Denial's Due

 Denial's Due

What powerlessness in a failing grasp!
Unable to hold for a simple task,
without flittering away, distracted!
Day to day life becoming impacted,
altering the most basic lifestyle,
Yet, loved ones close their eyes in denial:
It's just been a rough day, or a rough week,
It’s just exhaustion that hides what you seek,
Those words, and memories, faces and names,
They hide deep in the shadows all the same,
Showing themselves with the tiniest slips,
But not enough for the tongue or the lips…
And it just gets worse in denial’s wait,
Until it’s acknowledged… often too late. 

Writer's Morning

A cup of coffee
on the table by my notes,
helping me along.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Three Percent

 Three Percent 

There was a small amount of pressure before the tooth gave, and his jaw felt like it was on fire. The taste of copper filled his mouth, and he gave an agonizing scream that gave way to coughing as he started choking on his own blood.

The man standing before him stared at him intently, holding the needle nose pliers out to show the tooth that was clasped within its grip.

Beside him, his wife was looking the other way, sobbing around the cloth gag the man had tied to her face.

“This would be a whole lot simpler if you would just tell me where it is,” the man said with a bored tone. “I may even let you go.”

Murphy gathered the blood in his mouth and spit it towards the man. The majority of it fell upon himself and the concrete floor of his own basement, but some splattered across the man’s face.

“I can not promise that my offer to spare you will last,” the man said as he turned to put the pliers on the table behind him. “Tell me where it is, and we can move on.”

The man removed his glasses and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the blood.

Murphy stood as best he could, being tied to his chair, and charged the man. For a brief moment, the man actually showed something other than boredom on his face. His eyebrows went up, and his mouth went to say something that was cut off as the top spire of Murphy’s chair pierced his chest.

As they slammed into the stone wall of the basement, the spire pushed through the man, and hit the wall, putting just enough pressure on the wood to splinter it where the back met the arm. His arm still tied to the arm rest, but now free to move around, Murphy pulled it back across his chest before swinging it down on the throat of the still astonished looking man.

That morning, he had falsely presented himself as a man wanting to buy the Truck that Murphy had listed on marketplace. Hours later, which seemed like an eternity with the torture that he had subjected Murphy and Lanore to, he had admitted that the deed to the house was his goal. He was going to use it to present himself as the new owner, having “bought” it from Murphy and his wife who then would “move on”. No purchase, no contract, just good old-fashioned land theft, and no one would be the wiser without Murphy and his wife to say otherwise.

Now, the man sat with his back against the wall, his own blood pooling from the chair spire still in his chest, and the splinter filled gash on his neck from the armrest, still staring at Murphy in disbelief.

Murphy used his free hand to untie himself from the remnants of his chair, before running to Lanore to free her. Lanore stopped screaming and ventured a peek to see the man dying on the floor.

She leapt to Murphy’s arms, and hugged him, sobbing again. She pulled away and then hit his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you just tell him where the deed was?” She screamed. “He ripped your tooth out! What were you thinking?!”

“Good point,” Murphy said. He looked down at the table and picked up his tooth from the grasp of the pliers. He winced at the sight of it. With a slow sigh, he dropped it into the breast pocket of his shirt.

Murphy then shook his head and grabbed one of the knives on the table the man had lain out to intimidate the couple with. He then sat in Lanore’s chair and kept an eye on the man.

“Go upstairs and call 911, and tell ‘em what happened,” Murphy said. “I am going to sit right here until they get here.”

“Why aren’t you listening to me?” She sobbed again. “He was going to kill us!”

“He was going to kill us either way, baby doll,” Murphy replied. “Besides, we bought this land with 3 percent interest. I ain’t going nowhere.”

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Truth

 Truth

Rot grips our nation

And one simple truth prevails:

We. Were. Never. Asked. 

Penny for your thoughts.

 

Penny for your thoughts

“Got another smoke?”

Mickey pulled a pack from his jeans pocket, and after pulling one out for himself, handed it to Derek.

“Too bad your old man is home, I could go for something to drink,” Mickey said.

“Something like his new girlfriend?” Derek asked, around the cigarette in his lips as he flicked at his lighter.

When Mickey didn’t say anything, he added “You know, Tall, cold, and alcoholic.”

Mickey laughed.

They stopped at the light on the corner.

“Which way?”

Derek looked around. “What intersection is this?”

“13^TH and….”

Mickey looked up for a sign, but there was nothing but the stoplight. He looked up and down the intersecting road. It wasn’t as well lit, with only every third streetlamp seeming to be working.

 “I..uh..Dunno.”

“Weird,” Derek muttered. “I don’t remember seeing this one before…”

Mickey hissed at him. “Let’s go left. Someone is walking towards us.”

Derek took a drag and hesitantly nodded. They liked walking around at night, but some folks gave them the heebie-jeebies, and at night it was worse because you just never knew.

They stepped off the corner and started to walk briskly down the new road. About a block down, Mickey looked over his shoulder. The silhouette of a man had turned from 13^th and was now following them. They kept walking at a pace that reminded him of those mall walkers. He was getting ready to suggest that they just book it, when passing under one of the working lights, Derek stopped in his tracks and looked up.  

“Is that fire?”

Mickey squinted up at the light. Sure enough, there was the tell-tale flicker. He looked around. “Holy shit! Look at the road!”

For a moment, they both stared at bricks that made up the road.

“This is weird, man,” Derek said. “Does the air smell…clean?”

“Is it…Is it darker out?”

They looked up at the sky to see the open sky filled with stars usually hidden by the glow of the city. They backed up to get back into the light of the flickering light of the lamp post. They turned to begin to head back towards the intersection, being of the same mind to get out of where every this was, and came face to face with the man who had moments ago made them worried. That worry gone, they tried to go around him.

“Gimme your wallets, jewelry, and phones.” The man demanded, stepping right back in front of them. “Now.”

“Shit,” Derek muttered.

“We’re kids, man. We ain’t got anything in our wallets, and my parents don’t let me have a cell phone!”

“Bull shit! You have to have something!” The man demanded stepping towards Mickey.

“Penny for your thoughts!”

Mickey and Derek looked at each other before looking at the man in front of them. His own face was a mask of confusion as he stared back at them.

“What?”

“Penny for your thoughts?” The voice repeated. It sounded like a little old grandma.

The man with the knife turned his head to look behind him and jumped back in surprise. He stood beside Mickey and Derek as the stooped figure of a little old lady stepped from the shadows. She had a walking stick, horned rimmed glasses, and a puffed up, fluffy, and flowery sun dress on, as if she were the stereotype that all little old ladies were crafted from.

“Don’t be startled dearies!” She said with a smile, revealing her yellow and crooked teeth. “I am just out for a stroll and saw you stopping in front of my home here and thought I would say hello!”

The man and the two boys looked around the old woman to the shadows that she stepped from. None of them could see any house behind her. Mickey sure the hell wasn’t going to say anything about it, so he just stood there, waiting.

“Beat it…” the man with the knife started, before seeing the shimmer of her necklace in the flickering light of the lamp post.

“Give me the Jewel, lady!” He stepped aggressively forward and pulled it right off her neck.

“Mercy me!” She said in a shocked voice that didn’t quite reach her face.

She still stood there as relaxed as when she first walked up.

Mickey thought about running when the old woman reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a penny.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

The man laughed, but then squinted at the coin, the woman held.

“No way...” he said. He stepped forward and snatched it from her. “This is a 1943-D Lincoln Bronze Wheat Penny! You crazy old broad! Do you know how valuable this is?!”

He laughed and gave a whoop.

“Yeah, I’ll take your penny for my thoughts. My thought is that you just made me a very rich…”

His words were cut short as she flung her arm out way faster than Mickey and Derek would have assumed to be humanly possible and sunk her hand right into his face. She then yanked it back with a sickening squelch and the man fell at their feet.

Mickey looked down at the man, and back up at the old woman who was just staring at them, holding the dripping brains of the dead man in her hand. Maintaining eye contact, the woman sniffed the brains and took a large bite from it.

They watched her, seemingly paralyzed, before Mickey could will his feet to move. He grabbed Derek and pulled his arm as he took off from where they had turned onto the road. He looked over his shoulder as they ran. The old woman just stared at them as they ran away, finishing her oozing meal, before wiping her hand, and bending down to pick up the penny from the man’s hand.

As they hit the intersection, just before Mickey could decide to go left or right, a man on a bicycle nearly hit them.

“Watch where you’re going damn it!” He yelled.

Mickey stopped and spun around. The intersection was no longer an intersection, but a brick wall that faced a T intersection. He reached out and shakily touched the bricks. Solid, and cold.

“What the..” Derek asked, wheezing and coughing.

As the man on the bike got further away, and his cursing faded out, Mickey could just barely hear the little old woman’s voice.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

They took off running again, their foot falls echoing off of the cold brick walls.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved

Dear Anonymous Commenter

Dear Anonymous Commenter,

I was pretty excited when I saw the comment notification. I've had my writing website since 2012, and this would be my very first comment.

You know, I have to be honest, I've had a rough couple few months, and to see someone taking the time to say something gave me a momentary elated feeling.

And, in the sake of honesty, I must admit that I took it pretty rough.

If I had just started with my website, and this was the first comment, I doubt it would have landed as quite the blow to the gut that it did.

It took me a moment to gather my wits about me to remember that you are not someone who actually reads poetry, or short stories, or has probably invested yourself in any of my work further than maybe one or two of the Haikus on my page.

As most of my longer stuff was removed for the publishing process, so I doubt you've had the chance to look at those, or would be interested in buying my collection to get a feel for them or my style.

Ultimately, dear commenter, are just a nameless, faceless, and ultimately feckless voice vomiting your nonsense to spread the vile darkness in your own soul to as many other people as possible.

In the end, while it is disappointing that you would be my first comment after all this time, I must thank you for setting the bar so low on the comment section. Perhaps the next comment I get will be a bit higher than yours and won't feel quite as sharp.

So, I'm sorry that my work (that you have access to) is not up to your liking.

However, as a gift for being first commenter, I wrote you a Haiku that you will probably not like either.

A Haiku: "Dear Anonymous Commenter"

I can't take advice

from nameless online shadows.

Hope you understand.

Clarity

 Clarity 

Ramsey pulled his cruiser into the parking lot and killed his lights. The last few hours were eating away at the back of his mind. His stale chips, and cold coffee was doing nothing against the knots in his stomach.

The Ibuprofen he popped did nothing to take the sting out of his legs from having had to chase a kid 3 blocks, and jumping a small fence before another officer ultimately beat him to it and was able to tackle the kid, who then kicked and punched everyone close enough.

The soft music playing just under the intermittent chatter on the radio did nothing to silence the screaming sobs of a mom at the scene of the Seventh and Main.

The vape he hit did nothing to ease the cravings for just one cigarette to try to ease his mind from the old man who looked so defeated and ashamed as he reported being mugged. “I’ve never felt so helpless,” he had said point blankly as he stared down at the ground.

Now, in the dark sanctuary of the parking lot, away from the chaos, Officer Ramsey could empathize with that statement. Day after day, week after week, for months and years…and while it was never easy, it was manageable in the beginning.

Now?

Now he just really needed that cigarette. He got out of his car and pulled a solitary cigarette from a crumpled pack from his pocket. As he drew that first drag, Ramsey stepped away from the car. He stared into the darkness wondering what he was even doing when the parking lot seemed to explode with light.

Ramsey jumped, hand dropping to his waist, eyes blinking back at the sudden light before realizing he had tripped a flood light on a motion sensor. As he tried to get his heart back down from where it had jumped into his throat, he saw the statue illumined by the light. St. Michael, staring down his sword at the snake beneath his feet, the stones on the arch above him reading simply: “Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil…”

He jumped again as his radio crackled to life with dispatch wanting him to answer a call. Still staring at St. Michael, Ramsey affirmed he was only a couple blocks away, and would be on his way.

He took one last drag before dropping the cigarette to the ground and grinding it under his heel, and nodding.

Duty calls.

© Jeremy L. Heath, 2025. All rights reserved