylan, that’s been is goal since he came here at the tender age of 20. But nothing works out exactly how you dreamt it isn’t it ? This and the fact that New York was ruthless, a city that does not take any weakness nor sympathy if you want to make it big.

The rule is, work your ass off, turn to madness, being crazy will give you opportunities. Take pills, smoke joints, if you courageous, inject some smack into your veins. Go crazy, insane, and create. After all, this place has seen some shit and it seems to push people to continue destroying themselves, like an entity that claim their fair share of life and sacrifices, to prosper.

Billy had become that poet in the gutter that Dylan sing about. Everyone recognize themselves in a Bob Dylan ballad. That’s the real magic, the real talent for an artist. This and a little bit of vision, predicting the future, being some kind of prophet. Add some poetry, the magic of words, like a Leonard Cohen and you have yourself a good starting point for an artistic career.

Was Billy not talented enough ? Who really know, talent is maybe thing but doesn’t make you famous nor rich. The work, the grinding, the hustling, sacrifices are the keys to the American Dream. Let’s not forget that you have to be original, mysterious, playing with your audience and, this as to be said, being merciless with your rival and enemies.

Billy was that guy who used to think that everyone was kind, or had to be. Loyal, respectful, those were the qualities that you had to put aside, not always but sometime, to impose yourself, to gain your place in this city.

Too kind, too nice, too honest was Billy to show rudeness. He let himself being stepped on, mistreated, misguided for the profits of others. Others that used him at their advantages to become successful. But not for long, they all lacked talent or the will to keep working.

Too good, Billy was a friend that gaved his shoulders for those broken souls to cry on. Never used their weakness for his own advantage.

The street, his street, his gutter, his territory. The only thing he got to own since coming in New York was this street. It wasn’t the most welcoming place in town, the most secure nor peaceful but it was his. He lived their since so long that the people unconsciously linked him to this patch of concrete and decaying building.

Billy’s Street, that was the name of his place now. And for him, it felt like having his star on the Hollywood Walk-Of-Fame. He often joke by rebranding his corner « Walk-Of-Shame » because of all the junkies, prostitutes and their clients, off beat cops, drunks and homeless people that wander it.

Billy came to find fame, he found something else, maybe more precious and rare, he finds his place with the peoples of the underground, a sect, a clan that his so well kept from curious eyes that the world have completely forgotten their existences.

They were his audience. Audience that no Bob Dylan will ever have the chance to perform in front of.

And Billy got stories for days, even years.

Billy is what’s others aren’t : he’s free. It’s America, after all.

Jaskiers

A Pinkerton’s Warnings (A short story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

As I lay in this dens bush, the outlaws are drinking, singing indecent lullaby and exposing their latest successful crime like grandiloquent theatric actor with each other. Of course, those horrid story are embellished, coming out off their mouths.

I follow those bandits for two weeks now. They move often, from state to state, making their couple of weeks of stays a time of nightmares for the locals.

Robbing the poor and the rich folks that roam their lands, killing for a few dimes, stealing diligence, bar fights, rapes, you name it.

The reign of terror of those outlaws is coming to an end. The world has changed gentleman !

The United State is starting to hold up to its name and promises. We are uniting. It took time a good amount of death and misery to reach this ideal.

We, Pinkerton, are a federal agency charged to take down criminals who still haven’t understood that this is the end of impunity for those outlaws.

We have the means, we have the mens and the laws and even the President by our side.

The criminals only got their ideal. Wich belong to an ancient and savage era.

Modernity’s on it’s way. No more gunslingers, no more duels in the middle of the street, no more gangs.

Why did I follow those men for two weeks without interfering with their misdemeanor ?

Gathering proof. We want them to hang on nooses. They have to leave this world that don’t want them and, frankly, never needed them either.

As I am watching them laugh and throwing up their cheap moonlights, I just imagine myself putting a rope around their neck.

Sure, maybe a couple a them have some sort of code of conduct but the simple fact that they are riding together prove that they do not belong here either.

Show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you really are.

Those criminals talks about moral but they all are ready to sell their mother for a lighter sentence. The hanging noose, a simple rope frighten those bastards who can kill you for just looking at them the wrong way.

The curious things about those animals it’s that they know we are on to them. They even met us, exchanged fierce firefight with us, but they still think that somehow, we will let them do their crime. They bury their heads in the sand, but they will finish 6 feets under the ground. Well, if someone feels like digging holes for them. I don’t think anybody will go through this hardship for a single one of those maggots.

See, we are on to them. We know, we see, we gather proof, testimony. Their downfall is near. Society is ready… no even better, willing to get rid of them.

I deplore the amount of time we are offering them. They are, in some way, lucky that I am not in charge of their eradication. With me, no trials, just a bullet between the eyes. Quick, simple, effective. That would be the perfect way to end this non-sens.

But I will obey and keep a close watch on those fuckers. Discipline and obedience is key to a civilized society. And I will make sure to look at every single one of their cadavers, spit on them and carry on serving the law, the justice for the emerging and perfect civilisation. For the futur.

The time has come !

Signed : a Pinkerton agent

Jaskiers

There’s A Killer On The Road (A Short Story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

« – Go now, let’s go !

  • What the fuck happened over there, shit !
  • Come on faster !
  • Yeah, but will you tell me where are Tim and Bryan for Christ’s sake ?
  • Dude, it’s all turned into a shit show in there !
  • Well I guess I already know that because you came back alone ! What was those gunshots that I’ve heard ? It was supposed to be a fine calculated job, no victim !
  • Dude, we thought we had it all under control. Everybody knew the plan and what he had to do but that… fucking security guard decided to be a hero ! Like he was paid enough to care about a robbery !
  • If you let you guard down man, they’ll take you out for sure.
  • What do you fucking know about a bank a robbery ! Shut the hell up and do your job, driving !
  • Well excuse me for being worried about bringing home one dude instead of three ! What happened to them !
  • Faster !
  • I’m at full speed ! Get out if you think you could run faster you shit ! Answer me ! Where are Tim and Bryan ?!
  • Tim got shot in the right shoulder by the security guard and Bryan was instantly killed by a bystander in the bank.
  • What ? And you came out of it unharmed !
  • Tim was badly injured but he could still fire his gun. We exchanged a copious numbers of bullets with the cops and the civilian. We killed the officer first, the bystander emptied is Smith&Wesson on us, Bryan took a bullet in the head… He died instantly. When the civilian started to reload, we took the opportunity to shower him with bullets and that wannabe hero died. Then, time started running out so Tim was guarding the civilians, I took care of the banker who opened the safe, took the money in my duffle bag and when I’ve came back, Tim was bleeding badly. I think that he had been hit sooner during the fire exchange with ether the civilian or the guard. At first, I’ve thought it was in the shoulder but he was hit in the left lung. Had to choose between him and the money so I’ve choose him but he refused and told me to go. To secure the money you see. He told me good luck and said he would cover my exit just in case someone decided to play hero… and here I am now.
  • Fuck. For real ? Men you’re full of shit ! I knew you were a coward at the second I laid eyes on you !
  • Men fuck you ! I did what had to be done !
  • Come on, you could have carried Tim with you !
  • Dude, I was literally carrying millions of dollars in a bag ! Money is heavy but you wouldn’t know this because you are our fucking gateway driver !
  • Man, I can fire a gun, be careful with what you said ! Can’t believe you left Tim to get die or… Wait… shit ! Was he the one who fired his gun just before you came running to the car ?
  • Yes I’ve told you, he was covering me !
  • You fucking lier ! He was trying to shoot you because you’re the one who killed Bryan ! »

Rami died on the spot, shot by Aubrey.

« – You haven’t see that one coming isn’t it ? Getaway driver my ass ! »

Throwing the body out of the car, Aubrey drove West.

Nothing was going accordant to the plan, he saw the flashing lights of law enforcement cars reflecting on his rear view mirror.

Taking his handgun, he fired at the blinding lights. He received a salve of bullets as an answer.

The car stopped going forward almost immediately.

He had a two possibility now. Run or facing the cops.

To this day, the faith of the five million dollars is still unknown. But they’re tainted in blood, sweat, tears and betrayal, like every currency in this world.

Jaskiers

Meet The Unknown ( A Short Story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

Inspired by The Wanderer above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich

Young man, young man. Go on adventures, take your youthfullness with you, see those lands that nobody never had the chance to discover. See for yourself. Not for another. Young man, go and don’t look back unless the landscape is worth a view ! Leave Young Man ! Live young man !

Young man, that’s how is grandpa’ used to call him. Those words came from a letter that he wroted to him, August, his grandson.

August loved to read this letter over and over. It gaved him a feeling of greatfullness, of mindfulness, of legitimity. He wanted to travel the world because his grandfather advised him to. Granting him with the autorisation to go on adventure, alone.

This letter was writed by a dying old men, full of love and wise advice for his grandson.

August spoked to his dad about this letter. It wasn’t really an easy relationship between his father and the old man. Exactly like it was between August and is dad. History as a tendancy to repeat itself now and then, to reciprocate the same kind of patterns.

August’s dad read the letter, frowned and gave the letter back to his son.

– Do whatever you want with this old man advice. Maybe his right, maybe not. Do as you please. Either way, I know you’ll do what you want even if I advised you against doing something this dangerous.

Of course, August would have love to have the opportunity to follow his grand father advice. He dreamed about sailing in the most dangerous seas, the most cruels and beautifull montains, the most mysterious forest, meeting curious and shady stranger. Living the adventure.

August left alone his family household directly after the end of the school year.

Taking the bear minimum, he started his journey on foot, he had planned to travel to Alaska. He wanted to face the cold weather and the unapologetic environnement of the wild snowy landscape of the great North. Leaving his warm californian lifestyle to confront the terrifying cold of the alaskian weather.

Maybe, he would meet those husky dogs, maybe he will encounter the notorious grizzly bear, and some royal looking moose. See some natives of this land who will teach him their way of living, learning the ropes of surviving in the wilderness.

And then ? Take the sea. Like an Hermann Melville, without any single experience of the sea. Not to hunt whales, but to live throughout the hardship of being a sailor. Why not enduring the devastating waves and winds of a storm ?

All in all, he wanted stories. Stories he could write and talk about like a Jack London.

August wasn’t blinded by the situation he would put himself in. He knew that it will not be an easy walk in the park.

But what’s an adventure without risk or danger ?

His journey will also be a learning curve, learning who he was, deep inside. And only him and his God would judge him troughout his adventure.

Young man, go West, or North, South, Est. Maybe all at the same time ! But move young man. Mouvement is life ! Take what’s yours : freedom !

Jaskiers

People are strange (A short story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

Letter received and diffused by The New-York Pines after the gruesome discovery of a dead body in Greenwich Village :

Greetings New-Yorkers and to the whole wide world ;

I discovered that I must be a strange fellow since my art wasn’t recognized the way I thought it would be.

This is annoying to put your heart and soul into something and seeing it end up being a disaster.

Maybe because people are strange, or maybe this is all me. I’m confused…

I’ve carefully choosed my subject and the scenery. The message that I wanted to share with the world completely falled apart. Nobody seems to have really understood my work, my art. I have put a lot of heart and effort into it. But people don’t seems to appreciate this art of mine.

It was beautifull, at least from my point of view.

Carefully hanged on an old telegraphic wire linking two building, hanging in the air and crossing a busy and scenic commercial street, there was exposed my masterpiece, for you all to see.

A torso that I, the « misunderstood artist » sculpted and carved into the most noble components. A component that no artist ever use, or very rarely.

Just a torso a real human torso, suspended in the air in the same pose as the Christ on his cross.

It took some time to do this… finding the right materials, the place… It took some thinking to hang my art piece in the right place. I won’t really go into details, a magician keep is secret, and so does the artist.

What kind of message I wanted to vehiculate ? This is the kind of questions no artists should answer ! Let it to your audience to build their own opinion. Why does the artist always need to explain his work ? It’s too easy if we revealed the true meaning of our art ! Let the individual to make is own assumption. That’s why art exist : make up your own minds, find the meaning, your personnal one.

Does a piece of art always have to make sense ? Hell no ! It have a meaning for sure, unconsciously, we give it one when we’re creating it. Personally, I let my instincts take the wheel of my creativity. Can’t go wrong if it is from a feeling deep within my soul that my art come to life.

But, like I said before, people are strange. Jim Morrison used to sing about this. He probably knew how strange it was to be an artist, a successful one, and seeing all those peoples, fans, journalists, critics, others artists, criticizing your work and at the same time your life. Wich is stupid !

Let me give you and advice : you have to differentiate the personnal life of an artists from his work. Those are two completely different entities.

And as for the way an artist express himself, one should not judge them to harshly.

Of course I say that in my own defense because I know that I have traumatised peoples by hangin a real human torso in a middle of a busy street.

Lessen, it was an experience, yes a awfull one but I did get reactions !

Next time, I’ll kill the guy in front of your innocents and pathetic eyes !

What I did was art. And it’s a disrespectful to call me a narcissistic and perverted killer !

I have made New-York a trend Again ! I’m the new Andy Warhol !

I am a king maker ! That is the name that I want you all, fucking maggots, to call me : The King Maker !

Sincerely ;

The King Maker.

Jaskiers

They want blood John ! (A short story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

« Dear Thomas and all of the Espire’s redaction;

You’re maybe wondering why I did that to the Perish redaction.

Let me explain myself before being judge, rightfully so, by the public.

I was a writer for that paper for two decades.

The begining here was delightfull. I was able to write whatever I wanted to write about. My work was never disputed by the former boss, M. Anthelm.

I wrote story about everything I wanted to. This was also a great time to learn about story telling and the craft of creating shorts fictions for a wide audience.

My relations with the staff was ideal for a writer. They were open, respectful and dedicated to help me and my work evolve. Nothing was out of bundary, no subject was banished, I had the opportunity to broaden my horizon and my audience. And the pay was decent.

Those years passed by fast, as all the years happen to do when you have a lot of work.

M. Anthelm was a mentor, a friend, a confident. Always up to publish new things. As I said, they was no bundaries.

Freedom. That was the magazine was all about. That was what America was all about. That’s the way we all saw it back in those days. Freedom of speech. A real free press.

Old boss, like I loved to call him, had to retire, cancer. Fucking lung cancer. I told him many times : Anthelm, good ol’ boss, stop smoking, that’s not healthy, tobacco isn’t a medecine ! They have been lying to us, it destroy your lungs and all ». But of course, being a old man, and a boss of a successful newspaper/magazine, he told me, very politely, to focus on my work instead of focusing on him. Fair.

The next week of that conversation, I had writed a short story about a man dying of cancer because of the cigarette. He was dying, leaving his family not only with a painfull grieving to do but also with greats difficulties. The man died, and the family was torn apart because they faced problems they could not overcome. The used-to-be stable and perfect family ended up being splitted into clans and it finished with all members facing theirs demons.

A writer have to be a little bit of a prophet sometimes.

M. Anthelm died, we all grieved, we stayed united and strong until the new boss came around.

Here is the start of my demise.

M. Catheren took the place of my good ol’ boss. Right at the begining, things have gone down south with him.

To be honest, I didn’t liked his face, his nonchalant and arrogant attitude. I think he had the same feelings for me.

He hated the first story I gaved to him. And the second, and all the others. I wasn’t able to have a single story publish during three months !

I asked to talk with him, it wasn’t like with the good ol’ boss, I had to pass trought is assistant, who had to communicate to him my desire to have a meeting. It took three days to finaly have hold of him.

I took the opportunity to ask him what was is problem with my stories and what does he really wanted from me and my writing.

He started by telling me that the time had changed, and that, all of us, had to adapt to that new world.

The time didn’t changed since he became the boss, he was so vain that he thought that just by becoming the head of the magazine, everyone working for him had to change, change in his direction. For a boss, this could be seen as normal but he was far, far from being a man, a leader, like M. Anthelm.

That was something, being told that when I worked here for decades. But he finally told me, what he really wanted from my writing :

« They want blood John ! Make some cow-boy, outlaws, gangster, cops stories, those stories that’s spill blood at every words ! The people Johnny, they want to be entertained ! Bring out the guns ! Violence ! That’s what’s sell now ! And you better be good at it ! You have to prove your worth toward me ! This is America Johnny, we work hard, harder than our neighboor, and we work well ! We make sacrifices so we can all succeed in our collective project which is, like I’ve said the day I became the boss, to be the number one magazine in America ! Fuck the others ! Especially Espire ! Esquire is managed by M. Thomas, a prick, a coward, someone that call himself a intellectual ! Ah ! Fuck ‘em Johnny ! I don’t want my magazine to be a den of intelectuals ! I want it to be the fast food of the magazine industry ! You can do that John right ? You’re with me right ? Ah ! You old cunt, you better be if you don’t wanna finish unemployed. A unemployed writer life is a life heading for the gutter ! Johnny, you don’t want to finish like that. Now, write me some bloody stories. No more talk, we need content, and the content that our everchanging audience really want. Out now ! Let’s get to work will ya’! »

Yes, those where is words. This men, coming from nowhere, that nobody in the industry knew, had the nerves to gave me lessons about how our magazine worked.

I had to do something but he said one true thing : I would have ended up in the gutter if I didn’t followed his directions.

This is why a write this letter to you, M. Anthelm. You and your magazine have been our fierce rival. We can never be good without a great rival. And God know you were a great opponent.

Why do I wrote those last lines like it was over ?

This letter will be my testimony, explaining why I did this.

Hopefully, when you’ll receive this letter, my plan would have come to term, successfully.

Yes, I have killed M. Catheren. He wanted me to spill blood, he got served.

I ended my life after my killing. Didn’t wanted to finish in prison for a young arrogant piece of shit.

Publish that letter, or do whatever you want with it. Make some money from that tragedy, scrap it to the last dollar you could produce with it.

Hopefully you will resume your outstanding work. The work of a real litterature’s magazine !

Long live the free writers ! Long live freedom. Long live America !

Yours truly;

Johnny V. Covack.

Jaskiers

Just Some Unfortunates Sons Getaway (short story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

« – Arthur my men ! You got the goods haven’t you ?

  • Have a guess Shepard.
  • You’ve god that ironic smirk, the same that you have when you have a good hand !
  • Jesus Shep’ ! You should’ve become a shrink.
  • Yeah, I was studying for becoming one before coming in this hellhole.
  • Speakin’ of hellhole, move your ass, give some space would ya !
  • Fine ! So, who’s rolling it ?
  • You fucker, you’re not waisting a single minute ! Man you have no idea how hard it is to find some good kush aroun’ here !
  • Jeeeesssssus ! Give me the goods would ya’ !
  • How polite my good sire ! Here you go now, do it quick and perfect, like my girl used to describe my performances in bed !
  • Ah ! You dumbass ! I have a gal’ back home too !
  • Yeah I know Dude but let’s talk ´bout this bitch after a good smoke.
  • She’s cheatin’ on me brother !
  • I bet ! Now come on, roll it up and we’ll talk ‘bout it all right ?
  • Yeah… but high or na i’ll still be mad y’know.
  • High with some music ?
  • What ?
  • You heard me you fuck !
  • Did you fixe that fucking radio ?
  • Yes sir !
  • Man ! You are a women behind all that soldier gear of yours !
  • Ah ! Wait what, come again ?
  • Y’Know, women are good at multitaskin’. And look at you, find weed in this hell and spend is spare time fixing a radio !
  • Buddy, you hittin’ on me or what ? Ah !
  • Ah ! If I had a… y’now instead of a huge dick, I would gladly let you hit !
  • What the fuck are you on !
  • Nothing !
  • That’s what I mean Shep’ ! Your acting high before even smoking !
  • That’s my brain brotha’ !
  • You ain’t got one ! Ah !
  • Fuck you dude !
  • Oh come one. Let me put some music.
  • Yeah ! Do something usefull for once in your life Arthur !
  • I’m serving my country !
  • But you where obligated to do it !
  • Still, am taking the good side of it !
  • See that ! Killin’ vietnamese for good ol’ ‘mericcaaa !
  • « Please show me the way to the next Whiksy bar ! »
  • « Ah don’t ask why ! »
  • « Ah don’t ask why ! »
  • Fucking yes man ! Getting high with a good pal et The Doors !
  • Your wanna light it up ?
  • Nah ! You got the privilege !
  • Merci monsieur !
  • Ah ! French !
  • Oui oui ! Pffffff ! My joint monsieur, big like baguette oui oui han han !
  • Give me give me monsieur !
  • Oui oui !
  • Pfff. The grass… always greener… well more green after i smoke.
  • If it become blue well it’s probably LSD then. So good thing it’s green. Very green !
  • When the last time you tripped on acid ?
  • Like… pfff… 2 month ago ?
  • Where ? Pffff
  • Hanoï !
  • Dude ! Dangerous to trip there !
  • Why ? Pfff
  • The fifth column !
  • Hemingway’s short story ? What are you on about !
  • Pffff. I’m on weed you fuck !
  • Cunt !
  • Let’s not go british, French was enough !
  • What did ya mean with… pfffff. The fifth column ?
  • Well you know… the north-vietnamese that spy and pray on the dumb American who come to Hanoï for a good time !
  • Oh ! That’s what’s a fifth column his ! Pffffff.
  • So tell me ? You got high and ?
  • Well I’ve confused The Rolling Stones and Hendrix.
  • How can this be possible !
  • Acid !
  • Yeah I’ve got that but how ?
  • I don’t know, was at that bar, and the music was… I saw that the music notes had colors !
  • That’s dope.
  • Really is !
  • Man, I have enough of all this shit… Miss home y’know.
  • How many did you smoked ?
  • Wha’?
  • Communists.
  • Oh… I don’t know… everytime the captain tell me to shoot, I shoot. At branches, leaves, trees, grass…
  • Yeah same.
  • It’s like we’ve come here to do landscaping !
  • Ah ! Yeah that’s it ! Never saw a single north-vietnamese diying by my hand !
  • Brother ! The napalm is not to kill but to help us do our duty, landscaping !
  • Ah ! You shit !
  • Arthur ! Shepard ! Where the fuck are you !
  • Pfff. Quick, throw the joint !
  • Fuck no, I’m keeping what’s left of it !
  • Well quick Shep’ for goodness sake !
  • Shepard ! Arthur ! For Christ sake come on let’s go we’re mooving !
  • Here Captain, on our way !
  • Why are you two always together ? Do you folks have some secrets ?
  • No !
  • No sir !
  • Pretty sure they fuckin’ captain.
  • Marshall, shut the hell up would you ! Wait… what the fuck am I hearing ?
  • Radio captain. I fixed it.
  • Well bravo ! Next time put the volume higher so the ennemy can have a listen !
  • Sorry captain !
  • Let’s moove ! Forward !
  • Here we go Shepard, landscaping for good ol’ Uncle Sam !
  • So proud, here we go, doing our duties ! Earning a living ! For the free world ! »

Jaskiers

Tributes to The Lizard King # 5 | It’s all Over

The « Tributes to the Lizard King » series is my hommage to the poems and writings of Jim Morrison.

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

Today, it’s all over.

We buried the

Unknown Soldier.

Lighted a candle,

nourished the fire.

Walking in the desert and

Step on a wire.

Trip in the sand, and…

Fell in love with a witch

and her magic wand.

Slowly she raised my hand.

Til’ the heaven stop the hell.

That’s what’s she told me.

Did she loved it?

I can’t tell.

I loved her two time,

One for tomorrow and one for

Today.

It’s all seem to far away,

like the Beatles and Yesterday.

Life is a bet,

to no one’s,

we owe debt.

Baby we gonna be alright,

because we learned how to forget.

As the sun we’ve been waiting for,

Set.

I need to go away,

We are just wanderer,

on planet Earth.

Just flesh, eyes, nervous systems and beating hearts.

Cancel our subscriptions to the

resurrection.

They’re is but one direction,

one thing we will all go through,

you know what I’m talking about.

I leave you, remember me, flamboyant,

no encore.

Followed her in the wood.

You want the world,

Now !

Scream, act bold,

scold because they scorched

our beautiful sister.

As the world go round and round,

we going numb and dumb.

Nobody want to fight in the front line,

for a wicked politician.

Good news !

The hitchhiker is dead !

Peoples flock the street,

but I feel dread.

This was me, the all time !

I had this thirst for love I could not quench

I’ve fallen down.

I can not stand.

Because this is the END.

Jaskiers