Verse Novel Series Continued
Excerpts from Book 2: Damage Bandits
Birth of a Damage Bandit
The only
one who profits from
rickety
rockets are
the ones who have already
sold souls to demons.
—Prime Clan Sandman
Damage Bandits
Damage bandits are an optical illusion;
Just slight of hand and misdirection.
Proper defense against your intrusion.
Damage Bandits are an optical illusion.
Magic tricks to create confusion;
Simple yet adequate protection.
Damage Bandits are an optical illusion;
Just slight of hand and misdirection.
Don’t let them fool you.
There is no need for a course correction.
—The BeenThere Man
Bandit Mechanics
Silent cold and desolate
No life is here only demons
Who come to fester and separate
The souls of the bold who come to put them in a choke hold, twisting and contorting until the evil will breaks.
No divine design is aligned with alternating fates. Strength and wisdom is what will rid them from disrupting the rhythm.
The Mechanics of Bandits
Damage Bandits, damage planets.
No life; silent, cold and desolate.
Twisting, contorting until your will breaks.
Damage Bandits, damage planets.
Slaying souls, taxing talent, altering fates.
Wisdom rids them; disrupts their rhythm.
Damage Bandits, damage planets.
No life; silent, cold and desolate.
—The BeenThere Man
Tea Time
Milky Way Earl Grey
Teatime.
Eager to
reflect on decisions made
while hot water brews future mistakes.
—Nowhere Boy
Milky Way Earl Grey (cont.)
I sweeten it
with sugar then honey
and drink it all away.
When the well
runs dry, I dig deep.
It ran dry;
I dug deep.
Fuel and inspiration,
they don’t come cheap.
—Nowhere Boy
Milky Way Earl Grey (concluded)
Living in quiet desperation,
but never questioning my decision
to take on what some say is an impossible mission.
Refueling sharpens the vision;
feeling lost, stardust exhaust
leave me queasy.
Refueling sharpens the precision,
reminds that, for the Nowhere Clan,
nothing comes easy.
—Nowhere Boy
Diplomacy
My Job is
to convince them that
my blood runs through them,
which is quite difficult.
Because when the last time strangers came,
they took stake in their claim,
generations lost their way,
and nothing was the same.
So, how will I ask for my name
when the last time strangers came,
generations lost theirs
from choices they made to take back what was claimed?
—Nowhere Boy
About the Creator
Joe Francisco
I currently reside in Ewa Beach, Hawaii with my wife, Hazel and our 4 year old daughter, Novyse. I recently published my first collection of poetry on amazon.com. Check out more of my work on my instgram account @joefrancisco8287.
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Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins5 days ago in Fiction
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