Kale Bender
Bio
I am from Boston MA, and I have self-published five poetry novels. Over the years, I have learned how to use my skills with poetry to help create the physical visuals needed when telling a good story.
Stories (57/0)
A, Good Morning
Layers of rich sapphire, and bright violet melt into one another as the sun’s golden aura quickly invades their intimacy with overwhelming fluctuations of warmth. The stars retreat into the distance, the moon fades to a faint grey shadow, and the velvety, butter-milk clouds emerge out of the black to re-claim their positions.
By Kale Bender8 months ago in Poets
The Last Valley
May 20th, 982 A.D Coast of Northern England There weren't always dragons in the valley. First there were men, women and children, mostly Christian survivors who pilgrimed to the Valley of Rue after the fall of the Roman Empire. Following centuries of reconstruction, and the bloody push to spread Christianity throughout the land, merciless Vikings from the north began their century-long invasion of the Saxon land, and its people. Along with their sharpened broad swords, thick shields, nautical expertise and fearless honor, they also brought with them the savage will of their Pagan God’s. Odin and his leather-bound legions clashed against God and his silk-worn warriors. Valhalla sought to unhinge the countless falsities of Heaven’s ridiculous promises, while Heaven campaigned to denounce Valhalla’s existence entirely.
By Kale Benderabout a year ago in Fiction
Warwick
P A R T . O N E Isle of Man | 1930 Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Soaring beneath those cold, saffron clouds, high above the Irish Sea, was Warwick - who was anxiously returning home after delivering his final Hogwarts Letter.
By Kale Bender2 years ago in Fiction
FOOD
Somewhere in South America The moon was full and hung low to the earth. Shadows cast by the tall trees danced beneath the thick canopy, while multiple jaguars could be heard growling and moaning in the distance. In a vast clearing, set at the fringes of the jungle, an enormous stone temple, adorned with nightmarish creatures crafted from solid black marble, sprouted up from the ground. Constructed by an unknown race of ancient builders, the top of the temple rose above the clouds, making it impossible to view with human eyes. Ten figures of various heights, their outlines obscured by the flowing lines of their dark black robes, stood in a circle around a giant bonfire. The scent of charred wood and burnt flesh wafted over the figures as they mumbled their secret incantations. Blood-curdling screams rode the wind, informing the hungry jaguars to keep their distance, but the scent of cooked flesh was making it hard to keep them at bay. As the final human sacrifice was burning to their death, a tall, dark figure emerged from the main entrance of the temple. Plotting his course with precision, the shadow walked over to the circle of praying zealots, and placed his meaty right hand on the shoulder of the shortest member in the circle. The small initiate stopped his rant and removed the dark hood which concealed his horribly scarred face. “It is time,” whispered the tall, cloaked shadow.
By Kale Bender2 years ago in Fiction
Hands up, Cowboy
P A R T . O N E Massachusetts, 2004 The autumn air was hot and thick. Beads of sweat were aggressively cascading down my face, dripping onto my rifle. My eyes were heavy and bleeding, my body ached and my brain was pulsating. My weapon was locked tight to my chest, its long barrel pointed south with deadly intention. The woodland was vast, which made it an ideal place to disappear. My spot was perfect. Buried beneath a hefty pile of broken sticks and autumn leaves, I became invisible.
By Kale Bender2 years ago in Fiction
Horns
PART ONE August 8th, 2013 9:00 A.M. Arthur, Nebraska The crowd was larger than projected. The increased capacity of unexpected townsfolk was cause for a change of plans. The Court House was too small and too hot to peacefully accommodate those attending the town hall meeting. About an hour ago, Quinn Foster, Nebraska’s beloved Governor for the past seven years, shuffled everyone across the scorching pavement - leading them into the pork scented First Baptist Church. The old pews filled quickly, as aggravated residents of Arthur County crammed their way inside. Sweaty hands were soon raised in the air, casting out waves of horrid body odor. The two wooden doors of the doomsday structured church were both open, allowing the smoke from the priming BBQ pit next door to waft in - combating the armpit aroma. Four chairs sat in a staggered row at the front of the church. Each seat was filled with a concerned, sweating citizen - waiting to debate their positions.
By Kale Bender2 years ago in Fiction
