Dave Mercel's Blog
January 26, 2021
New Short Story! DEMON AFTERNOON
https://brokenpencil.com/fiction/onli...
July 15, 2019
Published Short Story! LITTLE COCKROACH GOD LITTLE COCKROACH COUNTRY
Today is a banner day, I had a story published in Eclectica Magazine (July/Aug 2019).
Check it out here, absolutely FREE.
Little Cockroach God, Little Cockroach Country
Enjoy, and feel free to critique and comment.
May 28, 2018
Apocalypse Ned
“Tell me a story.” she said, the firelight dancing across her dirt streaked face, making her lovely. It was funny how being put on the spot always made Ned lose his cool; the needle slips the groove, the brain short circuits. Yeah, funny like death, this being the perfect time and place for some good getting-to-know-you conversation.
“All of my stories are ghost stories.” he replied. Jenna smiled at that, a sad and wistful smile but it was something.
“Pass over one of those bottles, cowboy.”
He rummaged through his backpack and slid out a 26 of Jack Daniels Single Barrel, the good stuff. He passed it to her across the fire held by the neck. She reached out and he slapped it into her hand, the proficient surgical assistant, then dug back into his pack for the other. Two were all that they could carry. They cracked the caps, two gunshots in millisecond overlap, a slight sharp echo playing faintly off of the concrete walls.
“To the great apocalypse fantasy.” he toasted.
“To the what now?” she asked, but he was already slugging it back.
As she tipped her bottle, holding his eyes, he said “You know, Fight Club, Zombieland, The Stand, Left 4 Dead, The Walking Dead.” She sputtered, swallowing with a grimace. Then she gave him that look that he remembered oh so well; that boys-can-be-such-dumb-asses look
.
“Okay, you got this guy, Norbert Q. Fishstick, esquire. He's got his cubicle, his ID badge, his short sleeve collar shirt and sad tie. His boss has a fucking man-bun. His apartment is full of comic books and is still haunted by the ghost of his ex. And one day the world ends. No more job, no more credit card debt, no more advertising. No more loud talking, elbow throwing, man spreading, door blocking, subway idiots. No more slow, diagonal walkers-” She had to stop him there with a look.
“Okay, scratch that last one. No more fucking phones.” Again, the sad and forlorn smile. “If everything hasn't been turned to dust by nuclear option, if everything is just laying around...”
“The ultimate nerd fantasy.” Jenna said, “A video game.” her tone only slightly patronizing, he thought.
“Sure, why not? You get to dress rock and roll bad ass, carry a gun, a katana, a crowbar. Fight to survive, adrenaline up, blood pumping, visceral life. You get to be a man...or a woman... without all the bullshit. You get to think, get fit. You have a goal; the dream of building the world again, better, simpler. Find a sweet spot, wall it up and dig a moat, plant a garden. And the quiet, the little things, the beauty of the world, the great wide open. Every day, every minute means something.”
She had to give him that. She tipped her bottle. He followed suit.
“It's too quiet.” Jenna said. “When I was a kid my dad would take us camping every damn summer. I never could sleep for all the silence. And what about security? Comfort? And the isolation, the brutal inhumanity of greed and violence, the chaos? Every day fear of torture and death. Plus, no showers. Fun stuff, video game boy.”
“Yeah. Well, the grass is always greener...” They were both caught short, staring across the guttering fire into each other's blank faces. Then they burst out laughing.
As the haunting echo of their mad laughter was still fading she held out her bottle. “Cheers, bad ass.” They clinked necks and tipped back, bottom's up.
Jenna was sitting crossed legged, and after taking her drink she leaned forward at the waist until her face was directly above the dying fire. The shadows in the empty warehouse were melting back into the great darkness, fade to black.
“What about tomorrow?” she asked.
“Tomorrow will tell its' own story.”
“Fire's dying.” she said, teasing, in pale serpentine smile, her green eyes shining cat-in-the-dark. She had placed her bottle down on its side, and now she absently spun it; the glass scraping on concrete a pleasant warble in diminishing spiral cadence, merry-go-round run down.
Here goes 'The Last Man On Earth' theory.
He leaned forward to kiss her, one hand out to steady himself. As their lips brushed, as the fire burned low, the alarm went off. The cacophonous crash and rattle of paint cans and pop cans and hubcaps blasted down long corridor of the entryway and into the vast chamber of the warehouse proper, an insane laughing echo in high harmony with itself. They shot to their feet, ready and steady, good soldiers. Jenna held her small drain spade shovel two handed – its' rounded edge sharpened executioner keen – Ned his trusty custom crowbar with the grip-taped handle.
They had guns, but no ammo
.
The clatter's echo died. The smothering silence returned, alive with all possibility. They stood waiting, dead still and stone quiet, heart's thumping, children in the dark.
“Coyote.” said Jenna.
“Deer.” said Ned, the words overlapping.
Or maybe man. Or monster.
They held steady.
The fire winked out.
Yeah, they were living the dream.
---
©2018 Dave Mercel
March 5, 2018
1991 'Chapter I'
-
Leo massaged the back of his neck, thankful the meeting was finally over. His hand came away slick with greasy sweat and tingling with the after prickle of tiny hairs stood on end. Through the smoke and under the noise came the clock clock clocking of heels; sharps and flats echoing through the old building, moving steadily, unhurriedly away from him. The stink of Brylcreem, gin, brimstone, hairspray, cigarettes and baby powder hung thick in the artificial fog. Heavy metal music blasted from the floor below, an industrial dirge that mingled with and then swallowed whole the hypnotic swing of the fading boot heels.
He hadn't burst into flame, and had only lost a little blood, and so counted himself mostly to the good. He gathered up the scattered parchment amidst the many empty glasses littering the small table and stuffed them into a battered but still serviceable briefcase. One of the pages drew a razor thin cut across the tip of his left index finger, spilling more blood onto the contract, inadvertently initialing some clause or other. He'd have to look into that, but just now all he wanted to do was get the funk out.
He scraped the chair out from beneath him as he stood, sending a deep tickling vibration through his calves and up his spine; a high harmonic echo to the bass thump coming up through the floor, shot up through the soles of his shoes, pulsing from feet to skull. A sudden black dizziness washed over him and he staggered to a stop, head hung low. He reached blindly for something solid and found the wall. Was it the booze or the stink or the cacophony? A virulent combination of all three perhaps. Black birds swarmed and flies crawled, a thousand dim voices conversed – laughing or screaming, all was one – and the machine droned on. Subsonic bass and drums, teeth shattering guitars and screaming high vocals scored and serrated, battered and bludgeoned. He was a rag doll in hurricane, untethered from the world, Lord help him. Ten seconds of swirling, sludgy darkness held him, sucking quicksand. Mountainous heavy fatigue locked him inside himself, sleep paralysis with echos of shrieking madness.
The storm passed just as quickly as it had blown in, and he was once again just another hustler on the rock and roll scene, a man in his early forties in a rumpled grey suit, weathered briefcase in hand. Flies crawling and blackbirds flying, yeah, it was time to get gone, step out into the warm LA night and come the fuck down.
The deal was done. Again, Lord help him.
He headed toward the stairs, twisting through the maze of bodies, posed in tattered cool just so. Leather and cleavage, bandana's and cut up rock shirts, sex and stink. And hair, hair everywhere.
Leo wasn't out of place here, business types were always peppered among the ragged twenty something glory of the scene. The little doll faced girls with blood smeared lips and cat eyes smiled his way, the statuesque pouting scarecrows looked on coolly. Who was he and what could he do for them? Baby, you don't wanna know.
The stench of hairspray now ruled over all other previously stated old factory sensations, and the blackness hit him once more as he descended the twisting stairway into the main room, this time accompanied by a gut wrenching nausea. Was it the stink or was it the man, the aftertaste of close proximity to..? To whom? The face of the man from five minutes ago eluded him, was just a blur.
Ridiculous.
The man he had met with had been a tall, very intense Indian man with deep set eyes and a bushy beard. No, that wasn't right. He was tall, a skyscraper stick insect, a redhead with pale green eyes and thinning hair. He wore a black suit, that much was right.
Yeah, he needed a little fresh air. He'd walk a few blocks before grabbing a cab, get back home and put on Sticky Fingers or Strange Days, crack a beer and chill.
He found Renfield at his preferred corner booth, surrounded by smoke and acolytes and empty bottles. He was the ringmaster, the center of attention as was his lot and his need. The apostle's to his Jesus were two lavishly painted groupies, two sycophantic fan boys, the drummer of another band on the scene. and Dirk, the greasy blonde, barefoot mellow bass player for Pale Horse Pale Rider, the band fronted by Renfield, and managed by Leo lo' these last three years.
“Armani brother! What's the good gospel, dude?” said Dirk.
“Leo! Captain of my fate, love of my life. Do a shot, man.” slurred a dazed Renfield.
A shot girl in skimpy glitter top and mini skirt materialized out of the bacchanal haze, a tray of test tubes brimming with dark liquid held steady.
“Sambuca or Liquid Cocaine?” she offered. Shots were chosen, passed out and held high. It was the last thing Leo needed just now, but what the Hell.
“Rock and roll”, toasted Renfield, the Metal equivalent of 'Mazel Tov', test tube held high.
They clinked as best they could from their places in the semi-circular booth, Leo leaning in and toasting Renfield last, holding the kid's bleary eyes a moment. Renfield had spiky black hair, sprayed high and hung low, black painted eyes and fingernails, and a ripped AC/DC concert shirt, Highway To Hell tour. He was pale, he was lost. He was also at once jovial, brooding, and the Lord Of All Creation. That was his charm, a charismatic coinage which paid for a myriad of beers, dope, sex, and the occasional pair of boots or a couch to crash on. For a kid who lived in Leo's attic, jammed in his basement, and no doubt had the lovely ladies here paying for the drinks, he was on top of the fucking world. He was a riddle wrapped in a bandana. Pale Horse Pale Rider had a decent local following, some buzz, and nothing much besides. But the dream, the dream sustained all, made the moment sweet. Did Renfield know it wouldn't last forever? Sure he did, he must, but he lived right smack dab in the moment. Leo could give the poor doomed kid a few years, that much at least.
Silver bracelets jingled as everybody slugged back their shot.
The glitter top girl collected the test tubes and swung back into the murk, tight little ass swaying.
“So, you take care of your thing, whatever-fuck?” slurred Renfield.
All eyes appraised Leo with reverence and greed, in various combinations and to greater and lesser extent. Had some magic deal been struck that would somehow lift all of them heavenward, peripherally or spiritually if not in actual fame and fortune?
All through this exchange Leo had heard maybe one word in three.
“I'm good. And I'm outta here. Later, dudes.” he shouted.
“Bye, Leo.” one of the girl's shouted back, then broke into a fit of giggles with the other, Renfield deep in that one's neck, bloodsucking or dozing, who could say?
“Later, brother.” said Dirk, flashing a peace sign and a slow cool smile. He was surfer mystical, counterpoint and complimentary to Renfield's mania. Like any good bass player/lead singer dynamic.
Leo nodded, returning the smile, then got gone. The Liquid cocaine body rush eased him along, his steps through the glitter parade were light and sure, and eventually he found the door
.
He felt a budding sense of freedom, a lurking sense of accomplishment, and a lingering dread.
Sweet night air, and darkness ahead.
Done deal.
Rock and roll.
--
1991 on Amazon
1991 on Goodreads
Dave Mercel
August 19, 2017
Brimstone Boys (an excerpt from Monsters In Dust)
Brimstone Boys
Skeletal hands seized him from behind, one gripping his right shoulder, the other digging hard and deep into his hair, scraping tracks of fire across his scalp. Clutching, pulling, needle stinging pain - his head whipped back, throat exposed. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, his heart racing. Panic mad, hurting and helpless, Rabbit didn't make a sound.
“Hey little chicken, buck buck.”
Puke warm breath blasted him in the ear, long ragged nails dug into his upper arm.
Caught!
Teasing slow giggles slid around him in tight echo and manic funhouse drip, bouncing off of the yellow aged toothbrush clean tiles of the third floor boy's room. Feet shuffled, someone hawked and spat; it hit the floor with a flat, reverberate smack. More creeping laughter.
Caught by the Chickenhawk.
--
Robert Hendrix Pendle, Age 5, came to The Sins Of The Father Correctional Home For Boys as a temporary ward of the state on an emergency basis. It was unusual for a boy so young to be placed under Father Cantibus' tender care, but all was chaos, and needs must in chaotic times. It was kind of a school, a church, and a jail all together. The Home was scary, full of big kids and fat nuns. The boys were mean, the nuns even meaner. The hallways were long, dark, and twisted; barely lit by old fashioned wall sconces, making all who prowled them creeping shadows. Or ghosts, maybe. Thin worn red carpet stretched on and away to nightmare chambers and dead ends. It stunk of feet and incense. Rabbit had been here a week now, and he skulked these hallways between church, school, meals and chores as quickly and invisibly as he could manage. All of the boys here were 'bad seeds' and 'demon spawn' as Sister Applejack liked to scold as she hustled them here and there, or when quieting them when the noise and frenzy built to 'unacceptable levels of cacophony'. Rabbit didn't know about demons, but one kid in here had stolen a car, one had put another kid into the hospital, and one had lit a fire and burned down a whole house. Rabbit didn't know if he had burned any people or not; someone had said that there were people screaming inside but that might just be made up.
Rabbit had done nothing wrong.
The Home was run by the nuns, but lead by a stinking demon presence, smelt and felt, but rarely seen outside of Sunday. They boys whispered tales of the Black Father, dancing on the roof under red skies, of yellow eyes, of eating children. Sometimes you caught his fat shadow from the corner of your eye, but he would be gone if you tried to look. His smell was always present, rank body odor and matches. He was everywhere and nowhere.
On Sunday, Rabbit's third day, they were led to and seated in the auditorium, where Father Cantibus would take the stage for the Sunday Lesson. His robes flowing, his raven black hair wild, his eyes alight and piercing; though not yellow, not here at least. Three hundred pounds of hellfire they said, stomping and creaking across the stage to dead silence among his congregation of ghost boys. Silent now, oh yes. He held a long bamboo rod, he carried it always, or so the legend told. Reaching the lectern he started in a low rich voice that rose continuously until screaming in high reedy accusation. Rabbit had tried to pay attention, but the words of Hell and evil and sin circled and swirled and danced in his head in meaningless merry-go-round cadence and uneven flow, dulling and hypnotizing nonsensical drone. His voice was wasps, the buzzing, stinging words unintelligible. Time got lost in the swirl of dark thoughts and screaming fire.
Rabbit's butt hurt, his back stiff, his legs restless, yet all discomfort was distant as he floated in a dream of creeping black edges and twisting flame. The mad demon pranced and sang, without coherence nor context. All Rabbit knew was haze and daze and purgatory. And then it was over and Rabbit was shocked from the dream as they were bid to stand. The Black Father had left the stage, to be yet unseen again, to stalk and dance where he would in the far reaching corners of the eye. That night his dreams were all dancing demons and red skies.
He slept in a dorm with thirty other boys, all eight and nine. There were maybe two hundred boys here, maybe more, from six to thirteen. There were no 'grades' here, just 'school', and every boy seemed equally dull and sullen in class. He sat with the six, seven, and eight year old's. Rabbit was silent, attentive, and studious. He did all of the work in quick and concentrated fashion; not because it interested him - it was way too easy - but only to keep himself off of the radar, one sheep among many. He even coloured outside of the lines now and then, or messed up his math. And he never read out loud. He raked leaves and scrubbed toilets and put away dishes. He ate at crowded tables but no one picked him out especially, except to pass the salt or something, just one more kid. He kept his head down and spoke to no one. There were victims here - plenty of them - but he wasn't one of them.
So far.
Being small and weak and obviously the youngest here by years; he should have been ripe for bullying by, well, everyone. And yet it was like he was almost invisible. He moved in packs, below and silent, unseen. He hid and ran and kept himself to himself. But how long could he keep this up? And how long would he be here? It was 'temporary' he had been told. They had nowhere to stick him, she'd said. He would be placed in 'care', but these things took time. That had been The Social Lady, pinched face and all business. Hustled from policemen to the shelter to the car to this monstrous house in the hills, all in a single day. And where was his Momma? What had happened that changed everything just like that? The Social Lady explained that his Momma had just needed a rest, that she had to go somewhere for help. He cried for her all that night and day. But he didn't cry at The Home. Silent, invisible.
The Butterfly Men had come and taken her away. For no reason. And now he was here and she was somewhere else, and they were both locked away.
Rabbit would have ran, or tried to run had he thought he was locked up for good, or, you know, would die in here. But Robert 'Rabbit' Pendle was only five, and he went where he was told and did as he was bid. He was a good boy, and lost besides. And where would he go?
Silent and invisible couldn't last forever - even at five Rabbit understood this – and one day his luck ran out. He had caught the attention of one bad boy, the worst one of all - The Stinking Demon Father aside. So far it had come to nothing.
He knew of The Chickenhawk and his gang, every boy here knew them and were scared of them. They were twelve, and the worst of a bad lot. Dino Estevez, his eyes blazing hate, his smile promising cruelty, was the cock of the walk, known to the ragged prey of at The Home as the Chickenhawk. He pushed and pinched, taunted and stole. He was a master of lightning quick Indian burns; shot from nowhere, loose hands around the wrist and a quick twist and your whole arm was on fire. Him and his boys would surround you, and you would drown in their shadows, terror shot and mind racing with all possible torture. In the yard once, they had wedgied a kid and hung him on the fence by the band of his underwear. They were quick, these ghost boys, these mad parasites, and they rarely got caught at their menace. That was the word. Rabbit spoke with no one but his ears were always up, taking in the nightmare stories of his new world. Dino and his two goons ran the roost. No thirteen year old messed with them either, there were way easier pickings. The nuns seemed to like them, even; certainly they never caught the gang in the act, and were all smiles as far as Dino as his boys were concerned. It seemed a sinister arrangement. Rabbit had steered well clear of The Chickenhawk and his gang. So far so good.
Dino ran with a tall sun baked redhead with a weasel face awash in freckles named Skipper Slydell, a mean-as-sin farm boy who never smiled. Ever. The other one was a big, black, jolly kid named Emir Fakoor. He was charming, funny, even pleasant when not in the company of his boys. But he joined in on the cruelty at every opportunity, and delighted in it. Like it was just a game, and everyone would walk away smiling, even the tortured, bloody mess of a kid. It was puzzling, it made it scarier somehow. Rabbit had seen them at play, hungry cats with a twitching shivering mouse in claw. This was in the yard, and they had cornered some poor kid in a small haunt in between a tool shed and the main building, hidden in the depth of shadow and seemingly invisible to the mundane world and the eyes of all grown ups. The kid was blubbering in shaking, snot running terror. Rabbit wanted to take off, none of his business, keep himself to himself. Instead he picked up a nice sized rock and whipped it as hard as he could, aiming for Skipper's back, who was nearest. Then he ran, around a corner and gone. He didn't know if the rock struck home but he did hear the yells for his head, threats of his death. No one saw. He hoped. And he also hoped that the kid got off not too badly, maybe a quick Charley horse and fun would be done.
Then, the Tuesday after The Black Priest's lesson, Rabbit had been in the garden, weeding. He knew how to weed from Momma - he missed working in her beautiful garden, and it kept hitting him from all sides that she was gone and he was gone, and it kept hurting so much - and didn't need Sister Maelstrom's stern instructions and threats of the ruler if any of the plants came to harm. He had just dug out a nasty looking creep vine and looked up to toss it on the pile when he'd locked eyes with The Chickenhawk. Dino was way far away, working across the yard - or pretending to work but really just farting away the day with his two goons - but he was staring right at Rabbit, like he'd seen him for the first time, and was wondering where he'd been up to now. Rabbit wanted to look away, get his head down, but he was frozen under the hypnotic gaze of the predator. The Chickenhawk had marked him now, and would get him later; even at this distance the hateful eyes and cruel smile promised it would be so. And that it would be bad. Nothing happened that day, but the Stinking Demon Father help him, it was only a matter of time.
–
“He's hung like a light switch.” panted the Chickenhawk, little sour puffs of breath buffeting Rabbit’s small face.
Skipper and Emir had his thin upper arms clamped in tight fists, one of Emir's huge hammy hands covered his mouth. They had yanked his pajama bottoms down, they now pooled around his ankles. He shivered in dank, cruel exposure and outright terror.
Then Skipper licked his ear. Wet and cruel it smacked and popped in is head, it tickled like a sting. It only made sense as a nightmare. Rabbit twitched away, shuttering in revulsion.
“And he tastes like chicken.”
They all laughed, maniacal troll laughter. It echoed with a flat, tight reverberation, and a slight ring.
Wide eyed and terror shot, Rabbit - caught, naked, his mind shrieking in gibbering white hot babble – struggled and bucked, but gained little ground. They had him good. One of the florescent lights flickered in fatal spasm, and Dino stood before him in all his Chickenhawk menacing glory, face alternating light and dark, his shadow popping in and out of the world in dancing glee. His little black eyes were shining under thin black brows, his breath hitching, red rubbery lips twisted over a predatory grin. His cut off t-shirt showed off big muscles. No school uniforms at this late hour, and no traffic in this out of the way third floor bathroom, nor the twisted corridors outside.
Rabbit should have known better. He thought he was being sneaky, and safe. The legend hadn't told of this particular bathroom being one of the Chickenhawk gang's haunts.
“His dick's gone turtle.” said Emir.
“Gonna cry?” teased Skipper.
He wasn't crying, not yet anyway, but this was bad, so bad. He wanted his Momma, he wanted to go home and not be here and what were they going to do to him what were they going to do?! He tried to pull free again, locked tight in the grip of villains. His lower half was goosebumps all over, yet, from his brow, his armpits, the back of his neck, sweat gushed and ran in stinking streams.
The mad question was answered in part as Dino stepped forward and sunk a hard fist into his guts. His lungs emptied, breath expelled in a whoof, his mind flared nova blast with the immediacy of shock and void. It felt like dying. The pain was a ball of fire in his guts, his legs went weak but he was held fast. Rabbit lolled forward, lungs gasping, thin chest hitching. The laughter of trolls was faint, boisterous yet heard from down a long hallway. Or a deep well.
“I think he pissed himself.”
“Gross!”
Rabbit couldn't catch his breath. Swarms of black dots, shifting and dancing, spun and flared mercurial protozoa in his eyes. The rabid fear was distant now, as distant as voices. He was only wrung out and exhausted. If only he could just sleep, this nightmare would go away. But hew knew it wasn't over, not by a long shot.
“Awww, he'll be just fine.”
And with that pronouncement, come from much experience no doubt, Rabbit gulped air. He choked on it, coughed, and then got a better pull. He was shaking, snot dripping, eyes tearing, silent. He took steadier breaths and came back to himself. To his own eternal horror. Still here. Still here.
“He don't say much. Beg for your life, ya little shit.” said one troll, Skipper maybe.
“I can make him cry,” said the Chickenhawk.
And then Dino did the oddest thing, he started to unbuckle his belt. He twitched with glee; the rapid puffs of air, the shining eyes, the predatory smile... this was a true demon. But it was puzzling as well, in it's awkward horror. Rabbit knew he wasn't dreaming, but this, this felt like something from a dream. Uncomprehending, lost, weak and ragged, pee cooling on his legs, Rabbit watched Dino take down his pants. It had no place in this situation of torture and madness. It was unreal. These strange things only happened in dreams, in nightmares. Dino the Chickenhawk, his pants open and pulled down over his thick hips, reached into his underwear and started... fiddling.
“I know a game” said the Chickenhawk, “that we can play.”
“What are you doing?” asked Skipper, equally aghast and amused.
“Come on, Dino, what the fuck?” said Emir.
“Don't it make ya feel like dancing...” softly sang the Chickenhawk, hips swaying left and right, bump and grind, hand down the front of dirty underwear. His on fire eyes locked on Rabbit's, wide and full of dog fearing wonder.
“It’ll be fun.” said the Chickenhawk.
Dino straightened up, eyes still fixed on Rabbit's, and then penguin shimmied past them and into a toilet stall, shoulder bashing Emir on the way by. Rabbit was turned to face him as the Chickenhawk raked down his pants and sat his ass down onto the bowl. He grinned up at the boys as he emitted a loud, creaking fart, trombone warble and long. It echoed comic note in the tight and tiled chamber and the trolls broke into gusts of hearty troll laughter once more.
“Wouldn't say 'shit' with a mouthful, huh? We're gonna dunk ya and see.” said the Chickenhawk.
“Ohh, shiiiiit!” said Skipper.
“That's wight, wabbit.” said the Chickenhawk.
It stunk, putrid and pungent and ghastly warm. Rabbit's guts rolled, baby shit and dog poo and Dino's old dinner.
“Holy fucking hell, that reeks!” said Skipper.
Rabbit lunged forward – sometimes you had to go forward to get back out was the lesson he’d learn here – and greased with sweat as he was, slipped free of both boys. He staggered with precarious balance as his feet got caught up in the pool of pajama bottoms. Over correcting, he planted his right leg and launched himself backwards. His elbow caught Skipper dead smack in his right eye socket, as Skipper stepped in to reaffirm his grip. He screamed and lurched backwards, eye in tight wink, tearing a river, a waterfall.
“Motherfucker!”
Dino sat stupid on the toilet, eyes agog. Skipper staggered, holding his eye and bleating that he was blind oh fuck it hurt! Fucking blind I can't see! Emir stood watching, a slight amused smile played over his large face. Rabbit hiked up his pants and spun toward the door. Emir looked at the door, then at Rabbit, then toward Skipper, who was crying from one eye and snotting from both nostrils, shaking his head like a dog with bees in it's nose.
“Get him!” screamed the Chickenhawk, then bared down, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut. It seemed he wasn't quite done his business.
Emir gestured toward the door with a quick jerk of the head, then just stood arms crossed, a bemused smile on his fat face, watching the show. Rabbit stared at him, frozen. Then Rabbit got gone.
Holding his pants up by the waist, he shot toward the door, reaching it in three strides, and raked it open. A cool waft of air was sucked into the third floor bathroom, freedom washing over him. The real world. His slippered feet slapped the carpet as he took off down the dim hallway, jig left and jag right, no idea where he was headed, only away. He heard them shouting, cursing each other out, then bumbling and crashing their way into the hallway, savages on the hunt, and only a few turns back. Someone was laughing, probably Emir. Heart busting, gut cramping, terror spinning, Rabbit ran. Turn after turn, ornately patterned blood red carpet, wood paneled walls, old and tarnished wall sconces that dimly shone ugly yellow light; all in endless background like a Flintstones driving scene; the same trees and houses repeated ad nauseam. There was an occasional forbidding door – the few he tried were locked, of course – and nothing else besides. Shouldn't he be somewhere by now? Was it the hallway leaning left and then right, unruly angle and twisted way? Elongated beyond any rational house, it was a labyrinth, a funhouse maze, the spookhouse. And he was lost, heading not toward light and sanity but further down a deep dark tunnel. From back along the crooked path, the trolls roared fury and stomp, hilarity and bloodlust.
He rounded an identical corner into the same hallway and stopped cold, swaying on numb legs. The house kept on going, tilt-a-whirl, flying crazee-cars, rollercoater run. Head spinning and lurching, heavy list to one side, blackness creeping in from the corners of his eyes; a billion crawling bugs shading the little light, then extinguishing all. Stomach pukey, heart hammer and lungs afire Rabbit spun a half circle sway and tilt, and went down hard. He crashed to the floor with a dull carpet Whump and yet still falling... a deep well, a Hell beneath the Hell. Were the shouting troll voices closer now, or a million miles away?
Falling deaf and dumb, still falling, already blind, a crawling wave of fetid death slid over him; a mad stew of feet and rot and brimstone. Surely Hell was upon him now, a walking, stinking emissary and silent shadow, his band of monsters soon to make the scene.
Rabbit had come across a dead cat in an alley once, when he was three. Bulging and bloated, dancing flies and squirming maggots, guts and crush and blind milky eyes. This was his final thought before sleep and eternity, jostled loose from frantic mind going quiet and still, drawn up from the depths by the poking of a stick.
--
(Monsters In Dust, a ‘novellette’ if you will, is a going concern and getting pretty near the end, should you care to know what happens to little Rabbit).
March 15, 2017
Monsters In Dust - an excerpt
From overhead there came another crash - heavy body thump, furniture scrape and breaking glass - then yelling and laughter. The music got louder, the floor vibrating with it in bass thunder rumble. He hoped he would hear Ell in time if she suddenly appeared - her slinky cat step when she was on the sneak - she did that sometimes just to make him jump.
He scraped another match, it lit Pop and FSSSHHH, writ bright and hot in the dim and the dank. The way lead on, into the dark, the high shelves walling him in and stretching down into the depths. Small uncanny dancing shadows all along them, menace and akimbo, watching, reaching, leering, trying not to move and egging him on; all manner of junk reflected and twisted by the flickering light. This was where the floor turned to dirt, his maze just ahead now, be ever so careful.
Was it scarier in the pitch black, by what you imagined was there, or by his tiny flame? Maybe the earwig was making nightmares in his head and the fire burned through them, because he felt good. It was spooky down here, but there were no monsters. Not yet. He shuffled forward as the match slowly burnt down toward his small pale fingers.
Illuminated by the small circle of flame were the rusty tips of an old pitchfork, leaned just so. Keep out. He had never done any work on his maze at night, and the deadly menace of the evil rusty tines reaching claw from the dark, guarding the way, chilled him. It felt right.
The match snuffed itself out, he wouldn't light another. He knew just where he was now, and wouldn't expose the tight tunnel of junk to fire. Taking two strides to the right, he stepped over a box of old books, ducked into the lee of an old rotted out canoe, and he was in. The map was in his head, he didn't touch the sides. He slid past crates of engine parts and squeezed by stacks of magazines, left and right, zig and zag, twisting delicate through and deep.
By day he went just as slowly in digging out his maze. The camouflage was important, and so when Ell and Steve were outside, or gone, he shifted minutely, packed and repacked, placed objects just so. He had yet to find any hint of a door, but the feel of a door remained. It was a path of light leading off of the edge of the map, a hole in the world. Here there be serpents, maybe, just like the pirate's maps. Deep in now, hidden, he worked. He must be getting close to the wall, to The Secret Door. He was moving a heavy box full of dusty old books and other smelly stuff very quietly, on high alert for anything, when his foot thudded on wood instead of patting on dirt.
He placed the box gently behind him and as much to the side as was possible in the thin run, etching its' position onto the map in his head. He swung back around and probed the ground ahead with the toe of one small sneaker. Pat...pat..Thud. Rabbit got down on hands and knees and knocked on wood, producing a hollow whump. He felt around the edges, it was a perfect square. He slid his small hands along the surface, a tightly packed layer of dust and detritus on wood, and in the middle a folded down metal ring. The Secret Door... was in the floor.
The music came relentless; rolling thunder from above, heavy metal thump mingled with screaming laughter. It was a far away thing compared to the pounding of his heart. This was it, the 'X' on the map, the shining end. It was an unlikely exit; here was the deeper in, alright. Maybe it was a tunnel made for escape; Steve was a bad man and did bad things, he might need to run away someday. Maybe it came up in the broken down old barn on the edge of the land, or better yet miles and miles away.
He had to see.
Rabbit stretched both arms out in front of him and laid his palms flat against the surface of the Secret Door. Raising them slowly, he leaned forward as far as he could manage without toppling over. There was nothing directly ahead. He lifted them high over his head, then swung out to the sides. Still nothing. He slowly stood and repeated the exercise, feeling his way for resistance. He had room.
Dropping back down to the packed earth floor, Rabbit fished in his back pocket for the box of matches. With a shake and rattle, he slid it open, plucked one, and scraped it along the side. It lit flare and pop, dazzling his night eyes blind. Sparkles, stars, and fairies danced and drifted before him, the dim creeping in from all sides. What slowly faded back into view were towers of junk, rick-a-rack of all sorts; old pipes, crates, a chipped and needle splintery red rocking horse reared up on hind legs, moldy boxes and crusty curtains. Beer bottles in ripped cases and tattered books in tall tilted piles. He was in a pocket alcove of waste, the walls leaning in on him, the angles steeper as they rose. It could fall in on him, but he wouldn't burn the house down if he continued to be careful. The Secret Door lay before him; old dirty wood, a crusted metal ring, the perfect square. The out deeper in. He stared in fascination as the flame burnt low, then kissed his fingers. He barely noticed.
Rabbit shook the match and pocketed the dead stick, then grabbed the ring with both hands and pulled, his burnt fingers prickling the wood screeching. It didn't budge. He couldn't get his fingers around it, small as they were, couldn't lift it from it's base. He thought of the Tin Man from The Wizard Of OZ frozen with his axe raised and squeaking "Oil Can" through rusted lips. Rabbit liked the flying monkeys, Momma liked the witch. There was probably an oil can on a shelf somewhere back there, he would have to shuffle back and look, carefully poking around on packed shelves. It could take hours. He wanted to pound on the handle, which could bring the maze and Ella down on him. Instead, he slid the knife from his other back pocket and hit the button.
SNAK!
The chainsaw music roared above, and so Rabbit figured that the Tak Tak Tak of the knife digging around the edge of the ring would go unheard. He chipped away at the crud, the tightly packed dirt, and the rust. It could be a dungeon down there, a black pit, a hole to forever, a dead end full of bones. There could be a tangled mountain of squirming rats or an ocean of earwigs, and he would drown screaming in alien horror, then silent, mouth full of twitching.
He may go in and never come out again.
Maybe it was the possible earwig leading him on with hope and lies, but there was something here, shining in his head. It was a soft red glow, the same glow as the 'Exit' sign in a darkened movie theater.
Rabbit dug.
--
[Working on it, having some fun. ‘Monsters In Dust’ coming sooner than later, hopefully.]
December 23, 2016
December 4, 2016
New York City, 1973
V.
New York City, 1973. Two priests walk into a bar. One was very tall, very thin, young, and very black. The other was short, rotund, balding, and high blood pressure red.
From out of the haze a voice called out, “We need an old priest and a young priest!” This followed by a table full of gruff and scratchy laughter.
The place was a Brooklyn underground called The Trophy Room. It was dusky, dim, and stank of new smoke and ancient beer. There were a few worn and rickety tables, a few peeling and cracked booths. It seemed vast; larger inside than out. For the smoke and the darkness you couldn't see one end from the other. The small street level windows were blacked out against the marching feet of the great New York soldiery and the harsh gray winter light. The patrons were vague humps and ethereal shadows. The bar was somewhere at the back. In from the biting chill it was an oven in here. Sabbath Bloody Sabbath pounded from the corner juke.
The two priests brushed the snow from their shoulders, removed their hats, and squelched into the din; sweat running, filthy puddles of slush trailing viscous black hemorrhage behind.
The unseen table of voices took up the chant; first the one and then rest, “The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you! The Power of Christ compels you!...” On and on and trailing into hard laughter.
“Father...” began the young priest.
“Kid, fuggetaboutit.” said the old priest as he hung his heavy black coat by a booth, and louder, turning towards the room, “All God's children got shoes!”
There was good natured rough laughter, and the clink of glasses from the smoky unseen. Sabbath Bloody Sabbath gave way to Bring It On Home and all was calm.
“Take a load off them dogs, I'll get us some drinks. And kid, Xavier, It's Vito.” said the old priest. He strode off into the dark crevices of the underground, fading into hazy silhouette, then shadow, then lost to the dark.
Father Xavier slid into the tight booth, tight for him and his skeletal frame; how would Father Vito possibly fit? He was the 'old priest' only by comparison to Xavier, who though freakishly tall and pipe cleaner thin, had a boyish face. Though in his mid twenties, he could have passed for fifteen, height not withstanding. Father Vito was in his mid fifties, squat, black hair receding, big roman nose possibly still growing. He had kind eyes, and a good way about him. He was a good priest.
Two glasses of thick black brew clunked down on the table in front of him, followed by two shots of the golden ambrosia, what Vito called 'The Jack'.
“Say one thing for our venerated Irish brothers of the calling, the mackerel slapping fucks know how to drink!” said Father Vito as he squeezed into the booth with much creaking, struggle, and wobble.
When finally settled into the least discomfiture he could physically manage, Father Vito plucked up the shots one by one and plunged them into the pint glasses, foam boiling up and spilling over. Then the old priest raised up his pint; a Viking on the eve of victory, scraping wood and sloshing foam and liquid onto the weathered and ancient table - and his own damn self - and stared into the eyes of young Father Xavier, glass held high. Xavier followed suit with some less passion, but no less camaraderie, and clinked the old priest's glass.
“Merry Xmas, kid.”
–
The snow swirled white swarm rage, thick and violent; obscuring the world. Each close snowflake a star unto itself glowing with a heavenly radiance lit by floating streetlights, dancing mad pattern upon the dingy midnight canvas of New York City. The wind whistled high shriek and frantic melody, drowning and suffocating the normally present background ambient racket of Brooklyn, now soundproofed by the storm.
The two priests staggered arm in arm through the streets, mountainous buildings unseen, traffic absent, not another soul stirred. Transylvanian snow globe souvenir shaken and lit with inner light, they sang at the top of their voices, a whisper in cacophony.<
“SIIIIIIIIILENT NIIIIIIIGHT; HOOOOOOOOOOOLY NIGHT! AAAAAAAAAALL IS CAAALM...”
Laughing, coughing, sputtering they trailed off, Father Vito hawking a wad of phlegm while keeping the stub of his cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth, somehow. He hung onto Father Xavier for dear life, almost dragging him down into the filth and the slush and the decomposing waste. They staggered, found some precarious balance, and soldiered on through the storm.
“That high note ruptured my fuckin' fruits!” said Vito, and hawked more ragged laughter.
Young Father Xavier's head spun, a bleary lightness wavering pirate ship sway. The weight of Father Vito a burden and a comfort. They were kites and they were anchors, cannon shot and lost in the weather. Drifting. Lungs ice, limbs numb, hearts afire, they pirouette plunged through purgatorial dinge and fairy light spin.
They were headed...somewhere. Xavier couldn't recall to where, someplace warm. He shouted to ask but the wind swallowed his words and breath, sucking the life from him and stealing his hat. It launched with a rip of ship's sail, and twisted off spiral shot into the squall, black on black and gone. He turned sharply, his instinct to chase quickly quelled by hopelessness, bleak acceptance.
He turned back, to shout lament to Father Vito, but the old priest was nowhere, also seemingly lost to the vacuum and the void.
Xavier stood, hunched against the cold, eyes slit, head pounding, searching for the lost priest from out the small glowing circle he stood within the storm. Fat snow blew sideways, smothering him in a death's head whirlwind, cyclone moth vanguard in the millions, the billions, obscuring all remaining patchy hints of the dead city. There was blood at his feet, crimson stained snow. Then a scream on the high wind, lost in the pitch and the roar to sense and sensibility.
All lost.
--
This is an excerpt from
Rave The Poppies May, An Amazon Ebook
October 23, 2016
The Corridor – An excerpt
October 23, 2016--
The Tunnels were their own private underground railroad. Running footsteps would crash and echo, occasionally splashing - this usually accompanied by a cry of 'Fuck' for a soaker. There would be laughter; stretched, weighted, hollowed. But today the woods on either side were silent of such pilgrimage and hilarity, The Tunnels a still and soulless way.
The highway cut through the ravine. The boys ran under the highway. The Tunnels channelled the river. From above, it was eight lanes of twisted road that wound its way over the lush valley. From down here, it was a wall that stopped your progress through the jungle. Standing here, you contemplated the twin shafts bored into it's base; pitch black and squirming with the uncomfortable possibilities of burial, claustrophobia, and childhood nightmare. You had to go forward, and you most always would, but you rarely did so without pause.
Max St. Martin stands on the bank of the low river in apprehensive reverie. Were it October, with it's autumn leaves in knee deep oceans and windblown pyramids, or March with it's suicide slick footing and muffled thin ice mystery, there'd be kids everywhere - It would be time for school. Hell, you'd have to make your way through The Tunnels in line, and heaven help you if you were behind a slow poke. But this was August, what his Dad called 'the Dog Days', and Max had the whole valley to himself.
Under bright sunshine, pure blue sky, and the green umbrella of the wild trees, he steps from the dirt path that descended on a 50 degree angle from above and onto the chain linked rocks that banked the river. The rocks in their cage were put there for erosion, he'd learned. He jumps from there onto the concrete floor where the river would be in faster, deeper times, but was bone dry for now, not even a puddle to be navigated. The river rolled down the centre of the causeway, widening and deepening as it reached the entrance to The Tunnels.
Birdsong and squirrel dashes shoot from the trees, maybe even a fox rustle, who knew? The rumble of the passing cars and trucks above, so constant it just rode in the background, became as natural sounding as the woods and the birds and the burble of the river rolling along its course. Humanity above, but unseeing, unknowing.
This was the way to school in those far away times. It was also the way to Cherrywoods Variety, and all the magic within. He was going to get a Coke, a bag of chips, a red licorice Cigar-O, and a new comic. He was hoping for a new X-Men, but there was always something that would do; Batman, Spider-Man, Fantastic Four, Iron Fist, even a Green Lantern if it came to that. There were other stores, and closer, but Cherrywoods was the best, with the most stuff. And he liked the journey. In his neighbourhood there was always someone around to do stuff with, but Max liked to be alone sometimes, on his own adventure in his head; just digging the day for himself. There were a million places to wander, and time's only relevance was when to be home for dinner.
Max steps onto a rock that sat in the river, just flat enough for balance, and then onto the next. Drawing towards The Tunnels, he thinks Right or left? Each were about five feet around, the river taking up the bottom quarter or so. They were separated by a big concrete 'nose', and one eye was as good as the other. They were pits of utter blackness. They cut straight under the eight lanes of highway, so you couldn't see the other side unless you stooped and looked directly in, and then you just saw the smallest circle of light. As you got close, there was a sudden temperature drop; a ghost chill as your body came in line with the dank cool air that shot through. It was a different world, another dimension just like that. Coming from the thick heat of the day the cold was nice, and a bit creepy.
Hand on the bridge of the 'nose', he puts one foot on one side of the right tunnel, keeping it above the waterline. He crouches down. The faint small light circle was far ahead, the real world again. He brings his other foot from the rock in the river to the other side of the tunnel, dry. There he stood, legs three feet apart, breathing the cold air, feeling the slight rumble from above, and listening for animals and killers. Slow pokes and wimps just edged along like that, shuffling one foot and sliding the other, all the way through. That took forever, and was no fun. Max started running.
SLAP-WHAP-SLAP, SLAP-WHAP-SLAP. This was how you ran The Tunnels. Three steps on one side, and as your balance started to dip towards the centre of the circular shaft you would leap forward and take three steps along the opposite side, and so on. Back and forth and forward he ran, at speed and making progress. And yet the circle seemingly got no closer. He'd been through here hundreds of times, and Max knew that this was an illusion that persisted for the first bit of the trip. Eventually the circle would get larger as you pelted hell hounds on your trail for the light, and escape for another day.
In the pitch, the depths of cool nothingness, the mind would turn on how alone you were; how far away from the world you sat; that this was a hidden pocket of unreality where anything could happen. Until you were mere steps from freedom, when relief washed over you in palpable, glorious waves, you were vulnerable; breath hitching with effort and some fear.
Max makes another jump and looks up towards the exit. The quality of light on the far end had changed. Was the sun clouded over? The light in the circle – was it bigger now? - was red.
From behind him came what sounded like nails on concrete; high thin echoes scratch, flat and distant, from outside of the tunnel. Then a splash and slow deep water drag as something big entered and stood in the mouth of the underworld. Terror seized him and he booted ass for light. The circle grew, but painfully slow; running down a dream. A dog growl; serpentine, hideous, slid towards him. It built in low, mean intensity, hollow deep and ominous in intent. He runs like mad SLAP-WHAP-SLAP, SLAP-WHAP-SLAP, and slips, plunging down into the black waters, PLOOSH. Cold shocked, soaked to the waist, head panic blasted, he tries to regain his balance, and flailing, slips again on hidden algae slime. He goes down hard, sitting stupidly in the river with the dog on his heels, woofing viciously and hellbent for leather, flesh, and soul.
--
The Corridor is available for pre-order on Amazon, download Oct. 29
--
Dave Mercel
October 21, 2016
Dogs and Zippos and Dr. Hippo.
The muse speaks, and I listen. Just as I tell my lady when she sweetly asks me to do something she thinks I may not want to do, 'Hey, I just work here.'
So, reoccurring themes in stories. I am still pretty new at this, scratching madly away and having a good ol' time seeing where the path leads. We have dogs, and they come up again and again, so you may see should you wish to follow. For some reason we also have urinating, and that doesn't tie solely to our four legged friends, perhaps sadly. Priests; in both 'Anubis Please Us' and a new story 'Rave The Poppies May'. And Zippos. Zippo lighters come up a bunch in my fiction. Somehow they find their way in, and ensconce themselves in a way that they just have to be there. I carry a Zippo, funny that.
I like the reflections, the reoccurrances, the cold comfort of a bigger picture, of some connection between all worlds. There's Sandman and The Dark Tower still working their magic.
The muse speaks.
Speaking of her, I have the first draft of a story called 'Mr. Puss Puss' sitting in a folder waiting for a polish. For some reason I really want to call it 'Dr. Hippo and Mr. Puss Puss'. Don't ask me why, I just work here. It's not right, and I won't, there is no Dr. Hippo. But I am gonna find him, and squeeze him in there somewhere. Let some future mythic editor take it out.
Ah, the dream...
A huge office in 1930's Hollywood. Some big fat cigar smoking son of a bitch lamenting, 'For Satan's Sake, ya gotta deep six that 'Dr. Hippo' guff! It just won't wash, kid!'
"But I love Dr. Hippo' I reply meekly.
Then he throws a bust of H.P. Lovecraft at me, smacking me square in the chops, and I relent.
That's where I wanna work.
--
The Corridor will be available on Amazon for Kindle and many other devices Saturday October 29. Rave The Poppies May November 26.
-Dave
