Pack Rat

Pack Rat
by Mike Pollock


The tides swallowed the sound
like the sand running away to leave
sinking heels slipping down
past the warm
into the cool depths of water soaked mud.

My brain tries
in vain, though it may be
to fix this gaping hole
in the face of my lifes logic.

Like a game with no chips, or cards, or pieces
Falling apart in the attic,
next to postcards and stamps
long forgotten to our world
but a staple to the dust ridden memories of old.

Close this time to the end
I can almost hear the buzz
the swaying sound of leaves
the chirping of the birds.

It fights its way through the veil of silence
motion kills the mood
Fleeing once again down the folding stairs
to hide shaking on the bathroom stairs.

She's had enough.
These memories are eating her to death,
filing down her nerve endings
until the very thought of light
makes her cringe.

Tears mark trails, train tracks of misery
run down dusty cheeks.
folded arms, crushed beneath the weight
of never ending responsibility,
can't halt the rising floor.

Death By Firing Squad

Death By Firing Squad
by Mike Pollock

Fire away!
It can’t be to hard
Tied to this fuckin’ wall
I don’t even need the blind fold
Just fire away,

Truths are what we make them to be
Angry hornets in this nest made for me
Try twice until you give up the third time
Close your eyes and use your mind to see

Twisting, free me, falling away
Twelve stories up, no time to pray
They told me it’s to dangerous to climb
But I never listened anyway.

Yea so Fire, Fire, Fire!
A school yard of children
Or a funeral pyre
So Fire, Fire, Fire
What says you father
I’m a sinner, a liar

The Longest Lines Have The Best Destinations

The Longest Lines Have the Best Destinations

Close the last page
My heart has beat it’s last
Like the closing line
In a mystery
That leaves dust
And dried out throats

Scroll these credits
But don’t turn on the lights
I want it dark
For my curtain call
I want the doors
To stay unlocked

Bury me
In a glass top casket
Better yet
Cast me in concrete
And leave me out
To stand guard over this place

It’s twelve O’clock
Later than I thought it’d be
Send every one home now
The shows over
Don’t ask me for your money back

I’ve spent it already
On the ones I leave behind
For what’s a memory
If you don’t have hands
To hold
And lips to kiss

My legacy
My closed fist,
Stinking legacy…
Will you even remember
Who’s inside this box

A Walk Through Hell

A Walk Through Hell

by Mike Pollock

Submitted for April 2018 Micro Fiction contest at SFFWorld.com

“Keep moving!” An Orcish overseer cried, tearing Mara’s flesh with the crack of his whip.

Chains rattled as they walked single file. Around them swirled the cries of women stolen away from loved ones.

Dry eyed and devoid of emotion, Mara watched as a young girl was shoved to a place along the line before her. She stumbled, her wild eyes searched for any signs of hope.

 “Get moving!” The same overseer growled, splitting the air with a wicked crack of his whip. The girl cried out but Mara found herself smiling. Finally, she thought; someone else for a change.

An Awakening

An Awakening

by Mike Pollock 

(submitted to SFFWorld.com March 18 flash fiction contest)

The crowd moved and swayed to the cadence of Friar Collisson’s voice. With only words, he herded them deftly through fields of anger and seas of disillusion. Like an expert sculptor, he shaped them like clay with his lies.

“These heretics,” he cried, “are nothing but wolves who feed upon those of us with weak constitution and impressionable minds!”

The crowd reacted loudly, booing in unison. A single piece of fruit was a missile that struck the closest person on display in the large pillory.

From his place in the shadows, Keenan struggled against his instincts to help. He’d been tasked with observation by the Guardians but guilt at the impending executions of the men and women in stocks ate at him.

 “Today we will be resolute in rooting out this evil!” The Friar cried out again, and several hooded executioners hefting wicked looking axes made their way onto the stage. Keenan forced himself to relax clenched fists as the Friar continued spitting vitriol.

“Stop!” A voice cried out and a hushed silence worked its way over the crowd. Parting before her, a woman stepped out before the dais.

“And who might you be?” The Friar asked, poison dripping from every word.

“One who would question this public display of vulgarity!” She was small, dressed poorly in dirty rags. Clutched in her tiny hands was a worn out copy of My Truth, a book Keenan knew would mark her as a heretic too.

“These are the words men like him seek to suppress! Words of Kindness, generosity, science, and progress!” She cried out, now facing the crowd. It took nary a moment for the powder keg to erupt as the crowd began shouting and the Friar’s men moved to subdue her. Violently the carried her to the stocks and forced her down to her knees before Collisson.

“You see,” he yelled, motioning to quiet the crowd, “this is where these heretical teachings will lead you.” He motioned and one of the executioners moved to stand beside her.

“The God you claim to seek will turn his back on the lot of you. You are nothing more than a pack of wild dogs.” She spit at his feet.

Something inside of Keenan snapped in that moment. Was it her conviction? Her willingness to die for her beliefs? Was it that this tiny woman, whom knew none of the Keepers on that pillory, was willing to defend their beliefs when Keenan was hiding?

With a growl he threw back a hood that hid the black tattoos covering his head. Stepping out of the shadows, he pulled against the Source to imbue himself with power.

“Daughter.” He spoke, voice rising above the din of anger and bloodlust. Her eyes lit up as she found him. “Your faith has moved me.”
Through sheer force of will, the crowd around him was pushed back like parting seas. Cries of panic erupted as Keenan focused his power on those pursuing him. Energy coalesced into a mighty hand, sweeping the Friar’s lackeys away like nothing more than toys.

“Stop him!” The Friar cried out, panic creeping into his voice. He tried to run from the scene but was rebuffed by a wall of pure white light.

“Your crimes against those whom you claim to lead are many. The Keepers will not endure this mockery any longer!” Keenan cried out, tapping the Source once more and forcing those around him to their knees. The sheer force of will required to hold so many in check was taking its toll, and steady streams of perspiration began to form.

You must not fail. He heard the words echo inside his head. He smiled through the mask of concentration at the personal interruption. He only heard that voice when he was fully enveloped in the Source, as he was at that moment.

I will not. He echoed back, stepping closer to where the Friar sobbed and sputtered.

“Please, don’t do this.” Friar Collisson wailed, straining against the invisible force holding him back. His eyes locked on those of Keenan and real fear swept over him. “You’re all supposed to be dead!”

Keenan cringed, pushing down anger at the memory of the Inquisition the Church brought against his people. He focused once more and forced the Friar’s head down before him.

 “While death is your only escape from this, I will give you the mercy of allowing a few final words. What say you?”

Around them, the crowd watched with terrified attention. A quiet murmur was the only sound as they collectively held their breaths waiting for a response.

Suddenly the Friar found his courage as he spit at Keenan’s feet.

“You are an abomination! God will root out you and your kind and exterminate you for taking his perfect gift of life and twisting it to your beliefs. Those that are here today know you for what you are. A devil, a scourge, a wolf in sheep’s wool. You think your show of power here does anything to dispel the fear these people have of you?” He laughed then, a howling cackle.

Fatigue began to fracture Keenan’s hold on his power and he frowned at the man before him. Grimly he gathered what energy he could find around him and formed a sword from the light.

“May God find mercy, and judge you without bias.” He muttered, bringing the sword down in an arch, severed head rolling from slumping shoulders. Shock from the crowd rolled over him like a wave, sending ripples into the Source that only he could feel.

Weariness took him then as the power faded. Around him, the crowd began to disperse, fear and self-preservation taking over. The men and women had been freed from the stocks at some point and they surrounded him as he fell.

Before the darkness completely swallowed him, the woman’s face appeared, a wan smile on her face.

“Teach me.” she said, just before his consciousness failed him.

A Debt To The Dead

A Debt To The Dead

by Mike Pollock

(submitted to SFFWorld.com March '18 Micro Fiction Contest)

The soft light that greeted Lorne filtered through poorly boarded windows. Closing the door behind him, he stepped into a scene from a memory. A cautious glance confirmed the remains were still there.

“You shouldn’t have come back.” A familiar voice whispered to him. Terror flashed hot across his skin and he stumbled to the floor.

“How?” Lorne croaked, his brother’s face suddenly appearing just before him.

“I’ve waited a long time.” It said. Its twisted and ghostly hand reached out, passing into Lorne’s chest.
 A cold stab of fear twisted his face as Lorne’s heart stopped, all debts repaid.

Old Dog, New Tricks

Old Dog, New Tricks

by Mike Pollock

(Contest entry, February 18' Micro-fiction; SFFWorld.com)

Dr. Ivanov watched with growing horror as Patient 4 remained standing. An ear piercing siren blared each time he hit the button on his coding remote, yet it had no effect.

He croaked something unintelligible as 4 began to advance and he realized his frantic button pressing was in vain. 

A toothy grin infected the otherwise manic expression of Patient 4 and Dr. Ivanov noticed blood running from both ears from self-inflicted wounds.

 “What have you done?” he cried as 4 reached him, but his words fell on deaf ears.