If you search with your heart and not you’re cluttered mind you might find the light from above
Holy trinity, righteous love and undeserved mercy drives the light that drives all things
Thirst for the word it is the bread of life cling to the word. keep it in your heart, without the word the light remains unseen
Seek and explore, contemplate salvation as if your very soul depends on it
Search… search…  with all of your heart and mind and spirit
To not search or to not believe brings death to the soul and birth to torment and unimaginable agony
Search… while there is still yet a little precious time
search… before death comes to call                     ©8/15                                                                     R.B. Tetro


The smell of death lingered…

The smell of death lingered on the man, permeating his hair and clothes, even his skin and underneath his fingernails. He could smell it when he smoked his imported cigarettes, and it ruined his appetite. No matter how many times he obsessively washed his hands, he could still smell all of the people he’d butchered and it kept him sullen and full of rage.      He hadn’t killed anybody for weeks, but still the smell of death lingered in his nostrils, the stench overpowering him at times, especially when he ate or tried to sleep. The death smell was diverse and impossibly complicated. Sometimes he would smell his latest victim, other times he would catch the scent of a family of four, he’d killed in Indiana and buried underneath a rabbit hutch.      No matter how much Ozium he used, or how many scented candles he bought, the smell of death still lingered, constantly reminding him, of the monster that he was.      Ten years later the death man could still smell his first victim. The coppery tang of blood and rotten decay filled his nostrils, convicting him and damning him to hell.      He tried not to think about it while he watched his next potential victim.      His throat thickened and his mouth went dry as he fantasized about brutally murdering, than patiently dismembering the unsuspecting father of two.      He was just on the verge of entering the man’s house, when a detective, who’d been tracking him for over five years, on his own time, shot him twice in the back and put him down.      Mortally wounded, the death man stared up at the detective with all of hells hate in his eyes.      ‘’How, did you find, me?’’ he managed to ask.      The detective smiled and tugged on the leash of his retired cadaver dog. The dog came up to the death man and started to whine and growl, then barked and snapped at him.          The detective smiled while he let his faithful companion have some fun. He even let his canine friend take a grisly chunk out of the death mans horrified face, before jerking on the leash and commanding him to heel. ‘’Finding you was easy… after I got the dog. The smell of death still lingers on you, and everything you touch.’’      The death man gasped and coughed. Dark reddish, black blood flew from his lips, and he knew that he was close to the other side of things.      As he slipped towards deaths mysterious portal, he began to experience the sheer terror and helplessness of all of his innocent victims.    He was screaming like the evil pig that he was, when the demons drug him down to hell, where the smell of death still lingers, on and on… for eternity.

finally learned how to connect my blog with my facebook page. Please check it out and share it with your friends.

Always there’s noise or the imminent threat of noise      interrupting my thoughts      severing my concentration
Noise at work      forced upon me      always talking   always negative      brainwashing me in reverse      dissolving my idea’s with distortion      Day after day noise drills at my teeth      making my ears dull      scorching my creativity
Forced company   forced rhetoric      home is no better      home is a cacophony of idea splitting noise     Nobody wants the quiet to hold me      my silent lover      my secret friend      I miss in the midst of all of this noise                                                                          R.B. Tetro   8/15

When I write…

When I write
I come to the empty page with respect and a lurking sense of dread that for some reason I will not be able to create or convey what my mind and heart want to say anymore

When I write it’s never clear enough, or powerful enough, or clever enough, or enough My writing is an obsession that pulls at my mind day and night, sending me into fits of verbal entanglements and run on sentences… still running

When I write, and then read my work, I wonder if anyone else really feels my writing, or are they just politely listening and waiting for their turn to read their own words.
Writing is air and I breath in deep gulps and relish in the freedom of it and the ability to create or destroy a world that has never been seen before or experienced a look inside my writing shows the turmoil and laughter of my soul my writing is a shadow of my heart in print and on display for the world to see

I am not famous but when I read my writing sometimes, I think perhaps someday, far down the road, that maybe my writing is not so bad and it could possibly rise out of the slush pile and be printed and actually become…

Thoughts like that make my simple head spin and make me dread becoming a known author because part of what makes my writing worth reading is my anonymity and my loneliness

I’m not ashamed in the slightest to admit I write for money so that perhaps one day I won’t have to tell my children, no, all the time, and my wife can have the things she deserves but is too selfless to ask for Not to be rich, but comfortable enough to take a breath and enjoy life without facing the everyday challenges of borderline poverty
I look forward to the day were I can take time to write and not always feel like I’m running out of time to write and I can carefully, and thoughtfully weigh each word for substance and impact The dream to wake and write and write some more and not have to go anywhere or do anything but write and write well is what keeps me writing into the deep watches of the night, and up again at four to write some more

This heavenly gift, this unnerving fluke a delightfully consuming obsession to write and be a writer of worth is what I aspire to attain with my pen and my squirrely mind, and the ever elusive imagination cloud that only brings its silver spun rain every now and again

I write to hold back my minds decay and to breathe and to exist
My words come from my soul’s well, partly dark and lined with sorrow and sparkling memories swirling in crystal water

Jagged and edged, my words bite and prick and know and whisper into your inner thoughts, flitting about and gone, leaving a stain of comprehension
Would that I could write something that would change the world and wake up the masses

my writing is a secret lover that’s not always in the mood and often times an ass one evening we dance and create the next evening we are shy strangers awkwardly trying to get to know each other once again

What to write, who to trust, what to say, and who do I want the world of readers to think that I am

My writing my words, my words, my heart in my words, and into your mind, my writng goes on and grows and evolves and becomes… when I write.

R.B Tetro

This piece was recently published in the Roane County Reader