Book Idea 1: Vector

This was an idea that sort of expanded out of a classroom assignment. Not sure if it has any potential, but I enjoyed writing what I have so far. Maybe feedback will be the judge of its future. WARNING: Disturbing imagery.

Chapter 1?


The English princess hummed a haunting tune,

“Ladies can see the light beyond the flame.”

Her mother used to sing that hopeful song,

When blazes blinded all but cunning mom.

She often spoke of never becoming a mother, and now she is scandalously with child; unmarried. Her embarrassment cuts like barbed wire, slicing through her reputation, leaving a screaming gash. Mouth corners veer downward on her sulking grim face while her country, The New England’s expectations to produce a legacy opposed her strongest belief. She did not want an heir. She did not want a child. She could remember what it was like to be the Queen’s daughter in the old country so prim and proper when it came to royalty. Things have gotten much worse than they were now; marriage is the most sacred of vows, death is justice, children are necessary.

Little Princess Willa they called her, short for Willamina. Queen Willamina has a certain ring to it, but the High Council insisted on Willa. Mother is the most beautiful Queen in the whole world. Desperation and redemption begin coalescing behind the faded drumming of Willa’s withering conscience. Mother, why don’t you understand? To deflect the rumors of sharing unholy flesh, the princess hems her dresses to be tighter and tighter to counter the growth, but clenching the uterus into a breathless deathtrap only led to the brain-squashing of her own offspring. My mother, the Queen, never let me live, only survive. I have grown tired of surviving.  Monster.

One morning, Queen Willa awoke to a brutal slaying. Deep red warmed the silk sheets in large stains. Her thighs were spattered with the evil that was the undoing of life. The sun’s gleam broke through the curtains like a spotlight on the main act. There, at the foot of the outrageously large mattress, was the dead prince. The figure looked like a mangled rabbit after the hounds had their way. Tiny and shriveled, the crimson-coated corpse forever slept in a puddle of blood. Tears and vomit and screams and thrashes overcame the Queen all at once; synesthesia-like. Her emotions bled out like her womb had the night before. In her unsettling shrieks, the handmaidens and butlers, who were instructed not to enter unless they wanted to die, could make out not but two words:

“Motherrrrrrr!” and “Murrrrrrderrr!”

Willa stripped the sheets with the cold infant wrapped up inside, reset the bed herself, and hustled past the servants lined up at her chamber doors. Down three corridors and two spiral staircases, the queen finally reaches the kitchen where she will dispose of the evidence of both lust and pride. Speeding past curious chefs towards the back doors leading to the dumpsters, Willa crashes into a server smoking a cigarette just outside the kitchen. The Queen jumps back and her sheets unravel, dropping the miscarried baby onto the pavement. It hits the ground with a flattening thud as Willa and the smoker are caught in a stare for a few moments. Then the server nearly cries and begs the Queen’s forgiveness.

“Please, your Highness, please, I’ll do anything, please don’t kill me!”

Willa whimpers a bit and with a cracked voice she responds:

“You never saw me.”

He agreed to never say a word to anyone about what he had seen that day, but someone else’s eyes were lurking.

The royal family’s root name is Pattenson. Their crest is a wolf’s body with a dragon’s head walking through flame. Their family words are “All that is lost, is never lost.” The Pattenson family has always been royalty, for centuries and centuries before those. The bloodline flourished through the Millenium; kings and queens were birthing multiple princes and princesses, but not Willa’s great mother, Queen Auralea. She believed that one child was all she needed to produce a worthy heir to the throne. However, Auralea did not account for enemies. Willa’s childhood was a constant peril, especially at school. One boy in particular always tried to hurt little Willa. His name was Armen Sance.

    One time, Armen and a few of his friends cornered her and threw her into the boys’ bathroom, clawing at her clothes. The Sances are a spiteful family, always looking to climb the social ladder as quickly as they can. Armen’s father instructed him to do this nasty deed to Willa and to photograph the result as blackmail against the royal family. Willa, down to her flipped-up skirt and tight training bra, flailed at her attackers but they were strong enough to pin her arms and legs to the tile floor that reeked of piss. One of them concealed her attempts to scream with her own stocking that he tore off her. Armen unbuckled his belt with a snicker just as the door slams open and a barrage of yelling blurs with a tall man in a white shirt and thin black tie. Professor Coshe.

The lurking eyes provide vision for a man with sinister plans. After the server and Queen make their accord and depart, he slinks toward the dumpster and reaches inside, wrapping the evidence in newspaper. With the premature carcass wrapped and tucked under his arm, the man disappeared through the alleyways. The next morning a doctor came forward presenting evidence of murderous tampering on behalf of the royal family. The streets filled with rioters who saw the macabre scene on their televisions and shouted for the angel of death. The New England was not forgiving in the least bit, especially not for heinous crimes against both their religion and their laws. The cold city sought justice as they marched on the Pattenson Cemetery, crackling the frosted soil beneath their stomps. They planned to bury the premature prince and desecrate the graves of his ancestors.

He carried her to his empty classroom, walked out, and locked the door. He returned moments later with clothes from the “lost and found” and a blanket to cover whatever else needed covering. Professor Coshe was a caring man, unusual for his age. He was tall and his muscles were toned just right. His brownish-blonde hair was wavy like Willa’s skirt. Willa was happy that he was the one who rescued her from those horrible boys.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks to you, sir” she replied.

He looked at her deeply for a moment and then asked, as if he was prompted to snap out of a gaze he wasn’t supposed to be in,

“Is there anything I can do?”

She thought about his question for a while before she answered,

“I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m afraid to stay in school. Could you bring me home?”

Professor Coshe complied with little Princess Willa’s wishes and brought her to the gates of the Royal Mansion. Although it was against her better judgment and the laws binding schoolteachers and student relations, Willa invited the professor in because her mother was away on business and her father was dead. She did not want to be alone after what had happened to her. They drank tea and snacked on shortbread cookies and watched an old TV program called Workaholics.

How did they find him so quickly?  The Queen thought. It must have been that damned server, that son of a— she gathered herself. She rushed to her car, demanding her two most loyal guards to escort her to the Pattenson Cemetery.


The 13,048th John

Donnarita has seen them all; the corporates,
The mailmen, the bartenders, the gangsters, the unwanted babies,
The politicians, the nobodies…
…the dead. All of them called John
Doe because genitalia was the only “name”
Discovered on the deceased,
What about their families—Donnarita pondered.
The Sun distributed warm light equally
Across the broken city of Los Angeles.
Two strong men wheeled a metal cart
Cloaked in a stained white sheet
Into Donnarita’s silver-overloaded office.
She peeled back the front left corner

Revealing a human foot, colored
Like a frozen robin’s egg, labeled
by a cardboard tag tied to its toe:
#13,048—John Doe

Everything began as routinely as usual,
logging the delivery time, signing papers,
sipping luke-warm coffee, and stretching
latex gloves over her long, ring-less fingers.

Donnarita whipped the cover off
dramatically, as an art exhibit
would a Picasso painting,
to examine the sky-tinted corpse.
She slid her shoulders from her lab coat,
And, raw as birth, climbed steel to lay
Under John’s arm, head covering the holes
in his chest, one brown hand holding his name.

Poem 1: spectrophobic extreme

Stratus clouds sashay through

rays of sun,

Flickering epileptic light manically,

across his mattress,

Waking him in instinctive rage

like a cannibal’s

Festering thirst for flesh

and blood.

The cuckoo clock, assembled

in Mahogany

To match the warped floorboards,

creaks and clucks

Static-toned screeches

like knives

Piercing sensitive ears.

Every rattle of the wooden

fowl sounds

Like a siren with a bad cold,

reminding him of his deal—

That evil agreement

shrieking (and shrieking)

Inside, bubbling every nerve

to a frightening boil.

Those bleak voices forced

him to promise—

“Kill, kill, kill” they whispered

from the grave

From the depths, the hidden

pockets in his mind,

Kill him now. Kill him.


Sure-footed he stood and moved

towards the bathroom door,

Unsheathing a serrated

mercenary. Firmly

Smirking, he thrusted the blade

into his glass skull

Collapsing the victim,

shard by shard.

Day 1: Introduction

I am Talon Hunter Ribsam. I am a Creative Writing major out of Monmouth University. On this page I will be sharing my creations with anyone who cares to dabble in the arts. Poetry is certainly my favorite medium of self-expression, however, I also enjoy writing short stories because they make me feel powerful. Constructing new worlds and characters is such a thrilling experience and then the plots are those exciting obstacles everyone loves.

I hope you all  enjoy.