dark sketches

By Bennett Valentine, Christine Marino, Andrew Valentine and Robert Watson

The last days on earth; a story of familial love; a detective back from the war struggles to find meaning; an unusual relationship between a pigeon and a roach. These stories, poems and more are brought to you from the vibrant imaginations of the young authors found within the pages of Dark Sketches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798369402016

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Copyright © 2023 by Bennett Valentine.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 07/29/2023

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Dark

i. loss

My Whimsy

Cold Coffee

How Time Flies

The Long Walk Home

Hatshepsut

Closed Doors

Gen Z

Day Three

Inmaterial

ii. ignorance

When I Died

Navigating the Rotten Apple

The Odor

A Silent Ride

Netflix Was There For Me

Painting Love

Sleeping Pills

Escape

The Cruel Reality of Hopeless Dreams

Just Beyond the Steering Wheel

Frozen Tears

iii. guilt

Summer’s Jewel

Open Window

The Face

The Night I Killed a Man

What’s To Tell?

There’s No Fish in the Sea

Sheep Meadow

Starry Night

iv. truth

Unsolicited Consciousness

Little Boy

Polaroid Camera

Echoes in the Dark

An Ode to Those Who Stay Silent

DARK

The clouds masked the vivid sun from the storm, racing and pounding its way to the manor. The shore beside the mansion quickly faded from a warm and soft cushion, to a gray, moist terrain. When Samuel woke up, his eyes weren’t adjusted to the early darkness that surrounded him. His unfamiliarity with the house, and his assumption of it being night, made him roll over and try to fall back to sleep. But just as his mind drifted off again, he heard the front door bust open.

Samuel wasn’t sure if it was just his imagination or not, but the footsteps he heard on the level below him propelled him to get up. He slowly trudged down the stairs to see the old man looking back up to him. The man turned away without a greeting, declaring, There’s a storm coming.

What time is it?

Just before evening.

The man walked into a room filled with cupboards. He kneeled down, opening one up with the keys around his hand.

Why is it so dark?

There’s a storm coming. Help me set up the house. It won’t be able to last many more storms.

Do you have a torch?

For what? The dark? It’s not the dark I’m scared of. Fearing the dark is just fearing your own imagination . . . fearing ambiguity. I know this house, I know what it holds. I don’t know this storm.

The old man handed a key to Samuel and demanded, Lock all the rooms and board up the windows on your own.

Do you really think the storm is going to be this bad?

I wouldn’t risk it.

Samuel turned and started up the stairs. He thought about what the old man had said about the dark. He knew the old man was wrong. The darkness did bring ambiguity, but it’s not just fear’s tool. Sometimes, the darkness is clear, and you’re hoping it’s just your imagination. Sometimes, you have to fear the dark.

-Bennett

1.jpgLOSS%20drawing.jpg

MY WHIMSY

How do you bend? Backwards? Sideways?

Have you been feeling blue? What about red, or yellow?

Maybe even green...?

I feel like every time I see you; you disappear without a trace.

Is it me?

I think now that your life is dismal you come back to me.

I can imagine you peering out from behind the drapes, waiting for a car

to pass by so the flicker of the headlights could make the outline of

someone’s face, even if just for a split second

The drudgery of trying to make things work with you is never ending.

You fill me with endless grief.

The leaves are changing now. Remember when we used to watch them

fall?

I feel like those leaves now. I finally get it

Wobbling, tottering, reeling, swerving from the truth.

I put you on a pedestal, the highest shelf I could reach. So high you

couldn’t come down if you tried.

I think I’m missing something, but what? Am I too bland? Am I missing

contrast,

or is it

variation?

We’re only human, our bodies are programmed to keep pumping blood

through our veins until an outside force says otherwise.

I wish I was that force.

The force that comes from the east, and the west. And even from below

and above.

Any and every direction. You can’t escape this

But by god we should try...right?

Something tells me, that; that force – the big man upstairs – whatever

you want to call it

I think it likes my whimsy.

-Christine

COLD COFFEE

My grandfather, every Sunday morning, would take two trips from the kitchen to the dining room. The first was with bacon and lukewarm coffee that had usually cooled down, as he liked to have it made before the bacon was even started. The second was with a pencil in hand, marking runners in the paper for his routine marathon of horse-racing bets as the Sunday morning lent itself towards a looming afternoon. He never bet more than a dime on a horse and rarely less than a nickel. He had no tangible formula—a favorite here, a longshot there, a lucky number, a lighter jockey—all setting up a series of largely silent victories as I peered over his