C.L. Stegall's Blog: CL Stegall - Writer, page 5

A Clown Walks Into A Party

NOTE: The following story was originally part of the free Halloween collection, Past The Patch. THIS STORY CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE AND SITUATIONS. PLEASE READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

* * * * *

Twilight had come and gone, the children and accompanying adults long departed from the streets. They had crept off to their homes, bags and plastic jack-o-lanterns filled to the brim with sweet treats from the night’s excursions. He noted that the night felt like a cloak draped over the faded joy-turned-revelry that now sparsely punctuating the silence of the neighborhood.

The clown with the short red Mohawk stood watching the shadows and lights dancing about within the house on Pearl Avenue. With a deep breath and quiet resolution he ambled along the sidewalk leading up to the porch. As he carefully made his way up the steps to Priscilla “Priss” Jones’ house, his oversized shoes slapped down on the wooden slats.

As he stood frozen in thought for a long moment, the porch light glinting off the edges of his shoes, he closed his eyes and focused on the new elements permeating the night.

From inside came a strange mixture of eerie Halloween sounds—like creaking caskets and moaning ghosts—and the strains of Teeth by Lady Gaga. He fondled the few items lounging deep in his oversized clown pockets. Tonight, he thought. Tonight, memories would be made.

* * * * *

Priss Jones had always loved Halloween. It gave her the ever-desired opportunity to throw a party as well as the occasion to dress up in something sexy and thematic. A party girl from the time she could bounce to the beat of her dad’s Zeppelin collection, Priss had enjoyed the privileged upbringing of that rarest of creatures: the suburban princess.

Although Priss’ mother abhorred living outside the city, it did allow for a higher style of living and, with her only daughter in tow, Helen lived the life of a modern day queen of the community. Priss took after Helen in her taste for fast men and hot cars, but little else of her personality mirrored that of her late mother.

Now, smiling at the guests of her latest Halloween extravaganza, she checked the MP3 player that sat docked in the stereo. As the song changed to Tegan and Sara’s Walking With A Ghost, Priss swayed to the music and smiled.

* * * * *

The clown stood by the tub of beer sitting enticingly close to the front door, the sounds of the party edging into his brain and he winced. Shaking off the feeling, he raised his hand to knock on the door just as it flew open to reveal a short girl in a sexy bunny outfit, reminiscent of those in the sixties within certain gentlemen’s clubs. She screeched, at first in fright and then in appreciation.

“That is one bitchin’ costume, dude!” she yelled too loudly, overcompensating for the music behind her.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding in response.

“You want a beer?” she asked, as she squatted down in front of him and fished in the tub to extract a beer.

“No, I’m good for now,” he replied.

She retrieved a silver can and quickly switched the beer to her other hand shaking the ice water from the first. “So cold,” she said. Standing, she motioned him into the house party. “Come on in!” Her bunny tail seductively bobbed up and down and side to side, as she sashayed back into the living room, leaving the clown to wander in of his own accord.

He eyed the bunny girl for a few lingering seconds before scanning the rest of the partygoers. His fingers still playing over the tools deep in his pockets, he made his way into the living room and through the thin crowd.

* * * * *

Priss wandered into the kitchen to make certain there were still plenty of hors d’oeuvres available. It was a smaller turnout than she had expected—due to that bitch Serena throwing her party on the same night and even the same time—so the counter remained replete with finger foods, several bowls of assorted snacks, and a dozen or so liquor bottles still three-quarters full. Priss placed her hands on her hips in exasperated disappointment.

Last year, everyone had come to her party. There must have been forty-five people in and out. Glancing towards the living room, she gauged less than half that number had shown up this year. She was losing her influence. That had to be it. She’d talk to Misty about it and see what they could come up with to ensure they weren’t pushed aside and forgotten. She was still young and beautiful, and popular. Time seemed to be creeping up on her and she realized she wasn’t ready for that shift yet.

As Priss pondered the possibilities of more themed parties and maybe a charity bikini carwash, she felt herself sway and placed her hand on the bar to steady her. One too many drinks, just a little too fast. She’d have to slow down in order to make it through the night without another incident like the one two years ago. She’d been so afraid that she would never live that down. Although, it appeared most of her guests had been in the same state of inebriation at the time, so all was forgotten. Almost literally. She gathered herself and headed back into the living room, adjusting her coconut bra as she went.

* * * * *

“What’s your name, dude?” asked the inebriated jock in the barbarian outfit.

“Drastic Red,” he replied, snapping his red suspenders at the barbarian. “Get it?” He winked at the guy like it was an inside joke and the idiot took the bait, laughing and nodding rather violently.

“Awesome, dude!” He leaned in a little closer, to stare at the safety pins that held up each corner of Red’s mouth in a permanent smile. “That is one seriously cool fucking effect.” The barbarian began reaching out as if to touch the pins, but stopped short at Red’s expression. It was difficult for a clown with a permanent smile to frown, but Red managed with ease.

“Talk to you later,” Red said. The barbarian shrugged and meandered off to accost some girl in a cat suit. Watching the barbarian lean into the girl and her limbo-leaning response lessened any questioning of Red’s decisions. Soon enough, he thought. He placed the vial back into his pocket, unseen. Memories would be made.

Red noticed Priss, his eyes following her from out of the kitchen. His heart beat a little faster and his left eye twitched. Just once. Getting a grip on his emotions, Drastic Red maneuvered through the attendees as the smells of beer, wine and high-end perfume caused him no small amount of nausea.

He observed Priss, with a keen eye, keeping just outside of her line of sight as she mingled with the guests. The girl almost looked the same, with those sparkling blue eyes and long blond hair. Even from here, he could smell the coconut oil that she’d used to enhance her island girl outfit. That was Priss. Everything was in the details.

“Did it hurt?” Red heard the soft voice and noticed it came from below him to the right. He turned to see a girl in a little witch’s costume sitting on the stairs beside him, her arms wrapped around her knees. She had deep brown eyes that looked far too sad for such a high-spirited gathering.

“Hi,” he replied. “Did what hurt?”

“The pins.” She nodded in the general direction of his face. “They’re real, huh?”

“A little,” he admitted. “You’re the first to recognize their validity.”

“I figured it out when I saw that.” She nodded her head in the direction of his pocket. Red realized that he had been fingering the end of the box cutter and it had slipped into sight. He shoved it farther inside, hiding it and looked back to the girl. She looked him in the eyes. “I have one just like it,” she said, her eyes darting off to the crowd and then back to him. “Do you do it often? I mean, I just do it when it all gets too much.”

“Every day,” he replied, suddenly understanding. It wouldn’t matter much now, he thought. He inched up his right clown sleeve. There were dozens of slices, varied in both depth and points of healing. The latest one was still dark red and slightly oozing. The girl nodded.

“I suppose it’s nice to know I’m not alone. Still. Sometimes I wish it would all go away.” The girl laid her chin upon her folded arms, her eyes wandering off into the crowd of people. “Sometimes, I wish I was someone else. Anyone else.”

“We are who we are,” he replied, edging over to sit next to her on the stairs. “Never be ashamed of who you are. It won’t make any difference anyway.” She reminded him too much of himself.

“Life is never what you expect it to be, huh?” She glanced over at him, one corner of her mouth lifting in a half-smirk.

He shook his head, one eyebrow lifting in punctuation of the thought. No time like the present. He might as well begin the evening’s activities. He wasn’t sure why, but he leaned over and whispered into her ear. Slowly he stood, turning to observe her expression. It took a few seconds, but then her eyes widened for only a split second. Her neutral expression rapidly overcame her shock at his words. She glanced out at the small crowd again. She shrugged at a thought kept to herself, making her decision. The young girl stood from the stairs, straightened her black skirt. Even standing on the bottom step she was a couple of inches shorter than Red.

“It was nice to meet you,” she said. She stared at him for a moment longer, as if burning his face into her memory. He could accept that. She nodded her comprehension and said, “Have a nice night.” She then made her way through the guests and left through the front door. Red watched her through a window as she disappeared into the night and thought about what was to come. Time to get to work. He scanned the crowd for the Playboy bunny.

* * * * *

“Have you seen Misty?” Priss asked one of the other girls. She thought her name was LaDonna or something ethnic like that. The girl shook her head, and then turned to dance with Thad, who was clumsier than usual and dressed as a barbarian. Same damned costume every year, she thought. No imagination.

Priss scanned the room as she zigzagged through the party people and found no sign of Misty. The girl must have been in the toilet. Hopefully, Misty wasn’t in there puking her guts out. Priss smiled at the thought that her best friend might have finally overdone it. That girl was always too much in control, even for Priss. Priss liked to be in control, too; however there was always a time and place to relax and let your hair down.

The one area Priss always paid particular attention to was her choice of people with whom she associated. Her goal was to maintain a level playing field of friends. She had learned her lesson all too well as far back as middle school. She shook off the thought. It was unnecessary to dredge up those old memories. Now was the time to enjoy life. Priss headed for the front door to grab another beer.

* * * * *

Two down. One to go. Drastic Red’s smile widened despite the pain that such action caused. Thin rivulets of blood seeped out of the holes made by the safety pins that stretched the skin toward his ears, slowly dripping down past his chin like dew dropping off a thorn. He made no notice of the blood mingling with the red paint marking his broad, absurd smile as he watched Priss step out onto the porch.

Time to dirty up the game, he thought. Just as the current song ended, Red reached over to the stereo and deftly traded out Priss’ MP3 player for the one he had kept in his pockets of goodies. The mood all changed as Rammstein growled out in German against the heavy backbeat and vicious guitars.

* * * * *

Priss had just closed the front door and taken a slow swig of her beer when the music changed dramatically. This was not on her playlist. It was angry and foreign. “Who the hell put this crap on?” she muttered. Regardless, the dozen or so remaining partiers were jumping up and down in rhythm with the angry beat. She stomped toward the stereo. This was unacceptable. As she closed in on the stereo, someone closed in on her. Suddenly, she was staring into the face of one scary-ass clown.

Priss had never liked clowns. They freaked her out. All that weird makeup to make them look happier than everyone else just came across as arrogant and threatening to her. This guy had taken it to the extreme. The red, curved diamond shapes over his eyes set against the stark white face gave the impression of blood, and when she saw the safety pins pushed through his cheeks to hold his grin in place she felt a little nauseated.

The clown reached out and steadied her with strong hands. One of his eyes was a dark violet, the other a pale blue. It reminded her of…

* * * * *

“You don’t like the music?” Drastic Red asked her.

She stood wide-eyed, staring at him in wonder and revulsion and, perhaps, a bit of recognition. “Not my style,” she answered, attempting to sidestep him to no avail.

Without another word, he swept her into a twirling, jolting dance. He swung her this way and that, the crowd parting for their angry ballet. He couldn’t help but notice how soft her skin was, how beautiful she was after all these years.

Red would’ve been aroused by her beauty and how sexy she was in that skimpy little island outfit, if it weren’t for the fact that she still had not recognized him. Forget the makeup. There were several other clues. Perhaps she was just too drunk. Only one way to find out, he thought.

He increased their swaying and swinging and twirling. He watched as she tried to speak, to tell him to stop. As she opened her mouth, her eyes widened and she clamped it shut again. He ignored the first heave or two, waiting until he was certain there was no turning back. Then he let her go, aiming his release of her in the direction of the bathroom. Priss made a beeline for it.

* * * * *

The world was a menagerie of fireworks, drum beats and horrible sounds as Priss could not stop the violent retching. She tried to keep her hair back and out of the way of her projectile expulsions, but her coordination had evaporated with the onset of anatomical crisis.

She flushed the toilet and was about to stand when it overcame her once more and she hit her knees on the tile, screaming in liquid anguish into the bowl. Her body shook with the effort, tears streaming down her face. She would never drink like this again. Ever. And, she would sure as hell kick that asshole clown out of her house as soon as she regained control of herself.

After what seemed like an eternity of spilling her guts, Priss managed to make it to the sink, splashing cold water into her face over and over again. She was trying to clean her hair with water and a washcloth when she heard the music shift again to another angry metal type song. She was going to kill that fucking clown, whoever he was. Why was he here? She didn’t remember inviting him. Still, there was something familiar about him. And, those eyes. No, she thought. That’s just your imagination. The past was the past. You need to deal with the present, she told herself.

Priss finished cleaning herself up and stood facing the mirror.  Her hair was a mess, now mostly wet from the efforts to remove the vomit. She reached into a drawer and retrieved a small elastic band, wrapping her wet hair back into a ponytail. It would have to do for now. She adjusted her coconut bra and hula skirt, then turned and exited the bathroom.

* * * * *

Drastic Red waited for Priss to fully take in the scene.

He had spent his time well this evening. Thad and Misty had been secured away in the washroom off of the kitchen, safe and sound while he quietly spread the rumor that one of the neighbors had called the police. Drunken people are so very gullible, he thought. He kindly escorted most of them to the door himself, leaving only the extremely zonked out young boy in what looked like a Cirque du Soleil outfit.

Now, the three guests-of-honor were sitting, facing the stereo, Indian-style with their wrists bound to their ankles with thick zip ties. Their mouths had been stuffed with silk scarves and duct-taped to prevent any arguments.

Red sprang between Misty and the Cirque boy to take Priss’ hand, dragging her to the front of the assembled trio. Before she could get a grip on the seriousness of the situation, Red stuffed a scarf in her mouth and slapped more duct tape over it. He held her hands and looked into her eyes.

“Sit. The fuck. Down. Do it nicely. We wouldn’t want to mess up that gorgeous face, now would we?” He made his intent clear through his multicolored eyes, and Priss sat without further fuss. The zip tie was in place in the blink of an eye. After all, he’d been practicing for months.

Red sat down in front of Priss. He stared at her for a moment or two, then turned his head to the trio behind him. “One more than expected, but it still worked out for the best.” He returned his focus to the wide-eyed island girl. “Now, you might be thinking, due to the arrangements here, that they’re your audience, right?” He saw the realization dawn in her eyes as tears seeped out and tracked the soft curve of her perfect cheeks. “Right?” he prodded.

She nodded.

“Wrong!”

She was jolted back by the cold maliciousness of that one word. He leaned in, close enough that she could feel and smell his breath. Strangely, it smelled of strawberries.

“Still nothing?” he asked. “The eyes didn’t give it away?” He shook his head in disappointment. “Let me tell you a story, Priss. It’s a story of a boy and a girl and an abiding friendship.

“This boy and girl were the closest of friends. Had been friends since second grade. So young. So ignorant. But, I digress. The boy was a shy little bastard. Poor. But, kind and rather smart. The girl was a shining beacon of youth and beauty with golden hair and eyes the color of a Montana spring sky. Rich. A little spoiled. But, also kind and understanding. Or, so the boy thought.

“They would play for hours on end during the summers of their young years. He would be goofy and funny and make her laugh until she hurt. She would make him see life in the most positive of lights. Until the age of twelve. That was when she began hanging out with several girls her age and more on her level of society. Then, it seemed, the boy held little interest for her. She ignored him, hoping that he would just go away.”

Red was really getting into the story, so much so that he was surprised to feel a tear trail down the red and white of his makeup. He ignored it and continued to relate the story that had haunted him for all these years. He was happy to see she remembered now.

“One day, the boy felt he could no longer keep the truth inside and declared his love for the girl. Right in front of all of her new friends. The girl appeared shocked and angry, embarrassed by this boy whom she had known most of her life. With only a few words she threw him away like so much unwanted trash. Do you remember, Priss? Do you remember the words you screamed at me that day?” He saw her nod. Her sobs and bobbing shoulders only served to irritate him.

“‘You’re nothing but a clown! I never want to see you ever again!’ That was what you yelled out in front of everyone that day, Priss. You remember, don’t you? Of course you do. Now. As for me, I never forgot. I never forgot a single moment I had spent with you. Especially that moment when you ripped my heart from within my innocent little chest and stomped on it for all to see.

“The last time I saw you, I just wanted to talk. I couldn’t give up. Looking back, I have no idea why I tried. And, look what it got me. Sand, literally, kicked in my face. In my eye. Damage done. I still have a little sight in it. Not much. But enough. Enough to see you for what you really are.” With that, he stood and pulled the box cutter from his pocket.

* * * * *

Priss was aghast at what was unfolding before her. If it were not for the horror of the situation, she would not have believed it. Casey had always been a little odd, but she would never have thought him capable of this.

She remembered growing up with him, how sweet and kind he was. He was always so shy and introverted until he got around her, and then he became every bit the class clown. He was goofy and funny and so smart. But, then he had gotten clingy, overprotective of her. They were only twelve, but his growing insecurities had pushed her away from him. What he said was true. She had called him a clown in front of everyone. At that moment, a moment of terrible embarrassment for her, she lost control. She’d had enough of his constant hounding of her. Yet, she would never have thought it would lead to this.

She watched as he pushed up the sleeve on Thad’s right arm. Thad and Misty and the boy—she thought his name was Greg—looked as if they were only barely awake, like they’d been drugged or something. Their eyes appeared to roll back in their heads every so often and then they would try and refocus on what was going on.

Priss couldn’t help the tears. He had somehow gotten rid of all of her guests. They were all alone, on their own with him. Her heart pounded and she looked around for some way to escape.

* * * * *

“If you’re thinking of trying to get free, I wouldn’t count on it,” he said, turning back to her, catching her shifting her eyes this way and that. “Besides, the fun is just getting started.”

Red turned back to Thad who was trying to focus on him but continued to sway back and forth. Red reached out and took the man’s wrist and slid open the box cutter.

“This is your throwing arm, isn’t it, big guy?” he asked. “All those awesome games you played in high school. Some of your fondest memories, right? Hell, how could they not be? Cheerleaders hanging all over you, grades never really a problem. I mean, you were an important guy, right? How many trophies are in that high school display case because of you, huh? Ah, the good old days. All those wonderful memories.  Let’s make some more, shall we?”

In a movement practiced and swift, Red placed the box cutter blade against Thad’s forearm and sliced a bloody line from elbow to wrist. Thad’s eyes grew wider, as if he were beginning to realize this was not some sort of hazy dream. With another smooth movement, Red sliced a line at the top and bottom of the first long cut. Priss was screaming into the scarf inside her mouth. He glanced back with his bloody smile and winked at her. She was sobbing breathlessly. He felt an age-old pang, but there was no turning back, now.

Reaching into his pants pocket, Red retrieved a pair of thick needle-nosed pliers. Grabbing one corner of the sliced skin on Thad’s forearm, Red pulled downward, stripping the flesh from the muscle. Thad cried out and then passed out, falling over to one side in a heap, the blood spurting and flowing from his fleshless arm onto the carpet.

“Well,” Red commented, turning back towards Priss, “I would have expected more from a big, strapping guy like that. Bit of a pussy wasn’t he?”

As Priss sobbed in silence, Red wiped the box cutter blade and pliers on his red pants. He watched Priss, wondering if this was enough. No. He’d made his plan. He would follow through. What was done was done. He cleared his throat twice, to get Priss’ attention.

“He’s pretty fucked up, huh?” he asked her, nodding his head toward Thad’s crumpled, bloody body. “Should make it easy on him, right? Show some mercy?” He nodded in agreement to his own query, reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny black and silver switchblade knife. With a click and swish, the blade snapped out, over six inches in length. Priss screamed out behind her gag, as Red lifted Thad’s head, paused only for a split second, and struck out with the switchblade and sliced the man’s jugular in one smooth movement, laying him back down on the floor to bleed out.

Red glanced back to Priss who looked as if she might pass out herself. He reached into his one shirt pocket and retrieved a small glass vial covered in cloth. Leaning toward Priss, he crushed the vial between his thumb and forefinger to release the ammonia and placed it beneath her nose. Her eyes flew open and her head jerked back to escape the harsh, overpowering smell.

“Let’s pay attention, shall we?” he said, placing the smelling salts back into his shirt pocket. He placed a finger under her chin bringing her eyes to meet his. “One down. Two to go.” She jerked away in revulsion, and he noticed a strong contempt in those gloriously blue eyes. It hurt him to see it, but after all these years, he now saw such contempt as simple insurance. He turned to the Playboy bunny.

“Misty,” he said to no one in particular. Then he looked back at Priss. “Was she worth it?” he asked. “Was she worth throwing away all that we had? Our friendship? The love I had for you? Was she really worth it?” He watched as Priss shook her head violently, but he knew it was not in response to his question but in response to what she knew was about to happen.

“Head cheerleader. Beautiful girl, really. Probably doesn’t deserve this. But, here we go.” Red ignored Priss’ screams as he slid the box cutter blade up and over Misty’s forehead, from one temple to the other. Misty became lucid enough to try and jerk free; blood flew out from the movement, giving her flawless complexion a dappled appearance.

Red grasped her by the back of the neck with his left hand and retrieved the pliers with his right. Misty screamed out in agony as Red dug the pliers into the cut, gripping the skin of her forehead and pulled downward. The muscle and tissue exposed, Misty struggled for a moment longer before being overwhelmed by the pain and losing consciousness. Red dropped the pliers.

“Well, now,” he commented. “She did better than the barbarian, did she not?”

* * * * *

Priss realized that her screams were no longer audible in the least. Her throat was raw and she was breathless from her efforts. She sobbed into the gag and felt her heart break as her stomach turned. It didn’t make sense. Why would Casey do this? He had gone insane. That had to be it. He was torturing her friends right in front of her. But, why? What purpose could he possibly have for his actions?

Priss blinked the tears away, noticing him moving Misty’s body. He looked at her pointedly, showing her the switchblade. He was torturing these poor people and then ending their lives. Was it mercy or a simple, sadistic show performed post-desecration? She couldn’t make a sound as he swiftly sliced into Misty’s neck and laid her back on the carpet to die.

Priss watched him as he stared at her with those eyes of different colors. He seemed to hesitate, but then he blinked and he shifted position to sit between Misty’s corpse and Greg, who had dressed as a gymnast from Cirque du Soleil. She remembered Greg, now. He was only nineteen and he was Misty’s cousin. He had been well over his drinking limit and was still completely unconscious. His wrists were bound to his ankles like the rest. With her eyes, she pleaded with Casey not to hurt Greg.

“Two down. One to go. Now comes the interactive part of the evening,” he said. She noticed there was a slight catch in his voice and he blinked away a few tears. Taking a slow breath, Casey looked over at the sleeping boy and then back to Priss. He reached down and retrieved the box cutter in his right hand and the switchblade his left. Holding them up in front of him, he looked to each and then nodded to Priss.

Priss held her breath at the realization of what he wanted. She was to choose. On one hand was the element of torture and, on the other, swift death. She refused to play his sick little game and turned her head away to show her disgust and declination.

“Uh, uh, uh,” he said, shaking his head. He held the tools up a little higher and then placed them both behind his back, making a show of shuffling them between his hands out of her sight.

Even though he probably could not understand her, she called him a sick bastard and told him to fuck off. The scarf in her mouth muffled her commentary far too much for any kind of comprehensibility and that frustrated her even more. She had already lost two friends tonight to this madman. She would not be party to the loss of a third.

“It’s very simple. You choose,” he said, pausing for a long moment, “or, I choose. And, Priss, you won’t like my choice.”

Priss thought about the consequences of not participating in this mad clown’s game. If she chose wrong, Greg would be mutilated in the same manner as Misty and Thad. If she did not choose at all, the same would happen. Outside there were no sounds of sirens or any sign that help was on its way. She looked at Casey, with his ridiculous makeup and bloody smile. How could things have gone so badly so quickly? It seemed that one minute they were all enjoying a friendly party and the next, people were being tortured and murdered. It was all too much. She wasn’t certain what to do, but she knew she had to do something.

Priss nodded her head in the direction of Casey’s right hand, praying for the best. She felt the world slip away from her when he brought his hand around and into sight.

He held up the box cutter.

Priss felt light-headed and swayed from side to side. He reached into his pocket for the smelling salts, but Priss fought for lucidity. She tried to refocus on him, to see if there was any way possible to stop him before he tortured the young boy beside him.  She found herself shaking the tears from her eyes, trying to shake some sense back into the world. She had to be strong. Her mind ran through all sorts of scenarios, none of which proved any success in stopping this lunatic from killing again.

It was then that Priss stopped still, stared at Casey and realized that there was a good likelihood that she would be next to face the mad clown’s blades. She was pondering her own mutilation when he cleared his throat.

“Hold on a second while I make this call,” he said, retrieving a cell phone from his pocket. She found herself wondering what else he might have in those bottomless pockets of his. Casey pressed a few buttons and then began to speak slowly, with exaggerated enunciation. Priss observed the tiny rivulets of blood that seeped out of the holes widened by the pull of the safety pins in his cheeks. “Hello? Yes. There have been some murders. Three dead. Hurry.” He gave the 911 operator the correct address and laid the phone aside, still connected to the service.

Priss stared in disbelief. Now, what the hell was he doing? He turned his multicolored eyes to the box cutter in his hands. With little hesitancy, Casey faced her, met her stare, as he lifted the blade to his own face.

“It only seems fitting,” he said, the blade cutting into his cheek, gouging and slicing roughly along the outline of the red paint that exaggerated his smile. “After what I’ve done, I suppose I would’ve been a bit disappointed had you chosen the switchblade. Nothing memorable ever comes easy, right?” He continued to run the blade along the outline of his smile. As he got to his upper lip, he had to spit out the blood running into his mouth, in order to keep speaking. Priss could only stare in horror.

“You were the only one, Priss,” he said through his bloody visage. Blood spattered from his mouth when he pronounced the last letters of her name. “You were the only one who ever made me smile. But.” He paused, his eyes clear and wet. “When you said those things that day, it felt like I just died. Right then and there. Who knows? Maybe I did.”  He had completed cutting around his smile and now reached down to pick up the pliers. Priss began to shake and scream through the scarf in her mouth. He cried out in searing agony as he gripped the edge of his skin near the safety pin on his left side and pulled with all of his might.

The flesh tore away, but not wholly. There were stray strips that did not come away clean. Priss continued to scream, unable to truly believe what she was seeing. The pain must have been horrendous, yet Casey still sat there with his calm demeanor, a permanent bloody smile etched into his face. Bits of flesh hung haphazardly and drops of blood fell into his lap, mixing into the red of his clown pants. He began sobbing.

“Every moment we ever spent together,” he said, the pain of speaking increased a thousand fold, “I remember like it was yesterday. You were the one good thing that I ever had in my life, Priss. You were the light at the end of my tunnel.

“I remember that first day we met on the playground. We were only five, but I can still see it so clear. I remember the first time we kissed, just to experiment with the idea. It was playful and embarrassing and perfect. Every one of those memories is burned into my heart and mind forever.”

The pressure built in Priss’ heart. She remembered those times, too. Though, perhaps, the memories were not as vivid as were Casey’s. She’d never known how important she was to him. And now this. What was she to think? How was she to deal with this? Sirens screamed in the distance. It was almost over. She stared at Casey, with his bloody smile and sad eyes.

“I wanted you to remember me, Priss. That’s all. I just wanted you to remember me.” He reached for the switchblade. “And, now, you’ll never forget.”

The switchblade entered his neck, through his jugular and into his esophagus.  He coughed out a gush of bright red liquid as he ripped the blade away. His life ebbed away.

Drastic Red sat motionless, staring at Priss without a sound.

Priss locked eyes with the bloody clown, never looking away, as the door burst open to shouts of the police. Her sight was focused on the boy for whom she had once cared so much, who had now imprinted his existence upon her soul for all eternity. Life’s essence fled him. Priss’ field of vision narrowed down to a pinpoint, fading out, leaving only the image of the mad clown’s different-colored eyes.

Loss and Catch-Up

It has been a difficult few weeks in the ol’ Nicolas-Stegall household. Our sweet and far-too-young-to-depart Mochi went into stage 4 kidney failure, with her pancreas becoming affected. We braved the loss and let her go onto bigger and better things on October 1st.

I have to admit that although the decision was the right one – for her, not us and our selfish love of her presence – it was far more difficult than I could have ever imagined. A couple of days after we let her go, she invaded my dreams and broke my heart all over again. That gorgeous and regal face will no longer stare at me with the words “well, aren’t you going to share that sandwich?” hanging from her drooling mouth. No more rough play, growling rope tugs-of-war, or romps in the park with our happy-go-lucky girl.

Miso, although (it seemed) quite happy at first to have the attention of the Wife and I all to herself, has been moping around the last few days and we think the loss of her little sister has finally sunk in… The fact that the big knucklehead won’t be around for Miso to annoy any longer appears to have struck a chord with our selfish little Dachshund.

This weekend, we will all head out to west Texas to release Mochi’s ashes into the beautiful countryside, thanks to our friends at A Day Away Retreat, Ruby and Michael. We cannot thank them enough for their kindness and understanding in our loss.

On a completely separate-but-connected note, I’ve had trouble getting back into the writing habit.  My WIP is suffering for that, but I am feeling like it is time to dive back in and get it done. As our (fictional) friend, Paris, would say, “Man up and get it done.” So, I will.

I will slowly get back into the posting groove, as well.  I have a few subjects to discuss in the coming weeks so look forward to my regular ramblings resurfacing once more.

My DRP partner, John J. Smith, and I are also going to be going on a scouting trip in November in preparation for our full-on DRP road trip documentary adventure next April. Look for Tweets, blogs, photos and even some video from the road between November 9th and November 14th! Exciting stuff coming from Dark Red Press!

That’s it for now, my friends!

~Peace

 

A Memory of Elephants – and other collectives.

A dray of squirrels makes me lose my religion in the midst of public scrutiny. While, overhead, a gulp of swallows heads back to San Juan Capistrano. I wonder to myself who thought up these strange, peculiar and somewhat hilarious naming conventions.

Sometimes the descriptive names for groups of animals (collectives) are terribly suitable. For instance, a pit of snakes could not possibly be more appropriately called. And, no one is going to tell me there could be a better, more accurate name for a group of mosquitoes than a “scourge.”

Nevertheless, it only gets better when you get into the lesser known ones. A still relatively well-known naming is a murder of crows. A group of cows, however, is not called a herd. It is a kine of cows. If you are clumping the bulls and cows under the collective of “cattle,” then it is a team, herd or drove of cattle. Some names have multiple applications, for instance you can have a pod of dolphins, or a pod of pelicans.

There is a bed of oysters. The term “a barrel of monkeys” is literally correct. A gathering of mice is called – again, appropriately – a “mischief of mice.” Then we have the more amusing collectives:

A lounge of lizards.

A sault of lions.

An ascension of larks.

A mob of kangaroos.

A cackle of hyenas.

A bloat of hippopotamuses. (I feel this one is somewhat cruel.) Ditto with a confusion of guinea fowl. (They aren’t the most brilliant of birds.)

I did a little more research and found some even stranger collective names. Here are a few of my favorites:

A party of jays.

A leap of leopards.

A smack of jellyfish.

A tower of giraffes.

An implausibility of gnus. (I think this collective name is so brilliant as to be ridiculous.)

A knot of frogs.

An army of caterpillars.

A memory of elephants. (Yep. That is a good one.)

A pitying of turtle doves.

A cast of crabs.

A quiver of cobras.

And, of course, you have those that go beyond description and into warning:

A destruction of wild cats.

A siege of bitterns.

A bask (or float) of crocodiles.

A wreck of sea birds.

A shrewdness of apes.

 

And, my very favorite collective name: an intrusion of cockroaches!

 

Isn’t English fun?

 

So, what did you learn today? Something cool?  Please share! We all love to learn, right?

~Peace

My 5 Year Plan – Get It Done

Everyone should have a 5-year plan. Where do you see yourself five years from now? What do you expect to accomplish? This becomes especially important for writers. Planning out our career path is a tough job, but something that is completely within our control when it comes to the writing we hope to accomplish. Last [...]

First Full-Length Book Blog Tour!

So, yay! Today begins my first all-out book blog tour for the The Weight of Night – Special Edition. Lots of folks are reading and reviewing the novel, as well as posting excerpts, character run-downs and articles! Also, there will be 10 eBooks raffled off to lucky winners and 2 Signed physical copies! It is all [...]

MM – DRP Gear Sightings

Today’s Monday Mentions post provides the joy of seeing some Dark Red Press fans of all ages sporting their DRP gear! First up we have children’s book artist/illustrator, Kinsy McVay, in his art department/production office/frustration station! Way to go, Kinsy! Connect with or find out what Kinsy is up to: kmcvay@kinsymcvay.com www.kinsymcvay.com Next we have [...]

Announcing New DRP Cover Design Service

Dark Red Press is pleased to announce its new custom Book Cover Design Service. We want to help authors stand out from the crowd. With strong thematic elements and bold, stylistic type-work, we can help you make a statement with your cover, one that allows your book to rise above the rest! For a listing [...]

Losing Oneself In Fiction

I’m spending a lot of my time writing Valence Of Infinity these days. But you know what? It’s the most fun I’ve had writing in years. Don’t get me wrong, I really love the world of The Progeny, and I think it shows in the first novel in that series. Still, that is a YA [...]

VOI – Chapters 1 and 2

Valence Of Infinity Book I: The Blood Of Others 1. Present Day, Florida, United States Until tonight, I had never taken a life I did not intend on taking. Shit happens, I suppose. My arrival in Daytona had been uneventful, but I had still required transportation. The best laid plans, as they say. Now, I [...]

Valence Of Infinity BEGINS!

Today is a big day for me. This is the first day of my Kickstarter project setup to fund completion and publishing (including a Limited Edition Signed Hardcover!) of my upcoming novel, Valence Of Infinity Book I – The Blood of Others. Please do head over and check out the project and, if you like [...]