To want is weak, a worry spent too often in the inquiry for greatness. We strive for perfection too boldly, and for ignorance too meekly. We seek power and love and ecstasy in life, while accepting avarice and lust with no second thoughts. By knowing our flaws too well, we invite ourselves to admire those that discard them and ignore those that don't. Must we so easily abandon ourselves? Man sees desire as an unconquerable thing too often for it to become anything but a self-prophesying device of irony. He sees its defeat as inhuman, superb, triumphal to the point of revered heroism. He is noxious to his own freedom, allying will with an exis
Grey hairs stood short on the man's firmly worn skull, defying all downward pull in a desperate attempt to make a name for themselves. Only a few brownish and dirty blonde streaks lay guised beneath the silver coat, dormant in old age. His hairs brushed back, thrust so by the push of a lazy wind, easy and swift in the cool autumn night. A cane teetered in his hands, swaying with each forward step, wooden and light and fragile nonetheless. Fitting, one might say, for a brittle man to establish rapport with soft possessions that did naught in the least. Our hero wore pale khaki slacks and a thin black vest, resembling in form and figure a spent
Failure. It started with failure; it always starts with failure. So says a Chinese proverb, "One learns a thousand lessons from failure, and only one from success," and that lesson is one of naught but rapaciousness. So, is that not the same as being successful in the end? Thus begins the story of one lone man trapped in the unforgiving mountains of the Himalayas during the harshest of winters.
His name was Oxford. Only twenty-four years old, he had quite the journey to go before he was scheduled to have his door knocked at by a certain grim figure. Death, however, had other plans in mind. Oxford planned to spend a winter in the small town
"He's a chef," came a loud call from the next office over.
"Again? This guy is insane or something," Lewis paused. "Is there anything in his dossier that suggests a hate for gastronomes?"
A clean-shaven head popped through the door. "Maybe this guy didn't cook his steak to perfection."
"Frank, maybe you should get back to work," replied another voice, coming from a lean man in a suit. "Lewis, my man, you're as assiduous as ever. Remind me again what your track record is for this kind of stuff."
"Two unsolved cases, sir," he paused, "six hundred and twelve solved."
His boss gave a shrill whistle in awe.
Frank stuck his head throug
Dust scattered through the thick and musty air of the Ernest Public Library. A gnarled hand brushed over the ends of dozens of bestsellers as its owner gathered a frown. Inexorable in his leisurely approach, he gave the other leather-bound books a supercilious gaze. After moments of deliberate hesitation, Sherman carefully took hold of a gargantuan title by the name of The Silk Man. Worn pages fluttering beneath the twinkling shine of a dirt-specked streetlamp, the book found itself carefully inspected by a critic's stern eye. Our elderly cab driver licked his chapping lips twice in succession as his yellowing teeth ached in the agony of old
Piggy glanced down the defaced surface of his spectacles. Even through the thick screen of pattering rain before his eyes, he could recognize the faint outline of something shivering in the trees. There really were dreaded beasties on the island after all. Crouching nearly on all fours, the boy reached into his tattered rucksack to pull out a sheathed blowdart case. Taking care not to drop it in the mud, Piggy clasped it gently in one hand. Folding the case once more with great caution, he placed it neatly in his backpack. With one hand rested on the trunk of a swaying palmetto, he licked his lips clean and rubbed the dart on his shirt to cl
"This was a fairly aggressive murder. We have two victims, both dead on impact," the FBI officer hesitated before adding, "from decapitation." There was another pause before he added, "And I see blood. Lots of it, too. It looks an awful lot like the suspect just went at them with a knife blindly."
The radio in his hand gave a short, low-toned static buzz. A gruff, foreign-sounding voice responded from the receiver, "Any apparent motive? What does the case file comprise?"
"We've managed to narrow the list of suspects to just a few people. Our best lead is a man named," he struggled to pronounce the name, "Labib Kadar."
"Why him?"
"His
Ever since I was a wee lad, I've had a strange habit of muttering to myself. Nonsense ramblings flitter about my speech uncontrollably without even the slightest nerve to notify me of their presence. Whenever I forget for the slightest moment that they are there, those voices begin to yell, shout, curse, and do whatever is necessary to rob my daily life of value. A job? A wife? A mere domicile? Ha, I can only dream of such luxuries. At best, I may manage to crawl into some travesty of a ramshackle cottage. Alas, I have become the pitied old man at the corner of the street speaking in blasphemous tongues.
To be honest, I never gave much th
There is a murderer living in my neighborhood. He is a silent killer, a dark silhouette against a stark white frame of silver. He is free of restraints, free of bonds, free of laws. He has not been caught once by the police, despite their many vain attempts. Even some scientists have tried to assist in his capture, but he still remains a free man to this day.
I am waiting by my bus stop when I see his slim figure leaning against a wall, flicking a cigarette in the air. I decide to strike up some conversation, seeing as he is so notorious around these parts.
"Hey, uh " I trail off.
He turns his head to lock eyes with me. "Hey. Wanna kn