Hoochie Culture

Hoochie Culture
The problem with Americas Teen Population

We have a serious issue in or country and I don’t believe anyone is actually tackling the problem head on. That problem is the “Hoochie” as an ideal image for teens and pre-teens. As an adult male I have no problem with grown women giving us an enticing look at the goodies. We are sexual beings and we “peacock” as a way to draw attention to ourselves. Men shave and groom just as fastidiously as any woman, we choose our clothes and accessories carefully in order to be seen, and admired for how we look. Appearance is everything, especially when you are single and “looking”. And it’s great when you are an adult.

The problem I see is when our young women take up this mantle and parade themselves about playing grown up. Make-up at 9 or ten years old, short skirts and low-cut shirts, mid-drifts exposed, showing off their little pot bellies, but no mental capacity to bear the load of adult actions. Every day in our pop culture, media and magazines our young women are filled full of these ideas that it’s not only okay to expose yourself, or make your face all up, but that it’s expected if you are going be popular or have a boyfriend. The people they choose as role models are doing it, the adults around them are doing it and the only people offering them any alternatives are religious extremists. Even at much younger ages our young women are exposed to this idea of “sexual exposure”. Take the Brat’z Dolls as an example. They are marketed to very young girls and are dressed with “attitude”. The attitude is a rebellious half nudity and a vapid almost blank approach to life. Top it off with the fantasy of stardom and our girls are already set up for a future in hoochie wear. The clothing manufactures take their hint and they scale down adult clothes to fit the smaller developing bodies. The media take their hint and every model they use in their programming and advertising is dressed in this style. Social predators take the hint, and we see them every few months on To Catch a Predator. But what about the real scum out there that drive through or school zones, walk our malls and arcades, dance in our clubs? How do we protect our children from them if we allow our children to present them selves as adults?

Tyra Banks did a show the other day on the problem of teen pregnancy. On her panel she had young girls from 12 to 17; some of them were wanted to get pregnant, others already had children, and some were currently pregnant a few on their second or third pregnancy; one young lady had already had two abortions and given up her third for adoption. Tyra tackled the problem and really brought out the truth and I commend her for that. The sad thing for me was the fact that all of these young girls thought this behavior appropriate, they had no issue with how they were treating their bodies at such a young age and every one of them was tight jeans and low cut tops. Each of them had some story about having sex because it was the thing to do if you wanted to fit in, or wanted a boyfriend. Or a story about a boy claiming undying love, or getting pregnant because you wanted to keep a boy around. Tyra asked one girl; “if it’s not about the boy then why not just pick some random teen boy from the audience and have a kid with him?” The girl balked at this idea, as she should, but I don’t think she got the point that it doesn’t matter the boy, they are just boys and as ill equipped as the girls are to handle these issues. Yet our society seems to perpetrate the idea that even very young the girls should look to the boys for support and caring, love and passion when these boys don’t have the mental capacity to offer any of those things. I can tell you as a man I was well into my twenties before I had any real concept of any of those things.

What images are our young boys bombarded with? The same ones the girls are when it comes to women, but out side of that they are forced into a superficial fantasy world of super heroes and robot cars, dreams of sports greatness and getting the girl. And this can continue well into adult-hood without some sort of intervention. There are no real lessons for our boys on how to view women, treat women, or interact socially with women. It’s either “treat them like trash,” or “treat them like treasure.” The first just breeds misogyny the second breeds a sense of entitlement in women that few actually deserve. All these boys see after school is violence and half naked women on evening television. They go to school the next morning and they see the girls in the hallways decked out like Sara Jessica-Parker or Paris “ultimate hoe” Hilton and they approach these girls with an attitude the girls accept as normal. Before long, and without intervention from someone, they will be having sex behind the bleachers. The boy may feel pressured, the girl my fell like she has to and neither know what the consequences actually are. They may whisper to each other of love and being together forever, but forever is a concept most adults shun if the divorce rate speaks to it at all. These kids may experiment and forego the condom because they are expected to know how to use on but neither really does. They may pull out because the boy say she won’t get pregnant if he cum’s on her belly. But neither of them, in that heated moment thinks they should pass on the sex all together. How do children 12 and thirteen end up alone enough to do these things? Have we lost curfews and open bedroom doors? Are our children now dictating their time and our households? Do we really think its okay for these young kids to be left alone to do as they please when we as adults set rules but offer no guidance or explanation for those rules? We expect our children to behave but we don’t think they deserve any reasoning. Do we think they won’t understand? Then we should see to it that they do. Isn’t that our job as parents?


We are living in a culture where our politicians can say to us on one hand that there should be a freedom to choose for the woman, for it is her body, and on the other hand that abortion should be regulated to back alley quacks and hangers in dark bathrooms, because if we do away with legalized abortions that is where we will find many of these young girls. We live in a culture where we hold the men that impregnate women and bail on their families responsible, so too should we hold these young boys responsible. The girls are viewed as the problem; because of course it is as simple as keeping your legs closed right? How many of you waited until you were 21 or married to start having sex? How many of you felt the same pressures that these children are feeling today? I know that in the 80’s things were a little different but no less sexually exciting. There was no real education then either, but we at least had sex-ed class, joke that it was. These teen boys should be held just as accountable as the girls are. If we are going to bring the girls to task fort opening their legs, then the boys should be brought up for sticking their dick in with no protection. Just because there is a cooch hanging out there, we all know that it’s not always prudent to put your dick in it. Let’s teach our boys that and make them answer for doing it. Things are never simple when you are that young. These are children, ignorant, dumb teens and they need guidance. It is up to us as the adults in this society to provide that guidance. And not by just saying, “I’m paying for it you will wear what I tell you,” but by giving our children perspective and guiding their actions. We should gradually allow certain things as they become age appropriate and make sure our children know why we ask of them the things we do. And we must set an example for our children. Let’s be well dressed even if it is just jeans and a tee shirt. Let’s show our children that being neat and covering your underwear is not only fashionable, but socially acceptable for anyone who wants any respect.

Facts are, your appearance speaks volumes about your person. If you allow your child to present them selves in a negative light they will be treated in that same light. It’s a harsh fact of our society. If your 10 or 12 year old girl goes out looking like a hoochie, there should be no big surprise when she comes home pregnant. If we send them out without any perspective, without any knowledge of what they may face then they will be victimized by their peers and by society at large; If we send them out with no perspective, only a ‘daddy said so” then they will pull a quick change because they will want to fit in with the other girls at school. It is a fact of life. 90 percent of people are followers and will do what the crowd is doing, whether it’s wearing your clothes backwards or showing off your g-string. The first thing we must do is educate ourselves so that we might educate our families, especially our girls.

We have created this culture where we expect our children to behave as adults but we are offering them very little equipment to do so. We allow the television to dictate fashion, and behavior and we offer little in guidance. It’s only okay or little girls to be in too small swim wear because we allow it. What are we teaching our kids? That it is fine if you show a little too much thigh. We are saying that it’s okay to kiss in the closet, or let the touches happen because we are saying nothing at all. I know a large part of the female argument is that they are doing it for their own empowerment and not for any man, but at the root that is bullshit. The facts are we use our appearance the same way the birds use their plumage, to attract and keep mates. No where else in nature do the children develop the bright colors, flowing manes, and scent glands necessary for reproduction until they are physically ready to accept a mate. We as humans have to take it a step further and focus on mental readiness. No 13 year old is mentally capable of taking care of another life. Few are mentally capable of caring for themselves. None of them truly comprehend the consequences of their actions, the sheer will it takes to deal with a child every day of your life. The changes can begin right now, it is up to you as parents, guardians and adults to educate our growing women and men on not only sexual safety but on all of the cues and clues that speak to sexual readiness. I am under no illusions that changing our children’s wardrobe will change the results but I am positive it is one of many steps that will help to lower the teen pregnancy rates, or at the very least prevent your, and my, child from becoming a teen parent. We must act and we must do it right now.

The Path of the Dragon

The Path of the Dragon
Honor, Duty and Dignity

In this life we all choose a path. Some of us follow trails already blazed by others. Some choose to deny they follow any road at all. A select few carve their own roads through life and live by these new ideas against all opposition. No matter how you may see your life, and no matter how others my see your path, you alone must walk it and in this mans belief the greatest sin one can commit is to deny that you walk at all. We live one life and we must live it until its final breath, there is no other way. This essay is an attempt to codify my walk that others may choose to walk the same trails I have forged. This is no easy journey; there are no grand secrets, though one may find great treasures along the way. There are no commandments; though one may find a set of rules that cannot be denied. Here you will find no gods to worship, or pass your responsibilities off to. Here you will find no demons to blame your short comings on. There is personal responsibility, there is true friendship, there is love and hatred in equal measure, there is peace and there will be war. There is balance and in the end you will only be judged by how you have lived.

The idea is a brotherhood of men and women who find that the morally corrupt systems we have burdened ourselves with are lacking and no longer worthy of our devotion. We have decided to shrug off the weight of these systems of old morals that no longer see the people that keep them in existence. We have made a choice to leave behind the old diseased and rotting systems and forge anew a path that demands you stand and be true. Honor, duty and dignity are our watch words and on these we stand and shall not be moved.

Why the Dragon?

Dragons are mythical creatures that have been found in every great culture around the world. Each people have seen this being in a different light. In Christian Europe it is seen as a creature of darkness that must be destroyed by their warriors of light. In the Orient it was seen as a guardian and guide. In India it is equated with the path to enlightenment, in Norse mythology a great beast of battle. One thing that has always remained the same is that Dragons are great beasts of power. From the ability to cause massive havoc, to control of the weather, to a great benevolence providing man with gifts of power and knowledge the dragon plays a large part in the myths that have created many of the beliefs we have today the dragon has never been pined down as one thing. As Draconians we are taking this mantle that says we will not be held up as one thing judged and said to be this and nothing else. We are thinking beings and we have the ability and right to give or take as we see fit within our own lives. The draconian is strength and power according to our ability.

Honor, Duty, Dignity?

There are a great many other words that could be used here as a group motto. But I believe that these three cover all the necessary bases. No need to have ten, or four when three will do. Let’s examine each in its turn first as described and defined in Wickipedia and then examined from the draconian perspective.

Honour or honor (see spelling differences), (the latter directly from the Latin word honos, honoris) is the evaluation of a person's trustworthiness and social status based on that individual's espousals and actions. Honour is deemed exactly what determines a person's character: whether or not the person reflects honesty, respect, integrity, or fairness. Accordingly, individuals are assigned worth and stature based on the harmony of their actions, code of honour, and that of the society at large. Honor can be analysed as a relativistic concept, i.e., conflicts between individuals and even cultures arising as a consequence of material circumstance and ambition, rather than fundamental differences in principle. Alternatively, it can be viewed as nativist — that honour is as real to the human condition as love, and likewise derives from the formative personal bonds that establish one's personal dignity and character.
Dr Samuel Johnson, in his A Dictionary of the English Language (1755), defined honour as having several senses, the first of which was "nobility of soul, magnanimity, and a scorn of meanness." This sort of honour derives from the perceived virtuous conduct and personal integrity of the person endowed with it. On the other hand, Johnson also defined honour in relationship to "reputation" and "fame"; to "privileges of rank or birth", and as "respect" of the kind which "places an individual socially and determines his right to precedence." This sort of honour is not so much a function of moral or ethical excellence, as it is a consequence of power. Finally, with respect to women, honour may be synonymous with "chastity" or "virginity".

Honor is a moral stance to be upright and firm in your belief and to never waver. To this dragon honor is the foundation of your life. To be honorable is to be firm but also understanding if not accepting of the fools. You have a path and a place you have chosen in this world and to stray from it every time the wind blows is a dishonorable act. To make a commitment and shift from it is an act of dishonor. To even make a commitment you have no intention of keeping is dishonorable. You should have the strength to be honest no matter the consequences of your actions this is honorable.

Duty (from "due," that which is owing, O. Fr. deu, did, past participle of devoir; Lat. debere, debitum; cf. "debt") is a term that conveys a sense of moral commitment to someone or something. The moral commitment is the sort that results in action, and it is not a matter of passive feeling or mere recognition. When someone recognizes a duty, that person commits himself/herself to the cause involved without considering the self-interested courses of actions that may have been relevant previously. This is not to suggest that living a life of duty precludes one from the best sort of life, but duty does involve some sacrifice of immediate self-interest.
Cicero is an early philosopher who acknowledged this possibility. He discusses duty in his work “On Duty." He suggests that duties can come from four different sources:
It is a result of being human
It is a result of one's particular place in life (your family, your country, your job)
It is a result of one's personality
One's own moral expectations for yourself can generate duties
From the root idea of obligation to serve or give something in return, involved in the conception of duty, have sprung various derivative uses of the word; thus it is used of the services performed by a minister of a church, by a soldier, or by any employee or servant.

Many schools of thought have debated the idea of duty. While many assert mankind's duty on their own terms, some philosophers have absolutely rejected a sense of duty.

Duty is your obligation to your honor and those you choose to have in your life. If you call someone your friend then you have a duty to be that person’s friend. This is not to say that because of your duty to this person that friendship can never be dissolved. This individual also has an equal duty to be your friend and you are under no obligation to continue with a dishonorable person who has no sense of duty to you. This is why I have chosen duty, it is a two way street. Honor is your responsibility, but duty is reciprocal.

Through much of the twentieth century, Dignity appeared in assorted writings as a reason for peacemaking and for promoting human rights. For example, The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, adopted by the United Nations General Assembly on December 10, 1948, speaks in its preamble of “the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family.” Later proclamations speak of Dignity in the same way. The American Convention on Human Rights (1969), art. 11(1), proclaims, “Everyone has the right to have his honor respected and his dignity recognized.” The African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights (1981), art. 5, insists, “Every individual shall have the right to the respect of the dignity inherent in a human being.”
In the latter half of the twentieth century, Dignity became a reason to curtail genetic research and to regulate human reproduction. In 1996, the Council of Europe used Dignity for this purpose in its Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Dignity of the Human Being with regard to the Application of Biology and Medicine. In 1998, the United Nations mentioned Dignity in the UNESCO Declaration on the Human Genome and Human Rights. At Article 24, the Declaration says that germ-line treatment “could be contrary to human dignity.” The Commentary which accompanies the Declaration says that, as a consequence of the possibility of germ-line treatment, “it is the very dignity of the human race which is at stake.”
As a rule, the writings about Dignity leave it undefined or fill it with ambiguity and contradiction.[1] All the international proclamations leave Dignity undefined.[2]
Many writings imply that having dignity means being human and alive. [3] If having dignity means being human and alive, then Dignity is equal to just because as a reason for anything. It is an unassailable, all-purpose authority. Anyone can use it to support or to condemn any cause or activity.[4] See the external links below.
At least since the time of Shakespeare, Dignity has meant the set of attributes that distinguish an intelligent, solemn, sober, healthy, independent, adult homo sapiens (the model adult) from someone else, especially a young child or a lunatic.[5] This definition gives dignity a worthwhile meaning. It provides for degrees of dignity. The definition makes Dignity the rare quality which, as Thurber noted, "has gleamed only now and then and here and there, in lonely splendor, throughout the ages, a hope of the better men, never an achievement of the majority."[6]

Dignity is your spiritual appearance. Your unseen presence is your sense of dignity. This is the manifestation of your honor and duty. Your dignity can be lost but it can never be taken from you. You can allow another to strip you of your dignity or you can lie it at another mans feet, but it is always your choice. Even in the worst of circumstances when all else seems lost to you can keep your dignity. If you choose to be cowardly and craven you loose your dignity. If you choose to face your adversity with your honor and duty in tact your dignity will never be lost to you.

With these things in mind go off into the world, continue your life and keep your eyes open. See where there is still Honor, Duty, and Dignity in the world, and see how often these things are ignored, lost and handed over. See how those in positions of power and responsibility choose to behave like animals rather than men. See how our military will train our men to kill a people but not respect them. See how our churches will teach our priests and ministers the laws of god but not require them to be upright citizens. See how many of the blind followers and adherents’ will forgive their leaders gross misconduct out of fear that their foundations will be shaken. I say shake them because without our Honor, Duty and Dignity we are little more than the walking dead.
So Says the King

I really need a Job

My name is Davin Kimble and I really need a job.
Now I am going to go ahead here and admit I could very likely get a job washing your cars or cooking your burgers, the reality of the situation is, I don’t want to do that and if I did I would only waste my time and yours. I don’t want to get into another job just because I need a job. That is a trap that repeats the cycle. I have worked very hard developing my skills in things that I enjoy doing and I think I deserve a chance to prove that I can do them and do them well. I am looking for something lasting. I want a career that I can stay with for a long while, something that I can be proud of doing.
You may be asking yourself,” What do you have to offer?” Well I am a quick study and I am very self motivated. I have all the basic computer skills necessary in today’s business world; Microsoft Office Suites, POS Systems, Mobile devices, but I also have skills with Adobe Photoshop, Illustrator and Premier Elements as well as Quark, Sony Acid Music Studio, Magix Music Creator and basic knowledge of Dreamweaver. I am an amateur photographer and I do photo manipulation and graphic design. I do all of these things and more. My first love is writing and I do both non- fiction and fiction. I enjoy the gym and have considered getting into personal training. I used to be a Muy Tai fighter and over the years have modified and moved into the world of MMA and survival fighting.
Where is the proof? Here see for your self:
http://www.artbistro.com/member/davinkwriter/albums
http://thekimbleviewpoint.blogspot.com/
http://www.myspace.com/thadragonking
And every bit of it is designed, written, produced, performed, and marketed by me. I have the raw skills; help me develop this into something worth while.
The best part for you however is the fact that with most of this stuff I am self taught. This illustrates the fact that I have the motivation and drives to not only accomplish my goals but I can do it with little supervision and no one there to push me. I can be an asset to your business. You want someone driven and dedicated on your team. But I ask you, don’t ask me to stand in a hot parking lot direct marketing your windshield cleaner, perfume, or once in a lifetime package deals. I don’t want to sell your marked up mattresses, cars, or shoes. I am not interested in work from home e-mail forwarding jobs, e-bay easy money scams, or quick money schemes. I want something real, I want something lasting and I want something that will utilize my talents.
Thank you for taking the time to consider me.
Davin Kimble
davinkwriter@gmail.com
Yahoo IM: davinkwriter
Davin Kimble
Davinkwriter@gmail.com
Yahoo IM: davinkwriter
Objective

My objective is to work for a company that remembers what customer service means, both internal and external customer service. I want an opportunity to grow within a company that values its employees as more than paid labor, easily replaced. As your business invests in me, so too do I invest myself in your business.


Qualifications

I am intelligent, ready to expand on what I do know and ready to learn what I do not. I am proficient with Photoshop, for MAC and PC, Quark Express, and the MS office suites as well as a variety of other applications. More importantly, I am dedicated, honest, loyal and hard working. What is important is the product and a quality product comes from quality work.


Experience

2007-2008 Mattress Firm
Sales Manager

As a sales manager for the Mattress Firm I am responsible for maintaining a sales percentage that allows me to make my budget for the month. I am also responsible for the daily general running of a store, from ordering and receiving stock to customer service. I am at times also responsible for the training and guidance of new hire sales staff.

2006-2007 Stephenville Empire-Tribune
Composing/Art

While working with the Stephenville Empire Tribune I was responsible for the daily creation of advertising art and design. I was also responsible for the basic composition of the daily paper, the local "shopper" and TV Guide as well as any company inserts or Tab's.
Charlie Carrasco: 254-968-2379 ext:244


2005-Current The Kimble Company
Co-Owner/Photographer/Producer

The Kimble Company is a business I started with my wife that pools our talents into a variety of business ideas. AKphotography-photography for any occasion, Graven Images-graphic design, UKS Records-Music and Sound Design, and soon to come, Draconian Publications. As a company we have photographed two weddings and have done many personal photo shoots. I have designed advertising for a wide variety of companies in the Stephenville area, and have written, recorded, produced and distributed two CD’s from my home studio.


2000-2006 BYJ Cattle Company
TNRCC Liaison

At BYJ Cattle I was responsible for the reporting, research, inspections and constructions necessary to remain within TNRCC guidelines. This involved every thing from writing reports to coordinating projects with the cattlemen and the agency. Success was determined by a good rating from the TNRCC.


Education

Kaplan College, Davenport, IA

Online 2002-2004
AAS in Computer Information Systems

Emmaus Theological Seminary, Fort Worth, TX

Correspondence 1993-2000
AAS in World Theology

Western Hills High School, Fort Worth, TX

1989-1992
GED

The Truth About Michael Mallory

The Truth about Michael Mallory
By Davin Kimble

Michael Mallory seemed to everyone a perfectly normal human being, as far as human beings can be normal. He was a man of average height and countenance, one hundred and seventy pounds, or so, with the pale skin and bright eyes of his Irish ancestry. A rather un-offensive type in every way, Michael did not fit the stereotype of his Irish brethren. He was not a brawler or drunkard, he did not abuse his wife and kids, and he was not a man who hopped beds like a common street whore. Michael Mallory was a respected Photo Journalist. His one vice was a cigarette now and again and his one social setback was the constant aggravation he felt, usually caused by other people.


Aggravation was how Michael Mallory labeled the problems that arose in his life, as aggravations to be put down like lame horses. Moreover, Michael’s current aggravation had him burning like a reenactment of the Vesuvius disaster. He was being forced to give up his job at the Times-Herald-Workmen and move on to other pastures. The T.H.W., as insiders called it, was a small town paper fully ten pages long on Sundays when there was a page or two of church announcements and upcoming events to print. Michael had worked there for almost twenty years and he liked it just fine. Taking photos of the local football team as they whipped the big boys from the next county, or snapping shots of the latest newly wed couple suited him just fine. None of the big-city-fast-paced-car-crash work for him, slow and predictable was how Michael Mallory liked it. It came as a shock to the general populace of Dublin when Michael Mallory announced that he was moving on to a much more crowded metropolis.

“Yes-sir,” he had proclaimed to his replacement, “on my way and off to snap shots of grander happenings.”

“But Mr. Mallory,” the new photographer had wined, “you seem to love it here.”

Michael despised whining and felt a further kindling of the already raging fire inside him at the thought of this fruitcake young sissy taking over his job. All prettified and clean-shaven like some Stanford bum with not a hint of manliness on his girlish frame. Michael decided to cut the conversation short.

“Don’t you have other things you need to be doing?” He asked the girl-boy.

“Not really. I don’t-“

“Like, taking pictures or something.” Michael said pointedly.

“Oh, yes of course, I understand completely.” The kid said startled.

“Of course, I am sure you do.” Michael said to the boy-girls back as he shuffled off.

Turning back to the job of cleaning out his desk Michael began to think about the place he had been called away to. He did not at all wish to go and for many long years had avoided it all together, strengthening his place here hoping that this time would never come. He knew that it was inevitable but denial was one human trait Michael had never lost. The time had come and he was to be off this very evening, the time granted him to put his affairs in order had been short but adequate; there was no sense in prolonging things any longer. Either Michael would go of his own will or they would come to get him. That was one horror Michael did not want to place upon the souls of his friends in this town. With only one last glance around the room that Michael had called his office, he hefted his box of belongings and left forever.


Delancy Purdue had been born the grandson of one of Dublin’s wealthiest men Celephias Purdue. The Purdue family had run a championship Thoroughbred breeding farm in Dublin for generations. They had been known to consistently produce world-class runners. People from all over the world came to buy Purdue stock and would pay the most extravagant prices for un-born colts. When Delancy had been born his grand father was well pleased. He had yet one more male heir to train and groom as he had all of his own sons, and every one of them had turned out to be championship stock. Therefore, it was not only a shock but also a major problem in the Purdue household when Delancy Celephias Purdue decided he wanted to be a journalist.

“You want to do WHAT?” His father bellowed at him.

“Become a journalist dad, a photojournalist.” Delancy had replied hopeful, and then quickly added, “I could maybe work for National Geographic or something.”

“A journalist,” his father said the word as if tasting it and wishing he could spit it out. “A fool, I have raised a fool”

“No dad,” Delanco began plunging right ahead, “You raised a future Pulitzer prize winning journalist.”

“No I did not!” His father exploded charging him, “I did NOT raise some pussy photojournalist! You WILL be a shrewd businessman like me and the other men in our family. No questions no negotiations!”

When Delancy went off to college he had obediently signed up for the required business classes and faithfully followed his fathers’ orders. In his junior year, however, Delancy met a pretty journalism major that introduced him to the joys of photography, not to mention the joys of a woman’s flesh, and he immediately changed his major to that which his heart desired, photo journalism and one pretty co-ed. He succeeded in hiding this deception from his family successfully for the remainder of his college career. When graduation time came around the bubble burst and all Pandora’s toxins ran rampage over Delancy Purdue. He was summarily disowned from the family and forbidden from contacting any of them in any way. Instead of receiving a brand new luxury coupe and a very large trust, he was thrown out onto the streets to live or die as he chose.

That is how Delancy Purdue the Grandson of one of Dublin’s wealthiest men ended up as an errand boy at the Times-Herald-Workmen. Of course he had a great title and good pay, no one wanted to take a chance in pissing off the Purdue family, even an outcast, but he was little more than an errand boy for the papers real photo journalist Michael Mallory. For Delancy it was a glorious day indeed when Michael announced his resignation from the papers small staff. Finally his day had come and Delancy could begin his career as a great photojournalist. It was a given that he would succeed, he was a Purdue after all.

Delancy knew what people in this town thought of him and he hated them for it, he also planned to one day make them all sorry for their thoughts regarding the grand-son of one of this mud hole towns wealthiest men. He did not know if he hated the fact that people thought him to be a pansy more, or the fact that they all thought his mind was lacking a few important screws. Delancy Celephias Purdue was by no means a dumb ass, or so he liked to tell himself, and today would mark the end of any nonsense amongst these bumpkins. He would show them what kind of man he was and brook no argument. He walked into the news desk after lunch that afternoon and announced to his publisher Harold, and everyone else within earshot, that he was going to Michael Mallory’s home.

“Don’t think that is such a good idea son.” His Publisher told him, “Michael is a private man and doesn’t like uninvited guest.”

“Well I borrowed a lens from him awhile ago and I wanted to return it before he left town.” Delanco said.

“Uh, don’t you think he would have asked for it by now if he really needed it? You borrowed it 90 days ago.”

“Maybe it slipped his mind.” Delancy said, “The man is getting old and out of sorts.”

“Really?” Harold sneered.

“Yes,” Delancy said confidently, “I think so. Do you know what he said to me this morning?”

“I could guess. You run along Danny Boy, deliver that prize lens.”

“I will and the names Delancy.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Harold said walking away shaking his large shaggy head.

Little did Delancy Purdue know, as he walked from that office, that there would be many a wagging head at the thought of his fate after crossing the threshold of Michael Mallory’s home.


The house itself, for all appearances was by no means remarkable, a Sears sided tract home similar to any other within a ten block radius. The only obvious difference was the dull orange siding protecting the outer walls. Delancy marveled at this phenomenon as he stood on the sidewalk outside his vehicle. It was odd enough that siding would even be manufactured in that color; but that someone would pay money to have it put on their home was flabbergasting to say the absolute least. Delancy thought he had surely made a mistake and had stopped at the wrong house. Michael Mallory had always struck Delancy as a man with impeccable taste and someone who would choose orange siding had to be a nut. Delancy looked down at the slip of paper in his hand. 1669 W. Market Rd., this was the correct road. He then looked around at the house numbers near by, they were all clearly marked on the house fronts for easy identification by emergency personnel, and after long, careful deliberation decided that this was indeed the place.

Resigned to prove his prowess Delancy sighed and headed up the walk. Aside from an occasional crack in the pavement with an odd weed or blade of grass poking through, the front of the home seemed reasonably well tended. Delancy vaguely remembered seeing a neighborhood boy here mowing one Saturday afternoon when he’d been in the area selling Kirby vacuums, a short lived profession between college and the THW. Many times he had walked toward a home, on a walkway similar to this one, toting a 100 pound vacuum and an extra twenty-five pounds of attachments, accessories, and order forms. This walk had the same feel, only this time toting a single pound of camera lens, not for sale, but for respect.

That was all Delancy Purdue wanted from the people in this backward back wood, a little respect. The type of respect he thought due to a man who had the courage to give up all his families’ wealth and prestige in order to chase his own life’s dreams. Did any of these people realize that had he chosen to do so Delancy could be running their existence from behind the scenes? He could easily be making their laws, setting their wages, giving or taking at will all through the power of the green god Mammon. And the way Delancy figured it, if he could gain respect from the most respected man in town the others would have no choice but to fall into line, regardless of whether the man lived in town or not. Maybe Michael would send a thank you note; Delancy thought that would top it off for sure even if the crooked old coot would be gone for good.

“I’ll put it on my desk. Then let’s see them doubt me.”

Realizing he had spoken aloud Delancy glanced self-consciously around to see if anybody had heard. At the end of the walk an old woman stood staring at him. She held the lead of a thick chain leash and attached to the other end was the biggest, meanest dog Delancy had ever laid his beady myopic eyes on. The dog actually may have been a big teddy bear for all Delancy knew but he had never been the best friend of any dog and to him they were all the descendents of Cerberus. His first thought was that the old lady would surely sic the monster on him if he so much as moved in her direction; he took a step back and almost fell up the steps to the porch. Recovering himself he only stared back at the old woman thinking that the dog would surely accost the old broad one night and swallow her whole. The dog growled low in its throat and Delancy turned to ring the door bell looking for the safety of the interior.

“I wouldn’t do that were I you.” The old woman’s voice came into Delancy’s ears as a whisper almost as if she was standing right beside him when she spoke. Delancy spun around and found the old lady still standing at the end of the walk. Her dog was straining so hard at the end of the leash that he stood straight up on his hind legs, his teeth bared in a skeletal grin that low growl rumbling in his throat like some sort of badly tuned engine. With the massive size and obvious strength of the beast the woman should have been un-able to keep it from tearing his throat out, but her muscles didn’t even strain with the effort of holding the big animal back.

“Ah, what do you know about it old bag?” Delancy said under his breath, regaining some of his composure but still a little shaken by the sight of the big dog.

“I know I would leave that old house to its peace were I you.”


Delancy was certain that she could not have heard him speak; hell he had barely spoken at all. Yet her brittle, dried old lady voice came back to him in that same soft whisper. He stared at her and her still straining dog and worked his tongue over his teeth. She simply could not have heard me, he thought, I had to have imagined her response. It was only a murmur of the wind or that same wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Or maybe it was just my own mind a little jumpy about the dog and imagining things, surely that and nothing more. As he turned back away from the old woman it struck him funny how much like Ebenezer Scrooge he sounded just then denouncing the hallucinating effects of under cooked potatoes.

Delancy turned from the woman again, unconsciously wiping sweat off his brow, and rang the bell. Hearing no chime from within, he rang it again with a little more force and glanced over his shoulder at the old lady. He was surprised to find the old woman to be gone, completely she was no where to be seen on the street. Delancy walked a little way down the walk in order to get a better view of the block and could not see the lady any where.

“Not only is she super strong but she is faster than a speeding bullet too.” Delancy said to himself.

“I’d be gone of this place were I you! I’d leave it to its peace!” This time the woman’s voice was loud, unnaturally so. The force with which it slammed into his ear drums was mind numbing. Delancy staggered backwards and whirled on his heels toward the house, his hands flying up to cover his ears. He saw the woman’s dog rocketing towards him its lean powerful body pushing it down the walk with little effort but with a focused, deadly purpose. Delancy’s hands left his ears and went out in front of his face in a defensive motion. In his effort to get further away from the dogs attack Delancy fell backwards onto his ass snapping his teeth together with jarring impact and rolling heels over head. Immediately he leapt up looking to take flight and try to avoid the mauling he was surely going to receive should he remain here. He turned around looking for his assailant, the old lady, something to tell him that he wasn’t going crazy in front of Michael Mallory’s home in the middle of small town America. He saw only the old woman at the far corner crossing the street with her dog firmly chained. Delancy looked after her for a moment and regained his composure. He took a deep breath and dusted himself off, then turned back toward the house.

“Let it be.” He heard the old woman’s voice in his head again and whirled towards where he had last seen her expecting to see the dog charging up the block after the throat he had so narrowly missed, there was nothing. He turned again for the house and ran up to the porch.

“Michael, Michael Mallory?!” Delancy shouted raising his fist and pounding the door.

With the first blow the door swung open on its hinges so quickly that it slammed back in Delancy’s face with a bang. Taking a firm hold on the door knob Delancy turned it and opened the door and knocked on the jamb.

“Mr. Mallory?” He called into the darkness beyond the cone of light falling through the open doorway. “Mr. Mallory it’s Delancy Purdue. I am here to return your camera lens sir. “

Upon entering the home of Michael Mallory the first thing Delancy noticed was its state of apparent disuse and decay. The floor boards were worn and rotting away, and in the places where they were covered by rugs sagging from water damage and mildew. The few items of furniture that were in the house were all covered by drop cloths and these in turn were covered in thick layers of dust. The afternoon sun had dimmed to a gray haze as it struggled to shine through panes of glass covered in thick layers of dirt and grime, and to fight off the shadows that had come to call this place home. Oddly enough there was not one single spider web that Delancy could see. This place should be covered in cobwebs spiders were simply not known to pass up such great accommodations, but there was not a single strand.

“Great to see that somebody cleans up something around this place” Delancy said as he stepped across the thresh hold, “Could use a maid though.”

Once inside Delancy stopped to allow his eyes to adjust to the age created twilight. Once comfortable that he wouldn’t bang his shin on any low table or knock over an expensive lamp Delancy turned to close the door. His shock at finding it already closed and securely latched was minimal at first. When he reached for the knob, however, and found it also locked his ire raised a notch. It seemed that this door would only be opened if it were first unlocked with a key.

“Damned it all,” Delancy said under his breath, “this is getting to be more trouble than it is worth.” For the second time in only a few minutes the cold finger of fear was working its way up his spine and tickling his neck. This was getting to be more trouble than it was worth and the warnings of his publisher and the old super hero lady were beginning to make sense to him. Unfortunately Delancy was already in further than he thought he would ever have to really get. He began to make his way towards the back of the house his foot steps and the motion of his passage combined to create a thick cloud of dust in his wake. Delancy headed for the back hall shouting for Michael Mallory.

“Michael? I have come to return your camera lens.” Delancy held the lens out in front of him like an offering to a notoriously angry god.

“Go away from this place. Leave this old house be.” The voice of Michael Mallory stopped Delancy dead in his tracks. Not because it came from directly behind him where it could not have been only moments ago, or even that that voice wafted across his neck in an icy breath that chilled him to the bones. It was the quality of that voice that froze Delancy and caused his slight fear to blossom into unbridled terror. He held the lens tight enough to cause a hairline fracture to run along the glass like a rat scurrying for the safety of a dark corner. Delancy opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for a life giving breath that can be seen but not reached from the bank of a rocky river.

The voice that had answered his call was as dry and dusty as this old house. It had a rasp to it that sounded like it came from the throat of someone who had just swallowed sand. It sounded to Delancy’s ears like a Hollywood rendition of the mummy’s voice only all the more realistic because that cold dead sound had been in Delancy’s ears. Up close and in person. Delancy felt that the owner of that voice was not just speaking from the screen of a horror movie but was instead standing directly behind him, strips of rotted, dried flesh hanging from its bones like so many dirty rags.

At the thought of turning around to face this supposed monster Delancy Purdue’s body rebelled. His balls sack shriveled up and retracted into his gut creating a small cold lump in his lower belly. His shoulders tensed and rounded, and his hands balled into fists, the camera lens cracked and fell away in pieces at his feet. He ground his teeth together painfully and strangely enough his nose began to bleed. His mind began to run through visions of violent death at the hands of an imagined demon direct from the pits of his own imagined hell. Those thoughts got his feet in motion. They both felt as if they had been set in concrete but the speed with witch Delancy Purdue fled down the hall was almost supernatural. He blazed past doors on each side of him never noticing their presence or noting the things that watched him pass and reached out to his warm living flesh. In the course of his passage he knocked over an antique telephone desk splintering it, the collision almost sent him sprawling to the floor but maybe it was some sense of what awaited him should he fall that helped him keep his footing, maybe it was some forgotten athletic ability. Whatever it was it was a thing that only delayed the inevitable.

At the end of the hall was a single wooden door. It was the only one along the corridor that was closed and the only one Delancy even noticed. It appeared to him to be a beacon in a place of darkness and impending death. That door in the few seconds it took to reach it seemed to Delancy an un-reachable savior, the one thing that could save his mind, his soul, and his life from certain damnation. The feel of the knob in his hand was like that of the first breast he had ever touched, it felt like a precious jewel to be cherished and savored. The thought gave him an erection and he breathed a sigh of relief when the knob turned easily in his hand. Feeling sure of his escape, Delancy turned and looked over his shoulder at the interior of the house. The hall behind him was filled floor to ceiling with large worm like creatures. Each was at least six feet long and pulled itself along the floor or the backs of its brother with long black tentacles. None had a single eye with which to see Delancy yet they pulled themselves along toward him as unerringly as if he were lit by powerful halogen lamps. None had a mouth that Delancy could see but he was sure that they would devour him as surely as if they had mouths full of razor sharp teeth.

The sight of them caused Delancy to loose control of his bodily functions and the stench of human waste wafted up to his nostrils. The feeling of his own feces felt like something was crawling along his leg, something with black tentacles and a warm alien body. As they caught the scent of his fear the creatures began to move faster. This again galvanized Delancy into motion. He opened the door and flung himself through.



This is the tale as I know it from speaking to the town’s people in that small burg in north Texas. They all told me about the same thing, Michael Mallory was a well respected, even loved man, and Delancy Purdue was a loony who ended up where he and his whole family belonged. I think that the people of that town knew what I later found out and what Delancy had no clue of. Michael Mallory was a fugitive of sorts, a man hunted by beings that could be known as demons, or devils, beings who worked their wickedry not in the land of the living but amongst the dead. These are the Lurkers at the Threshold, the Dwellers between the Angles, The Hounds of Tindalos and they will mark you and bring you down for they are ever hungry for your soul.

When Delancy Purdue crossed that threshold his way of seeing the world was forever changed. He had heard before of the places that lie between our world and others, places of unspeakable evils and horrors that defied description. The first thing that Delancy found out was that these places were only unspeakable because to speak aloud of such things and believe in them would surely make a man crazy. The horrors there only defied description because the mind of a rational man could not bring itself to place such things in perspective on such a descriptive medium. Delancy Purdue was not a rational man and he did not go crazy seeing what he saw in that place. He spoke the truth when he told his tale and the things he described therein are real.

Here then is the account of Delancy Purdue…



There in the middle of the room stood Michael Mallory. I know it was him, I know it even though he had to be forty years younger standing there. They say I am crazy for saying the things I have said yet I know them to be the truth…Oh Dear God help me! I know them to be reality… Does not man judge his reality by what he can perceive with his own sense? Can not a man see and believe… (Here the account becomes a little muddy, I think Delancy goes on a Religious and scientific diatribe all at once. ED.) I saw there the old woman from the street. She was the same but different. As she stood there in her summer dress I could perceive strange motions coming from underneath. It was as if she wore an undergarment made of living serpents. They curled around her in a faithful embrace and only once in a while struck out at the fabric confining them as if trying to strike Michael and bring him his death. She stood there in front of Michael swaying in a sort of strange rhythm, her hands and head dangling as the weight of them were too much to bear. I heard then her voice, that strange voice that seemed a lovers whisper in your ear, that noise you know you should not be hearing at all. And in reply to her I heard Michaels voice, but not the voice of the mean old bastard at the paper, instead it was the voice of the mummy who had haunted me in that house. They spoke a language which I did not understand, the very sound of it hurt my ears and I cried out for it to stop. They heard me scream, both of them. She turned toward me but Michael stared past her at the closet door that was opening behind her. The next events happened almost all at once and were so overwhelming that I don’t know how to put them all down here. The old woman was the same as I said, but when she turned towards me I saw in her the dog that had attacked me on the walk outside. Its head sprouted up from her shoulder like some gross tumor that had chewed its way out of her body. The eyes in its head were the same eyes that once lived in the old woman’s face but now stared out at me with an odd feral intelligence. The woman’s face was empty of anything at all. Nothing but a thin sheet of skin stretched over bone and cartilage her mouth became a death-head, laughing at the plight of the living, one day we would all be dead and in that death this horror our only companion. She spoke to me in that whispering voice a language that could have only been born in Hell, this time the words did not thrust me into torment but instead sent me into the deepest, darkest corner of my fear there to cower and await my last breaths. I would rather have followed Michael Mallory into that place than to have seen my own hell first hand. Michael Mallory? That closet door opened behind that old woman and out came a tangible darkness like an oil spill spreading over the Atlantic coast. That blackness carried with it an odor like an uncovered mass grave where many of the dead lived on and shat, and vomited, and ate those who were too week to eat them. (that is the vision I had from that darkness, and that smell). And the screams, it also brought the screaming that started that day in my head and has not stopped one second since. Like a beacon to them the screaming continues in my head and by it they have marked me and when my time comes they will find me by it and take me away with them. To where Michael went into that closet with that woman. She turned from me then, the darkness from that closet fondling her like a teenage lover, opening her dress to expose the most beautiful breast I have ever seen, lifting her skirt and entering itself into her pussy with a savage lust. She leaned into it giving herself to it enjoying the touch, savoring it. Her belly began to ripple and twist, it burst open and all these tentacles, like the ones on the creatures in the hall came bursting out of her. They wrapped them selves around Michael Mallory and crushed a scream out of him. I could hear his bones breaking and grinding against one another. His eyes popped and ran down his cheeks like grape jelly, he bit his own tongue off and left it laying there on the floor. The darkness from that closet pulled them both inside slowly as if willing me to see everything, I was to bear witness to its power, understand and bring it all back to you. Michael Mallory was the last to vanish into that blackness, but, before he disappeared into its depths and that door closed, he looked at me. It was not the face of Michael Mallory that I saw then. It was my father.
The End
D. L. Kimble
Saturday, March 09, 2002

© Davin Kimble
2002

A Remarkable Photograph

A Remarkable Picture
By Davin Kimble
Sam Daval awoke in the same dingy hotel room and the same sorry state in which he’d gone to sleep. Waking up in a bed was at least a change, different, if not at all refreshing, from the usual hard concrete or dingy bar room floors where he usually found himself on a morning. The pounding behind his eyes told him that the daily hang over was already in full gear, speeding to pure misery, and he reached over blindly seeking out the bottle he knew would be near. His hand bumped the bottle and knocked it over. From the dull ringing thunk and the sloshing liquid sound, he knew that the bottle was less than half full and he cursed himself for spilling even a single drop. As quickly as his aching muscles would allow him he retrieved the precious elixir and gulped the cheap brown fluid inside. Not even the sharp tang of ashes on his tongue stopped him finishing off the bottle. He’d had worse over the last few months.
Collapsing back onto the filthy mattress, Sam allowed himself to drift back into a semi sleep. The booze helped him relax, but it was not near enough to stave off the dreams. Again, he saw the gallery where his work had been displayed. He could clearly hear the quiet awe of the assembled guests all specially invited to see, and hopefully buy, his greatest works. Photography for Sam had always been more that an art, more than capturing a moment in time, for him it had been a passion that surpassed all others. He’d never been married, never been in even a serious relationship. He’d never finished school, never had friends, never played team sports, never had a job, never watched television or bothered to develop anything other than his skills as a photographer. If he read, he read books about photography. If he went out, he went camera in hand. He heard her voice again in his dream, the blonde woman he’d taken home that night, rather, the woman he’d intended on taking home until the accident.
The gallery was full and near to closing when he’d heard her voice and he followed the sound, his eye to the view finder his finger, clicking the mechanism, working the shutter again and again, as he followed her around the room. She did not notice him at first, but by the time she did, Sam knew every detail of her face and body already. He’d studied her intimately through the lens, as if he’d been her most careful and patient lover. She smiled at him through the eye of the lens, and for the first time since hearing her speak, he lowered the camera. Her smile was the most stunning thing he’d ever seen, and he decided then and there that she would be the subject of his next exhibition. He could already see in his mind’s eye the finished product. With that thought, he approached her, and though she was at first wary of his advances, she soon warmed to the idea of modeling for him and not long after they were speeding towards his home in his ’67 Corvette.
Though he’d started since, Sam didn’t drink back then. His impatience came not from his loins but from his camera urging him on. He could see her even then filling its frame, his vision coming to life in the darkroom he’d built with his own hands. He knew she’d sleep with him of course, they all did, but that was merely a bonus that came along with her captured image. He looked to her as he drove, her smile dazzling even with the naked eye, and his foot unconsciously pressed harder on the accelerator. The car, already zipping along the mostly deserted streets, lurched ahead at his urging and slammed into the side of a school bus.
Sam jerked awake at the memory of that piercing roar of metal meeting metal and the screams of children. It had been a bus load of high school kids, on their way home from a band recital at the local performance hall. He’d never seen them, but in that instant he knew who they were. They had been featured in the lifestyles section of the paper where his gallery exhibit had been featured. He remembered mostly because they had taken the front page over his work and he’d been thoroughly infuriated at that. Sam remembered calling his agent then, giving him a thorough reaming over the fact. Of course his agent had no control over where the paper placed a feature but Sam, lacking as he was, cussed his agent thoroughly none the less and he was sure the agent cussed the paper in turn.
The dream slowly faded from his mind but the memories continued. That day changed Sam in the eyes of his adoring public. The woman and three of the children died in that crash and Sam, emerging unscathed, was found snapping away three rolls of film already exhausted by the time the authorities arrived on the scene. He fought for three months to have those photographs returned to him afterwards. His agent begged him to be more cooperative often telling him that it was a miracle that he was not up on charges. Lucky for Sam, the bus driver was found to be negligent in the case, having turned into Sam’s lane, and Sam was hit with only a speeding ticket. But the effects of his behavior afterward were devastating.
The same critics that had made him famous now turned on him with a vengeance, following the lead of reporters, parents and elected officials, who were furious at his lack of remorse over the deaths of four innocent people, three of which had been children with their whole lives ahead of them. In a matter of days, Sam went from being heralded as the greatest photographer of the time, to being lambasted and portrayed as an uncaring, soulless hack. One critic referred to his work as unremarkable.
“Unremarkable.” Sam muttered to himself as he pealed his aching body from the flea ridden mattress. At firs,t the words had meant nothing to him but soon the effect of that one line of text struck him as a smiting from God. His agent dropped him and no other would touch him, his gallery showing went from a major city event to nothing in a matter of days and he could not even pay to have his work displayed. Soon afterward he found some of his best works for sale on E-bay for pennies on the dollar and the biddings were less than remarkable themselves. Soon, the money began to dry up, Sam found an eviction notice in his mailbox, topping a stack of past due bills. Life from there, for Sam, became truly less than remarkable.

Soon after making his way around the darkroom equipment in the hotel room bathroom, and washing the alcohol stink from his skin as best he was able, Sam took up his camera and stepped into the glaring summer sunlight beyond the threshold. The glare brought the pounding in his head back full force, and Sam squinted against the glare and the pain, looking for the signs of an open bar near by. Seeing only a narrow strip of highway before him and a small convenience store at the far end of the hotel parking lot Sam made his way toward the latter. The dust under his feet and the sweat that soaked through his shirt told him that he had landed in some desert town somewhere. How long ago he couldn’t remember, but the cheerful greeting from the girl behind the counter told him that it had been a few days at least.
“Morning Mr. Daval,” the girl said to him as he stepped into the small room. The air inside was frigid, in comparison to the stifling heat outside and Sam shivered.
“Uh, morning…”
“Shirley,” the girl said reminding him in a tone that told him that she’d been reminding him every day. “Too early for me to sell you a bottle,” she continued.
Sam looked her over, noting the large nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her blouse and the gentle pink of her tongue as she worked it over a Popsicle. She was a pretty girl but plain and a bit thin. Sam felt a small twinge in his jeans, for which he was glad, but he only smiled and turned for the medicinal aisle. Finding aspirin there he then turned for the cooler pulling out two cool cokes. Opening one immediately, Sam took three aspirin, chewing them slightly before taking down half of one coke in a single swallow. On his way to the counter, he looked over the pastry and chip selection but the rolling of his gut told him he would never keep anything down; so, he took only the cokes and aspirin.
“Going out to take more pictures?” Shirley asked him as she expertly worked the register.
She pronounced the work Pit-shures and that brought a small smile to Sam’s face. Up close, Shirley was cuter than he’d originally thought but obviously young. The twinge in his jeans insisted that she was old enough but a slight twinge did nothing to convince him he’d be able to please even her; so he set the thought of asking her to his room aside. Besides, it was a pig sty not exactly conducive to seduction. Maybe he’d clean it up some, catch her later.
“Yeah,” he said in reply, “Going to get something remarkable today.”
“That would be great,” she said, as she counted out his change. “You really should check out the old Mills mine. We used to go up there as kids, pretty neat place. I could give you directions, or if you want to I could show you the way later.” She smiled at him then and he had a sudden sharp flash of the blonde smiling at him through the lens finder, her face mostly smashed her soft flesh studded with bits of windshield glass.
“Uh, just the directions for now,” he said stuffing the wadded bills and coins into his pocket.
A small pout creased her pretty lips but she dutifully produced a pen and a scrap of paper and jotted the directions down. Sam took them from her with thanks and headed back out into the stifling heat.
“See you later Mr. Daval.” He heard her say as the door jangled shut behind him.
Sam swallowed the last of his first coke tossing the empty into a nearby trash can and opened the second before heading across the lot to his waiting vehicle. The camera was a comfortable, reassuring weight at his side as he walked, and he drew strength from it. By the time he’d reached the old Chevrolet, he’d begun to feel better, and he could feel the familiar urgency to be snapping away coming over him. He crawled behind the wheel of the car, barely noticing the hot leather of the seats, and glanced down at the scrap of paper Shirley had given him. He noted the phone number at the bottom, and the little smiley face she’d signed it with, the twinge in his pants returned. Maybe he’d call her after all he thought, starting the engine.

While not a Corvette, the old car served him well, and he soon found himself speeding down the two lane black top looking for the turnoff that would lead him out to the old mine. The directions were clear, and though it took more than an hour to reach his destination, Sam had no trouble finding the place. It had obviously been closed for sometime the fencing, while not open to vehicle traffic, had a gap in it large enough for him to squeeze through. Parking the car, Sam followed the dirt track through the gap in the fence, and over to the edge of an open pit mine. In the bottom stood a few rusted out pieces of machinery and some trailers, which had likely been offices when the mine was in business. Sam took a few shots from the lip and then followed the track down into the bottom. As he went he snapped away, changing the roll once as he descended.
Reaching the floor of the mine, Sam suddenly wondered what he was doing out here in the middle of nowhere. The greatest unremarkable photographer of our time, taking pictures of a long abandoned mine with nothing more remarkable than some abandoned pieces of rusted junk to shoot. He should be somewhere else, anywhere else, shooting something that might bring him back into prominence as a photographer. He should be shooting the plain girl behind the counter of the store, or some tropical beach somewhere exotic. The feeling that he shouldn’t be here overwhelmed him for a moment, and his feet had turned to leave before he realized what he was doing. Then he heard the voice.
At first it was faint, something that could have blown in from some distance on the wind, had there been one. He stood still, his head cocked to one side listening, his camera in one hand, the other wiping itself on his jeans. The feeling of needing to be gone from this place came over him again and just as he decided he’d imagined the noise and turned to leave, he heard the voice again.
“Sam,” it said clearly as if standing directly behind him. He turned with a start and had the cameras strap not been around his neck, he would have dropped his most precious possession. He looked around and saw nothing he’d not already seen. The feeling that he should not be here was suddenly joined by the feeling that he was being watched. The feeling was so strong, that he backed away a few steps and tripped over a piece of pipe lying on the ground behind him.
“Sam, help me Sam,” the voice came again, from somewhere near the closest trailer.
“Hello,” Sam said picking himself up from the ground.
Quickly checking over the camera he walked slowly towards the trailer, the camera held out before him like a pistol, lot of good it would do him if there were some danger out here, but he could not release his hold on it. He inched his way to the back of the building and tried to peer inside one of the dusty windows. He could see only faint out lines and hazy shapes beyond the thick layer of grime. Taking a deep breath he continued around the side creeping to the edge of the trailer. Peering around the corner, he saw only the three worn wooden steps leading up to the door. Having been so long in the dry climate, the steps were weathered to hard wood and looked stable enough to hold his weight. Again, the feeling that he should flee washed over him, this time with such force he froze dead his eyes on the door before him. He fully expected to see some horror burst from the trailer, some monster from the nightmares of mad men, intent on devouring much more than his flesh.
“Hello,” Sam called again inching up the stairs, one hand holding the camera out before him the other reaching for the door handle. No answer, just more of that same feeling that he should not be here, that he should be anywhere in the wide world but here.
“I am coming in,” he called, reaching out at the extent of his arm for the door. He pulled, hard, and the door banged open, slamming into the side of the trailer before slamming back into place. In that instant he heard a piercing scream from within, and a stench so horrible assaulted his senses that he fell over backwards off the stairs and onto the hard ground. As he went, he could hear the shutter of his camera clicking away. He felt as if something were on top of him battering at his head and shoulders. The smell covered him like a physical weight, he thrashed about attempting to free himself from both the unseen weight and the pressure of the smell. He flailed, screaming at the top of his lungs, lunging this way and that in his frenzy to escape this unseen horror. The screaming voice he’d heard earlier rang in his ears.
“Sam, Sam, help me Sam! They have me and soon they will have you too!”
Sam screamed again, as darkness overcame him, he could hear clearly over the screaming his cameras shutter doing its work.

“These images are the last photo’s ever taken by the late Sam Daval,” the gallery curator said, leading the small group to the display. “No one really knows what happened to Sam, but these images are what were found in a makeshift darkroom he’d set up in a hotel room in the middle of the desert in Nevada.”
The group crowded up to the photographs, awe obvious on their enraptured features. The curator gave them a moment to look before continuing.
“As you can see, though the scene is a desert it is obviously no where we have ever seen before. I know you are all thinking that they could have been done digitally, but let me assure you, they are all original, pure photographs, developed in a darkroom. From our understanding of the story, Sam took these in daylight hours although they are quite obviously night photos. And, if you look here,” he pointed to one photo in particular, “you can clearly see a figure that appears to be our Sam himself.”
“He looks terrified,” A woman in the back of the group said.
The curator noted the woman’s nipples showed prominently through her thin blouse and the gentle pink of her tongue as she worked it over the rim of her glass. She was a pretty girl but plain and a bit thin.
“Indeed he does Miss…”
“Shirley,” she replied as if she’d told him before. “They are remarkable pictures.” She pronounced the word Pit-shures.
Yes, remarkable indeed.