On an unseasonably cool July morning in Chicago, equivalent to David Copperfield, Judge Santiago Burdon was born on a Friday.  The Bronte sisters, Keats, Burns and especially Dickens inspired his study of English Literature. He attended Universities in the United States, London and Paris focusing his studies on Victorian novels and authors.

His short stories and poems have been featured in a variety of magazines, on-line zines and podcasts;  The Remnant Leaf, Stay Weird  and Keep Writing, The Dope Fiend Daily, Independent Writer’s Blog, Spillwords, The Beatnik Cowboy, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Eskimo Pie, The Stray Branch, Anti-Heroin Chic, Raven Cage, Horror Sleaze Trash, Across The Margin, The Story Pub, Punk Noir, Synchronized Chaos, Mad Swirl,  to list a few. Judge was named in 2020 edition of “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers. “

 His first book, “Stray Dogs and Deuces Wild Cautionary Tales” was published in January 2020 by HST Press, his second is due out May of 2021. There is also a book of poetry “Not Real Poetry” planned for publication in December. He is presently engaged in finishing his novel “Imitation of Myself.” A non-fiction story detailing  his experiences as a drug runner for a Mexican Cartel. Judge celebrated his 67th birthday last July and lives modestly in Costa Rica.

The Gargoyle Yawns

The fogwalker searches for clues  in the  moist darkness of early morning, the mist feels its way through empty alleys and vacant lots, cautious footsteps crackle from the gravel pathway lined with broken glass and dry leaves, evidence the Autumn Equinox has smothered the last breath of summer. 

Gangways between decaying brick buildings echo from dogs sounding an alarm with menacing Baskerville howls and barks, a garden of flickering street lights blossom under the black canopy of darkness, twilight flowers reaching for a lazy moon with the dim enthusiasm of jaundice fluorescence.

The Diogenestic odyssey by the twilight straggler is an exercise clothed in failure, honesty dressed in shabby clothes is disguised as a fictitious conviction, this quality that measures the value of character is a virtue that few possess and is rarely practiced, who does this best policy of honesty benefit, is it the one divulging the truth or the recipient of honesty, the best part of this said truth are the lies. 

The fogwalker is a willing witness to another exchange of darkness into daylight, the colors of dawn are held hostage by a greedy sky,  Time takes a brief moment to rest from its perpetual responsibility and is allowed a short pause in between the next tic and toc.  The morning’s stillness dances on a renegade wind, while long thin wispy Cirrus fingers scratch at the sky, as though angels were keying the paint on God’s celestial blue Buick.

Standing at the edge of night peering over the ledge into dawn the Gargoyle yawns