Endgame Pt.2

A young man sits across from him, in a black, banded-collared shirt. His black hair was short enough, parted on the left and accented by low auburn, evidence of salt water and sunlight having assaulting it.

All of the voices combined, including his, coming from himself, "You look really fucking stupid pointing a gun at yourself..." The volume was deafening, both men stared into each other, as if seeking a soul, or maybe just a weakness. James sets the gun back onto the table, "Now what?" he finally asks ,"Where do we go from here?". "Well, for starters, you need to understand who I am and how I relate to your...situation." James reaches for his beverage, the ice having long since melted, the entire drink resting at room temperature. "I know who you are," he starts, "well I knew you once, I see you in the mirror sometimes..." His past reaches across the table towards the cigarettes James left in the open, and, brandishing a silver Zippo lighter, indulges in the newly acquired Lucky Strike. "You see us in more than your fucking mirror," a female chorus, "you've been having some rather interesting dreams lately, didn't you miss us?" "I have nothing to say to you," James snaps after gulping half of the remaining beverage, "the past is the past isn't it? better to leave it dead and buried I'd say." All the voices boom back, "You don't fucking get it do you?" his rival attempting to calm back down, "We made you, we are you, JAMES this is your past, and it's about damn time it catches up with you." James leans his head to the right, searching his reflections eyes for an answer, "What are you getting at?". A smile appears behind locks of blonde hair, highlighted with pink, electric blue eyes piercing him. "We are your endgame," one voice, peaceful, then his own voice, "every time you were scared about your past coming back to haunt you?...well, here I am, here we are."

"I feel nothing for you anymore, I've buried it all away, even you, my ghosts, will never really catch me." A full chorus of laughter echoes through the darkened bar as the ghost rises out of it's seat and fixes a gaze upon James. "I've faced the destruction you've put yourself through, more so, I was part of it, your present misery is quite comforting for all of us, we all hoped you'd suffer one day, and now it seems that we've gotten our wish sevenfold." James clenches a fist and leans against the back of his chair, cautiously eying his enemy. Then, Jame's eyes widened with a sudden realization of the magnitude of his situation, panic. Jumping from his seat, he reaches for his gun and points it between the eyes of his past, "Travis you fucking get away from me you fu..." he doesn't get the opportunity to finish as Travis reaches out and touches the gun, and through the contact launches James into a vivd flashback.

"You're past is going to kill you, James, you need to go and talk to someone because this isn't healthy." James could hear the words that Abigail, his cousin, was saying, but he wasn't listening, only staring out the window to the rain in the night. The pills, the self-help books, going out, nothing had helped, he hadn't taken his medication in days. "Do you think," he finally speaks to her, "You could section off a part of you, like split part of your mind off somewhere and erase it or like, I dunno, bury it?" Abigail looks at him with a concerned expression, she understands what he's trying to do, she understands his desperation, "I don't know love, maybe, we could try." The rain continued to fall outside the window, a faint rumble of thunder occupied the air. "It's like, being followed by ghosts, everyday, and no matter how fast I run they always can touch me, even when I'm out there..." James trails off, "they were never supposed to catch me..."

"Give him a name, then we can move on." a voice tells him through a haze, he doesn't know where he is or who the voice belongs to, but the name "Travis" escapes his lips. There is a flash, a crash, music. He comes to in an office where he sits in front of a list of names and is instructed to indicate if any of them mean anything in particular to him, none do, they send him home to rest. His past blocked away, Travis blocked away.

The bar explodes back into focus as James drops to the ground in a cold sweat at Travis' feet. "What the fuck did you do to me!?" he gasps, "what was that?". Travis shrugs over him, the chorus of female voices, again in unison, "Just getting reacquainted lover, how'd it feel?" The bar comes back into focus, the rain pouring harder than ever, "The mind is a terrible, terrible, terrible thing sometimes...and now, it's time for you to give in, and give up." Flashes of a baseball game, the Red Sox versus Yankees, a wedding ring, two rings, hate, hurt, flashes. "It never mattered" says a voice. James forces himself to focus again, back to the bar, back to the now, as Travis crouches over him, he can feel him savoring the moment. "Endlessly," she said, brunette hair brushed his face as she came into focus for a split second, maybe a single second. "I hope you suffer." says a different voice as he struggles to stand, Travis comes back into view and James braces himself against the wall and releases a slight chuckle. "Let's do this, asshole, I'm ready, it's time," James whispers, cold sweat dripping off his face, breathing heavy.

"I would have done anything, I'm sorry, I should have done everything, but nothings lost now is it?" James catches a faint glitter of blue and grey in the eyes of Travis, a lightening of the hair, "What did you say?" he demands of James. "Travis, you have very simple tastes, especially in pain, but I'm over it." James responds, with a smile, "You're just me when I was weak." Furiously, Travis unsheathes a knife and buries it deep into Jame's gut, while pinning him to the bar wall. "Remember what it all felt like?" all the voices demand in unison, "Remember what you did to us? All that anger, hurt, misery? Let it back in, baby, because its a part of you, we are you." Blonde, brunette, red, blue eyes, hazel eyes, voices.

Gasping, James places his left hand over the hand a knife embedded in his lower left side and meets their eyes with dead, black gaze. "I do remember it all, I remember trying to bury you," he winces as the blade is twisted, "but, after all those nights, all those bottles, I learned how to use it, and I learned a new trait." They look into his eyes, searching for meaning, then, they feel James twisting the knife even more, no expression, no wincing, no reaction at all, he continues to twist. "You were always scared of guns, which is appropriate, knives give you a rush..." James lets go of the knife while they look dumbfounded into his smirking face, "I knew you looked familiar, you're no stranger to taking a life, but I learned how to be perfectly and...unapologetically cruel." They open their mouth to speak, and James quickly throws his bloodied left hand into the open mouth and clinches tight. They bite down desperately and grab his arm with both hands, releasing him from the wall. As they struggle, "I've gotten to the point where I feel absolutely fucking nothing...nothing at all.." escapes James' lips. They bite down with all their collective might onto his hand, no reaction, only fear growing in them as his right hand pulls the knife out of his stomach, lacking any evidence of pain, and tosses it to the floor.

Muffled cries fill the room as a scarlet-eyed Travis furiously tries to escape the grip viced to his jaw, and they share a special moment, "I'd tell you, how much it haunts me, how everything haunts me, but you don't care, and neither will I." James lifts his right hand over his head as they share one intimate second of silence. James breaks their silence, "For you, God called in sick today..." Those red eyes widen and he can hear all the voices crying out as his fist bears down repeatedly onto their face, with nowhere to go, all they can do is accept it. Dislocated jaw. Broken Nose . Fractured orbital. James loosens his grip, and they drop to the floor, looking like one of those from the past, sobbing, begging. The cries go unanswered as he grabs them by the hair and drags all the voices, and all the faces, kicking and screaming to the table they occupied and retrieves his Beretta. "You hit bone," James calmly states to no one in particular as they lay on the ground sobbing, bloodied, "the scars will be beautiful." He set them up on their knees, beaten, finished. They lift their head, and meet his cold gaze, "Am I your anything?" All the voices, broken. James looks into those eyes he'd known so well, "The past, which I no longer want." "Please." they beg, as he lifts the pistol between those beautiful eyes.

A single shot rings out in the empty bar, the smell of gun powder and cigarette smoke fill the room as he returns the pistol to his waistband. He returns to the table, grabbing his Lucky Strikes and Zippo, and ignites a cigarette.

Inhale. Exhale.

Inhale. Exhale.

James slowly walks outside into the rain, and discarding the smoke he washes the blood off of his face and breathes deeply. A bright flash of lighting tears the sky open, followed by an earth-shattering kaboom.





"Man, you tell some really fucked stories you know that right?" Eric asks James as they sit around the television, perusing Netflix.

"Yeah, I know, but they are all from the dreams I have basically, I just run with them." James replies as he continues jotting notes down. "The next book is going to be off the fucking chain, man, it's going to be a wild ride..."

"If you don't lose your goddamn mind first..." Eric adds.

"Oh, that happened a long time ago, a little late for that." James snorts.

"So it was only a dream right? not this weird fantasy you sit around and think of?

James pauses, and looks towards his left hand, admiring the scars he sighs and answers, "Yeah...only a dream."



Signed,

The Trickster, Maui

Endgame

Another speak-easy, another rainy night. A wisp of clove smoke rose gracefully from a table in the far corner, accented by a dim, low slung light. The bar was basically empty, maybe five people occupied it's old frame, including the bartender, who was polishing glasses with closed eyes, maybe contemplating life, or keeping the smoky haze out of his eyes. His target was the source of the clove smoke, in that far corner, she sat by herself, with her back towards the only door in the place.

Inhale. Exhale.

"Gin and tonic, please", James requested of the barkeep, "double." The keep moved gracefully through the motions required to serve the simple, yet iconic combination. James never took his gaze off the woman in the corner, a blonde, who was wearing what looked to be a pencil skirt, grey in color, with black high heeled shoes and a white blouse. Her hair was down her back as she looked straight ahead into nothing.

Inhale. Exhale.

James took his completed beverage, leaving a twenty dollar bill on the bar top, and began walking towards the woman. Low jazz music gave a soundtrack for the sound of his boots as they impacted the old, wood floor of the bar. No one paid the young man any mind, he dressed simple enough, boots, a nice pair of blue jeans, and a black, banded-collared shirt. His black hair was short enough, parted on the left and accented by low auburn, evidence of salt water and sunlight having assaulting it.

Inhale. Exhale.

He set the drink down next to her with care as he turned and took the seat across the small table. James took out a silver Zippo and lit a cigarette in silence. The two sat there in silence for an eternity of a breath as both slowly puffed away, under that dim, low-slung light.

"Well I certainly didn't expect to ever see you again", she said in a way that could only be interpreted as snide, "I thought by now you would have left everything behind, again." her emerald eyes met his for the first time in years as he continued to sit in silence. "I should have", he finally says to her, "but, sometimes in order to leave it all behind you have to close some chapters, or even destroy the entire book." "So you're here to what? kill me?" she asks with a smile, "Or are you here to erase me? it's kind of difficult to edit someone out of reality you know..." She puts her cigarette out on the table, her eyes now blue-grey.

Inhale. Exhale.

James finally takes a drink, and sighs, this is the first time that they have been together in nearly five years, again, in a smoky bar. "You know, maybe I am here to kill you,", he says jokingly, "because that would help my situation so, so, much." He drops his cigarette to the floor, stepping on it to eliminate it's ember. "You need me," she bites, "you fucking need me, and you know it...so admit it." "I don't need you!" he snaps back, "Everything would be better if it weren't for you, do you realize all the shit I've dealt with? Everything comes back to you." She smiles as she turns away, then back to him. Her hair is brunette now, big, brown eyes, intoxicating gaze, blue halter top. "You mean it comes back to us, James, it wasn't just me." "You don't understand what you did to me, how that changed me, you bitch." he retorts. "WHAT I DID TO YOU?! HOW THAT CHANGED YOU?!" she screams at him, her voice sounding as if there was multiple voices screaming the same line in a movie. Her eyes, now dark, seem to be wishing to set him ablaze as they sit there together. "You need me, you selfish fuck, I'm the only reason you have accomplished what you have so far, because OF US!", again, her voice is a chorus.

Silence

James breathes deep and closes his eyes, once they are opened again he takes a drink. Her hair is blonde again, eyes grey, black t-shirt, her glasses give her a certain secretarial look, a look he always loved. She lifts her martini and takes a sip while looking into his eyes, "You can't do what you do without us.". Thunder shakes the old watering hole, he had forgotten it was raining. "It was raining that day too.." he starts, but she cuts him off, "It was always raining on those days for you, martyr." she sounds like five different people now. "SO tell me, how are you going to burn at the stake this time? How are you going to spin all of this in a vain attempt to make yourself feel better for a month or two?" she bites at him, "Because so far all you have done is find ways to put yourself in situation to get hurt, or to hurt, and try to spin it like a fucking politician, but everything is stacking up against you again and you need an out...right?"

He lights another cigarette and put the lighter into his pocket. Tilting his head back to look to the ceiling.

Inhale. Exhale.

"I do put myself in holes, just to see how deep it can get before I can't dig myself out anymore." he finally answers. "You taught me very well how to leave shit behind, you were so very fucking good at it." His head lowers to look at her again. Her eyes are brown again, a honey brown, her hair back dark, grey tube-top, smugness radiating from her expression. "Well you didn't expect me to carry a torch for you forever did you? Or did you expect me to hold on and join you in your self pity and misery?" three voices.  James tries to keep a calm demeanor, but the comment did sting, like a hot poker pressed to his flesh, but on scar tissue and he had seen it coming, he knew it would happen."I can erase you" he whispers in a low tone, "I can erase everything, I don't need you.." "What's your endgame James? Hm? how is this going to play out?" Six voices. "Because you don't have it in you, you like your torches..." Blonde hair covers one of her blue eyes as she leans into him, "You love being miserable." she seductively whispers to him, "You couldn't erase me, even if you wanted to. You came looking for me, like Gatsby reaching for that green light." Still six voices. "Never, ever, again will you hold our past because you don't deserve to."

They stare at each other for a minute, James' jaw clinched, his cigarette long burned out.

"Get out of my fucking head." He finally whispers. The chorus of her voice laughs loudly, echoing through the bar as again her eyes and hair change. He finally snaps. James jumps up from his seat and reaches behind his back, his hand returning, brandishing a Beretta pistol. "Shut up! he desperately screams as her gaze mocks him, her laughing stops but she continues to smile. She looks amused, "Sit down, you're causing a scene." she demands sternly, "You are only making the situation worse on your end, stupid boy." One voice. "If you want to know how this is going to work you have to talk to the right person," she jeers, "You can put that gun away now," she continues, while her piercing blue eyes meet his with an icy resolve, "You brought this world upon yourself, so lets talk." Three voices.

James sits back down, placing the gun on the table. Thunder rolls again through the cold night air, as he notices the bar is now completely empty save for them. Breathing deeply he closes his eyes and bows his head down. She finally speaks again, "What is your endgame? You can't find the peace you're looking through me" Four voices. "You need to get the right person, and that certainly isn't me, you're wasting your time." "Then who the fuck do I need to find? hm?" he asks, "Where does it all end?" He can hear the six voices again sigh in unison. "It ends with the person who made it begin in the first place." "And who the fuck is that exactly?" he demands in a loud voice.

Silence

"Answer me, dammit!" opening his eyes he reaches for the pistol and lifts his head.

Everything stops in that instant

A young man sits across from him, in a black, banded-collared shirt. His black hair was short enough, parted on the left and accented by low auburn, evidence of salt water and sunlight having assaulting it.



Signed,
The Trickster, Maui

War Journal Pt 2: An Introduction.

The Interpretation of Insanity. A diary of dreams, thoughts and rants of a man who is losing his mind.

~J. S. Havok

"Dream of Waking"

The Great War
    
     It has been several years since I wrote the original "War Journal" and in the time since, I have only become more comfortable in the misery I bring myself. I write mental letters against my will, destination? a million miles away, you will never read this.

However, 
This collection of rants, dreams, musings...will serve as a record of the spiral possible to ride as one's mind continually assaults his being at an extreme frequency, at deafening volume.

Sleep Well,

James Samuel Havok

War Journal Pt. 2

It has been a long time coming that I should revisit my first, and only fully realized, however never edited, "book".

The original "War Journal" was a 200 page adventure of seemingly unconnected story lines entwined with a time-traveling love story revealed in a series of letters.

No one will ever read the original, it was not meant to be read by anybody except one person, for whom it was written, Unfortunately in the ebb and flow of life, even that person will never read it.

However, bits and pieces of story and concept can be found throughout my erratic, shaky, writing featured on this blog. Some names and settings may seem familiar, this is because everything in the "War Journal" was in the same universe.

Stay Tuned.

J. S. Havok

Messages in bottles.

I put it all in a bottle, one of the bottles I used to chase you away.
Frustration, love, hate, hurt, happiness.

Thanks for the memories.

These full bottles litter the beach, each a vessel for a part of me.
Parts you ripped out of me.
Confidence, joy, comfort, safety.

You're welcome for the time.

Every bottle has a story, every page of my diary, every thought in my War Journal.
I throw  myself into the setting sun.
Bottle by bottle I drop into the loving sea, waiting to be cleansed again.
My being, a series of stories, cautions of emotion, portraits of Pain, Love, Failure.

Thank you for the story.


May no one live this story of me over.
May the tide carry all the chapters to an ocean grave.
May my diaries never be found.
May the sun melt the glass coffins as they glisten for the last time.
Let them sink, let the water crush them against the earth...
Far, far, away...so that my tragedy is never gathered

Thank you for the bottles.

Interview with J.S. Havok

"Goooooood evening my lovers of the written word! This is yours truly, Rudy Fleck, welcome back to our weekly podcast and radio show live from The Last Bookstore, here in beautiful Los Angeles California. We have a very very special guest for you all today so sit back, buckle up and get ready for some insight to the ways of the young author who has swept the nation the past years with breakthrough creations, "Brothers of the Sky." and "The Drifting Star." Mr. J.S. Havok, welcome to the show Havok, its a pleasure to finally meet you."

"It's good to be here in The Last Bookstore, Rudy. I've been meaning to set something up but it doesn't always go as smooth as we hope right?" The young author let out a sly smile.

"Haha very true James, very true. And as always, our producer is in studio, Mr Ron Kennedy taking calls, texts, instant messages et cetera from the listeners and fans, how about we get started huh? You came onto the scene literally out of nowhere, how did that happen?"

"Ron Kennedy as in the Kennedy who ran the radio stations at NYU and later USC right?"

Ron let out a smile from a nearby station, "Yeah, the one and only!"

James let out a laugh, "Yeah I thought I recognized the name, you're good man keep it up."

Rudy quickly cut in, "Okay okay you two settle down, we have some hungry listeners and I'm sure some eager fans waiting to peer into that mind of yours."

"Right, right," the young author responded, "breaking into 'the scene' if you will..."

James settled into his seat across from Rudy as he adjusted his headset and took a long sip from a nearby mug.

"You started writing in college in your spare time, short stories if I'm correct, some guest spots on food and travel blogs when you weren't on creative binges, pretty low key stuff outside of those spots then BAM, 'The Drifting Star' hits stands and people just eat it up."

"Yeah that was a really exciting time for me Rudy, I had been traveling around through the Northwest U.S. and dabbled a bit in Canada when I went through some old journals of stuff I had jotted down in my spare time and that piece just grabbed me and I really just kinda ran with it. The end result was a bit shaky in my opinion but I think that added to it especially as a first go."

Rudy is busy drinking from a large mug, similar to James', then puts the mug down.

"So, for our listeners that may not be too familiar with your work, how did 'Star' happen and shape up?"

"The story was really originally built off  a book I read at the suggestion of a fellow author, Alexandra, who I met in college and the style really grabbed me, it was dirty, raw. So I started with that and wanted to be very descriptive in terms of dress, looks, even paying attention to lighting and moods and actions of people not involved, I really wrote the first short story from that with a screenplay style in mind."

"And I personally think that feel really comes through, especially when you focus on the two main characters, Claire and Travis." Rudy adds, face gleaming like a comic book fanboy.

"Yes exactly, as detailed as everything else was, I wanted the focus on those two to shine through that much more, like reading the story in HD," James let out a slight chuckle, "I wanted to immerse the readers, if they chose to pick the book up, in almost a sensory overload at times, like in the first scene, in the bar when we see the two encounter each other for the first time in a while, the frame is left open to interpretation so it could have been a few weeks, maybe even a few years ya know? So depending on how long one feels that they were apart, the book can read out a little differently."

"Very nice, so we obviously have these two who have a past, its hinted to be very emotional, their interaction is limited, then he's gone. Did you mean for that scene to set an overall tone? It seems very introspective on the part of Travis, gives a little history and then he leaves, evidently the same way he left this young woman before."

James is listening half-heartedly, throwing a USC "Fight On" to Ron.

"Also, message boards have been burning about the idea that you pull a lot of character's ways, emotions and ideals from your own personal life... is this true?"

"Yeah, ya know I really wanted to leave his reasons for leaving, which we don't have explained in full at first, to stay hidden. It sets the mood that he has a secret, or a good reason, or no reason for really leaving, especially with his response to her note with 'Because I loved you too much.' It leaves everyone intrigued I feel, at least I tried..."

Rudy is nodding, adding more liquor to his mug.

"And definitely I pull things out on myself for these characters, situations, a lot of it comes from something else. I had originally began writing as a way to deal with some things and every now and then I'd get obsessed with and idea, and I couldn't leave it alone. That's what happened with 'Star" and 'Brothers'...i was obsessed and had to finish them. You can't love something without giving up a part of yourself for it right?"

"Wow, obsessed you say?" Rudy takes a large gulp, "without spoiling 'Star' we'll leave it there and now I wanna touch on 'Brothers of The Sky', your sophomore effort and a very successful one at that. How did this story spawn itself?"

The young author's face lit up as he took another drink from his mug.

"Ahh now you got his attention!" Ron exclaimed, "I think he's a little excited."

Rudy agreed, awaiting a response from James.

"Hmm, 'Brothers of The Skies' really was a labor of love and a culmination of necessity."

"Go on." Rudy egged.

"It's pretty common knowledge that WW2 romanticism is something I really had a passion to work with, and this was what came of that. Originally it was a piece I had written for a fiction blog, which I used eventually for a class when I was getting ready to graduate. The short story that started it was called 'A Brother's Failure' where we have these two brothers fighting in the Pacific theater together."

"This book was not dark in the same way as 'Star' but it is more of a gritty war-time piece with, which is kind of your staple through two books, and underlying love story, can you elaborate on that?"

"Well war is a gritty thing, its dirty, its dark, it changes people. In 'Star' I really didn't have that as a tool, I didn't have that as a catalyst. The change we see in the Lieutenant and how he interacts with his fellow war fighters, his family, his brother comes directly from the combination of the war and what they are going through as well as the feeling of our protagonist fighting a war on two fronts, one is a real war, one is his mental struggle to stay focused with what's going on back home." A more serious look starts to creep over the author as he takes another sip from the mug. "I had family members, friends coming home from war, they were coming back to women who weren't faithful, or had abandoned the idea of being with them. This book was for those guys who lost people on two sides, it was something I had to write. It was very much the marrying of ideas in my head about how life could turn out, ideally, and how life turns out in reality. Very much an emotional book to write, and you get that through the Lieutenant, emotions I had, emotions my friends and family had."

The room was silent.
James lit a cigarette

Inhale. Exhale.

Ron chimed in, "You guys would not believe how many messages and texts we are getting about these two books man, everyone wants to know, why you chose the Pacific War, why Travis came back from Europe, why you wrote two hugely different settings and how that came about...people are going crazy man, and we haven't even gotten to your new book."

"Holy shit, we still need to get to this new work, which I personally think is amazingly beautiful, beautifully dark, elegantly crafted. ladies and gentlemen listening coast to coast, we have arrived at the new novel by J.S. Havok which hit shelves last Tuesday, of course I'm talking about "The Angel and a Stupid Boy."

Inhale. Exhale.

Rudy continues. "Even the concept of this book is great, if you haven"t picked it up you should. Basically we have a book here, about a writer, in the process of writing a book but he is fraught with inner struggles and difficulties, can you elaborate on that?"

James puts his cigarette out in a nearby ashtray.

"This was a hard book to write, we have a writer who sets out to create a fiction piece, but with him putting so much of himself into it, the piece slowly becomes a dark story of a guy essentially writing an autobiography without him really seeing it."

"Interesting, I think that readers may have been caught off guard by the style up front in your prologue, we get a very intense and cryptic message and setting to the story."

"Yeah" James replies, "this was my first venture without the input of Alexandra and I wanted to set the tone a little darker, more of an inner struggle of one person, you don't have much interaction story wise with people outside of himself, he gets lost in his work pretty much. Eventually, it begins to really consume him. Its a story of love and loss, a story where he gets enveloped in a strange world where hypotheticals, the 'what-ifs' are the things drilling into him."

"I have to agree here" chimes in Ron, "I read this piece right when it hit the shelves, and the messages we are getting agree too, overall a lot of focus on the author losing himself in his work and the work really affecting his mental stability. Our forums are already teeming with theories of who the inspiration of "The Angel" could be. Got anything for your fans?"

"Well the love story we have in the book isn't actually the focus, but is the focus of the book in the book, which I think creates a very interesting position for the reader, in one aspect they may be trying to reason why I'm writing this story, but at a deeper level you have to think about the character's reason on writing his story. This book in particular was strange to write because I put some of myself in everything but had to in a way where the writer has his own soul he's writing from. Kind of, "I have a dark side, he has a darker one."

"Dark and darker, writer writing a writer writing a book, brilliant!" Rudy proclaims, "your character uses brilliant imagery much like we've seen in your other work, the way he describes this girl he creates. A lot of readers see this as you projecting yourself but everyone wants to know...."

James swallows slowly.

"Where do you get this ability to paint such beautiful people, describe them how you do? I mean we are talking about things like, 'that beautiful dark auburn and brunette hair', 'an intoxicating smile', those honey-brown doe eyes', 'a childlike freedom of spirit', hell if us guys could find a girl like that we'd be golden, so where do you get this inspiration? How does one do that? Are you hiding some supermodel from us that you pull inspiration from?"

A slight chuckle fills the air between the three in that studio, in The Last Bookstore.

"We all have that perfect image of our dream girl don't we..." James' voice slightly trails off. "So now we have an image of a girl that we aren't sure is real or is made up by our author for his book."

"Well, if we aren't getting ALL the juicy details here, I guess our listeners will just have to read. Ron, lets take some calls and questions and all that jazz we are running out of time."

Ron starts rambling off questions listeners has messaged in, occasionally taking a call about upcoming books, his favorite foods and the like. James loosens up a bit more with the interaction, some questions more off the wall than others, the three enjoying playful banter.

"Well, well, well, now we have someone saying they know the secrets of Mr. J. S. Havok." Ron interrupts, "She sounds hott lets put her on the air."

James fixes his eyes on Ron as he lights another smoke.

Rudy quickly chips in, "Why hello there you have Mr Havok live in studio and we hear, that youuuu think you know his secrets."

"Mmm well maybe," a female voice chimes in, "depends on if he is who I think he is."

 Inhale. Exhale.

Silence

An automated audience "woooo" filled his headset as Ron stroked a key at his computer.

"Well", the author slowly responded, "who do you think I am?"

"Someone who takes their pen name from their father. James."

"Go on," James' intrigue building, "who else am I?"

"Someone who likes ice cream, obviously."

Chuckles filled the room, smiles all around.

"Well I have been known to enjoy a nice bowl every now and again, you had me going there for a second, like some kind of secret agent that had me in their sights."

"I know," the voice chuckled, "when you visit the ice cream shop what is your favorite flavor to get a sample spoon of?"

"Excuse me?" responded James.

"You know, like you go in and they give you those little spoons to taste with, the sample spoons.."

"Well usually, I go around and try a few things but usually settle on my old standby flavor..."

"Mint Chocolate Chip" the voice interrupted.

Rudy and Ron exchanged surprised glances, then focused them on James. "Mint Choco-chip...you don't say..." retorted Ron. "Nice."

"Where are you calling from?" James sat forward in his seat, the other two did the same.

"The best country in the world, Texas." she said, "duh." "And I read your book, I think who I know who the angel is." her voice teasing the audience, taunting the author.

A bead of sweat gently glided down his forehead as he bit his lip in a pensive stare. He reaches over and grabs Rudy's mug, stiff with bourbon, taking a hard pull. "Everyone has an angel, like I said before, everyone has their idea of perfection. The Angel, is the character's image. You have an angel too, we all do." He takes another pull from the mug.

"Well there ya go Miss Texas", Rudy proclaims, "the mystery remains a mystery!"

"Have you met your angel?" she asks.

"I sure have, why do you ask?"

Silence

A goofy sound effect fills the airwaves.

"The pen has silenced the voice!" Rudy proclaims as Ron starts celebratory effects, James caught in a thousand yard stare.

"Well I'm sitting across from her..." her voice states, "She's leaving on Sunday for a trip."

He goes pale.

"There is a keg of gin" the voice blurts out.

"There is a keg of gin"...she says again.

The line goes dead.

James, sweating, clenched teeth. 

"Well that was fucking random!" Ron laughs hysterically as Rudy prepares the closing of the show.

James lights a cigarette, the last one in the pack, another pull of bourbon, this time from the flask Rudy has on the desk.

Inhale. Exhale.

Silence.

James sees Rudy and Ron talking, closing the show, he can't hear anything. Only silence.

"WOO what the hell was that all about?!" Rudy asks while laughing loudly, "trippy man a keg of gin? where do people get this stuff? Did you have any idea what she was talking about?"

Silence.

"Oh come on that's too random to just be random...someone messing with ya James?" Ron seeminng slightly confused.

James takes a long drag, letting it out slowly.

He slowly puts the smoke out and stands up, "There should never be a keg of gin..." he quietly says.

"...Who was that?" Rudy asks, "was that..." he looks towards Ron, then back at James.

"That was The Angel." he simply says.

Ron and Rudy stare at each other.

"So...that means what?" Ron slowly asks.

"Well that makes me a stupid boy."

A brother's failure.

Jimmy looked out of his cockpit on the deck of his carrier towards a young soldier he knew well. He and Mark had grown up together on the same street in Alabama. Both had joined the Navy after the monsters from Japan had taken the lives of their American counterparts when they attacked Pearl. Even though seen as brothers from a young age, the skill sets, personalities and capabilities they brought to the Navy were vastly different. Mark was an eccentric gear head, his abilities first displayed when he dismantled the engine of the family car, and upon re-assembling it, miraculously had the vehicle running better. This talent came in handy with Mark's dating life as he swooned the fathers of girls with his technical know how while also taking their daughters out for drives later. James, on the other hand, had been the more reserved of the two young men. A prized student and natural athlete, his physical ability had garnered his name despite his soft spoken nature. The two had spent many days and nights adventuring as children and teens, a mutual respect and admiration of each others differences.

How they got grouped together in a battle group, let alone the same carrier, was at best a shot in the dark, no doubt James' father, a retired Colonel from the Great War, had something to do with such an arrangement. Once James had been selected for the flying program in training, Mark had been determined to improve the aircraft that would bring the war back to Japan. To say that Mark was amazing at his job was an understatement in itself. He had risen quickly by training other mechanics to repair and improve the fighting flyers, now he proudly wore the bar designating him as Ensign. James had a similar career to this point, relying on instinct and an analytical mind to quickly become a well known pilot in the fighter group, also training other pilots whenever he could.

"Lieutenant Dorman, come in, Lieutenant Dorman.." Rang over his headset as he sat on the deck of the carrier.

"This is Dorman, confirm takeoff clearance, over."
"Cleared for takeoff, take it to those jap devils for the boys at Pearl."
"Roger."

He saluted his younger brother as he prepared to power his Corsair into the red early morning skies near Okinawa.

Mark responded by tapping his uniform where he held letters for James' family and girlfriend, should anything happen, then saluted his brother. James returned the gesture, his more symbolic than anything since the letters he held for Mark were tucked away in his quarters.

James placed the picture of a girl near his instrument cluster, a sigh accompanied it. The letters she once wrote had become cold, distant, shorter and arrived with ever increasing intervals between. Even the letters from his father had shifted from home life, she and her family weren't mentioned at all anymore, now they focused on James' health and morale during the war and how the boys were doing against the japs. Even the letters from her family had stopped abruptly.

Mark had noticed a change in Jimmy, he seemed aggravated, angry almost. The once calm and relaxed pilot had become increasingly anxious, he'd snap on occasion out of frustration. But as his personality dictated, he was stubborn, more willing to suppress his thoughts and emotions than to talk about what was happening in his mind.

The young Lieutenant powered his war machine into the air, followed by the rest of the fighter wing. As the radio check-in started he allowed himself to remember the last day home, in that burning Alabama sun. He promised Mark's family that he'd take care of his brother, much as he had done during their childhood. The neighborhood had a block party for the boys being shipped off, several Marines and Army boys littered the group of young eager soldiers as a group picture was taken. Afterwards, pictures of the fighting men and their families were collected, as well as the boys and their girls. She and James looked so in love, her brunette hair draped on his shoulder in his presentation uniform, her intoxicating smile.

He angrily forces the image out of his head as the last of his fellow flyers finish checking in. He noticed a squall forming to the rights, it looked particularly foreboding he thought.

"Damn, I hate flying in shit like that Jim." rang over the radio.
"Oh, come on Akers," Jimmy responded, "that is what makes things interesting."

Slight laughter cluttered the radio from multiple planes.

"Alright you scoundrels, remember the briefing and remember your wingmen, we aren't scheduled to die today."

"Roger that sir." fluttered multiple times through the radios.

"For God and country boys, let's show these monsters what Uncle Sam has coming for them." Jimmy sternly voiced. "For those boys at Pearl."

The battle was exhilarating, the enemy Zeros closed in furiously over the island and surrounding ocean. The Lt and his Blue Knights fought the enemy ferociously as the battle raged around them. Smoke, bullets, explosions filled the air as planes started going down, the lighter Zero fighters burning brilliantly as they descended to ocean graves. Occasionally pilots would have to break off from the major fighting to accommodate the addition of more enemy and friendly war birds.

Then the call came.

"Blue Knights, Lt Dorman come in this is Enterprise, incoming enemy fighters, do you copy? Over"

"This is Dorman, eta to contact over."

"Contact minus one minute, no current air support, you're the closest, over."

"Shit." He thought as he whipped his bird around in support of a fellow aviator.

"Boy's they are going after our home, I need some support until the others can rendezvous, follow my six!"

He broke off from the spiraling air battle as several other planes followed his lead, the Enterprise visible in the distance.

"We aren't going to make it in time to stop them." he thought as he pushed his engine to the limit.

Then, he saw the flashes, flight deck, superstructure, the fireball was tremendous.

The Blue Knights made contact as the japs started the second strafing runs. They came in guns blazing over the sea surrounding their floating home. Several flyboys split off in pursuit of torpedo planes incoming to dispense their deadly payloads, the japs never made it into range as the planes plunged as fireballs into the deep Pacific.

The instant seemed like eternity as Jimmy whipped his machine around again towards the Enterprise and a lone Zero closed in, flying low, flying heavy. He knew it was a Kamikaze, those suicidal cowards who thought it was glorious to die instead of fight. He knew the plane was going to strike, he knew it was disaster waiting to happen.

"MARK!" he helplessly yelped as the Zero collided into his ship, the following explosion was massive, the following fires more so.

Angrily he tore through enemy fighters, as they started to retreat, blood thirsty to say the least. Four more of the Japanese monsters lost their lives to his guns that day. His anger, frustration and fear for his brother only magnified by the fact his guns were silenced due to his ammunition stores being empty. He could only watch as the floating city burned underneath him.

Once the battle was over, the sweaty, exhausted flyboy could only stare numbingly at the photo on his instrument cluster as he approached a nearby carrier. He landed sloppily and nearly collapsed out of his Corsair as he vomited seeing the enterprise still burning near him. "I need to get to the Enterprise, NOW!", he snapped to crews on the deck. "Lieutenant, the only way we can get you..." "Shut up screamed the young flyboy,"I said now, and I mean it!" "Sir it's not possible becau..." "I know it's not possible", groaned the pilot as he slumped down into the flight deck, "I know", he sobbed.

When he was eventually able to get to his beloved home, the fires had ravaged her. He desperately demanded information on the dead and wounded, his pain showed through his blood shot, weary, yet fiery eyes. It would be hours before any word came in, and a day before any news on Mark.

As he was able to recover some personal items from his quarters, which barely survived, a sailor approached him.

"Sir, Ensign Murray is confirmed as killed in action, I'm sorry."

Jimmy stood silently and still, holding the letters Mark had given him.

"He was in a store room near the attack point of the Kamikaze fighter that struck the sh..."

Jimmy raised a hand and dismissed the sailor as tears streamed down his face.
His over aggression had put him to far from the ship to stop the fighter, his over aggression killed U.S. sailors, he failed to protect his brother, he had killed his brother.

James was rotated out of combat shortly after the Battle of Okinawa, he returned to Pearl harbor to train pilots until the end of the war. He never wrote home after the battle. He sat drinking whiskey as news of the surrender of Japan flooded the radio. He simply walked back to his quarters and went to sleep. Pilots he trained before the end of the war described him as a cold, despondent man, although gifted as a teacher and pilot. He arrived back to the states, through the ticker tape parades for those fighting in the Pacific. A bus dropped him off back home in Alabama where he got a hotel room instead of returning home. He sat on the patio as a torrential downpour surrounded him, the faint smoke of a Lucky Strike wafting through the air as he stared into the darkness.

The following day, he shaved and robed in his presentation uniform. A taxi took him to the Murray residence, where he had the taxi wait. He approached the house as Mark's mother ran out towards him sobbing as he embraced her and tears formed in his cold, dead looking eyes. He stayed and spoke to them and explained his shortcoming and apologized for his failure as they tried to assure him that Mark's death wasn't his fault. He left them with the letters Mark had written them in the event he didn't come home. Back in the taxi he lit a Lucky strike and instructed the driver where to go next.

They pulled up to a house about five minutes later, the flag for his wing was no longer posted in the front yard. As he exited the taxi he told the driver he could go, the driver refused to take his money citing he was a hero, "I'm no hero," Jimmy responded with a clenched jaw ,"just a flyboy." He felt uneasy as he stood in front of that house, alone in the Alabama heat.

Her father seemed apologetic to see him at the door, he shared his condolences for Mark's death and tried to catch up with Jimmy in a cautious manner. His wife walked in and seemed flushed to see him back in their living room. She walked over to him with watery eyes, "Oh my, James is a Lieutenant now, I'm so proud of you sweetheart, so proud." He could sense some hesitation in her voice and both seemed slightly on edge as she joined her husband.

Awkward silence.

"So," the silence was broken by the wife, "do you have any stories?" Her husband cleared his throat as to cut her off as she avoided eye contact with James as he swallowed hard.

More silence.

"I guess I'll be going now," the flyboy quietly stated as he began to rise from his seat, "good to see you are in good health."

The husband stood up and shook his had, "I'm sorry Jimmy, sorry for what you boys had to do, but I'm glad you're home."

"Yes sir, I am too." He hugged the man's wife and reached for a small bag he had brought with him when a car was heard pulling into the driveway. The husband and wife looked at each other as Jimmy turned towards the door.

The door swung open.

That intoxicating smile.

His heart skipped a beat, then felt like it would burst from his chest.

That gorgeous brunette hair.

A smile started to creep over his mouth as his expression softened.

Their eyes locked for an instant before hers grew large, fearful, ashamed.

His smile faded, his clenched jaw solidified as they stood there in silence.

It seemed like eternity. Eternity until another young man followed her into the house.

 Awkward silence.

She introduced the young man to Jimmy as Matthew Jacobs, a teammate of Jimmy's when they were in high school.

Jimmy nearly crushed his old teammates hand as he shook it.

Matthew grimaced as Jimmy released his grip, "So Jimmy, what service were you..."

"Navy" Jimmy cut him off, "What have you been doing with your life? working with your father at the dealership?"

"Yes sir!" Matthew responded with a mock salute. "What did you do in the war?"

"I got revenge for our boys" Jimmy sneered, "I killed the monsters that murdered our boys."

Jimmy turned to her parents and wished them a good day and strode between her and Matthew Fucking Jacobs as she followed him out.

"Jimmy....Jimmy....Jim.... JAMES DORMAN!" she finally screamed.

James stopped in his tracks reaching into his bag and pulled out a stack of letters he had never sent home. He weighed them in his hand and he turned to her, tears streaming down her face.

"I thought you weren't going to come back, Matthew was always there..." she started to sob.

James approached her slowly and dropped the letters at her feet, she rested her head on his chest, decorated with accolades and medals.

"Well, I came back. And now I know for sure that these letters get to you and its not the damn mail service."

As he walked down the street in that hot Alabama sun, she slumped over the letters, halfheartedly sorting the letters, she found the picture of her and Jimmy they had taken before he left, the picture he flew with, the edges frayed. They had looked so happy, her tears began to fall onto the picture as she flipped it over to see her handwriting was still visible.

"Until the day you come home, I'll wait for you, until the day I die, I'll love you."

She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked for the flyboy, but he was already gone.