Orgy of Souls
Wrath James White and Maurice Broaddus
'ORGY OF SOULS is a gripping tale of two brothers whose lives have taken radically different paths — but those paths intersect via some surprising twists and turns. With raw prose, vividly drawn characters, and a chilling touch of the occult, Broaddus and White draw you in and belt you right in your emotional gut.'
--Stephen Mark Rainey, author of BLUE DEVIL ISLAND and THE LEBO COVEN
--James A. Moore, author of DEEPER and CHERRY HILL
This collection is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these stories are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
ORGY OF SOULS
Copyright 2008 by Wrath James White and Maurice Broaddus
Cover Art “Orgy of Souls” by D.E. Christman
All rights reserved.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my wife, Christie, and my son, Sultan, and my daughters, Isis and Nala, who put up with me every day while I chase the dream of being a successful writer. And, of course, Maurice.
I would like to thank my wife, Sally, and my sons, Reese and Malcolm, for their patience with my mood swings and sacrifice of time while I continue to serve my muse. Also the Indiana Horror Writers, Kelli Dunlap, and Chesya Burke for their continued support. And a special “thank you” to my hardworking and underpaid message board moderators, Lauren David and Ro Griffin. And, of course, Wrath.
We would also like to thank all the past and present members of the Maurice Broaddus message board: Levitepriestess, Green 19, Marc Dav, Mark Johnson, Dougdubyou, Harley, Sheryl, Crystal, and Ron. Without you and your example of how conversations could be had, this probably wouldn’t have happened.
Foreword
I was asked in an interview once whether or not my religion kept me from writing about certain things. In general it doesn’t because I think anything can be written about, and it’s the skill of the writer that crafts the story told. There are times when I can’t get to a certain place that a story or character needs to go. In times like that, it’s good to have friends to call on, friends like Wrath James White.
For people who know the two of us, that never ceases to amuse them. We have very little in common; in fact, beyond being bald, black writers, we are polar opposites. Our writing styles, our lifestyles, our politics, our worldviews, our spiritual perspectives. He writes for those with “a taste for the violent, the erotic, the blasphemous,” while I write introspective, atmospheric stories. He’s a hedonistic humanist and I’m a Christian, the facilitator (a nebulous title coming from the Greek meaning “we don’t want to keep explaining to the congregation that one of the church leaders is a horror writer”) at a church called The Dwelling Place.
Our friendship revolves around our mutual respect for one another. We are able to have conversations on some of the prickliest of topics because we listen to one another, we’re not interested in converting one another, and we are genuinely interested in seeing how the other person comes at things, even if we don’t agree. We’re also both intrigued by the idea of faith.
If there’s a “big idea” to
I don’t know much for sure, which allows me to learn from everyone. I can guarantee that the path and ways that I follow in my spiritual journey are going to look different than anyone else’s. I'm certainly not afraid of questioning or going through a period of doubt. Faith includes doubt. God is big enough for us to question, doubt, and wrestle with. In fact, He expects us to. The opposite of faith isn’t doubt, it’s certainty. Finding faith is like falling in love. There is an element of mystery to both, and let’s face it, in any proposition, we’re uncomfortable with mysteries, the “I don’t knows.” There are times while we are falling in love when we feel like we have been chosen and times when we choose to do it. Let me tell you, when I’ve fallen in love (each and every painful time), it has caught me off guard and swept me up.
—Maurice Broaddus
1
Samson glided through the dance club, the pounding bass a second heartbeat in his chest, his body bouncing slightly, almost imperceptibly in time with the rhythm. His eyes sparkled with lust as he gazed across the dance floor at a sea of sweltering, undulating flesh. He wanted to make love to the entire room, the entire building, the whole faceless mass of humanity. No one person stood out from the next. They were all the same to him, neither male nor female. Only flesh. And he couldn’t wait to throw himself among them, to feel the press of their bodies against his, their smooth skin, slicked with perspiration, sliding against his own. He popped another tablet of Ecstasy and his flesh began to tingle. This was his element. People waved to him, shook his hand, patted him on his back, hugged him, and gave him the occasional pound and kiss. There were few people he didn’t know. He’d been a bouncer here once upon a time, and he’d recently done a stint as a guest DJ on Friday nights. Then his modeling career had taken off and he’d quit his job at the club, but the lights, the music, and the women still drew him. Just another patron on the prowl for someone to swap body fluids with.
“Samson! Samson!”
A sprightly Polynesian woman charged off the dance floor straight towards him. She had long black hair that curled slightly, thick heart shaped lips, slanted eyes with long lashes, dimpled cheeks, and a huge smile that seemed almost electric beneath the flashing colored lights. Though probably no more than five-foot-three inches tall, her body was amazing. She had a thin waist above wide, curvaceous hips squeezed into a mini-skirt that revealed her smooth muscular cinnamon brown legs. She wore a baby t-shirt that exposed her midriff, revealing the beginnings of a six-pack. The t-shirt itself was stretched almost to bursting by breasts that seemed disproportionately large for her diminutive frame. They were at least a D cup and natural from the way they bounced and wobbled as she made her way toward him.
“Remember me?”
