Welcome

I just updated my blog feel free to come check it out read my posts and tell what you think. there are snip-its from my current book The Chill of Evil, a few poems, and a look into my next book A Shadow beneath the Cypress. thank you and i hope you enjoy reading my work.

Happy mothers day

i just want to say that i am glad i'm your mother, you make me happy, you make me sad, you make me glad you make me mad, but most of all you make me feel loved, for all of you mothers out there feel free to repost this to your children. happy mothers day!

Somewhere in the darkest hours, a poem

Somewhere in the darkest hours ghosts come out to play, joined by goblins, witches, monsters, and demons on the way. evil lurks in their mist, waitng for their moment. when it comes they strike at us like a moving comet when they leave we lay afraid, shaking in our beds. they leave behind their different marks vivid in our heads, so when the clock strikes three am and the witching hours sounds, dont bother locking up your house cuz not matter what evil is abound.

a piece from A Shadow beneath the Cypress

The day was so sultry; it was nearly enough to choke one to death. we walked parched and placid. I caught a glimpse of Cypress Pond as we made our way towards the school, and on to the influential home of Doctor Vernon Parish. The white two-story Victorian sat high on the hill, away from the dust of the roads, and the smell of the lumber company. The sun was so bright. It reflected an orange glow over the water. I could not help but linger a bit to stare. Mother tugged at my arm, telling me to come along. I lingered too long and lost sight of Mother and Lilly. I grew frightened. There was no one around, and I did not know the way to Doctor Parish's house. Then, he came along; it was as if he had been hiding behind the Cypress trees just waiting for me.
I was wearing the new satin dress Jaharra made for me. The one with the matching hair bows. I was afraid at first, because Mr. Miles was a strange little man, but what was I to do; I was lost. I told him this did not look like the way to the doctor’s house. He said it was a short cut, so we would not have to dredge up the giant hill.
The coatroom smelled of glue and paper. It was small and dirty, like the room in the West Wing. The room daddy said we were never to go in… I tried to scream, but he clamped his large dirty hand over my mouth. Tears stung my eyes. I closed them so tightly it made them ache. I could smell the scent of his aftershave, mingled with the pungent odor of whiskey on his hot and dreadful breath. His face so close to mine made me shiver in fear.
He never spoke a word. His breathing became faster and more labored as he tore at my clothing. When he finished, and his sweaty body lay still over me for a moment, I tried to open my now swollen and red eyes. I could see the silhouette of the sweater Isabella had left the last day before summer break. It hung on the hook like a fuzzy animal. I parted my lips to try once again to scream, but no use. My throat was dry, and what came out, was the small croak of a sleepy frog.
He lifted his eyes to meet with mine. A look of shock and horror sat upon his dirty, sweat-covered face. It was as if he just now, realized what he done, and what would now happen to him if anyone were to find out. A small tear fell on my cheek. A tear of remorse for what he done, and what he was about to do. He wrapped his massive hand around my throat, and began to squeeze. I began to thrash my feet and hands into the air. My eyes seemed as if they would pop out of my skull. I could not breathe. Everything went dark…
He carried me out of that filthy little closet, through the woods, and down to Cypress Pond. He stayed close to the trees, keeping his shadow beneath the heavy branches of the Cypress trees. He placed me face down into the water at the ponds edge. My new dress was covered in dirt, blood, and his rank sweat. My ribbons lay askew in my beautiful blonde hair, floating in the muddy warm water.
But even as I lay here, my belly swelling more each day it was not the worst thing that has happened, this is. Being locked in this godforsaken room with no one to talk to and no one to listen to my cries.

The life of a thug A poem Martini Harkert 2010

Three gray walls and a human stained cot, these iron bars a friend are not. A steel barrel and 357 slug got this concrete floor, bare no rug. this is the cross i bear, the life of a thug. all my meals from a plastic tray, my life i fear each and every day. in the dark of nite some men cry; i put myself here it makes me sigh. The life of a thug is not a life, i lost my son and my wife. i traded the streets for federal sheets.
i wasn't myself when i was high, now a strangers family asks me why oh why. to them i stare bewildered and shamed, i killed a man not knowing his name. my trembling lips falter, so in silence i shrug this is no life the life of a thug. on the jailhouse steps two mothers cry, sewn together by a common thread, one son in jail, one son dead.

The rain finally stopped, replaced by sunshine, the wind still blew making the air bitter. Sara sat up, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and crawled out of bed. The floor was cold; she hesitated before reaching under the bed for her slippers, the memory of the woman in the mirror still fresh in her head. She wanted more than anything to curl up and go back to sleep, but coffee would have to do. Max stood up, yawned, stretched and slunk down the stairs behind her.
“Good morning max.” She said to him, reaching out to pat him on his head. He
winced and ran out of the room.
“What has gotten into Him?” She asked aloud. Why hadn’t he barked last night…? She wondered, watching the old hound dog scurry back up the stairs. Was she the only one able to see the vision of the elderly woman standing at the foot of her bed?
She shook the thoughts out of her head. The smell of the coffee brewing made her hungry. There was nothing in the fridge and the cupboards were bare; now that the storm had quieted down, she could go to town and get her shopping done. Every trip to town seemed stranger than the last. She felt like she had moved to Stepford; her first impression of the place was all wrong.
It was as if everyone was harboring a deep dark secret. Sara knew no one was going to tell her, so she would have to find out on her own. Her curiosity got the best of her; she hurried through her shopping Howard helped her to her car, if any one would help her it would be him. He started to tell her something, before he had been rudely interrupted, the first time they had met maybe she could get him to tell her now.
She looked at him a weak smile on her face, and asked if he knew who lived up
on the hill before her. He looked around to make sure no one was watching, and told her to go to the town hall ...
“Look up the name April Rosen,” Howard whispered, with a look of worry on his face, and quickly hurried away. Since it was Sunday, her search would have to wait. For now, she wondered if anything in the secret room would tell her who April Rosen was.
A strange thought entered her head, as she gazed up and down the street. Sara realized she had not heard church bells ring. Where were the people dressed in their Sunday best bustling through the streets, or gathering in the café.
She took a long look around; a stinging anxiety came over her, and she hurried home. It took her a while to gather up the courage to go up into the tucked away room, but Sara was curious. So she braved the unknown.
The room was cold and dim; the only light came from a small window, covered by
a tattered lace curtain. There was an old dirty stained mattress lying beneath it. The strong stench of rotten wood and urine filled the air. It was dusty, and cobwebs clung to everything.
There were a few small children’s toys scattered about the floor. Resting next
to the mattress … was an exquisite doll. Her red bouncy curls covered her dirty porcelain
face; she was dressed in a torn, soiled red satin gown.
Sara picked her up, wiped the cobwebs from her body and wondered why such a lovely doll was up here. A small old school desk stood alone in a corner scattered … on the floor next to it appeared to be children’s schoolbooks, and scratched into the top of the wooden desk were the words
“April was here.”
Sara stared at the name on the desk, running her fingers across the etched words; she remembered what Howard had said to her. She reached down searched through the books on the floor, and found they were all the same … they were journals. On the inside cover of one of them written in crayon were the words “April’s diary” She flipped through the worn journal, and read.

July 1, 1836
“Momma put me up in this hot room again. I cannot study up here it is too hot. I dragged the mattres nder the window to lie on but there is not much air coming in. I am scared up here by myself.
I told momma I would be good in my room, but she was having guests and I could not attend, “I’ll be quiet as a mouse momma!” I promisd but she drug me up here anyway, and she locked the door behind her. I knew better than to cause a noise by banging on the door, if I did that she would leave me up here
way after dark. And I am afraid of what is in the dark up here.”
The scribbled words were hard to read, and some were misspelled, as if written by a child. Sara flipped through the pages, they covered years of April’s life some of it
Considerably painful. She could not believe what she had just read; the book was rather
large, and there were more of them on the floor.
She read for a while, but it was getting colder. She gathered up all the diaries, along with the picturesque dolly, and went downstairs. Each book had been carefully dated on their inside covers, so with max at her feet, with the fireplace roaring, Sara sat in her chair, put the books in order, and began reading.
April 1 1835
To my darling April on her fifth birthday. All my love daddy. The night of dark, the day so light they try to meet with all their might. He says to thee there is no doubt she is the one he cannot live with
out. Again, it is they meet so brief to this there seems no relief. It happens from day to night it never ends dark comes to light.

A Shadow beneath the Cypress
Written By
Martini Harkert

My dimming memories come and go, leaving me in distress — fear might be a better word. The images that flash through my mind are more than I can bear most days. However, even in my weakened state, I try to sift through them, year by endless year, and ghost by endless ghost. I sit here listening, trying to recall the tormented souls that have haunted me — haunted us — for so long. Somewhere deep inside me, I know that it will only be a matter of time before…
The memories of Evercrest, a place that then seemed so far away, now looms closer as each day passes. These memories seem to be the strongest. As the fog grows heavier, the darkness deepens. I hate the darkness. The old weathered and diminished headstones that hold the keys to the past wait in the darkness.
A sound, it comes from somewhere in the distance, a spine chilling shriek. It makes my body shudder, and then— it passes. It too has gone somewhere into the past, as has my mind. The strong sweet scent of perfume lays heavy in the air. Yet, somewhere beneath it, I can smell the sinfulness of Cypress Hills, and Evercrest. My eyes, still fixed on the rain outside, close.

The sharp scent of earth that he carried on his old work boots came from the muddy edge of Cypress Pond. The echoing thuds of our tiny feet, as we romped around the old wood floors, sounded joyful at first. I could smell sweat, and whiskey mingled in with school paste and disinfectant. Mister Miles, the school janitor, never minded if we played as long as we stayed on the opposite side of where he was working. He was a creepy sort of man with greasy hair, streaked grey from age, which was mostly covered by a dirty old baseball cap. Mr. Miles lived on the other side of town just a few yards from the train tracks. His shack, nearly hidden by weeds and overgrown trees, was barely considered a house. He always wore the same slate-blue colored uniform, and from the layers of dirt on it made it seem as if it were the only one he owned. It smelled that way as well. Mr. Miles wife passed away some years ago. There are rumors he has a daughter, but no one knows for sure. They say he keeps her locked away in his house making her do the things a wife would.
"You Girls stay over there, stay out of the way now… out of the way."
His voice traveled off as if he had gone into another room. He flashed us an odd smile, picked up the mop, sloshed it around in his bucket, and begin another pass across the floor mumbling. He stared at us, his one lazy eye half opened half closed. He seemed to be looking through us— rather than at us.
His mumbling made us girls giggle. We whispered things like retard, and dummy behind his back mocking the way he sloshed the mop around the floor; his one leg dragging behind him as if his foot was unattached. It made a strange sliding and thumping sound, swoosh, thud, as he crossed the old empty schoolroom....


As the memory fades, I turn to look into Madison’s eyes, but now, she too is staring out into the darkness and the rain. I can smell the scent of her strawberry shampoo as she leans her head a bit closer to mine. I inhale deeply absorbing as much of her as I can. I know I am her only salvation…, as she is mine.