Tag Archives: noir

Ways to go


Are these star-crossed lovers organ thieves or grinders.  Robbers of banks or people. Escaping some destiny laid before one of them who only finds shelter from his or her fate in the arms of the other.  A road trip, an odyssey of Ulyssiad proportions.  Lost in a forest, in a cabin, near a lake, on a mountain or burial mound as it may happen to be.  A cave, an abyss or maybe just a cat, a date, a follower of sorts through rain-slicked nightscapes, down alleys and sewers alike to escape the unknown who may or may not be herding them to some destination of malcontent on the edge of a pier with no escape other than the cold dark sea.  More to the one for the other to understand; the decision of course is which would be which and why.  Scars in one cerebral in the other. Scars to the cerebral as the cerebral tends to madness and scars, generally anyway, seek quietude.  A quest of sorts or not, perhaps some meandering, but that probably won’t be the case as some fantastic has already been introduced.  So fantastic quest into a perilous nightscape with one to the other, eventually better, or not, maybe dead, eventually, but with illumination.


Crossing: New Book!


Baltimore Maryland’s hospitality industry generates over 5 billion dollars in annual revenue; about the same as the city’s drug trade. Aggressive gentrification has transformed the landscape into an ever changing kaleidoscope of narcotics and death that outsources those valuable commodities throughout the eastern seaboard, but that’s not what this story is about. This story is about a girl named Jane and a girl named Kelly and how I successfully failed to murder either of them; it also happens to take place in Baltimore.

This is my new book!  It available for free on Kndle for the next five days at: http://www.amazon.com/Crossing-ebook/dp/B00D3M6DBM/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1370003284&sr=1-1&keywords=crossing+christopher+wilt

Paperback versions for 3.99 at https://www.createspace.com/4196348



I would describe this as surreal noir.  It is mechanical in nature and operates like a paradoxical clock, but it’s also entertaining and I hope at least occasionally amusing

Sad eyed girl in pastels



It wasn’t until much later that he realized where he was going.  The building in front of him might as well be completely featureless for its lack of personality.  A moderately well dressed man sat on the planter near the entrance and surveyed him suspiciously as he approached.  No words needed exchanging, just the mutual nods generally resulting from extended eye contact.  She was small and wore pastels to cheer herself up, but was somewhat bashful by nature so doubly aware of the attention her clothes drew.  He sat in the waiting room and attempted to relax so that she might relax, because increased tension in these situations can compromise outcomes.  Once he entered the inner office the receptionist’s nervousness seemed more warranted than he had given her credit.  Following the not altogether difficult procedure he left the building the way he came, passing the moderately dressed man, who upon being passed, turned and re-entered the building.

He saw a bar across the street, and lacking many more appointments for the week, walked over and ordered a drink.  The bartender regarded him warmly and made conversation about the weather and unremarkable current events.  After a few drinks, the bartender put a pack of matches beside the drink and gestured to the back of the room.  He picked up the matches, read the instructions on the cover and then walked to the bathroom in the corner.  It took a few more minutes than he had anticipated, but he eventually returned to his stool and struck up a conversation with the receptionist from across the street.  She had apparently only been in the city for a month and didn’t really know anyone, but for some reason had no problem explaining in detail all the events in her life that had led up to this point.

End of a long walk


The lights from the car shown on a tan overcoat lying on the path.  There was a silhouette behind the lights; motionless except for the steam rising from its mouth.  I reached in my pocket and came to the unpleasant realization that in the struggle I had lost my gun, but they don’t know that, at least not yet.  There is a girl screaming in the distance, but the ravine walls make it impossible to tell from which direction.  The sentinel behind the car remains motionless; a threat of violence and the unknown.

I pull myself up and stagger drunkenly forward, eventually steadying myself on the hood of the car.  Cold steel immediately surrounds my wrist followed by the sound of metal on metal and chain.  The silhouette is gone and the car is now moving.  A tug on my wrist can only mean I’ve been attached to the bumper.  The engine revs and as I look at the ridge above the ravine I see a pale girl struggling against someone or something.  She seems to float as she falls. If I could lunge forward I might break her fall, but now the car is backing up.

My feet keep up with the motion for a moment and then I hear the engine and feel my feet leave the ground and in that instant I am no longer attached to the car, but floating towards her.  Our eyes meet as I sail to the rock wall and at that moment I reach out for her and know that I cannot because my arm is still attached to the bumper of the car, not to me.  The rock is cold against my face, cold gives way to sting and then to pain and now I am falling.  Dust is still rising when I open my eyes.  She lay not more than four feet away.  There is weight on the hand I still have and then three hot sharp impacts into my arm.

The lights are gone.  I turn on my back and feel tired.  The last thing I remember is the moon and the sound of water.


A large man sits with his elbows on the bar and looks in the mirror that stands behind a row of bottles.  He wears a brown coat and has been watching the couple one seat down from him since they came in.  The woman hung her purse on the hook below the bar and while he does not look at it, he imagines it as a weight pulling down the bar where it hangs.  The woman sits nearest to him and is relatively attractive aside from all the makeup and perfume.  She gets up and goes to the restroom and the sag in the bar remains.  Her man’s eyes have become fixed on the baseball game in her absence, which is when the man moves and relieves the bar of its burden.  As he turns to leave he feels a hand clap on his shoulder followed by a stern voice issuing a warning.  He breaks the wrist connecting the hand to its arm and looks in the mirror to see himself still holding the woman’s disfigured limb.  Her man stares at the television and she doesn’t move or make a sound.  And then nothing does.

Now available at Atomic Books



Eight years in four days

Degenerate Triangle