Mandy White's Blog: Dysfictional, page 12

In the Folds of the Earth

~ Previously published in Creepies 2: Things That go Bump in the Closet by WPaD ~
and DysFictional 3: Down the Psycho Path by Mandy White ~

The rusty Ford pickup sputtered and then died. Dalton didn’t bother trying to start it because he already knew he was out of gas. He had been driving on fumes for the last ten miles or so, and was surprised he had made it that far. He seemed to have lost the cops when he turned onto the dirt road, but he knew it wouldn’t be long before reinforcements arrived. The sound of a distant helicopter confirmed that he was running out of time, and places to run.

To say that Dalton Jeffries was a wanted man was putting it mildly. The object of a nationwide manhunt, his flight had led him from one coast to the other, to his present location, deep in the wilderness of Vancouver Island.

A large open area stood between him and the cover of the dense woods. Rotting stumps dotted the clearing, evidence of logging in previous years. His best bet was the forest. There, he would have a better chance of hiding and the police wouldn’t be able to see him from the air. Eyes focused on the tree line, he made a run for safety, zig-zagging between stumps and vaulting over fallen logs. He didn’t see the hole as much as he felt it.

He landed feet first in the hollow under the stump and disappeared like Alice down the rabbit hole. An avalanche of dirt rained down upon Dalton’s head as he scrabbled at rocks and roots to slow his fall. Finally he felt solid ground beneath his feet. At first he was worried he might be buried alive if he didn’t move carefully. He looked up, shielding his eyes from a further barrage of falling earth and saw that his situation wasn’t so bad after all.

The product of erosion, the hole was invisible to the naked eye, thanks to an overgrowth of grass and weeds at the entrance. Muted sunlight trickled through the filter of greenery, lighting the hole enough for him to see his surroundings. He wasn’t down very far; he could easily climb back out. Roots stuck out from the dirt on all sides, creating a natural ladder of sorts.

He slid to the floor of the small cavern, sitting with his back against the cool earth. He needed to rest; it had been days since he’d slept and this was as good a place as any. It was cool down there and he was well-hidden. In his mad dash to find a hiding place, a minor mishap had delivered exactly what he needed. Let the police come. They wouldn’t find him down there, and when the search turned up nothing, they would move on. Dalton’s eyelids drooped, and he dozed.

* * *

Dalton had been committing acts of cruelty and violence for most of his life. In the beginning he’d gotten away with it. His murderous lifestyle began at an early age. First with his pet parakeet, then mice he caught in the tool shed behind the house, then an occasional ‘stray’ cat.

He thought he might have gone too far when he smashed his playmate’s head in with a rock. He was six, and Lisa was five. They were playing in the park near her house. Lisa’s mom was supposed to be watching them, but she didn’t pay much attention to anything besides her gin and soaps.

Boredom set in, and it didn’t take Dalton long to convince Lisa to play in the woods. He told her they could build a dam in the creek and trap fish with it. The two friends ran unseen into the forest, eager to start their new project.

The dam didn’t hold for long. The creek was swollen from spring rains, and the sticks and rocks soon gave way. Both children were wet and cold. Lisa wanted to go home but was afraid she would get in trouble for being wet. Dalton convinced her to take her clothes off and hang them on branches to dry. She did as he suggested, but then she changed her mind and wanted to get dressed again. Her wet clothes were icky and hard to put on. She started to cry. She wanted to go home but couldn’t without her clothes. Her mother would spank her, probably with a willow branch. And to make matters worse, she had to pee.

“Just go!” Dalton told her.

But she wouldn’t, not out in the woods. All she did was cry harder.

“If you don’t shut up, I’m goin’ home and leavin’ you here!”

She sat in the mud of the creek bank, clad only in her panties and cried until she couldn’t hold it anymore and then peed herself right where she sat. That made her even more upset.

Her wails stabbed daggers through his head.

“Stop it! Stop it!” He couldn’t stand her noise anymore, but the more he yelled at her to shut up, the louder she cried.

He picked up the biggest rock he could find and stood behind her, lifting it as high as he was able. He brought it down hard, on the back of her skull. Her head lurched forward from the force of the blow.

Finally she was quiet, but he knew she’d be mad as hell and probably tell on him for hitting her. He waited for her to start yelling at him, but she didn’t. She just sat there, slumped forward, chin resting on her knees.

“Hey,” Dalton tapped her shoulder. Nothing. “HEY!” He gave her a shake. She leaned to one side, then slowly fell over. She slipped down the muddy bank into the water and floated facedown.

Dalton watched her drift downstream until she was out of sight, then he headed home. He chose a roundabout route along the edge of the woods to avoid passing Lisa’s house. While he was walking home it began to rain, which provided a convenient excuse for his wet clothing.

* * *

Dalton had a crush on Jennifer Green. She was perfect, pretty and popular. She only dated jocks but he knew she had a penchant for naughty behavior. He knew that if he could get her alone she would like him. He had seen her and her giggling gaggle of girlfriends sitting in her car smoking pot, so he knew exactly how to lure her. He procured some weed and waited for her in the parking lot after school.

“Hey, wanna smoke a joint?”

She eyed him warily. He was not the sort of guy she normally talked to.

“C’mon, Jenny,” he urged. “This shit is just too fine to smoke alone. I wanna share it with someone worthy.”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t tell him to fuck off either. He could see the gears turning in her vapid little head.

“Unless you can’t handle it. Maybe I’ll save it for someone with balls.” He started to walk away.

She took the bait. “Why the hell not?” She followed him to the groundskeeper’s shed and they slipped inside.

Dalton lit the joint and passed it to her. She inhaled deeply, then passed it back.

The paper was stained red by her lipstick when Dalton brought the joint to his mouth. An erection throbbed against his pants at the thought of her plump red lips on his. He made no effort to hide his arousal; he wanted her to see how turned on he was. It would be just like a porno movie; she would say something like, “Can I help you with that?” After that… he imagined the sequence of events that would unfold.

“Hey, Bogart! Stop hogging that thing. Pass it here.”

He handed the joint back to Jenny and watched her suck another hit out of it, just like she would soon be sucking a hit out of his joint.

“So…” he began uncertainly, “What are you doing later?”

She looked at him like he was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

“Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but I’m going to a party. With my friends.” She emphasized the word ‘friends’, making it clear that Dalton was not one of them.

“I thought maybe we could do something… together,” he finished lamely. This was not going the way he’d expected. In fact, rejection hadn’t even crossed his mind. But there it was, she was rejecting him, and none too politely.

“Um, no. Just no. Like I’d ever be seen with a loser like you.” She flicked the remainder of the joint at him. “I’m outta here. Get out of my way.”

Dalton stood between her and the door. When he made no move to let her pass, she shoved him. His hands closed over her throat. She flailed and fought, but he maintained his grip until she lost consciousness. He laid her on the cement floor, lifted her skirt and tore her panties off. He entered her awkwardly. It was his first time, but apparently not hers. She came to while he was fucking her and her struggles drove him wild.

“Stop that. I want it to last,” he grunted, cramming a greasy rag into her mouth to stifle her screams. She retched and vomit squirted out of her nostrils. Gross. Unable to breathe, she fought with increased ferocity, so he had no choice but to hit her on the head with the first blunt object within his reach – a ball peen hammer. Her skull dented like a beer can and she fell silent. The act of killing Jenny while penetrating her was the single most erotic experience of Dalton’s life. He continued to pound her lifeless body until he exploded in ecstasy.

Dalton was tried as a juvenile, despite vehement protests from the prosecutor, Jenny’s family, and the general public. He was sentenced to ten years for manslaughter and served six.

* * *

Once Dalton was a free man, he resumed his old habits, but this time he was more conscientious about covering his tracks. He wore gloves, condoms and even a ski mask on the off chance one of his victims survived and was asked to identify him. He traveled when he did his deeds to ensure no two victims were from the same region. He killed each one differently, so authorities never suspected any of the murders were connected. He posed as a truck driver, though none of the people who interacted with him in bars and truckstops ever saw him actually driving a rig. He financed his travels solely on the spoils of his victims.

He felt unstoppable. His cockiness led to his eventual downfall. That, and he made the mistake of becoming involved in a relationship with one of his intended victims.

Lucy was a waitress in a small-town bar in Nova Scotia. She knew how to flirt for tips, and caught Dalton’s eye right away. Under the assumption that he was a truck driver, she thought he was rolling in cash. At first, Dalton was fooled into believing her attraction to him was genuine. When asked if she wanted to get together with him after her shift, she revealed that she was not single. Not only did she have a boyfriend, she had two children from a previous relationship.

Dalton did not take rejection well, but he concealed his rage behind a casual shrug and nod at her suggestion that they remain ‘just friends’.

He befriended Lucy’s boyfriend, a likeable fisherman named Luke. Dalton expressed an interest in fishing and Luke agreed to take him out on his boat. Dalton brought a bottle of whiskey to keep them warm; the Atlantic was frigid any time of year, and March was far from springtime in the Maritimes.

He encouraged Luke to drink more than he should have, then pushed him overboard when his back was turned. Luke tried to swim to the boat, but Dalton kept moving it just out of his reach. Luke begged, pleaded and cursed, but all Dalton did was laugh. Once Luke had succumbed to hypothermia, Dalton jumped into the water and removed the man’s lifejacket. He climbed back into the boat and cruised leisurely back to shore, rehearsing what he would say and how he would act. He even managed to brew up some tears just before he ran the vessel into the dock.

Dalton clambered out, shivering and wet, shouting for someone to call 911. Luke had already been in the water for more than three hours. Acting distraught, he begged rescuers to bring his ‘friend’ back to him, but they failed, as he knew they would. It was nothing more than a recovery mission.

Lucy was devastated. Fortunately, she was not alone; she had Dalton to comfort her in her time of need. To Dalton’s advantage, Lucy suffered from low self-esteem, thanks to a past series of abusive relationships. Poor girl – Luke was the first man who hadn’t abused her, and now he was gone. Because the thought of being alone terrified Lucy, she was willing to settle for anyone, even Dalton.

She allowed him to move in with her, and even grudgingly supported him when he made up a story about losing his job. The only catch was, he had to babysit while she worked. Dalton wasn’t thrilled at the idea of playing nursemaid to a pair of illegitimate sperm-monkeys, but as it turned out, the kids weren’t much trouble. They usually went to bed with no argument and went right to sleep, thanks to Uncle Dalty’s special Kool-Aid. He spiked the fruit punch with a heavy dose of adult nighttime cold medicine. They slept so deeply Dalton could have done anything to them if he’d wanted to, but he never once touched them. He may have been a murderer, but he was no kiddie-diddler. In that respect, he considered himself to be a man of morals.

His relationship with Lucy was the closest thing Dalton had ever had to a normal family in his adult life. With his contentment, the killing subsided. It wasn’t until Lucy decided to replace Dalton with another man that problems arose.

She figured the other guy was better because he had a job, a shiny new pickup truck and no criminal record. She gave Dalton the heave-ho without so much as a thank you for all the great step-parenting he’d done. Dalton left without argument, mostly because Lucy’s new boyfriend, Josh, had a shotgun pointed at him.

Taking care of Josh was easy. All it took was a visit to his mechanic shop. Dalton watched and waited for the opportune moment, then knocked the asshole out with a tire iron and lowered the front wheel of a Crown Victoria on his face. Dalton hid and waited for the mechanic’s assistant to return from lunch, discover his employer crushed like a cockroach and call 911.

As sirens wailed in the distance, Dalton made his way over to Lucy’s place. He parked up the road and walked the rest of the way, sneaking into the back yard where he could listen through the open windows. Before long, the phone rang. Lucy’s voice rose in pitch as she received the news about Josh. Dalton heard the jingle of car keys and Lucy shouting at the kids to get their shoes on. He ran back to his truck and drove into Lucy’s driveway just as she was leaving for the hospital.

He apologized and explained that he had just come to return her house keys, and that he would be on his way. Seeing her tears and stricken look, he asked what was wrong. Lucy told him that Josh had had an accident at work and was not expected to live. She needed to get to him before it was too late. Dalton told her how sorry he was and asked if there was anything he could do. Lucy hesitated, then asked if he would mind watching the kids so she wouldn’t have to drag them to the hospital.

Of course, of course, he replied, taking the children by the hands and leading them back to the house while their mother sped out of the driveway in a spray of gravel.

Dalton gave the children an extra-large dose of his special Kool-Aid, the first humane act of his murderous career. When they were sound asleep, he slit their throats. He was out of the house and on his way out of town before they’d even finished bleeding to death. His only regret was that he hadn’t been there to see Lucy’s face when she found them.

He’d sure showed that bitch. She should have known better than to fuck around on him.

Trouble was, he was now the object of a nationwide manhunt. If caught, he was certain to die in prison. The thing about knowing you’re completely fucked is that you have absolutely nothing to lose. This made Dalton a very dangerous man indeed.

And so the chase began. Dalton slaughtered anyone who got in his way, leaving a trail of blood from the East coast to the West. The border was on high alert, making escape to the United States impossible. All he had was Canada in which to run. When he reached the West coast, he hopped a ferry to Vancouver Island, hoping to lose the cops. Unfortunately, his picture was everywhere. He couldn’t hide and he had literally run out of ground.

He decided his best course of action was to take to the wilderness, which was abundant on the large island. He hitched a ride and then killed the driver, an old man who was too kind for his own good. He headed North in the stolen truck in hopes of finding a remote hiding place. He veered off onto a logging road, then onto a less-traveled secondary road. He made yet another turn onto what looked like two ruts overgrown with grass and it was there that he left the truck.

And now here he was, crouched in a hole in the ground, waiting for his fate to find him…

* * *

A shower of dirt rained down on Dalton’s head. The ground vibrated and the rumble of an engine could be heard from above.

They had caught up with him.

The cops would have found the stolen pickup by now and were probably scouring the area with helicopters, ATVs and men on foot. If the searchers had dogs, it wouldn’t be long before they sniffed out his hiding spot. He would be shot resisting arrest, because he had no intention of going back to prison.

Cornered, Dalton did what any cornered creature would do: He retreated further into his sanctuary. He inched backward, away from the dim shaft of light and wedged himself as far into the back corner of the hole as possible. To his surprise, he found not a solid wall of dirt, but another, smaller opening – a tunnel large enough to accommodate his body with a bit of room to spare.

Dalton slid his feet into the opening and inched backward on his belly until all but his head had vanished from the main cavern. Maybe that would be enough. If they shone lights down into his hole, he could duck into the tunnel and not a trace of him would be visible.

His feet touched something soft, then the dirt gave way around his legs. Panic gripped Dalton’s chest. He hadn’t considered the possibility of a cave-in until that moment. His first instinct was to scramble back into the relative safety of the main cavern, but he could find nothing upon which to brace his feet. He hung by his arms, shoulders wedged into the entrance of the tunnel. He tried to slow his breathing and remain calm while his feet swung in mid-air below him.

A motor roared above the entrance to the hole, and then stopped. He heard men’s voices, then felt the vibration of another, larger vehicle.

This was it. Dalton’s goose was cooked.

Fuck it! I’m as good as dead, he thought. Why should I make it easy for them?

He shoved himself backward into the tunnel, hung by his fingertips for a moment, then let go and dropped into the abyss.

He didn’t fall far, maybe five or six feet. He landed in what appeared to be another cavern, this one with a sloped floor made of smooth, damp stone. He slid down the incline, unable to find purchase with his hands and feet. He rolled off the edge of the rock into yet another hole, directly underneath the first, and came to rest on what felt like a gravel floor. The sloped rock formed the ceiling of the cavern and the ground beneath was solid enough that Dalton felt safe again.

All light and sound from the surface was inaccessible at this depth. Even with dogs, they’d never find him down there.

In the silence, the sound of water dripping was music to Dalton’s ears. He felt along the cave wall in the darkness until he located the source. Water seeped from a crack in the rocks, belying the presence of an underground spring. The feel of the water made him realize how parched he was, and he greedily licked the rocks until his thirst was sated.

One problem solved, it was time to relieve another. He had been holding his bladder just in case he needed an emergency source of hydration, but now that he’d found some water, he could avoid that unpleasantness and appease Mother Nature. He knelt in a far corner and relieved himself. No matter how objectionable the situation, there were some pleasures that never diminished. Taking a long-awaited piss was one of those pleasures.

Rested, relieved and re-hydrated, Dalton felt like a new man. He felt safe for the time being, and confident that the searchers would never find him. He had no idea how he was going get out of the hole when it was finally safe to leave, but he would worry about that later. For the moment he was comfortable, and he didn’t mind waiting them out.

Dalton chuckled and raised both of his middle fingers skyward.

“Checkmate, motherfuckers! Let’s see you find me now!”

* * *

Dalton dozed, for lack of anything else to do. He heard distant vibrations rumbling the earth above from time to time – the search party, no doubt. They would never find him. Even if they found the hole under the stump, they’d never find his hiding place. As he slept, he dreamed.

Lisa sat in the mud, sobbing. No matter how many times Dalton screamed at her to shut up or smashed her over the head with the rock, she continued to cry, her sobs becoming wails, and then screams. He tried to push her into the water to shut her up, but she just got louder, emitting a high-pitched screech like feedback through a microphone.

Dalton woke, but the screech continued, alternating with the rumbles he’d hoped would be gone by now. The stone ceiling above his head vibrated and then cracked, sending a shower of pebbles over him.

Geez, Louise! They were going to dig him out!

Panicked, he slid further away from the breach in the ceiling. His feet found an opening in the wall, perhaps a secondary tunnel. Maybe there was more to this cave than he’d thought. Crawling deeper into the ground didn’t sound like a good idea, but he was already past the point of no return. If there was one route to the surface, perhaps there was another. The floor of the new tunnel sloped downward, then disappeared altogether.

What can’t go up, might be able to go down, he thought.

He squirmed down over the ledge and hung from his elbows for a moment, feet dangling into the void. He had hoped to find footholds; evidence of a bottom; anything but open space. He reconsidered his plan and began to pull himself back up.

The ceiling of his former sanctuary opened, vomiting a torrent of rocks and earth over the spot he had been not twenty minutes earlier. The screeching and rumbling grew closer by the second. Up was no longer an option.

Oh well, it worked the first time. Here goes nothing.

He let his body slide over the edge and then dropped.

He fell further this time, landing on a bed of wet, loose gravel. At least there was still water down there. The rumbling was faint; it seemed he had escaped once again. Dalton crawled around in the blackness, feeling the dimensions of his new accommodations. The ceiling wasn’t high enough to stand, but he could sit up comfortably. The floor was made up of small pebbles, which filled with water when he scooped out a small impression. He hoped to find a passageway to another cave and possibly an alternate route to the surface but his groping hands found nothing but damp stone walls abutting the gravel floor.

He was trapped.

* * *

Lucy spent most of her days curled into a chair in the hospital lounge, staring at the TV. Sometimes the set was turned on, sometimes not. It made no difference to her.

Four weeks had passed since that horrible night, when Josh died. The events following her return home that evening were hazy in her mind. She remembered the children, covered in blood and so, so cold. She gave them baths and then put them in her bed and cuddled them to try and warm them up. She remembered her neighbor, Sally, coming in and screaming. Then the police were there, and they were trying to take her babies away from her when all she wanted to do was hold them.

She was still under heavy sedation, but through daily therapy sessions she had begun to understand what had happened. Her babies were gone. She had killed them by leaving them in the care of a monster.

And now the police claimed to have lost Dalton. They’d tracked him as far as Vancouver before he vanished without a trace. They believed he had crossed the border into the United States. For all anyone knew, he was already in Mexico.

Lucy befriended a woman named Morgan, a fellow patient in the psychiatric wing. Morgan claimed to be psychic. Naturally, the doctors dismissed her allegations of ESP as symptoms of Schizophrenia. Lucy thought it couldn’t hurt to ask. The police hadn’t been any help. She would not have peace of mind until Dalton was found and made to answer for his crimes.

Morgan did a reading using a picture of Dalton from the newspaper. She said that she could see him, but couldn’t pinpoint his location because there were no familiar landmarks near him.

“It’s confusing,” she told Lucy, “I don’t know how else to describe it, but he is in the folds of the earth.”

“The what?”

“I know, it doesn’t make sense to me either, but that’s the impression I keep getting and it’s a strong one. I see him in total darkness. He is alive, but won’t be for long. I see an agonizing death in his future. He is trapped in the folds of the earth.”

* * *

WELL DRILLERS GET GRISLY SURPRISE

A Vancouver Island man who was having a well drilled on his property in preparation to build a house got a shock last Thursday when well drillers discovered a human body. According to Carl Evans of Island Hydrodrill, it was a routine job until the drill struck water. It was then that they got a grisly surprise. Along with the usual geyser of water, mud and gravel that erupted, Evans said, it began raining shredded chunks of what appeared to be fresh meat. At first the drillers thought they had “hit some kind of animal”, but on closer examination it looked like human skin mixed with bits of fabric. Homicide investigators confirmed that the remains of a recently deceased individual had been present underground at the well site. How the alleged killer managed to bury the victim so deeply without leaving evidence on the surface remains a mystery. The body has not been identified, but a forensic investigation is underway. Authorities are hopeful that DNA analysis will lead to an answer as to the victim’s identity. The property owner has postponed drilling of the well until an alternate site is selected.

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

CA’THALS

The Thought Harpy

Copyright © 2017 Diana Garcia. All Rights Reserved.

WPad Publications for Writers, Poets, and Deviants. Banner Art by Jason Kemp, Tenkara Studios. Permission Required

A Science Fiction Short Story.

Heat haze undulated the expanse of soil, rock, and shrub, which created a dance only the devil in hell would appreciate. Off in the distance several dust devils spun across the landscape like ecstatic dervishes.

Damien Romero spurred his reluctant horse. With binoculars, he surveyed the desolate panorama before him. His posse had been assigned to the area north of Nogales because most of them, at some point, had lived near the border. They all knew the terrain well.

Not long after the men set out they found a group of dying illegal immigrants crossing the treacherous desert. Later, he learned most of them had crossed through Mexico from Honduras, Colombia, and Guatemala. He was the only person among the gringos…

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Pod People: Invasion of the Laundry Zombies

~ Previously Published in DysFictional 3: Down the Psycho Path – by Mandy White ~
and Weirder Tales: An Omnibus of Odd Ditties – by WPaD ~

Ernest sat up in bed. “ You hear that?”

Louise looked up from her book. “What’s that, dear?”

“There it is again! It’s the basement door. It’s those damn zombies.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just the wind.”

“Wind my ass!” Ernest muttered, glancing at the shotgun leaning against the wall in the corner of the bedroom. These days he kept both barrels loaded, just in case. “It’s zombies, I tell ya! I thought I told you to get rid of those fucking laundry pods.”

The door rattled again. Ernest had installed sturdy new locks, but they would never give up as long as what they desired lay on the other side of the door.

“Dammit, Louise! This is your fault!”

Louise peered at him over the rims of her glasses. “Seriously, Ern? And what do you expect me to do with them? Just throw them away? I paid good money for those, and I can’t buy them anymore. I’m not going to throw away perfectly good products! Besides, they get the laundry so clean and bright!”

“Clean and bright isn’t worth risking our lives.”

Louise gave him one of those looks reserved for naive children and simpletons. “Isn’t it? Stain-free clothes are worth a little risk. Don’t be a coward, Ernest.”

Ernest opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He knew when he was licked.

“Ok, fine, use them up then. How many are left?”

“I bought the Mega Pack from Costco. I got in on the sale just before they pulled them from the shelves. It was one of the last ones, and I was lucky to get it. People are so rude. Fighting, clawing, just to save a few dollars.”

“Isn’t that the same thing you were doing?” Ernest pointed out.

Louise shrugged. “Well, I got them, so I’ll be damned if I’m just going to throw them away.” She sighed. “I’m sure going to miss those things. They get the laundry so clean and bright.”

* * *

What had started as a stupid YouTube stunt turned into a disaster of epidemic proportions. The idiots who ate laundry detergent pods experienced unfortunate side effects from the chemicals contained in the detergent. Brain function slowed. These individuals, clearly short on brains to begin with, became shambling, babbling shells of their former selves. (one still might argue that it was an improvement) The other, more disturbing effect was the hunger. The Pod People craved the colorful packets of toxin and would go to any lengths to obtain them. They possessed an uncanny ability to sniff them out. Stores stopped selling the detergent after the first few weeks of the epidemic to stop the looting. Citizens were ordered to turn their laundry detergent pods over to authorities. Anyone found with the pods in their possession would not be eligible for police protection in the event of zombie attack. Attacks were the biggest concern, because bites were the way the plague was spread. And Pod People were bitey little fuckers. They were faster than they looked, in spite of their shuffling gait, and inordinately tenacious when focused on something they wanted – that something being laundry pods, of course. A bite from one of the Pod People would transfer the toxins that flowed through their veins. Victims of bites began to crave laundry pods, overcome with an irresistible urge to eat them. If not apprehended and incarcerated, they wouldn’t rest until they found and ate some of the detergent. Over time, brain damage set in, transforming them from desperate junkies into shuffling, mumbling zombies. Pod junkies were more dangerous than full-fledged zombies because they still retained some of their (albeit limited) intelligence and still looked like regular people, aside from their desperate, pod-craving behavior. They were also contagious; a bite or scratch from a pod junkie was all it took to spread the addiction.

* * *

And now someone was trying to open the basement door, attracted by the scent of those godfucked laundry pods Louise was so bloody insistent on keeping. Ernest hoped it was just a zombie and not a junkie. Pod junkies were crafty enough to find a way past a locked door. Zombies just bumped against the door like a trapped Roomba until something else caught their attention. Either way, Ernest knew he was in for another sleepless night. He checked his guns to reassure himself they were loaded, and prayed the locks would hold.

* * *

The next night Ernest awoke sitting in his recliner, where he’d dozed off while watching TV. He heard a sound in the laundry room downstairs. He raced to the bedroom to grab his shotgun. The locks hadn’t held after all. One of the bastards had gotten in and from the sound of it, was in the laundry room chowing down on laundry pods.

A fucking pod junkie.

Ernest cussed silently and crept toward the sound, shotgun at the ready. The hunched figure in the laundry room had its back to Ernest. He raised the gun and clicked the safety off. The junkie stopped munching and turned to face him, streaks of blue and orange running down its chin.

“Clean and bright!” Louise giggled. “Yummy! And they make everything clean and bright!”

Louise wiped an arm across her mouth and Ernest saw the deep red scratches on the underside of her arm. The scuffle at Costco had yielded more than just a bargain on detergent.

“Join me, Ern. It’s Heaven! Heaven, I tell you!”

“Stay back, Louise. Don’t make me – ”

Louise lunged at Ernest and he squeezed the trigger.

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

Who is WPaD?

Ten or so years ago, a bunch of like-minded writers got together and decided to collaborate on some short story collections. We chose a different genre for each, wrote some stories and published anthologies under the name Writers, Poets and Deviants (aka WPaD). We donate profits to the MS Society.
2021 saw the publication of our thirteenth book, titled Deviant Shadows: Tales of the ParAbnormal, which features a fantastic selection of stories and poetry by our founders and some new members as well.  We are also proud to present yet another phenomenal piece of cover art by our talented group member, Jason Kemp of Tenkara Studios, Toronto, Ontario.

Available worldwide in ebook and paperback:

Vegan Meat

After holiday overindulgence who isn’t looking for healthier dietary options? But beware the GMOs, they say!
Published in DysFictional 3: Down the Psycho Path .

“The cow and pig are not even natural animals. Tell me, where in nature can you find a cow? A farm is man-made and cows and pigs are hybridized animals. A pig is cross bred between a muskrat, bobcat and hyena! So you’re eating muskrat… just let that sink in!”

The man on the TV screen continued to rant, struggling against the police officers, who cuffed him and wrestled him into the back of the cruiser.

Sinead sipped her lukewarm coffee, too engrossed in the newscast to pour a fresh one.

Sinead knew the crazy man. She also knew he wasn’t as crazy as he looked.

* * *

Scott Cameron was a former co-worker of Sinead’s, back in the early days of their careers. Fresh out of university and bursting with optimism, Sinead eagerly accepted a job offer from a large corporation. It all sounded so environmental, so save- the- planet perfect in her idealistic young mind. Even the name sounded environmentally friendly: Evergreen Research. She didn’t learn until later that Evergreen was owned and funded by Monsanto.

Those early days in the laboratories were filled with excitement and discovery, and it was there that she met Scott, also fresh out of university. Sinead truly believed she was making a difference, developing things that would change the world for the better. It wasn’t until reports of the negative effects of their work began to surface, that Sinead realized perhaps her employers weren’t the saints she thought they were.

When Sinead made the decision to part company with Evergreen, they demanded she sign a document bearing the Monsanto logo. It was a gag order, which prohibited her from divulging any information about the work conducted in their laboratories or using knowledge obtained therein to profit herself or others. She had no interest in what went on in those laboratories. She signed the document and moved on, eventually finding employment in genetic research for disease prevention.

Scott stayed on with Evergreen for a while after Sinead left, but she heard through a mutual friend that he had been fired for “ethical differences”, whatever that meant.

* * *

Five Years Later:

Sinead’s contract expired, and the company opted to not renew it. She decided to take some time off and enjoy a much-deserved holiday in Mexico.

One tequila-soaked night in Puerto Vallarta, Sinead spied a familiar face in the nightclub: Scott. He whooped when he saw her, and pulled her into an off-balance bear hug that nearly landed both of them on the floor. He slung an arm over her shoulder and sprayed her cheek with saliva as he shouted into her ear over the music.

“You gotta come see what I’m doing! I made a breakthrough like you never seen before. Makes those ashhats at Monshanto look like kinnergarten! This shit’ll revolutionize the food innustry. It’s gonna be huge! As shoon as the patents go through, I gonna be a billionaire, and I ain’t talkin’ peshos!”

Sinead wiped her cheek and adjusted her balance to counteract Scott’s drunken sway.

“Sounds interesting, but I’m on vacation. Taking kind of a hiatus from work.”

“Thass even better! I’m gonna need a partner when this shit breaks. I’m gonna be so busy. I’m sherious. You’d be perfect for the job. I’ll let ya in on the ground floor.”

“I admit I’m curious. Give me your number and I’ll look you up when I get back home.”

“No, you don’t unnerstand. It’s here. My lab. I live here now. Can’t do this in the U.S. Too many regulations. It would take years to get where I am now.”

“Your lab is here, in Mexico?”

“You betcher sweet ass, baby!”

“Then how can I say no? For old times’ sake.”

Scott raised his glass. “For old times’ sake!”

* * *

Scott’s “lab” was the second bedroom of a two-bedroom rented condo. It didn’t look much out of the ordinary; complete with the occasional bug-hunting gecko. A row of mismatched refrigerators lined one wall of the room.

“I can’t wait to hear what you’re working on here,” Sinead said, peering into the room. She nodded toward the fridges. “I can’t imagine what those could be for.”

The effects of the previous night’s drinks lingered in the dull throb behind her eyes and parched throat. Scott looked worse than she felt.

“I’m dying of thirst. Let’s get something to drink and then I’ll give you the tour.” He led the way to the kitchen, where he rummaged in the fridge for refreshments.

“I have bottled water, orange juice, or cola. What’s your preference?” Scott had already placed the orange juice on the counter next to a package of Solo cups.

“That’ll do,” Sinead said, reaching for a cup. Assorted bottles of liquor cluttered the counter beside the cups.

Scott added vodka to his orange juice and then offered the bottle to Sinead. She accepted the bottle and spiked her juice as well. What the hell, she thought, I’m on vacation.

Scott went into the living room, where he plopped onto the couch with a weary sigh. Sinead followed and took a seat at the opposite end. She sipped her drink, waiting for him to talk.

“I don’t know how much you might have heard, but I left Evergreen due to some irreconcilable differences,” he began.

“I heard you were fired.”

“Same thing. Potato, potawto. Best thing that ever happened to me. I learned a lot working there, but of course you know we’re not allowed to talk about that.” He gave her a knowing wink.

“I hate to point out the obvious, but we’re also not allowed to apply any of their research to other projects,” she said.

“I believe the gag order specifies that we’re forbidden to use knowledge gained while in their employ to further the exploits of other corporations… or some shit like that. Basically, it means we can’t divulge their trade secrets to their competitors.”

“But what does it say about becoming a competitor yourself?”

“Well, you can’t do that either, per se. Meaning that you can’t start a company and employ their knowledge in research and development of products similar to theirs. And of course, with all the regulations in the U.S. and FDA approval and all that shit, there’s no way you could do anything without the big M finding out.”

“But you aren’t in the U.S.”

“Bingo! I’m also not a competing corporation. I’m just a guy doing science projects in his back bedroom.”

“But what happens when you try to bring… whatever this is… back into the U.S? You can’t get a patent based on someone else’s research.”

“I’m not. This is all mine. Yeah, I learned a lot working in those laboratories, but they can’t regulate what’s inside my head. I developed this all on my own, and none of it resembles anything those assholes are doing.”

“Somehow I think they’d find a way to claim it if they wanted it.” Sinead drained her cup. “Enough with the suspense. Let’s get to the part where you tell me exactly what you developed.”

“To put it simply, it’s food. I have developed a line of revolutionary new food products. Trendy stuff. Vegan, gluten-free, all that shit. Not processed, but grown. The granola crowd will go nuts for it, pun intended.”

“Like what?”

“Bacon seeds, for one.”

“Fuck off.”

“Seriously. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Scott led the way to the lab-bedroom, where he opened a fridge at the far end of the row. Shelves with rows of fluorescent lighting filled the interior of the appliance. Sinead realized that it wasn’t being used for refrigeration, but as a sort of green house. Trays of small seedlings covered the first two shelves, and larger plants were housed on the lower racks. On closer inspection, Sinead recognized the leaves.

“Corn? You’re growing corn in a refrigerator.”

“Not just corn.” Scott closed the door and opened another, a couple of fridges down the row. Inside were cobs covered with a substance Sinead couldn’t identify. She looked at Scott for clarification. He grinned.

“I give you…” he tapped his fingers on the door, simulating a drum roll. “Bacon on the cob!”

“Bullshit.”

“I shit you not.” He removed one of the cobs from the shelf and held it up to the light. “It grows just like this. All you have to do is cook it.”

Tiny pale rolled-up buds covered the cob. He took one in his fingers and unrolled it, revealing to Sinead what appeared to be an ordinary slice of bacon. The grain of the meat, the fat, the color – all nearly perfect. It was perhaps a bit too uniform, like the vegan fake-bacon sold in stores, but it looked close enough to pass for the real thing. Sinead slid her fingers over it and gasped at the greasy texture.

“It feels real!” she whispered.

“It is real. Pretty cool, huh?”

“It’s edible?”

“Hell yeah! Just like the real deal. It’s delicious, low in calories, high in protein. Gluten-free, too. It’s grown, not raised. Nothing gets slaughtered.” He chuckled. “Except for the plant, of course.”

“So it’s vegan, too.”

“As vegan as a corn cob. Sure, I had to make a few modifications, and maybe there is some pig DNA in there, but that’s science. Ever wonder why vegans always seem so angry? I know I’d be pretty miserable in a life without bacon. They taste this, maybe they won’t be so angry, huh?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s right to generalize. I know plenty of vegans who are very nice folks,” Sinead pointed out.

Scott dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“That’s beside the point. This shit is revolutionary.”

“I do agree. Wow. This is amazing. If it’s as good as you say, and it gets approval… you could be sitting on a gold mine here. But what if the FDA doesn’t approve it?”

“They will eventually. I’ll start growing it here. Americans will get wind of it after a few thousand tourists get a sample. Get the right billionaire to back it and badda-bing! Suddenly the FDA won’t have a problem with us bringing it into the U.S. And of course they will want it produced there, to corner the market.”

Scott moved to another fridge. “The Bacorn is just the start of it. I also have KFG, but still working the bugs out of it.”

“KFG?”

“Working title. Stands for Kentucky Fried Garbanzos. Modified chick-pea with eleven herbs and spices bred in. But it’s a magnet for fruit flies. Like I said, still working the bugs out.”

Sinead peered into the fridge. Pod-shaped crispy golden brown clumps hung from scrawny vines. A cloud of small black flies rose toward her face and as she waved them away her nostrils caught a delicious savory aroma.

“It smells like…it’s already cooked!”

“Yeah, I think this one is going to be a winner, but it’s not ready yet. We also have the Hamkins, which will require a bit more growing space than I have here, on account of the vines.”

Sinead reached to touch one of the pods and something moved behind the plants. She jumped back with a little scream.

“Oh, don’t worry about him. That’s just Leonard.” Scott reached into the fridge and coaxed the gecko onto his hand. “He helps me with pest control. He loves the fruit flies.”

Sinead concluded her tour of Scott’s refrigerators with a promise to consider his offer. She accepted his business card, which simply read: Scott Cameron – Innovations in Eating, and an email address.

As much as she hated to admit, his offer was tempting. She’d spent all her professional life working for others, following instructions. This project of Scott’s was something new and refreshing. It stimulated both her scientific and creative sides. Breaking new ground by designing never-before-seen products… it was why she had become a scientist. It had endless potential. It could end world hunger, if the plants were hardy enough. If she took Scott’s offer, she would make him see the big picture. If plant-based meats could be engineered to grow on barren land, entire countries could be saved. Appeasing angry vegans was merely a bonus.

* * *

In the end, Sinead dodged a bullet. Her decision not to join Scott’s research “team” turned out to be a wise one. Scott did not get FDA approval for his products. It turned out people had an aversion to eating genetically engineered meat, even if it was grown organically. Supposedly “health-conscious” people preferred to eat substances processed in factories from unknown ingredients than something they could grow in their own gardens.

Stymied by legal channels, Scott brought his products into the U.S. illegally and grew them in secret. The problem was, he couldn’t mass-market any of it without giving up the secret of their origin. He marketed the stuff as manufactured corn-based products and sold them at hippie festivals and farm markets, but eventually the FDA caught up with him. When they raided his greenhouses, the scandal broke internationally.

What they found… Sinead wasn’t surprised, given Scott’s mental state at the time of his arrest.

There were the Hamkins he’d mentioned, growing on vines like pumpkins. They looked like a whole pig, minus the innards. The torso was solid; savory, smoky meat all the way through.

The KFG had evolved from fried chicken pods into whole pre-seasoned chickens, which solved the pest problem by feeding on the bugs themselves. The disturbing part was that the “chicken” had the head of a gecko.

There were other things, the media declined to mention all of them, but Sinead heard through a source in the scientific community that beef and lamb had been involved as well.

The public was outraged, and of course the ethical argument made headlines: Were they plant or animal? Did they have consciousness? More importantly, was this food truly vegan? Scott argued that it was, since it was plant-based.

Sinead was shocked when they announced the charges, which were not at all what she had expected.

Scott was charged with two offences:

The first was violation of FDA regulations by creating and selling unapproved food substances. For that, he received a fine and probation.

The second was more serious, and it involved a lawsuit levied by their previous employer, Evergreen Research. Scott was charged with theft of intellectual property and breach of the gag order he had signed upon his departure.

Evergreen accused him of stealing the formulas for his products from their company. Their lawyers stated they were prepared to provide proof in a court of law that those exact products had been created in their laboratories years earlier, prior to his employment there.

Christmas in the Apocalypse

“I found some!” Scott banged on the metal door with a wrench, placed there for that exact purpose.

Metal hinges creaked as the door opened.

“Cool! Bring it in.” Libby held the curtain aside and helped Scott drag his bundles in from the tunnel.

“It isn’t exactly what I was looking for. I was hoping for a tree, but had to settle for trimming a hedge.”

“This will do just fine.” Libby held the cedar branches to her face and inhaled. “Mmmm… heavenly.”

Scott shouldered one of the bundles and Libby followed him, dragging the other down the narrow hallway.

Scott gasped when they entered the common room.

“You like it?”

“I do! You did all this?”

Libby dropped her bundle and sat down. She slung her prosthetic leg onto the tabletop with a loud CLUNK.

“What else am I going to do? I got plenty of time on my hands.”

The room flickered with candlelight and the low glow from the fireplace. Elegant murals covered the walls. Outdoor scenes, with flowers, trees, and water, with a bright sun shining above. Even in the greyscale tone of charcoal, Scott could see the colors of the flowers and feel the sun’s warmth.

Libby stood and pulled the knife from her belt. She cut the cords holding the bundles together.

“This is the final touch,” she said, “You get to help me put this together before the others return.”

An hour or so later, Libby and Scott stood back to admire their work.

“It’s perfect.” Scott put his arm over her shoulders.

The bundles of cedar boughs Scott had brought back stood in the corner of the room, lashed together to form the shape of a tree. He had hoped to find a small fir tree, but the hordes were thick that day, and he hadn’t been able to travel far. He had found a holly bush and managed to take some cuttings from it before the mutants forced him to retreat. A wreath of holly and cedar hung on the wall next to the entrance.

The makeshift tree glittered in the firelight like the trees they remembered from their childhood, adorned with clever decorations Libby had fashioned from discarded materials– computer components, wire, bits of broken glass and the like.

After the bombs fell, everyone had been too busy surviving to worry about frivolous things like holidays. Nobody spoke of it, but they all missed the way things had been.

Libby handed Scott a small cloth-wrapped bundle. “This is for you.” It was a hat, crudely knitted from strips of cast-off fabric. “It’s not very good. I need more practice.”

“I love it. Thank you.” He grinned. “It just so happens, I have something for you, too.” Scott pulled a flat box from his jacket.

Libby’s eyes widened. “No way! You actually found these?”

“Yeah, I took a detour to the school. I thought you could use these. We need more beauty in this world.”

The pastel pencils and oil paints were exactly what Libby needed. She whirled around the room, admiring her murals.

“I’ll be able to finish these, and so much more! Thank you!” She flung her arms around Scott’s neck and hugged him hard.

“Anything for my best little sister.” Scott beamed. He loved to make her smile.

More residents of the underground shelter straggled in. Some who had left that morning didn’t return. Those that did, came to warm themselves by the fire in the common room and admired the Christmas tree Scott and Libby had built. One left a skinned squirrel beside the tree. Another, some canned goods. As the day wore on, the pile of food and supplies grew. They gathered it all together and made a feast for all to enjoy.

Libby stood at the head of the table to make a speech.

“In ancient times, when the sun went dark, people pooled their resources to create a big feast. They celebrated to keep spirits high and gain strength to survive the harsh winter to come. They brought evergreen boughs indoors to try and capture some of the life force that still existed, even when the rest of the world seemed dead. Some people didn’t survive, but springtime always returned. These are dark days. But even with death all around us, we find hope in the love and support of our family – our human brothers and sisters.”

Libby raised her glass.

“Have faith, my brothers and sisters. Our springtime will return one day too.”

Copyright © 2019 Mandy White

Vlad’s Vampire Diary: Last Christmas

This has got to be one of my favorite Vampire Diary posts so far! I love it! Can’t stop laughing!

Vampire Maman

Dear Diary,

Tonight my friend Randolpho came over to help make merry and bright, whatever that is supposed to mean.

Back when I was Vampire King, before I was locked inside of a cold damp crypt for three hundred years, we celebrated Yule. It was easy. We would have parties around large bonfires. We would sing songs about the night sky, snow, and living our best Vampire lives. We did not use the living our best lives term back then. That is an expression I like and recently have been using.

Randolpho turned on the radio and Christmas music began to play. It always is the same songs. The same six songs are played hundreds of times over. Most are confusing to me, especially one gruesome tune calledLast Christmas.

“How could he give her is heart when he still lives?” I asked Randolpho.

“He is alive,” said Randolpho.

“Then…

View original post 455 more words

We’re Not So Different

Previously published in Tinsel Tales: A Holiday Treasury by WPaD.
Available worldwide in ebook and paperback.

My daughter was clearly upset when she arrived home from school. Crystal tossed her pink sparkly book bag into the corner and gave it a kick.

“Bad day, honey?” I asked.

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she ducked her chin and pouted as only a twelve-year-old can.

I waited. Finally she looked at me.

“Is it true?” she demanded.

“Is what true, sweetie?”

“That we’re going to Hell?”

“What? Where on Earth did you get that idea?”

Crystal mumbled something unintelligible.

“Pardon me?”

“Becky Bullock! I hate her so much!” she ranted. “Just because her father’s a minister she acts like she’s God and treats everyone else like dirt!”

“Now, I hardly believe God would treat anyone like dirt, honey. Come here and talk to me.” I sat on the sofa, shoving aside a pile of towels I had been folding so she could sit beside me. Crystal plopped into the cushion, arms folded, glaring at the wall across the room.

“Why exactly does Becky think we are going to Hell and she is not?” I asked her. I suspected I already knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from her classmate’s perspective as well as hers.

“Because of my report,” she said.

“Your report?”

“Yeah, we were all supposed to do an essay about holiday traditions and I did mine about the Christmas tree. I didn’t know the stupid teacher was going to make us read them in front of the class.”

I nodded knowingly. I saw where this was going.

“Go on,” I prompted.

“So anyway, my essay was about the Christmas tree, and how it’s Pagan in origin. Like the story Grandma told us, about how in the old days it was a custom to bring a live tree inside the house to symbolize life and good luck and all that junk.”

“You actually said it that way?” I laughed.

“Not really,” she went to her book bag and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.

I relaxed into the cushions to read the essay. I was impressed; it was quite good. Crystal explained how ancient Pagans believed evergreen trees had the power of eternal life because they stayed green through the dead of winter. During the winter Solstice, the darkest day of the year, they adorned their homes with the boughs of evergreens in hopes that the magic of the trees would bring the sun back for another year. It was said that the ‘sun was born’ during the Solstice. Feasts and celebrations were also held during this time to keep people’s spirits high and fend off the starvation that threatened during the lean months.

It was clear that Crystal’s depiction of the pre-Christian roots of some holiday traditions had offended her classmate, who had no doubt learned a different story in her household.

“So, at lunchtime Becky and a bunch of her snotty friends corner me and start teasing me, telling me that my whole family is going to Hell. ‘Jesus is the reason for the season!’ she says to me. Then she starts calling me a witch and a Satanist and a h-heretic!” Crystal sniffled and began to cry.

“What did you say to them?” I asked.

“I called them a bunch of assholes and then I ran away.” She peeked warily up at me from beneath tearstained eyelashes, checking to see if she was in trouble.

I burst out laughing. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t help myself. The mental picture of Little Becky Bible-Thumper and her friends’ faces after my daughter called them assholes just wouldn’t leave, and try as I might, I couldn’t help cracking up. That’s my girl, I thought. Your Great-Grandmamma would have been proud.

“That wasn’t very nice of you to say that. And it wasn’t nice of them to make fun of you either,” I told Crystal, who had begun to giggle through her tears at my reaction. “But, you could have gotten yourself in trouble. Remember the old saying, ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’. Becky is entitled to her beliefs just as much as you are.”

“But Mom!” Crystal insisted, “She doesn’t have to be mean about it!”

“No, she doesn’t,” I agreed. I put my arm around my daughter and cuddled her close. “You remember all the stories Grandma used to tell? The ones about her ancestors?”

Crystal nodded. “Yeah, that’s where I got the one about the tree stuff.”

“Well, then you also remember that our family lineage goes way, way back, to long before Christianity was even thought of. Our kind has been through happy times, and there have been dark times as well. Many of our ancestors were persecuted by the church and burned at the stake for things as trivial as practicing herbal medicine, or for voicing their own beliefs, much as you did today.”

“Which is why they’re a bunch of assholes!” Crystal said.

“From your perspective, it may seem that way. Try to think outside the box for a moment. Christians have also been persecuted for their beliefs in the past. Jesus was executed for the ideals he taught. Look at the Jewish people, and think of all that they have been through, or the Native Americans. No matter which culture, which religion you look at, you will find some point at which those people were victimized because their beliefs were different from someone else’s.”

“So everyone gets bullied, no matter what they believe, then. That doesn’t make it right.” Crystal observed.

“No, it doesn’t. It’s not a question of right or wrong, good or evil. From our own personal perspective, each of us is right, and the Creator has given us many paths to choose from. What’s great about the times we live in is that we are no longer in fear of being slaughtered for our beliefs. Neither is Becky Bullock’s family, or Jimmy Goldberg’s. We live in a time when a Wiccan child like you can learn in the same classroom as Becky, Jimmy, and all the other children who come from different cultures and backgrounds. Opinions will always differ, but if God is perfect, as Becky’s father teaches, then all must be right in the Universe.”

“So how am I supposed to deal with Becky next time she calls me a Satanist? Put a hex on her, or just punch her in the eye?” Crystal asked.

“Neither!” I laughed. “What you put out there is what you will get back, threefold. To quote your grandmother, ‘Remember ye the law of three. For what ye do comes back to thee’. Or, to put it in terms Becky might understand, ‘Ask, and ye shall receive’. So, to answer your question, if you approach a situation expecting disharmony, you will encounter disharmony. If you go into it intending harmony, then that is what you will get back. Somebody famous once said, ‘Peace is achieved through understanding, not conflict.’ Remember that Becky is not so different from you. She deserves to be treated with the same tolerance for her beliefs that you expect for yours.”

“Fat lot you know about bullies, Mom. The whole, ‘walk away’ thing doesn’t always work. I may still have to punch her in the face, just warning you.”

“If walking away doesn’t work, then ask her how Jesus would have handled the situation. That might make her stop and think. You think about it too. How do you think Jesus have reacted?”

Crystal shrugged. “I guess Jesus would have turned the other cheek. Isn’t that what the Bible says? To love your enemies and stuff like that?”

“Exactly. Treat others with compassion, even those who oppose you. It’s what my mother taught me, and what I’ve always told you. Our beliefs are not much different from what Jesus taught.”

“But I don’t love Becky! I can’t stand her! She’s just so… mean to everyone. Especially me.”

“You don’t have to be her best friend or anything. All I’m saying is, think before you react. Negative reactions won’t result in peace. If that doesn’t work… well, be sure to ask your teachers for some homework if you get expelled.”

“Becky might get expelled, too,” Crystal commented, a hint of hope in her voice.

“See? I told you, you aren’t so different from each other.”

We giggled and snuggled on the sofa. The Christmas tree sparkled in the corner and the angel at the top smiled down at us as we gazed out the window at the falling snow.

Copyright © 2013 Mandy White

Hibernation Holiday

~*~ Previously published in Tinsel Tales 2: Holiday Hootenanny by WPaD. ~*~
~ FREE Kindle download Dec 20-24 ~

Hibernation Holiday

The season loomed, as it inevitably would, but this year the approach of the holidays filled me with more dread than usual. Having finalized my divorce earlier that year, I would be spending Christmas alone for the first time ever. My kids had lives and families of their own, and both lived closer to their father than me, so it didn’t take a genius to guess where they would be gathering for the obligatory annual feast.

Alzheimer’s had claimed my mother to the point where I was no longer able to care for her at home. Three months previously I’d faced the heartbreaking decision of placing her in a care home. She had deteriorated to the point where she needed constant supervision, something I was unable to provide when I worked full time. I visited her every day after work, but she seldom remembered who I was. When she did, she regressed into the past, talking to me as though I were still a child.

Thanksgiving came and went. My son and daughter both phoned, but neither had time to visit. I assured them I was fine; that my work schedule didn’t allow for socializing or cooking fancy meals.

More and more often I found myself sitting at the kitchen table, gazing out the window at the bleak landscape that was now my back yard. It had once been a happy place, filled with the activity of my children and their friends. Now, the garden was overgrown and the swing set hung rusty and unloved, anticipating my grandchildren’s next visit. No children would visit this year. No misshapen snow people would populate the lawn. No warming little red noses and chilled fingertips with steaming mugs of cocoa.

Not even Mom anymore.

Just me.

I flipped open the brochure for the thousandth time; the people at the care home had given it to me, suggesting I give it consideration before it was too late. She wasn’t too far gone, they told me. Science was making great strides in Alzheimer’s research and a cure might be a reality in just a few years. After all, they had already perfected cryogenics to the point where it could now be offered as a viable solution in cases like that of my mother.

Freeze my mother.

It sounded so barbaric when I thought of it that way, but it was the bald truth, no matter what fancy name they wanted to slap onto it. Her life insurance policy could be used to pay for the cryogenic process, which had about a twenty percent risk of failure. Not everyone survived. There was a chance I would be signing my mother’s execution order in an attempt to save her life. But if I chose the alternative, which was to do nothing, she was destined to die. A slow, miserable death, which I would experience with her, moment by agonizing moment.

The more I thought about it, the more rational my plan seemed.

December first, I arrived at my appointment at the cryogenics place. I listened to their orientation, which was more of a sales pitch, and signed all the necessary forms and waivers. After that, it was time to find out how well the process would work.

* * *

Voices. I heard the sound of many voices.

They were singing.

I recognized the song, but what was the name of it again? Oh, that was maddening! I’d heard that song numerous times. It was… I hummed the melody in my head until the words came to me.

“Auld Lang Syne…” I joined in the chorus, but my singing voice was terrible. It came out as a raspy croak.

“She’s awake!” someone said. I knew the voice.

The singing stopped and excited conversation broke out.

“Grandma! Are you awake?” a child’s voice this time. My granddaughter.

“Haley?” I whispered. I struggled to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt swollen and heavy.

“Give her time,” a strange voice said. “The effects will wear off slowly. Carol? Can you hear me?” A finger lifted my eyelid and a bright light flashed in my eye for a second.

“Ow!” I squeezed my eyelid tighter against the invasion of the light. “Fuck off! That’s bright.”

Laughter filled the room.

“That’s Mom, all right!” my daughter’s voice said. “She’s back!”

I managed to open my eyes; just a sliver at first, until they adjusted to the light, then eventually opened them all the way.

“What…” Words escaped me.

I was in a strange room, similar to a hospital room but the décor had a homier feel. My family surrounded my bed. My son Mark and daughter Nancy, along with their spouses and children, all crowded into the room.

“What are you all doing here?”

Mark explained, “We had been planning it since September. We weren’t going to let you be alone at Christmas. Nancy and I collaborated and all four of us managed to schedule vacation time for December. We wanted to surprise you. Turned out we were the ones who were surprised when we showed up to find you weren’t home. We called your workplace and your boss said you’d taken the entire month off for health reasons.”

Nancy chimed in, “Mom, how could you do this without telling us? Do you have any idea how worried we were when we couldn’t find you? It was your neighbor, Helen, who told us. You’d given her the key and asked her to water your plants because you were going away. She said you’d given her a phone number to call if you didn’t return by January fifth. We called the number and it was a… whatever this place is. I still don’t fully understand it.”

“Cryogenics,” Mark said. “You froze yourself. But I’m not sure I understand why.”

“I just wanted to skip it, you know? The whole damn thing. I knew you kids were too far away to visit, and Mom…” a sob caught in my throat at the mention of my mother. I felt guilty for abandoning her, even though she didn’t know the difference. “I did it for Mom, too. I wasn’t just being selfish. They gave me the brochure, the people at the care home. We can put Mom into Cryo-sleep until they have a cure. I wanted to discuss it with you, but thought it only fair to test it myself first to make sure it worked. I didn’t want to do anything to her that I wasn’t willing to do myself. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to cause her any pain or suffering. I mean, they say it’s just like sleep, and now I know that’s true, but I needed to know for sure.”

The room had fallen silent since the mention of my mother.

“Do you all understand what I’m saying? It works! It really works! We might be able to save your grandmother if they can find a cure for Alzheimer’s!”

“Mom, there’s something you need to know,” Nancy began.

“What?” A cold weight formed inside my gut. “Is Mom ok? Have you checked on her?”

“She’s…” Nancy’s voice choked.

‘Mom,” Mark said, “Grandma passed away the day after Christmas. We spent it with her because you were asleep. Natural causes, they said. She died in her sleep.”

“No,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have left her.” Tears filled my eyes. “At least she went peacefully. She didn’t know the difference anymore.”

“She asked for you.”

“She did what?”

“Christmas Day, when we all gathered to visit her at the home, she looked around at all of us and asked, ‘Where’s Carol? She usually visits me every day. It’s so strange that you are all here but she isn’t’. We tried to explain to her where you were, but she didn’t understand. She just kept commenting how strange it was that you weren’t there.”

Copyright © 2018 Mandy White

Yuletide Wishes

~ Previously published in WPaD’s Tinsel Tales: A Holiday Treasury ~ which will be a FREE Kindle download Dec 13-17 ~

~ Yuletide Wishes ~

We are in the business of granting wishes.

We come from a realm invisible to your eyes, but you are quite visible to us. From where we are, we can see it all. It would probably give you the creeps to know that someone is watching you and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. All the same, a fact is a fact and the fact is, all of you are being watched by all of us all of the time.

To what do you owe this intrusion?

Why, you summoned us, long, long ago. Since that time, our two races have become dependent on one another.

Your wishes hold the key. Wishes from your reality shoot into ours like rockets of desire, where they burst like brilliant fireworks. Some wishes flash bright and clear like the most glorious sunlight while others are muted by greed, malice or uncertainty. We are drawn to your wishes like moths to a flame, seeking out the brightest, clearest wishes to grant.

Ours is a symbiotic relationship of sorts; each party benefits from the transaction. You, the wisher, benefit from having your wish granted, prayer answered or desire fulfilled… whichever way you happen to perceive it. We gain nourishment from the energy that you have poured into the wish. A sincere, passionate wish provides the highest level of energy. After we feed on the energy that is your desire, we return the wish to its sender in tangible form.

Who, or what, are we? You ask. In one way, you might say we are Karma personified because we give back exactly what you put out there. We are, as we said, in the business of granting wishes. We have been called by many names throughout your history but the one you are most likely to find familiar is the Jhinn, or Genie, as we are referred to in some of your children’s fairytales. You wish, we feed, and then we show our gratitude by granting your wish.

Sadly, the number of bright, pure wishes has been dwindling as of late. At times we are forced to feed on some of the lower quality wishes. When this occurs, the result is usually… unfortunate for the wisher. Because of this, our kind has gotten somewhat of an unfavorable reputation. Your folklore depicts us as devious and untrustworthy but please believe that we mean you no malice. We can only return your wish exactly as it was wished, with no changes made to the formula. It is you who creates the formula.

With the increasing shortage of clean wishes, my race has been forced to take a more proactive approach to finding enough energy to sustain us. We now harvest your wishes to minimize the number of sub-par ones we consume. We only harvest once a year so as not to deplete the supply.

Every December we deploy the troops to your dimension, disguised as humans. Our red and white uniforms beckon to your young, drawing them in droves to our operatives, strategically placed in shopping malls and other places children are known to congregate. We prefer the wishes of children to those of adults because the wishes of the innocent tend to be of higher quality. Tirelessly we sit, listening to wish after wish until harvest season is over.

* * *

It seems our quota has been reached, so we bid you farewell. Please enjoy our gratitude in the coming year as we send your granted wishes back to you. If you find that your wish was not granted, then perhaps it was rejected by us for lack of purity. Do not be disappointed; if we rejected your wish, it was in your best interest as well as our own. Do not despair, for you can always try again next year. And… at the risk of sounding cliché… we must remind you:

Be careful what you wish for!

Copyright © 2013 Mandy White