March 10, 2013

SNITCH is a collection of short stories. "The Proxy"is story number two in the collection.
The following is an excerpt and a teaching tool for character development. In many stories, the main character has a mind set and opinion of who and what all supporting characters represent. He especially knows his antagonist. Check out our main character's opinion about the other characters in his circle of life.
*Feed back is appreciated.

Max Nightjar
Copyright 2008,  Max Nightjar
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted in any form, or distributed and stored in a database or retrieval system ,without prior written permission by the Publisher.


is the adult Imprint of KidSmart Book Publishing, GACM, Inc…
ISBN 978-0-9851194-0-9

To Antoine, a great brother and friend - my whole life, and all my colorful childhood friends from St Clair Village.


     The wind-chill factor was strong enough to penetrate Nimshi Tate’s beige parka and lift him off the ground a few inches. It tore at the seams like a vicious level five tornado with teeth, but young Nimshi Tate was determined to reach the grave site of his mentor, former master, and friend, Sonny Saturday, even if it meant relinquishing his knee caps. It was Sonny, who taught him everything he knew, and he knew a lot, considering his age, but nothing could help him now. He was a mortal, an AI and about to die. At sixteen and in a great deal of distress, he is sure of it. He even knows when he might die - any minute now and counting. 
     He whispered, deliriously, incoherent, jumbled words into the ground. The words were not audible but gurgled from his throat as he struggled to gain inches on his hands and knees. “It is tragic, too,” he tells himself. Over kill, over a young woman he hadn’t even touched, yet. Adria, and his careless, demeaning words, spoken in hasty truth, put him on his knees. They were meaningless words spoken in the heat of the moment. “That’s all they were,” he whispered, to the cold, uncaring wind. But, such carelessness should not have mattered to a man like Linwood “Rusty” Sloan, thought Nimshi. Especially, biting words coming from ‘a mere, jealous boy,’ as he often called him.
   ‘What, prey tell, do you see in that boy?' he asked Adria, on too many occasions; when she was not in the mood to answer. If Nimshi’s words hadn't struck home before, now he was paying for his quick, nippy, tongue. As far as Nimshi was concerned, Rusty had everything a man with money could buy, and he could have found four Adrias to stroke his ego.
     Besides, Adria Perigee wasn’t putting out anyways - for any man. She told him that over and over. She’d promised to save herself for her wedding night. Nimshi was willing to wait. He’d laughed about it and said so jokingly, “Hey, heavy petting works for me.” Then he chuckled to himself. “It’s like a sample of what comes next.” But, Adria didn’t laugh back, and she looked offended. So he walked away much to fast and stayed away much too long.
     Rusty was the real winner, but he had to have it all his way. She had said yes to him, and they were engaged. Well, that is, until Nimshi found out and put his two cents worth in. Then, as they say, their plans went up in smoke. “He’s too old for you! What were you thinking? A gangster! So you want to spend the rest of your life with a gangster?” he bellowed. What surprised Nimshi was that Adria didn’t realize how he felt. She thought he was just joking around. He wished he’d talked to Doc Perigee, sooner, about his darn sense of humor, and how no one ever took him seriously - most of the time. What he figured he needed was an upgrade on his personality profile, and a refresher course on effective communication and “small talk“.
     Adria my sweet headstrong Adria would not have me around to protect her anymore. Nimshi laughed to himself and felt, utterly, frightened by the thought. “My god," he finally said. "What am I saying? I…can’t even protect myself." His wounds looked massive, fatal, vicious and were intentionally inflicted. They are so severe, and deeply imbedded in flesh and bone, he has to crawl. The mustard has gone out of him, and his brain won‘t let him stand up. Speaking of his brain, it has a hole in it. The wounds are basically death blows. They are neck and head wounds meant to take a person away, and Nimshi barely manages to slow down the bleeding process thru, meditation. “Chakra! OM!” barely comes out. He knows how to meditate well, and by holding his breath for five minutes or longer - like one of those Hindu priests - he can stay the hemorrhaging a few minutes longer. Otherwise, lights out, last breath call, and termination of a living soul would have happened an hour ago - 20 feet back from where he’d crawled to now.
     “Sonny did that for me, he told himself, panting along. He taught me how not to breathe, how to meditate, and survive. They said Yoga was for sissies, but Sonny practiced Yoga. He taught me to eat less, stay lean and follow the plan. Sonny cheated death a lot. He even knew how to stay the wind, if he put his mind to it. Just thinking about life and what he’d miss fatigued him, but he had to speak to stay conscious and move on. “Sonny taught me and Sammy a lot, and we’d, both, testify to that in a court of law. If Sammy was honest, but Sammy isn’t honest any more.” Nimshi mumbled on until his voice abandoned him, and his left ear drum exploded. Unable to hear his own fragile voice, he doesn‘t realize that his eardrum just ruptured.
     Nimshi thinks about “Sammy the betrayer", then pushes the, weighty, thoughts of him out and away. Honesty escapes Sammy now, and Nimshi would like to spit, but there’s nothing left inside. When Nimshi reaches up to wipe his blood streaked face, it seems to take thirty minutes for his hand to reach his face, but it is time wasted. The blood streaking down his face is a solid, frozen, immovable, mass. It won’t budge. Even the blood oozing from his eyes freezes around his nose as it exits his tear ducts. Blindly, he claws his way to Sonny’s grave, in Bernard Cemetery, with no help from the red Perigee Moon that is triple it’s size tonight and only giving off a semblance of it’s magnificent, red light. If he could have, he would have thumbed his nose at it, but he can’t raise his head high enough to even see it. The ground is red, and that’s how he knows it’s there.
     He wonders how high the ocean waves are on a misty morning in Makena, Hawaii. The last time he visited, there was a Perigee Moon that sent the waves ten stories high. They were awesome waves for any surfer guy and at least fifty feet. He boasted he'd rode every one of them. Nimshi sweeps the thought away and concentrates on moving his raw, knees to his destination. “Too many good memories just prolongs death,” he reminds himself. “I’ll never ride those waves again.” 
     He envisions the infamous, early morning, green light at the Fountainhead, when the sun rises to pierce the earths crest - then sweeps that from his mind, as well. As Nimshi struggles to meditate, he can actually feel the hemorrhages start up again. Feeling himself bleed, he pauses to hold his breath tighter and deeper in his lungs. Knowing he must take back control of his body from the external elements that assault him, with sheer will, he is able to constrict his blood vessels. "Just a little further." He counts each minute in his mind. In a faint whisper he counts, “One thousand-one… one thousand- two, one thousand-three,” as he concentrates and repeatedly holds his breath.
     The weakness in his legs astounds him, but he drags his thin frame along over rocks, stones, and God only knows what else. He raises his swollen, heavy, head just enough to see his location - always in search of his marker. It’s a big, gray stone, with white paint specks on it that glow in the dark. He put them there two years ago. He is close now, because, he surmises, he sees a dim reflection of white dots, he thinks, shadowed by the red Perigee Moon, in the distance. Maybe it’s ten… maybe fifteen knee caps away. As he looks, keenly ahead, he realizes the lavender and sandalwood wreath is missing from the door. Nimshi assumes it was the wind gusts that dislodged it and pummeled it away. But he can’t be sure, because now the hemorrhages in his eyes cloud all vision. He concentrates and tries to muster up his own brand of telepathy and kinesis in the darkness.
     “One-thousand four…one-thousand five.” The ground feels familiar under his hands now, and the terrain changes from dirt, sticks, and rocks to a stiff cold grass in hibernation, that cuts into his palms and fragile knee caps. There are cuts and bruises on every part of his body, but none are as bad as the hole in the occipital region, on the backside of his head. It, literally, feels like daggers when the wind thrusts it’s cold fingers in, and it oozes a bloody-yellow substance with blue neon specs of mucous that looks like, anti freeze. Nimshi feels the wind penetrate the wounds hole every time it picks up. He stiffens at the ferocity of it‘s icicle touch.
     Now he sees the wall of rock, but barely, and the secret sepulcher covered with freeze dried moss. He thinks he can make it, and struggles on, collapsing, face down, at the door of the tomb. Satisfied and reconciled that he will die here, Nimshi touches the head-stoned door and moans from exhaustion and generalized pain. “Sonny, I made it buddy.” The name barely parts his lips, but comforts him, somehow, as mist filled breaths of meekly, exhaled body heat pass from his nostrils and mix with cold, blistering winds. “Sonny… help… me, man. This is… much…too long.” A gurgling sound echoes in his throat, his eyelids feel heavy, and a death rattle from deep down in his lungs summons. The elements take over and engulf him...

To be continued...

Book Reviewer Disclaimer: receives books free or in a downloaded PDF format-for the express purpose of providing a book review at no charge. The opinions expressed in book reviews are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the (FTC) Federal Trade Commission, 16 CFR, part 255. WriteStuff - WriteNow Antoinette "Toni" McKain. All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2010-2013. TATTLE TELLS is an Imprint of KS Book Publishing, 2012.  GACM Inc.