[Excluding the right to present the material on this web site, copyright remains with the authors.  Leslie Benson also contributed the photos.]

Leslie Benson:

"Midwestern Woman"

"Max"

"William"

"One Breath"

"The Right Words II"

"Goldfish in an Ocean"

"The Angle: Sunday Night"

"Armor of a Sullen Girl"

"Pop Culture"

"Lipstick and Bruises"

Jacob Max Winkler:

"Adali"

"In the Company of Owls"

"Song of Creation"

"For You"

Leslie Benson

"Midwestern Woman"

She’s a pack of Marlboro lights, dirty laundry scattered about,

a rusty blue Toyota, skid marks in the mud-caked front yard

She’s a sports bar on the corner, clearing tables and counting cash,

a black eye from an ex-boyfriend after saving her daughter from a slap in the

face

She’s broken beer bottles, Jack Daniels in the belly,

a wooden bar stool brushed by

the faded leather of a biker with a five o’clock shadow

She’s a gravel path, dead grass pushed down by the soles of a thousand feet,

squirrels, pigeons, spiders, mosquitoes

She’s the wind rustling leaves, crickets, quacking, chirping,

wet fur and pine

She’s a scrape against the bark of a tree, wiping muddy shoes against wet

blades of grass, the low tide, dipping fingers into cool water

Leslie Benson

"Max"

Ferrets

DO NOT

belong in dishwashers

or ovens

or bathtubs

or underwear drawers

or laundry baskets

or the interior of beds and couches

but you don’t know Max

he’s a rule breaker

Ferrets

DO NOT

normally dance

or snarl

or cuddle

or eat Honey-Nut Cheerios

or play peek-a-boo

or hide-and-seek

but you don’t know Max

he’s a rule breaker

Ferrets

DO NOT

usually chew straws

or squeak when excited

or crawl up pant legs

or nibble toe socks

or follow your feet as you walk

or chase terriers around living rooms

or sleep in piles of dirty laundry

but you don’t know Max

he’s a rule breaker

Leslie Benson

20 journals kept in a suitcase

ink forever etched

edge to edge

every trembling kiss

worth remembering

penned down

one way

Dayton to San Antone

just to hear your voice

warm, husky twang

we talk small talk

avoiding what should really be said

ain’t it funny

you send me letters

a cassette recording

of you strumming the guitar

I find myself in your songs and then

lose myself

again

this is not at all what I wanted

I miss you

story of my life

drove down the road

at 70 miles an hour

all this way just to hold you

stay up together in Memphis

for 3 nights and 2 days

we melt

you give me a rush

love like a bullet

we remain

tender together, and

I fade into you

Dreamer, take

the back seat.

Leslie Benson

"One Breath"

Only a breath between us

slow and steady

you lean into my bubble

whisper and point at the stage

I inhale you deeply

ladders of smoke rising around us

like steam from a train engine

your words sifting in and out

untraceable, just one long breath

hot on my neck

You’re discussing Kierkegaard and poetry as I,

aching for tenderness,

contemplate your kiss

or what it would be like to wake

beside you untouched, unscathed

forgetful about passion

unaware of desperation

The one you sought years before,

when you needed me the most,

beside you now

never knew would love you

without ever really knowing you

Leslie Benson

"The Right Words II"

Little sinner

you kidnapped me and brought me here

to your own grassy knoll.

Shoved me down pinned against moist grass —

frayed leather laced boots, slick black hair,

uneven Elvis sideburns, squinty eyes, stubble chin —

nibbled on my earlobe and demanded a toll.

Little devil

thought I seemed too shy.

Nipples erect, alert and tender,

you slapped my clammy cheeks and kissed my soft lips,

but I bit your tongue bloody and pushed you off

like prying the suction cupped top

off mom’s Tupperware bowl.

I ran from the chase

beneath dappled ivory moon —

taunting and casting a haunting glow —

path looming, out of breath.

Thunder cracked navy night

showering rain onto bone.

Onto mud-caked ground I slipped, stumbled

bruised, fucked up and

dead glamorous.

Little angel

addicted to mystery,

punk-rock, B-movie monsters,

Hollywood starlets, band groupies,

Band-Aids & loose women —

scenesters doped up and

hopped up on pills, booze and

Harleys.

You picked me up

like a rag-doll fantasy.

You wanted everything, wanted everyone

carried me limp, frail & aching across a field —

fireflies blinking like yellow stoplights —

moths as big as birds,

wings shedding baby powder glitter.

That night you awoke blurry-eyed

from behind tangerine lampshades,

carried my body through the ethereal haze of midnight

over the horizon to the knoll on the other side

bent down and laid on top of me.

You asked for too much.

I demanded too little.

From behind glassy eyes I grabbed a hold of you

so tight my fingernails pierced your fleshy waist.

You hoisted me onto you and kissed my clammy lips,

dried blood in your mouth.

One last moment of passion

before you drowned your Camaro in gasoline,

strapped me inside,

rolled up the windows,

locked the doors,

smiled your canine grin

with hands upon the steering wheel,

and as you turned the key in the ignition,

I closed my eyes

and wept.

I’m so sick of goodbyes.

Leslie Benson

Creamy backwash fuzz like toothpaste

crashing white,

waves against sun-bleached shore

receding back,

pouring forth,

receding,

pouring forth again,

seeping into subtle grains of warmth.

Sandals torn at corners,

rubber worn beneath the soles,

his hand pressed

into her hip,

clasped over tender arm,

clever tongue flicking ear —

like goldfish slipping into

plastic castle gates,

glittery,

unfocused like a funhouse

mirror from behind cool glass.

Fleshy nibbling.

Flashy smile.

Goldfish in an ocean of fuzz.

Leslie Benson

The Angle: Sunday Night

Dawn rising – and the sputtering,

back-fire exhaust flames

of a bat-out-of-hell Crotch Rocket

pinched between the thighs of an

all-American greaser

once known for her

full-throttle body massages

as a second-hand stripper.

Black leather chaps against

growling, hungry metal

tearing across back country roads,

shielding torn, thrift-store jeans.

Faded KISS t-shirt

slapped by the wind.

No holds barred rock-n-roll cowgirl;

single mother of three.

Virginal idol born into whoredom,

you empty lush – lift me up in your glass.

Leslie Benson

"Armor of a Sullen Girl"

With Devon devilish Shirley Temple curls loyal old friend you pierced me with LeAnn hair-trigger temper single mother you pierced me with Mary tattooed waitress married swinger you pierced me the daughter the son you hid the girl who refused you were her father with all three you pierced me and I bled when I begged you on my knees wet from wounds stinging scars thin as strands of hair red scratches wrinkled dark shadows under closed eyes begged all you could do was pierce me awake mistaking your lust your fury indifference for love and nothing no one never again can betray me as I have – as you have let me let you cut me.

Leslie Benson

"Pop Culture"

Drunk drugged nauseous stomach cramped knots like fists punching pounding into fleshy middle convulsing in waves head pulsing like neon strip club sign flashing on off on off shaggy hair like drapes not Venetian blinds mod Brit pop children of Lennon swarming the bar like some kind of Thrill Kill Cult in red cowboy shirts embroidered with Howdy Doody designs like that platinum blonde Toy Story kid come to life at the Nashville Pussy concert red bandana ‘round neck roaming the midnight streets loudly professing thoughts jumping off fire escapes Ginsberg Cassady Kerouac Burroughs pouring forth ideas from rooftops scouring the city like werewolves out of mind slipping to ash

Leslie Benson

Not a night passed by when she didn’t desire someone with whom she could share her bed. A warm body to embrace after awaking at 3 a.m. with the same familiar, burning hunger.

She had picked him up at the club. Area 51 – a crowded inferno of young, good-looking men in vinyl pants and fishnet shirts; women in backless dresses writhing snakelike to the beat of the DJ’s techno tracks. Bodies twisting, entwined together in a voluptuous clothed orgy.

Another night, another man. She chose each one specially; indulging herself in her ability to have anyone she wanted. Their beauty and childlike vulnerability fascinated her. They were all her cattle–ready for slaughter. She reveled in it, and at the same time, she mourned their fate.

Running arm in arm along the edge of the cobbled street lining the Oregon District in downtown Dayton, Olivia helped him balance. She giggled as Jason stumbled up the steps to the abandoned Presbyterian church, the St. Clair lofts – her home. Once inside the musty sanctuary, he leaned on the wooden hand railing as she led him up the stairway to her bedroom where organ pipes reached the spire of the tall ceiling, surrounded by four walls of stained glass arches. She gently shoved him on her king-sized brass bed in the center of the large room just below a circular pastel painting of cherubs floating in a cloudy heaven. He grabbed her shoulder, pulling her on top of him. Wet, drunken kisses; clothing stripped and thrown to the floor. Embracing on the red silk bed sheets, they playfully pushed her faux velvet pillows aside and made love.

**********

Daylight. Time had escaped her. The sunlight snuck through cracks in the windows surrounding her bedroom and caused her eyes to flinch. He lay asleep beside her beneath a thick comforter, black boxers resting against the cross, which was tattooed on his hip. She pulled the covers back to glance at him. The nape of his neck tender and slick with the touch of her eager tongue. His thick black hair, his stubbly chin in need of a shave and the faded scent of Aspen cologne on his bare shoulders. She bit down. He stirred and opened his eyes.

"What are you doin’?" The heroin in his system sat in anticipation. He pushed her aside, stretched his arms, and yawned.

"Shhh." As he stood up to gather his clothing, Olivia leapt up and knocked him down. His body hit the ground hard, and she jumped on top of him.

"Mmmn. Tough girl. We goin’ for another round?" He grinned. She drew back her right hand and forcefully slapped him.

"Shut up!" Straddling him, she grabbed his neck with her left hand and held him in a stranglehold as his eyes bulged and he tried prying her off. Her sharp nails dug deeper into his skin. He choked, gasping in shallow breaths for air. "Hold still!" She sunk her teeth into his neck, drawing warm blood and drank from him as if she was leaching a snake wound. Wriggling on the floor, he loosened her grip enough to grab the switchblade knife from his pants pocket in the pile of clothes beside the bed. He drew the blade and swung it down, slashing Olivia across the neck just above her collarbone. She screamed and released her grasp. The blade dropped to the floor. Throwing her hands over his wrists, he soon stopped resisting as she drank. He grew still. Silence.

Dragging his body and clothing to the far end of the loft, Olivia continued down the stairway overlooking the sanctuary. The weight of the corpse caused the head to thump against each step. It was enough to cause him a concussion if he weren’t already dead. She pushed open the cellar door, lifting his legs, and dragged him down the dimly lit, narrow steps. Once inside, she pulled the body through the room, his limp arms brushing against cardboard boxes full of books she never cared to unpack and religious relics stored from years past. The back of his hair, like a damp mop, absorbed dust and rat droppings from the clammy cement floor.

Olivia heaved the bloody body into a corner, flattening the tight wisps of a spider’s web. Grabbing a white tarp covering a couch nearby, she threw it over the corpse. She returned upstairs and entered the bathroom beside the sanctuary on the first floor. Carefully washing the blood from her hands, she grabbed a roll of paper towels beside the porcelain sink and wiped up the dark red trail the man’s body had made before flushing it down the toilet. After locking the cellar door, she returned to her bedroom and slipped his wallet and switchblade knife into her top dresser drawer beside the wedding ring of a previous victim. Her collection was growing.

**********

Pulling on her furry mohair coat, Olivia slipped on a pair of black, Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, high heels and grabbed the briefcase sitting beside the front door. She slid into her white Cadillac, which was parked in front of the church, and drove to the offices of The Scene, an alternative newspaper, at the opposite end of town. Owning the newspaper allowed her to hide from the mainstream while maintaining a certain power over the public’s knowledge of information. She stayed close enough to the limelight to know about events just before they occurred but not close enough to enable the city’s puppet masters to feel threatened by her presence.

She worked upstairs in an empty office building on the corner of the Santa Clara Arts District, the once-flourishing center of culture for the city, now a desolate, run-down neighborhood fit for its whores and drug-dealers, those who didn’t even wait until dark to begin working their trade. Police scarcely patrolled the area. They hoped the scum would take each other out and save them the job. It was the perfect feeding ground for Olivia and those like her. No one asked questions after finding another dead hooker or an addict in a back alley. Must have been their own fault – another statistic, another sad story. As much as she tolerated taking the lives of the forgotten few in the Santa Clara, their blood ran thin and tasted bitter, a result of malnutrition and disease. She had higher expectations and often desired richer blood – that of the young, hormone-driven men that frequented downtown clubs, those who went dancing every Friday night or sought solitude in the shadows of a smoke-filled bar alive with the music of the band on stage. She desired these men, all of them passionate and full of dreams. Their stories enflamed her hunger.

Olivia grinned, gritting her teeth as she pulled into the parking lot behind The Scene. Grabbing the briefcase off the passenger’s seat, she locked the car and caught the image of a Hispanic man with a thick, bushy mustache in tight blue jeans glaring back at her from the rear-view mirror. She swung around and stared him straight in the eye.

"You wanna little pick-me-up, lady? I got watchu need. Right here." He pointed to the pocket of his dingy, mud-caked jean jacket. "Ten bucks."

She tipped down the nose of her sunglasses and peered at him from across the lenses, her face pale and stoic. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Alright, I get it. Not today." He fidgeted with his mustache, rubbing the coarse hairs between his stubbly fingers. "Crazy bitch," he said beneath his breath as he turned away and crossed the rubble street.

Walking up the weathered steel steps of the newspaper’s back entrance, Olivia unlocked the deadbolt and closed the door behind her. She entered her office at the other end of the hallway. The large room held filing cabinets, a smooth mahogany desk fit for board meetings, and a computer sitting on a console beneath a window with Venetian blinds that always stayed drawn. Slipping off her sunglasses, she placed them beside the keyboard.

Staring blankly at the computer screen, she jerked her ears back at the sound of the door at the end of the hallway unlatching. It opened, and heavy footsteps followed. Antonio. She pushed out her gray cushioned chair and stood up as Tony’s icy hand brushed across her neck and down her slender shoulder, pushing her into her seat. She reached up to touch him as he leaned forward and slowly whispered into her ear.

"‘Livvv." She turned around and stood up quickly.

"What are you doing here?" Her eyes coolly scanned his trim body, admiring his black suit and short blonde hair. His five-o’clock shadow suggested he’d probably been up late again assisting Mayor Turner with his latest project.

"You look nice." He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"So do you." She lifted her hand to touch the spot where his lips had just touched her.

"I’ve called a meeting. I wanted everyone to hear this." Tony glanced at his slick leather shoes, folding his hands at his waist, and then looked back up at her. The door at the end of the hallway opened again, and the scuffle of footsteps neared her office.

"Hear what?"

He fumbled with the silver ring on his left middle finger, rubbing the smooth garnet oval.

"I’ve decided to ...."

"Gwen!" Olivia gently pushed Tony aside as she embraced the elderly woman behind him smoking a Virginia Slims in the doorway, its green paint-chipped frame a reminder of a careless remodeling job. The wrinkles on Gwen’s round face curled upwards as she patted Olivia on the back with her free hand, taking another hit off the cigarette in the other.

"Hi honey." Gwen dropped it to the hardwood floor, twisting her pointy heels to extinguish the butt. "And how are you?" She reached her hand out to Tony, who gently bowed down to kiss it.

"How’s your club?," Tony asked.

"El Diablo? It’s alright," she replied. Her stale breath reeked of scotch.

"Have a seat." Olivia motioned to Gwen, pointing at the mahogany table. The woman tossed back her shoulder-length gray curls and sat beside the head of the table, where Tony had already pulled up a chair.

In walked James, a burly African American bodyguard in army fatigues and a black vest. He nodded to the rest as he pulled out the other chair beside Tony and thrust his body into the seat. James sat with his back straight and his right hand on the revolver sticking out of the back of his pants. Never could be too careful. Olivia sat down at the other end of the table, staring at the oil painting on the wall – the restless Atlantic Ocean at midnight, waves crashing white foam into each other.

The last to enter were Jonathan, a computer engineer wearing thick glasses, and Daven, a guitarist with straight black hair past his shoulders and a brown suede trenchcoat – his steel-toe boots tracking in dirt and decaying leaves. Daven slouched into the back of his seat, eyeing Olivia with her elbows on the tabletop, holding up her head.

"Thank you for coming." Tony’s low voice rumbled. Everyone turned to look at him and lightly nodded their heads. "I’ve called this meeting to make an important announcement."

Jonathan tapped his fingers on the table. Tony once again fumbled with the silver ring on his left hand and stood up. He pulled it off and held it in the air.

"I no longer care to be your prince." He turned to Gwen and handed her the ring. "I’ll no longer be needing this." Everyone grew silent.

Gwen arched her thin eyebrows and wearily grasped for the ring. "Why? What’s the meaning of this?" She carefully slipped the ring, the symbol of his power, into the pocket of her navy slacks.

"Look around you." Tony met eyes with each of them. They gazed back with disbelief, some sighing and shaking their heads. "Our city is dwindling. We don’t even have half as many Kindred as some farm towns."

Jonathan fidgeted with the sleeve of his faded Ramones t-shirt. "But that’s because most of us live in bigger cities. I even thought about getting out of here and moving to New Orleans. Better feeding ground." He chuckled.

"That’s true. And that’s why we don’t need a prince," Tony replied. "There are too few of us here to uphold our laws. And we could never defend ourselves."

"I would defend you." James growled, placing his gun on the table.

"Yes, but we could never kill all of them. Once the humans know we exist, they’ll hunt us in groups. You know that. If we scatter, they could never find us all," Tony sat back down and placed his hand on Gwen’s shoulder. "Gwen, you are our elder. You were wise enough to appoint me prince twenty years ago when Dayton held more than one hundred Kindred. But so many of us already left the city to settle somewhere else. You don’t need me anymore. We’re following needless tradition."

"My child, many of us have moved on, but that doesn’t mean we should ignore Kindred law." Gwen pulled another cigarette out of her pocket and lit it.

"I agree with Tony." Daven sat up in his chair and crossed his arms on the table. "We won’t ignore it. We’ll just forget the council and live on our own, like we’ve been doing for the past few years."

"I don’t know. I’ve been around long enough to know that disorder causes chaos. If we don’t have a prince to reinforce the law, eventually we’ll break down. We have to stick together." Gwen turned to Olivia. "What do you think?"

Olivia crossed her legs and set her hands in her lap. "We still need to stick together, but time’s have changed, Gwen. We’re not as strong as we used to be. The only way we can survive is to blend in."

"Exactly," Daven said.

"Is everyone unanimous then?" Tony glanced around the room once more, and most everyone nodded. "Gwen, are you with us?" His gaze met hers, and he smiled as she spoke.

"I suppose." She felt for the ring in her pocket. "But if we ever need another prince, you can have this back." She pulled it out, placed it on the table, and then slipped it back in her pocket.

"Alright, then it’s settled. I’ll see you guys later," Jonathan said.

"Make sure to tell the others," Tony shouted to him as he left the office, followed by James and Daven.

"You sure you’re alright with this?" Tony nudged Gwen. She stood up and headed for the door.

"I think it’ll be alright." She took another drag off the cigarette.

As the room emptied, Olivia returned to her computer and sat down in the cushioned chair. Tony stood behind her and placed his hand on her head, stroking her soft chestnut hair. "What are you doing tonight, ‘Liv?"

She turned her head. "Hmm? Oh, I have an interview tonight."

"With whom?"

She shook her head and shrugged. "Nobody special. Just the guys from Lipstick and Bruises. It’s for an article I’m writing."

Tony lifted his hand from her head and crossed his arms. "I want you to be careful."

"Why?"

"I don’t like it when you go after the ones other people know. You’re too sloppy." He lowered his bushy eyebrows and stared deeply into her eyes. "Just stick to the ones nobody’ll miss."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

He unfolded his arms, forcefully swung her chair around, and pointed directly in her face. "You know exactly what I mean." His icy palm brushed against the long, thin scar across the lower half of her neck. "They almost found him last time."

"What are you talking about?"

"The drummer you killed."

Silence. They both knew she drank his blood no more than six months earlier. He had tasted bittersweet, like the twang of dark chocolate. The drugs had altered him, but they had not caused his final death.

"I don’t want anyone asking questions. Understand?" Tony leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Don’t test me on this."

She obediently nodded and brushed her hand against the back of his suit as he left the office. After sunset, Olivia left the office and drove to her apartment. Parking the Cadillac in front of the church, she ran up the steps to unlock the front doors. The wind wisped her hair over her shoulders, sweeping up the dry, autumn leaves on the doorstep. She slowly pushed open the heavy iron doors, engraved with the bodies of angels, and walked past the sanctuary – its wooden pews dusty from neglect; its cowering altar covered with white canvas tarp below giant, majestic organ pipes. The subtle aroma of aged wood and burnt incense hung in the air. Olivia scurried up the stairs to her bedroom and pulled out a slick, short red dress from the antique dresser against the right-hand wall. She changed and slipped on a pair of strappy heels. She picked up a round comb and brushed her hair in front of the mirror. Perfect. Someone would notice her tonight. After spritzing on her favorite foreign perfume, a sugary pink fragrance from an opaque bottle shaped like a woman’s torso, she took a pad of paper and a pen from her briefcase and left the church.

She drove through downtown Dayton, past Wiley’s Comedy Club, an adult bookstore, the All-American Pawn Shop, and Lee’s Oriental Restaurant to the corner of East Second Street. Pulling into the nearly full parking lot in back of a white building with the red letters "El Diablo Lounge" painted on the side, she parked her car and stepped outside with notes in hand.

The club’s front patio entrance, a gold-barred double door surrounded by French café-style tables and stools, was locked. She walked through the side entrance instead, slipping through a crowd of giggling, busty girls with Betty Page hairdos in animal print blouses and mini skirts. She pushed through the line and neared the doorman. The sound of a guitar being tuned onstage grew louder as she neared the doorway.

"Can I see your I.D.?" The doorman asked as she unfolded a five-dollar bill from her palm.

"Daven. Hey, I didn’t know you worked here." Olivia smiled at her friend.

"I don’t. Gwen asked me to fill in tonight."

"Oh."

"So, how are you doin’? You here to review the band? Nevermind. No charge." He reached for her hand and wrapped the club’s glow-in-the-dark I.D. bracelet around her slim wrist.

"Is Gwen around?"

"Uh, yeah. She’s upstairs talking to someone. I wouldn’t go up there right now, though," he replied.

"Oh. Well, hey – I’ll see you later."

"Have fun."

Olivia entered the first floor of the club – the "Red Room" – passing through a beaded curtain beside a carved Tikki God fountain to her left. The front room was adorned with red Japanese paper lanterns, two circular Zebra-print couches, and velvet-covered poles beside drink tables. Gwen held swing dance lessons every Wednesday evening at the club and showcased live bands on the weekends.

Lipstick and Bruises warmed up on stage, four young musicians true to their Guns ‘N Roses and New York Dolls influences. With long, shaggy hair, tight pants and heeled boots, the wall-sized mirror beside the stage reflected their images as they prepared to perform. Olivia eyed the tattooed guitarist, a man in his late twenties wearing a Social Distortion t-shirt, dark blue Dickies work jeans folded up at the ankles, and a grease rag in his back pocket opposite a jingly chain wallet. The lanky singer wore torn jeans and a Harley Davidson t-shirt. He fondled the scarf tied to his microphone stand as he leaned forward to kiss his girlfriend. The drummer grinned at the guitarist as he beat his Tom Toms. After a quick sound check, the soundman hopped on stage and grabbed the microphone.

"Alright, thanks for coming out. I’d like to introduce some friends of mine – here for their very first show with their new drummer, Ricky Ratt, I give you – Lipstick and Bruises!" The crowded room of punks, rockabilly chicks, and hipsters whistled and hollered as the drums and distorted guitars blared in a thrashing explosion of sound. Olivia grabbed an empty chair beside the mirrored wall. A crowd of fans stood with beer glasses in their hands near the stage, and an overweight bald man with his nose pierced leaned toward the singer, attempting to belt into the microphone. Olivia took notes as people pushed past her toward the front of the stage. The band was more now than she had expected.

At around midnight, they took a short break between sets. The singer and bassist disappeared into the restroom, a door beneath a black and white framed photograph of Frank Sinatra. Olivia stood up and followed the drummer and guitarist to the bar. They plopped down on two short swivel stools and ordered drinks.

"Hi – Aaron, right? Remember me?" Olivia walked up to the musicians and held out her hand. They turned around, and the guitarist smiled.

"Yeah, hi. You’re the chick from the newspaper, right?" He took a sip of his rum and coke and shook her hand.

"Olivia Banks. From The Scene."

"I haven’t seen you since our last show. How’ve you been?"

"Good."

"Have a seat." He pulled up the empty stool beside him.

Olivia sat down. "I was wondering if I could talk to you guys after the show. I’d like to write a profile about your new drummer."

"Cool. Yeah, that sounds good. Hey, uh, this is Ricky. He used to play for The Addicts."

Ricky leaned towards Olivia. "Hi."

"Nice to meet you." He held out his hand, and she shook it limply. The soundman flashed the houselights on and off.

"Damn, I think our break’s up. Hey, we’ll talk to you later, alright?" Aaron stood up, gulped down the rest of his drink and hopped on stage, slipping his guitar strap over his shoulder. He once again tuned his black Fender guitar, its pickguard having been removed and covered with a red sticker of a skull and crossbones with the silhouette of a stripper on her knees in each of the eyes. Ricky set down his Corona on the bar and slid behind his eight-piece drumset. The singer and bassist were already in place on stage. As the members of the band all nodded to one another, they began to play their second set – loud punk tunes about loose women and alcohol. The crowd once again huddled near the stage, danced, and cheered.

Olivia found her way through the smoky bar to the back stairs leading to Gwen’s private office. She crept up the empty staircase and hesitated at the top. Leaning her head against the door, she could hear the muffled sounds of two people, a man and a woman, arguing. Suddenly the door swung open, and the edge hit her in the face.

"Oww! Hey, watch it."

Tony stepped forward.

"What are you doing here?" He quickly closed the door behind him, shutting out Gwen.

"Keeping an eye on you," he snapped.

"Were you talking to Gwen?"

"Yes. Actually, speak of the devil, we were discussing you." He pushed Olivia aside as he walked down the steps. "Come with me." She quietly followed. They left the club from a side exit, which opened into an alley. The crisp night air slapped their skin. Tony grabbed Olivia by the hand and pinned her against the brick wall. He forcefully kissed her and slipped his slick tongue into her mouth. She struggled and spat in his face.

"Get off me! What the Hell’s wrong with you?"

"What’s wrong with me?" He wiped his cheek. "What’s wrong with you, ‘Liv? You’re acting like a child. I told you to be careful!"

"What are you talking about?" She slipped from his grasp and slowly backed away.

"I know what you’re up to. You can’t lie to me. I see right through you."

"What?"

"Don’t tell me you weren’t planning on taking him home with you."

"Who?"

"The guitar player. I thought the plan was to blend in."

"Tony, you’re being ridiculous. I don’t need a bodyguard, much less a stalker. Now get out of my way." Olivia shot him an icy glare and huffed toward the side door. He quickly grabbed her wrist, twisting it tightly.

"Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

She sneered as he let go.

"I’ll be fine."

He shook his head and watched her slip back into the club, kicking the brick wall with the tip of his boot before walking away.

After Lipstick and Bruises finished their second set, the audience applauded and dispersed throughout the club. The band loaded their equipment back into the gray van parked at the backdoor, and the jukebox began playing Joan Jett’s "I Love Rock ‘N’ Roll." It was 2 a.m. Aaron approached Olivia, who was seated by the mirrored wall again and motioned for her to follow.

"Come on. Let’s talk." She stood up, grabbed her notebook, and followed him into the club’s back room where Ricky and the rest of the band were leaning across a pool table. Aaron passed by dim floor lamps in the shape of palm trees and tapped his singer on the shoulder. "Hey, man. The newspaper chick’s here. She wants to interview us."

The singer glanced up at her from the pool table and set down his stick. The eyeliner around his dark brown eyes had smudged from the beads of sweat that had dripped there. His girlfriend, a plump young girl in a red-checkered skirt, kissed him on the cheek as he stood up and walked toward Olivia.

"Yeah, I remember you. You’re the writer.... So whaduya wanna know?" He opened his mouth and picked at his gums. Ricky, the drummer, followed the three of them to the long red velvet sofa along the wall. The bassist set his pool stick down and stood beside the sofa where each of them sat. He stuck a

clove cigar between his lips. Aaron grabbed a pack of matches from the end table, lit one, and held it against the cigar dangling out of his mouth. Then he slipped the matches into his pocket.

"Well, first off I just wanted to thank you for speaking with me. You guys played a great show." Olivia turned to Aaron and pulled out her pen and notepad. She licked her lips. "How ‘bout you? What did you think?"

"Yeah, it was a good show." Aaron arched his back, stretching sore muscles. "Thanks for coming out." He grinned; a dimple grew on the side of his cheek. "Can I get you something?," he asked as a petite barmaid wearing knee-high boots stopped in front of them with an empty tray.

"Me?" Olivia shrugged. "I don’t know."

"She’ll have a rum and coke. Wait, make that two." Aaron handed the waitress a ten-dollar bill, and she disappeared into the front room.

"Your favorite, huh?"

"Oh, yeah. Can’t get enough," Aaron winked at her.

"So what did you wanna ask us?" The singer scooted to the edge of his seat.

"I just wanted to know how Ricky was working out for you on the drums. And what’s it like not playing with Jason anymore? I mean, I know you guys grew up together and everything."

"Ricky’s a great drummer. He’s a pounder. Jason could never play like that." He glanced at Aaron and Ricky as he yawned and stumbled to his feet. "Look, Olivia, thanks for coming out and all, but I’m kinda tired. I think you guys can handle this." He nodded to Olivia as his girlfriend took him by the arm and led him out the back door of the club. "I’ll see you guys later."

The bassist stood up and followed them out the door.

As Ricky saw them leave, he too followed. "Hey, I’m really sorry guys, but can we do this another time? I’m beat. Olivia, it was nice meeting you." Ricky smiled at the two of them on the sofa and left the club. The band piled into a packed van full of music equipment and sped out of the parking lot, which was emptying out along with the other club goers.

"Well, shit. I’m sorry," Aaron scooted closer to Olivia and tossed back his wavy, auburn hair. As the waitress returned with their drinks, they each grabbed one and quickly gulped them down. The alcohol left a smooth, warm aftertaste in the back of her throat.

"Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll just reschedule the interview." She leaned forward to touch his right arm. "I really like your tattoos," she gently squeezed his bicep as she set down the empty glass on the floor beside them.

"Thanks. I’ve been getting them since I was 17…. You know, Jason was the first of us to get all sleeved out. He had some wicked vintage tattoos."

"Yeah, I remember. Didn’t he have a spider web on his elbow and a cross on his hip?"

"How’d you know about that?" Aaron lowered his eyebrows.

"Huh? Oh, he showed them to me a long time ago."

"I didn’t think you knew him that well."

"Well, he was a flirt." She smiled. "Those are my favorite." She slid her hand over the orange and red flames around his forearm.

"Mine too." Aaron grinned. "Do you have any?"

"No, I don’t. Never seemed to be my thing. I don’t have anything pierced either," she said, staring at the two stainless steel loops in his ear.

"Oh, it’s overrated. Believe me. But you’re prettier just the way you are." He gently brushed the hair from her face. "You have beautiful eyes."

Olivia’s cheeks grew warmer. She blushed. "Thank you. So do you." His hazel eyes shimmered with a trance-like gaze. He leaned forward and softly kissed her lips.

"Come on, let’s get out of here." He tugged at her arm as he set down his drink.

"Hmm?"

"Come on, I want to make it up to you. Not having the interview, I mean."

"Oh, well, I’m not sure. I have to get up early." She hesitated. She could feel his hot breath on her face as he spoke.

"Who has to get up early on a Sunday? Come on, we can go back to my place, and I’ll tell you all about the band."

A sudden hunger churned in her stomach. Her eyes grew bloodshot. She could see his pulse beating on the nape of his neck. "How about we go back to my place instead?," she replied. "And besides, your friends left you without a ride. I could take you home later."

"Alright." He jumped to his feet and helped her up.

"Follow me," Olivia said as she walked with him through the back entrance and out to her Cadillac in the parking lot.

"Nice ride," he said.

They got into her car and drove a few blocks through deserted downtown streets past two parked police cars and a few stragglers leaving closed bars. They soon pulled up beside the St. Clair Lofts and parked.

"You live in a church? You’re kidding me," he said.

"Yep. I’ve been here for about eight years."

They stepped out of the car and walked up the steps to the front door. She unlocked and opened it, and they slowly entered.

"Wow, it’s beautiful." His eyes grew wide as she flicked on the sanctuary’s lights. "What’s that smell?" He glanced at the steps leading to the cellar door.

"Oh, it’s nothing. This place is just old.... Would you like anything to drink?"

He shook his head. "No, that’s alright."

"This way," she led him up the stairway to her bedroom loft. He eagerly followed her, having a seat on her newly made bed. He sank into the billowy mattress and admired the visage of a male angel with flowing, wind-blown hair and vacant, dreamless brass eyes that had been molded onto each bed leg attached to the headboard. Olivia opened a drawer, pulled out a lighter, and illuminated the three white vanilla candles on her dresser.

"I like your place. It’s... sublime," he scooted close to her as she sat beside him on her silky, red-cushioned bed. She placed her left hand on his knee, squeezed it, and allowed her fingertips to rest against his cheek, pulling him toward her.

"Now, where were we?" They both leaned forward and embraced one another in a deep kiss, her tongue sliding back toward the roof of his mouth. He briefly released his grasp, smiled widely, and then lunged at her with a playful ease. They toppled over each other, fingers unbuttoning clothing in a frantic race to see who could undress first. Aaron’s drunken passion excited her, stirring in her a desire for blood. Their naked bodies joined together in union, sweat forming between their smooth, slippery skins. He possessed her as they made love like she had so many years before with Antonio.

Without hesitation, Olivia pinned him to her bed, aggressively holding him down as she slipped her tongue over his neck and bit down. He yelped and grabbed her bare back with his hands, running his fingernails down her skin. He seemed to enjoy himself. He pushed her upward, kissing her neck with his sloppy tongue and biting her skin hard enough to leave a bruise. She smirked, straddling his thin body, and pierced his warm skin with her sharp canines – this time drawing blood. He convulsed and threw open his eyelids. As the thick, rich blood flowed from him, Olivia snarled and pushed harder on his body as he fought back, pained and confused.

His cries did not stop her feast. She drank his blood until he stopped convulsing. As his cries muffled into silence, she slowly released her grasp and stared down at the body of her victim. She had not realized how handsome he was. Behind the rough exterior laid a boyish young man. His eyes remained open, glazed over with fear – glasslike. The warm, healthy glow of his skin was fading quickly. The color was draining from his cheeks.

Olivia glanced at her blood-soaked bed sheets and up at the angel’s faces molded onto the legs of the headboard. With their unkempt, windblown hair, they almost resembled the man beneath her. Their hollow brass eyes stared at her like angels at the gates of judgment.

"I can’t do this!" She grabbed the corpse beneath her, lifting up his back and supporting his limp head as she plunged her teeth into her right forearm. The cool, black blood ran thin and dripped from out her body. She held her wrist to Aaron’s lips and fed his lifeless corpse until an electric current of pain jolted through her, causing her insides to sting. She exhaled and collapsed onto the bed beside him.

Daylight. The candles had burnt out. Olivia slowly opened her eyes, trying to focus them past a blurry vision of dreams into reality. She rolled over on her side and glared at Aaron’s body. His vacant hazel eyes were staring back at her. She leaned forward to kiss his lips.

"You’re one of us now."

His shallow breath felt icy on her cheeks. He sat up, clothed, perching over her like a salivating wolf.

"Where’d you get this?," he snapped, holding up a switchblade knife engraved with the initials "J.D." His voice a low growl from his chest.

"‘Jason Darke.’ Where’d you find that?" She sat up and took it from him, cradling it in her hands as she examined its smooth, steel blade.

"I found it in your dresser."

She stood up, her bare breasts reflecting the sunlight from the arched stained glass windows. Sweeping up her red dress from the floor, she slipped it over her head and sat down beside Aaron on the bed.

"Why do you have this?" He snatched the knife from her and held the blade close to her eyes.

"Aaron, don’t you understand? You’re one of us now. This is what we do."

He trembled, a thirst growing in his young body. "What the Hell did you do to me?"

"Shhh." Olivia leaned forward and placed her hand upon his cheek. He slapped it away.

"And what the Hell did you do to Jason?"

"Calm down now."

"Calm down?! You whore! You killed him, didn’t you? And then ... you killed me." His eyes began to swell. He touched the wounds on the side of his neck. The holes were plugged by dry blood. She drew a deep breath.

"You’re right. I killed him. And I still have him. Well, what’s left of him anyway."

Aaron glanced at his shoes. "And now I’m one of you."

Olivia smiled. "Last night I could’ve let you die like the others, but I didn’t. I gave you another chance."

He groaned and lunged at her, slashing her throat from right to left. She toppled to the floor, clutching at her neck. He had opened her scar and doubled its length. It gushed blood.

"You ... un ... grateful ...." She held her throat with one hand, gasping for air amongst gurgles of blood. Aaron jumped off the bed and towered over her.

"Go to Hell."

He pulled back his leg and kicked her in the ribs. She cowered over, coughing and slumping to the ground, tears welling in her eyes, as he struck a match from the pack he had placed in his pocket. He held it in front of her face, taunting her like a child with a toy, and shoved her over, dropping the lit match onto her hair. Startled, Olivia flailed her arms, trying to roll back and forth to extinguish the flames. Aaron strolled across the room, stopping for an instant to stare at her as the flames spread from her hair to the aged wooden floor – across the rotting floorboards and up the bed sheets – slowly enveloping the room in an inferno of fire. Her groans did not stop him from running down the stairs and out of the church.

Olivia hobbled on her knees to the hand railing by the steps, a trail of fire following behind her. Grasping at the railing for support, the flames crept over her bloody dress and charred her skin. She fumbled to find her balance and tripped. As she toppled down to the sanctuary – her slender body engulfed in a ball of flames; her neck an open wound – the angels molded onto the legs of her headboard, with their windblown hair and dreamless brass eyes, smiled.

Jacon Max Winkler

Legend tells me

There is a man

Across the desert

Three hills beyond

Old and peaceful

Knows how to

Transform any evil

Falling against him

Into rain upon

The mountain

Of his soul.

Jacob Max Winkler

In the Company of Owls

All the people are asleep.

If I wanted to

I could run naked into the cold

cold early morning hours before dawn

dance and cackle

run to the trees

and climb them

feeling the rough bark

against my smooth sleepy skin

get dirty and scratched

climb high and higher

up and down as many times

as I could possibly desire

until Tradition broke the twilight

reminding me that

people don't get up at 4 in the morning

run outside naked

and climb trees

reminding me that

the world is just waking

and I'd better skip home now

so I can wake up too.

Jacob Max Winkler

Song of Creation

Open the doors of your mind

That you shut in the days and nights of the past

Let your thoughts tumble free

Like pieces of an unsolved jigsaw puzzle

Or fruit that you never tasted

Let your mind be an undammed river

Before the river's end

Let the fruit of your thoughts

Fall on an island

And take seed

Let the pieces join together

It may not be beautiful at first

But beauty will come

Just as there are certain fruits

That wait before revealing their most glorious flower

And some people who take many years before they are most radiant

So it may be with your creation

Do not despair

We are like the stars

Who remember the birth of the universe

As they grow, burst and fade

We too remember our heritage

And hear echoes

Of the song of creation

Though we only mimic the magnificence of the stars

Who themselves only dream of the beginning

All that we make is brilliant

All that we sing is good

Many stray from the song

Through ignorance or fear

But there is more energy in the universe

Than there is doubt in the soul.

Jacob Max Winkler