THE WRITINGS OF STEPHEN JOHN MORAN
  • A Writer's Diary
  • ELLA'S JOURNAL
  • THE MARKETPLACE
  • MORAN PRESS

#SerialPlaylist - Nirvana - Lithium

9/30/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
Post by Ella Thomas.
0 Comments

#SerialPlaylist - Radiohead - High and Dry (in #Vegas) 

9/28/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
Post by Ella Thomas.
0 Comments

#SerialPlaylist - Joan Jett - I Hate Myself for Loving You 

9/27/2014

0 Comments

 
How did I end up with this life? Why am I in Vegas alone with the offspring of a man that left me and didn't return? Something is going to change.
Picture
0 Comments

#SerialPlaylist - Nirvana - Negative Creep (for Mary) 

9/26/2014

0 Comments

 
After what's happened between us, I have to agree - Daddy's little girl ain't a girl no more...
Picture
0 Comments

Interview with a Killer - Part Three - #CherryBomb in #Vegas

9/24/2014

4 Comments

 
Picture
INTERVIEW WITH A KILLER
PART THREE
            I don't know what to say or do and that doesn't happen often. A rapist tied to the bed and the victim wishing for justice. How can I possibly deny Mary her right? What kind of hypocrite would I be if I told her anything other than to slice this man's throat? But, how can I allow her to become what I am? 

            "I want you to show me," she repeats, anger rising in her voice at my delay. I've been silent for a long time, unable to process the situation. 

            Looking at the man, I remove the cloth from his mouth and smile at his painful groans. Part of me hopes he'll contradict her version of events to buy me time. What if he admits the crime? 

           "What is your name?" I ask. My mind whirls while I wait for him to answer. I try to anticipate my next move, but my pulse beats heavy in my brain and I can't concentrate on anything except the thought of seeing his blood spill. 

            "Harry," he manages to respond. 

            My eyes turn to Mary and I can see her smiling, an odd calm falling over her features. I'm missing something here. 

            "I'm going to ask you a simple question. I want you to answer yes or no. Don't give me explanations or excuses. Do you understand me?" I ask.

            He nods and I see that fear again in his eyes. I know before I ask the question what his answer will be and it causes me to delay once more. The guilt oozes from his pores, but will he admit it? The men almost never do so there is a small hope he will maintain innocence. Before I ask, I take the knife from her hand. I realize my own hand is shaking and fear creeps up my leg. 

            "Did you rape this girl?" I ask. I made the question strong to give him room for a lie. Men love to claim the girl wanted it, that she initiated it. Everything other than the truth. I close my eyes and wait. I can't breathe and my head swims. 

            "Yes."

            I can't believe it. My pulse thumps louder and louder and I feel a scream building inside my veins and it's difficult to not give in to the rage and kill him. Opening my eyes, my hands moves and the knife touches his bare skin, sending a thin spray of blood into the air. 
            

            "An admission of guilt is a death sentence," I say, closing my eyes again. Taking several deep breaths to calm myself, I put the knife on the bed and meditate for a few moments, trying to find a solution to this problem. 

            "Do it," Mary says. 

            "No, I can't kill him and certainly not with this knife." I turn to her and take her face into my hands. "Don't do anything until I get back." 

            Running from the room, I retrace the path to my bedroom and retrieve my knife and return to the scene in less than two minutes. Mary sits with her legs crossed and I smile that she didn't kill him. Quite the self-control. More than I had at her age. Perhaps more than I have now. I hold the knife out to her and she takes it into her small hands. 

            "Why this knife?" she asks. 

            "You wanted me to show you. This is the knife I plunged into my father's neck."

            Understanding fills her eyes and without further delay she turns and places the knife against the man's throat. 

            "Goodbye," she says and drags the blade into his skin, bathing the bed in blood. I feel a tear running down my cheek as the man's life ebbs from him and I can't help feeling proud of her. A rapist gets justice. 

            Taking the knife from her and putting it on the nightstand, I envelop her in my arms. She begins to sob and I crush her against my chest, trying to take all the hate into me. 

             "He'll never touch a girl again," I say. I smile and suppress a laugh. What did I just do? I think I gave birth to a vampire and I am so happy right now it almost scares me. Almost. 
READ PART ONE
READ PART TWO
4 Comments

#SerialPlaylist - The Runaways - Cherry Bomb 

9/24/2014

0 Comments

 
I have to change the lyrics a little - GOODBYE Daddy, Hello World, I'm a CHERRY BOMB
Picture
0 Comments

Tea and - Horror Story Part 19: A PLAY DEMONIC [THE QUEEN’S IDLE FANCY] by @JustinBog

9/23/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
A Play Demonic (The Queen’s Idle Fancy) 
 
Part 19

by

Justin Bog


The doorbell rang at three. Prompt as ever, never fashionably late or irritatingly early, Mack and Ivy with their children stood on the front porch, father and son in formal suits, ties, chic dresses on both mother and daughter (not too revealing—almost churchgoing, Carole thought. Don’t they go to Christ The King every Sunday?). A woman with a dour expression, maybe a natural state, lips downturned, stood behind them. She was only a little bit taller than the two kids in her charge.

The rain had stopped earlier in the day, and a bit of sunshine was poking through the lessening cloud cover. A crisp chill was forecast for the next week, and that meant temperatures approaching freezing, maybe even a snowfall. The area received one giant winter storm each year, two if the residents were lucky.

“This is for you,” Mack said to Carole and Martin. He held out a wrapped rectangular box, the green paper dark like fir, a sparkling bronze ribbon tied around the gift. “Not from us. It was on your stoop when we arrived. We brought the wine!”

“And it’s getting awfully heavy,” Ivy said. She carried a brown bag in both arms.

“Worth the sacrifice, Honey. Two bottles of the best Pinot Noir, and two of the Chardonnay Ivy can’t seem to live without.”

“Come in, come in,” Carole said, brightening her expression after being nudged in the back by Martin. She took the gift box and noticed a small card attached, the size of a florist’s greeting, in an envelope. “How mysterious!”

She gave Ivy an air kiss.

“Kids?” Mack said with theatrical sternness.

“Hello and Happy Thanksgiving Mr. and Mrs. Belloon!” Both Chelsea and Parker chanted this at the same time, sing-song, and smiled at Martin and Carole.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you both. My that’s a pretty dress, Chelsea,” Martin said.

“And you look quite handsome, Parker,” Carole added. “Our home is your home.”

“Don’t give them that much leeway,” Mack said. “Most of the time they’ll be into something mischievous before you know it. Kids. Remember what we talked about?”

“Be good.”

“Be thankful.” Both kids raced into the house, gravitating to the room where the television was on playing the football game. The sound of football changed to laughter and then canned, tinny, cartoon shrieking echoed forth.

“I told them they could finish watching the parade. Sorry,” Ivy said. She certainly didn’t sound apologetic. She didn’t make eye contact with her hosts. “Theresa, would you please keep an eye on them and warn both that the adults may be in shortly to watch the football game. No talking back either.”

“Yes, Mrs. Ivy. Happy Thanksgiving and thank you for including me. It smells wonderful in your home.”

“You’re very welcome,” Carole said. “I only hope it’s as delicious. Let me take your coats.”

With the box almost forgotten in her hands, Carole gathered the coats and Ivy’s purse and took them to the guest bedroom off the living room where she deposited everything on the bed. The box felt light. A box of feathers, Carole thought. More bird imagery flew into her head. She took the card out of the envelope and read the printed words. The script was fine, distinctive, beautifully wrought cursive.

Open after grace when all penitents participate—the thankful will be chosen—a gift given!

READ THE REST AT JUSTIN'S SITE
0 Comments

#SerialPlaylist - Nirvana - Where Did You Sleep Last Night (Unplugged) - Restless in #Vegas

9/23/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
0 Comments

#SerialPlaylist - Beyoncé - Run the World (Girls) #Equality in #Vegas

9/22/2014

0 Comments

 
Women have suffered male rule for too long. And take a good look at the world. The places where men have COMPLETE control are COMPLETE shit holes. The more women are involved in a society, the better it gets. When men had complete control, we have a name for that period of history - THE DARK AGES. 
Picture
Post by Ella Thomas.
0 Comments

#SerialPlaylist - Fiona Apple - Criminal - for you Ray - #Vegas 

9/20/2014

0 Comments

 
Can you forgive me, Ray for all the men I've seduced? For all the men...
Picture
Post by Ella Thomas.
0 Comments
<<Previous
    ELLA'S JOURNAL
    Picture
    Picture

    Archives

    November 2018
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014

Powered by Create your own unique website with customizable templates.