Gerald Dean Rice's Blog, page 93

My Brains!!! ep 7

"So you better run, Baldheaded-guy-with-the-red-and-blue-striped-shirt."

"Jeesh!" someone said somewhere behind me and retreating footsteps followed.

"You too, Blonde-with-three-kids." Several women gasped. I pointed over where the woman with the purse had been. "And you too, Gramma." The crowd parted like a laser had shot out of my finger. I gestured to the slowly rising hot dog vendor at my feet, planting a foot on his back and pushing him back down. "If I can do this with my muscles… wait'll you see what I can do with my brain!" I pointed at my head with all eight fingers, hopefully appearing like a mad scientist or mad… magician. Madness was the key.

People started to run. The nearest car to me revved backwards and bashed into a car behind it. A guy in a plaid kangol and flip-flops got out, flailing his arms and screaming as he went the other way. People fled out of nearby stores and other cars did three point turns to drive off the other way. The street was practically empty in two minutes.

"Me and you need to have a talk," I said, scooping the vendor up by the collar. He looked up at me with pleading eyes and I caught a goose chill. His body was way too bendy.

"I'm afraid he won't be doing any such thing with you," someone behind and above me said. I turned and saw a man in a black tux float down to the ground, gently flapping his arms. "He can't speak any human language." The new guy smoothed down the front of his clothes and looked back up at me. "You know, I never would have guessed the air was so dirty."

"Who are you?" I said, ready to start punching again. He was only a little taller than the hot dog vendor and just as petite.

"No, who are we?" he said. "And I wouldn't think that if I were you. The punching thing." I made a face as if I hadn't thought any such thing. "Of course you did. We can read each other's thoughts. And if you did, I would simply do this—" He put his index to his temple like a mock gun and put his thumb down like he was firing.

I was on the ground, fire coursing through my brain and red everywhere I saw. My brain—one of them—was moving and it hurt like hell. By the time my vision cleared he was kneeling over me and looked like he had been for some time.

"I have a feeling you're going to be incredibly stupid." He took a deep breath, slapped his knees twice and stood. "So we need to smarten you up quick, before that soggy brain of yours makes a mess of things." He touched the brim of his hat. "You bring the cat?"

My mind went to Oscar-the-Cat.

"Why not just call him Oscar?" I wasn't about to explain. I pictured a brick wall and concentrated on it.

"Ooo, already blocking me out. Good. But don't think I can't get in if I want." He tapped his temple. "C'mon, we have to get off the street." He held his hand out to me.

"What about him?" I said as I looked at the hot dog vendor and stood.

"Leave him." We started toward my car. "There was only room for one more in our army. Others will come for him." He said it like it should have been pronounced with a capital 'O'. "We have to deal with your attachments now that you're enlisted."

"Attachments?" I said, thinking of my family. "Enlisted?"

"Of course. Now if you're going to be a sergeant you'll need to get up to speed quick."

"Who said I wanted to be enlisted? What army?"

He turned to me. "Okay-okay, you can be a lieutenant."

My Brains!!! ep, 6

"1) Throw away bag, 2) phone in prescription, 3) call work, 4) pick up child," I mumbled and flipped my phone open. He snatched it away and tossed it out the window.

"Hey!"

The sound again.

I punched him.

He bit me.

I punched him two more times.

He lunged for my face. I swear I saw teeny little tentacles flaring out of his mouth.

We crashed into something, but his body absorbed the blow from the steering wheel. I threw open the door and dragged him out, punching him the whole way.

"Hey, you leave him alone, you jerk!"

I was half aware somebody had spoken and had no clue the woman was talking to me. The vendor was prone, but I didn't trust him. He wasn't a man. He was a… a thing, that was wearing what used to be a hot dog vendor. I hadn't even thought of something like that.

"Stop it!"

I looked up and saw the woman was talking to me. I looked back down at him—it. So far as anyone else saw a six-foot two brute was pounding the stuffing out of a frail middle-aged Asian man who couldn't have weighed more than a hundred thirty pounds.

"No wait—you don't understand."

He stretched his arms out and flew into the air. I was still holding onto him at the time and it must have appeared to the middle-aged woman that I had thrown him. She strode over and swatted me with her purse.

"Beast!" she said.

"Someone call a cop!" someone else shouted.

The woman swatted me with her purse again. I wanted to point out the impossibility of a person tossing someone into the air, but considering how ridiculousness of what had actually happened I chose to look up instead.

The hot dog vendor had gotten caught up in a couple utility wires.

He flailed his arms, but was only able to spin around before plummeting back down. He landed a few feet away from me.

"Ohhhh!" several people gasped at once.

"Is he dead?"

"I'm callin' 9-1-1. That guy's goin' to jail!"

"Please don't." I turned to no one in particular. All these witnesses to a crime that didn't really just happen. It was more than enough, I was sure, to land me back in the last place I wanted to be. I picked out a direction to run.

"Hey, he's getting up!"

"Hey man, stay down until an ambulance comes!"

Just then I realized no one was coming over to help. I spotted the woman who had hit me with her purse. She had inserted herself into the gathering crowd and the look was most apparent on her face than the others.

She was afraid of me.

Probably that she was next.

"You saw what I did to this guy." I picked up a piece of asphalt a couple feet away. "If any of you tell on me… I'll find you. I have a constitutional right to know where you live and I don't have a record. I'll make bail and I promise you… I'll find you." More than a couple people shifted backwards. And if I can't find you, I have friends who will.

Trying to Puzzle Something Out...

Like with any other author, I want to be read.  As many of you know, I have a free short available for download.  Occasionally, I cruise through free horror shorts on Kindle to see what's what.  I have no ego about someone writing a better story than mine or just being a flat-out better writer than me.  There's always someone better. 

What I'm trying to puzzle out are the free stories that are terribly written.  Right now, 30 Minute Plan is ranked at 1700.  If you've read it then you have an idea of my style.  Perhaps you didn't like it, but you have a good grasp of how I write.  So when I look at the top ten free horror stories and I download a couple, I wonder how they have so many more downloads.  Some, not all, and I certainly won't point any fingers, are horrible.  And I'm not just talking about formatting mistakes, because in my infancy on Kindle I had a few of those, but poorly written, poorly thought-out and poorly executed stories are ranked SO much higher. 

I'd like to ask a couple of these guys where exactly they're promoting.  They must have a means of access I don't because word-of-mouth only travels so far.  30 Minute Plan's lowest rating was 3 stars and that was by someone who actually liked it, but thought there should have been more to the story's world.

I must ponder this.

Fleshbags Cover

Over the weekend Russell Dickerson sent a proof of the cover to Fleshbags.  I LOVE it.  Check it out for yourself.

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My Brains!!! ep, 5

Brick threw his head back and guffawed—they thought that puny door could stop him. He kicked thru it and stared down at them—the ones he had yet to kill. His mouth literally watered and his eyes bugged in his head.

I recognized this story. I'd written it when I was thirteen. I remembered how old I was because that was also the day I noticed the first few sprouts of hair down there. But why was my brain writing it now?

No time to think about it. Had to keep to my goals. 1) Throw away bag, 2) phone in prescription, 3) call work, 4) pick up child. And I wasn't happy not to be doing the last one. This morning might have been the last time I saw Sidney.

My tire exploded. Which was weird considering I'd just stopped at a red light. I saw the hot dog vendor from the corner of my eye and turned to see him just as he was tucking something in his shirt pocket as he dismounted his bike.

It was do or don't time. Official introductions had been made between rubber and road. Those and more fight-or-flight clichés raced through my mind as I got out the car. I grabbed the bag containing Oscar-the-Cat.

We met eyes. There was no way he was just somebody. He was definitely here for me, but I had to play it cool at least until knowing exactly what he wanted.

"Hi." He didn't whip out a gun. That was a bonus. He put down the kickstand on his bike and stood still on the sidewalk, arms at his sides. I was standing at the curb, ready to bolt or shake his hand, whichever proved to be the better response.

"Hey, buddypal!" someone shouted from a car behind mine. "C'mon, the car!"

"Sorry," I said, turning to him. "Flat tire." I waggled my cell phone in the air. "Just called Triple-A." I had no intention of calling Triple-A.

He shook his head and ducked his head back in the car, lurching it into the left turn lane to get around my car. I turned back to the hot dog vendor.

He opened his mouth and a sound came out. I can't explain it any better than that because I'd never heard anything like it before. It wasn't a scream, but it was high-pitched. The closest thing I could associate it with was a sped-up recording, the words running together so fast as to not be understood. But his lips, teeth, and tongue hadn't moved—it seemed like it had come directly from his throat.

"Wha?" I shook my head to indicate I hadn't understood, but he brushed past me to my car. My hand dug my keys out of my pocket and my thumb hit the button on the key fob to pop the trunk. I hadn't done that.

He dug beneath all the junk and pulled out the spare at the bottom along with the jack. He jacked the car up and we changed the tire together. I wasn't entirely certain if it was me making me move around, but it needed to be done, so I didn't fight it.

Once the donut was on I took the jack off and put the whole works in the trunk. After I shut it, the hot dog vendor was already sitting in the passenger seat.

So I could a) get in the car and drive where ever he wanted to go; or b) turn around and run. The second seemed the wiser decision, but I dumped the Oscar-the-Cat bag in the backseat again and got behind the wheel.

"Where are we going?"

He opened his mouth and made that sound again. It sounded a little different this time. I started the car and made a right at the corner.

My Brains!!! ep, 4

"M'okay. You all right? You sound a little rushed."

"No, not at all. Just came back from the… the restroom."

"Oh, so you're back at your desk? I just called you there."

"No! I mean, I'm not at my desk. I'm out. Outside."

"What are you doing outside?"

"Just taking a walk. Y'know, exercise."

"You're not smoking again, are you?"

"No. You know I can't smoke anymore." It was another condition of my release. No stimulants of any kind. I couldn't even drink a Coke or a cup of coffee.

"So you're not stressing?"

"Nooooooo. Meeee? Why would I need to stress? I've got a great life. I've got a great wife. And family. Hey, you said I needed to get an exercise regimen." I fishtailed around a corner and stomped on the gas.

I saw him. Had I not seen him before he wouldn't have caught my eye. A hot dog vendor on a bike, complete with one of those oval hats. Uh, on his head, not the bike.

"Well, okay. You could stand to be more active. Go ahead and enjoy the outside. Make sure you drink water, 'mkay?"

"Got a bottle right here with me."

"Okay. We love you."

"Love you guys too." The call disconnected.

Wait a minute.

We love you?

Why did she say that? Of course, I knew my wife and daughter loved me, but why was she speaking on our daughter's behalf, especially if she weren't there?

I called back.

"Hello?"

"Hey, babe. Do you have Sydney?"

"Um, yeah. Why?"

"Just wondering." The possibilities of what may have been going on flooded through my mind. Did they know already? Did they have Nancy pick up my daughter so I wouldn't? Were they forcing her to do anything? Were they eating my pumpkin pie?

I looked over at the vendor, doing no more than the posted limit of twenty-five miles per hour. His speed matched mine and I smiled at him. He pretended not to notice.

My first thought was to sideswipe him, race home, kill anyone in my house not my wife and daughter, and run away with my family, living off the coin collection I'd had since I was ten.

Except my coin collection was worthless. Twenty years collecting coins of American presidents that had been minted in Barbados. I'd been crushed.

No. I had to come up with a plan B. Something so brilliant they would laugh they had ever suspected me of relapsing. But not so brilliant that if they didn't suspect me, such a plan would actually cause them to be suspicious.

I'd been subconsciously tapping my finger against my phone for the last few minutes when I glanced down and saw what my hand was actually doing.

My hand had been typing a text message.

I read part of it, weaving around a big, powder-blue Cadillac driven by an equally blue-haired old woman who was eye-level with the center of the steering wheel:

My Brains!!! ep, 4

I must have looked looney to anyone who could have been watching. I had to be careful, had to tow the line. My minders would take any hint of an excuse to lock me away and pick apart my brain.

I flipped down the sun visor and glanced at my eyes in the mirror. I have no idea if my brain knew English, but I hoped it could understand.

"Listen up, brain," I started. "I don't know what it is you want, but me getting locked away isn't going to get you what you want. I bet you don't want to wind up in a petry dish, or whatever. You need to tow the line, cut down on the crazy. At least for the next few hours until I get the mess you made cleaned up. You got that?"

As if in response, Oscar-the-Cat meowed from the bag in the backseat.

My eyes went wide and I swerved unintentionally.

No. That wasn't real. Oscar-the-Cat was dead. Dead-dead. I'd felt how stiff he was as I slid him in the ba—

"Meowwwwww!"

"Oscar!" I called, bouncing the car up on the curb and throwing the car in park. I jumped out and went to the backseat and threw open the bag.

Oscar-the-Cat was still dead. He meowed again, but this time I knew it was in my head. He was down for the count, but good.

I was in trouble. I'd never had auditory hallucinations before. The doctors said it hadn't gotten to that part of my brain. I was about to get back in the car when my bladder suddenly felt overwhelmingly full.

I wasn't going to make it.

I ran around to the other side of the car, putting it between me and passing traffic. My pants unzipped and unbuttoned, I pulled my underwear down and let fly. For a moment, it felt like it would go on forever, but as the stream died down I shuddered with relief and opened my eyes.

There was an old woman in a sundress, fanning herself on the porch and watching me.

"Sorry," I said. "I have a medical condition."

Other than her mouth hanging open, there wasn't anything to indicate what I'd just done registered. She didn't move from her seat, didn't stop fanning herself.

I jumped back in my car and pulled off.

"1) Throw away bag, 2) phone in prescription, 3) call work, 4) pick up child," I said. Wait a minute. "1) Throw away bag, 2) phone in prescription, 3) call work, 4) pick up child." Had to stay on top of everything. I couldn't throw away the bag here. If that old lady called the police they might not bother with a weirdo urinater but a weirdo urinater who killed cats and wrote strange stories about mass murder in blood they might want to look for. Besides, my fingerprints were on file.

I grabbed my cell to call work. I flipped it open and Nancy was on the other end.

"Jerry, there's blood on the pantry door."

"I know-I know," I stammered. "I'm sorry I… cut my hand. I was looking for the medical kit. I know-I know… it's not in there. Sorry, just leave it and I'll clean it up when I get home."

My mind was racing a million miles a second. Couldn't let anything slip.

"Well, it's already done. I'm not just going to leave blood smeared all over. Anyways, how are you?"

"I'm fine-I'm fine. And you?"

My Brains!!! ep, 3

I should clarify.

When I refer to my brain as a separate part from myself, my mind, it's because it is. Technically, I have two of them. But the other one isn't like a normal brain. First off, there's not enough room for a whole second brain inside my head. It's a mostly flat, spider-like thing on top of my brain. It's 'legs' stretch out from its main body, digging into several different lobes. Like the parts that regulate respiration, vision, balance, memory, and yadda-yadda (I didn't really pay too much attention when the doctors explained it to me). They didn't understand it at the time, but they learned enough from it at the time to convince the prosecution to drop all charges.

But there had been conditions.

At first they tried to get me to sign off on exploratory surgery. They wanted to open up my head and take it out. It would have been extensive and I would have probably spent the rest of my life being fed through my stomach and given a nice corner to stare at. I told them I'd rather go to prison. So instead they came up with a contract that allowed them to take a tiny piece of my other brain to study and when I died they got to take the rest. But my release hinged on Nancy taking me back.

She was an angel for not killing me after all I'd done. I begged her when she eventually came to see me. Even with the doctors explaining what was going on in my head and how it more than likely wasn't my fault what I'd done she'd been apprehensive.

I'd finally resorted to begging her for the sake of our child and she put her own condition on my release: counseling. I'd agreed immediately, but counseling was more of a everything-was-my-fault session. I mean, it was, but kinda not.

Six weeks after I'd been released the results of the biopsy came back. Inconclusive. Under a microscope it had definitely looked like brain cells, but it was no organic material that had ever existed inside of a human being. The closest thing to it was the remnants of some meteor shower five years earlier. The doctor who'd called asked if I'd be interested in coming in for a follow-up. I promptly hung up on him.

While I was in the hospital, they'd poked and prodded me, tested every single fluid that ran through every part of my body. The only thing they found extra was some kind of hormone that apparently all people have a little of, but I had in abundance. They didn't know what so much of it would do in my system, but had pieced together that it was my other brain that was making my body produce the excess.

But a combination of two drugs, measured out for my body weight seemed to counter my body's ability to produce the hormone and after I'd been taking the pills for about three weeks, I didn't see the things I used to or feel the urge to do the things I had done.

So I was normal as long as I took my pills.

At least, I had been.

I remember this morning I'd taken them. It was as normal day as the past three forty-five before (yes, I keep count).

But what if…

What if my brain had been faking?

I wrenched the wheel to the right and bounced up into a pharmacy parking lot. Not my pharmacy, but a different one, just to shake off whomever (if anybody) behind me. I pulled out into the street, jetting in front of oncoming traffic and turning left back onto the street from where I'd just come from. None of the cars I passed looked familiar.

My Brains!!! ep. 2

It was another mystery, right along with the fact I wasn't supposed to be at home at all. I checked my watch. Three-oh-seven. I should be at work right now, tacking away at a technical manual for Bright and Tucker Manufacturing.

Sure, technically (no pun intended) it was still writing. But I didn't enjoy it. Back when I was a real writer I considered the prospect of technical writing on my to-do list after slitting my wrists. I'd done that, so I promptly applied for a position after getting out the hospital.

I was going to need a checklist.

I almost turned back for a pen, but I couldn't trust myself to write. So I didn't keep pens on or in my desk.

I was going to have to do this by memory. But that was probably just as dangerous considering that had to be done with my brain.

"1) Throw away bag, 2) phone in prescription, 3) call work, 4) pick up child," I said, though I wasn't entirely sure about the numbers. Things were already seeming wrong.

I'd start with step two. I reached to my hip for my cell phone, but it wasn't there. Something my brain did to keep my from making a call. Probably.

The bag bumped down each step as I dragged it downstairs. I opened the trunk to put it in, but there was no room. My cell phone was there, though. I took it and put the bag in the back seat.

I got in the driver's seat, ready to make a call when my cell rang.

"Hello?"

"I need your help." It was Trenton. He always had some philosophical emergency or other. "The visible world is a coin. On its front surface is the world we see. On half its knurled edge is what's there that we can't see. On the other half of the edge is what isn't there that we can see." He paused a long moment. "What's on the other face?"

I thought about this for a long moment. "What isn't there that we can't see."

Another long pause, then there was a sound, not unlike a tea kettle just as it begins to whistle. It rose and rose until the sound of Trenton's screaming was over modulated through the phone. I didn't know if I'd given him the right answer or not, but I hung up and started the car.

Wait. The list.

"1) Throw away bag, 2) phone in prescription, 3) call work, 4) pick up child." I speed-dialed the pharmacy. I thumbed the Rx number in at the prompt and hung up. "I ain't got time for confirmation codes," I mumbled and threw the car in reverse.

Had to find a place to dump the bag. There had to be somewhere where I wouldn't feel like people were looking at me, but I felt like this off my pills. My brain could have been giving me a hyper awareness and there really could have been someone watching me.

I kept checking my rearview mirror for a car—any car—that looked to be following. It would probably have men in black suits who wore sunglasses all the time. They'd followed me in the first few months after I'd been released from the hospital.

I got a bright idea. I'd take the bag to work—throw it away in the company dumpster. But what if… what if that was exactly where my brain wanted me to go?

I made an abrupt left turn from the right hand lane as the traffic light turned amber and stomped on the gas. There didn't seem to be anyone I'd left behind trying to follow, but that didn't mean anything.

My thoughts went back to the prescription. What if I'd entered the wrong number? What if my brain made me enter the wrong number? It didn't control my actions directly, but it could influence them.

My Brains!!!

I awoke
with blood on my hands. It had happened
again. The thing with my brain. I stood up from my desk and looked what I had
done. No, not me. My brain.

The pills
had stopped working.

The cat was
torn nearly in two, its guts pulled out on the desktop. A pile of papers were by my feet, haphazardly
stacked. They were inked with red,
roughly the width of say, an index finger.
It took a moment to recognize the symbols that had literally bled
through as letters because the top page was turned face down.

I?d been
writing again.

?Oh no,? I
moaned. I couldn?t do this again. I?d promised myself. Promised Nancy. Too many bad things had happened the last
time. Fiction had almost killed my
marriage and me. They?d taken the kids
away before. There?d be no way we?d get
them back if it had gotten out of hand again.
They?d probably throw me in the deepest hole they could find.

?No way,? I
said, looking at the nearly divided-in-two Oscar-the-Cat. I looked at the scratches up and down my
forearms. He?d put up a fight. But my brain had fixed him, apparently. All four of his legs were broken.

My little
girl was going to be crushed. I couldn?t
let her find out. Had to hide it. All of it.
I?d tell Nancy Oscar-the-Cat had run away and we?d break the news to
Anna tonight. I couldn?t lie to her all
on my own. It had never worked before.

I ran
downstairs to the kitchen and grabbed a big garbage bag out the pantry. The cat went in first, followed by June
through November of the big paper calendar on my desktop. Oscar-the-Cat had really soaked in. I scratched my chin?had to think of a way to
explain all the missing months later. I
opened the mouth of the bag after putting it on the floor and turned to scoop
up the bloody manuscript.

It was
tempting as I hefted the weight of it in my hands. At least fifty pages. I turned it over even though I knew I
shouldn?t have.

Brick
hid at the bottom on the other side of the berm. He clenched the gun, listening to the
laughers over there and their clinking glasses as they drank wine and ate a
variety of cheeses. Neither he nor his
gun had been invited, but they were about to crash the party in a big-big way.

No. Had to stop.
If it were something my brain had written it could only be bad. I couldn?t risk it. Didn?t have time for anything other than the
mess it had made. I dropped the
manuscript in and closed up the bag with a twisty-tie.

When I
picked up the bag, it became obvious with the cat and the hundred or so pages
that there was more than a dead cat and a fifth of a ream of paper inside. Too weighty.
I undid the twisty-tie, suddenly squeamish about touching an animal
carcass and glad he was covered by several months and gingerly dug out the
manuscript.

There. That was it.
Too much blood.

Considering
I used to be a writer, I was familiar enough with how much a ream of paper
weighed. Oscar-the-Cat had spent many a
night in my lap and I knew how much he weighed too. The weight of June through November was
negligible I figured, so that meant the manuscript had been written in more
than Oscar-the-Cat?s blood.

But
(hopefully) what?s?