R.M. DuChene's Blog, page 7

Evidence of Life

Reblogged from R.M. DuChene:

Captain’s Journal, Day 177 AL (After Landing)

There was another sand storm this morning. It blew in from the west and nearly took out our communication towers. With the recent event going on, the last thing we need is to be cut off completely. We’ve managed to scour just about every red inch of this planet’s surface and still haven’t found any evidence that life ever existed here.

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The Last Show

I don’t trust my own mother – that woman who brought me into the world, protected me from its harsh realities, and then sent me into battle unprepared. She did her best to shield me from the darkness, but when the darkness came, she wasn’t there – nobody was. The world is filled with bad people, she would often tell me. Don’t take candy from strangers, don’t talk to people you don’t know, but respect adults. What a crock of shit. Children are far more worthy of my respect than any adult I’ve ever met, including myself.

The last adult that I ever trusted was the old carnie from Bracer and Sons carnival. Mr. Bracer was the very image of respectability. I’m joking, of course. He was nothing of the sort. Filthy from head to toe on any given day, Mr. Bracer would suddenly appear in Tracy, California with his clan of misfits every summer, usually wearing the same clothes he wore the summer before. They’d bleed the locals for all of the cash they could carry and then roll back out of town again – most of the time, while the town slept. One night, the carnival would be there, lighting up the empty field on the corner of Larch Road and Tracy Boulevard, the next morning it would be gone. Every year, they would come, and when they left, a few local boys would run off with them. At least, that’s what we thought.

Back in 1955, Tracy California consisted of a train station, a grocer, a bar, and a K through 12 school. To say the least, the summers there were boring. With small towns also come small populations. There were twelve kids total in my eighth-grade class and the only one that I hung around with was Jake Rogers. There wasn’t anything particularly special about Jake that made him shine brighter than any of the other kids in class. He just happened to be the guy who sat next to me since the third grade – more adult influence at work.

During the long three months between early June and late September, there wasn’t much for kids to do in Tracy. Some kids cliqued together and caused trouble, some would go down by the creek and swim for hours in the summer heat, and some would just sit in the shade and wait for the sun to go down. Jake and I were the latter kind. We’d alternate spending the night at each other’s houses all summer long. During the days, we would either sit under the large willow tree in my back yard and talk, or look at dirty magazines in his tree house, depending on where we spent the night. When my story begins, in the summer of 1955, we were in the treehouse.

“Holy shit, Ricky! Look at the boobs on this one!”

We were sitting across from each other, his dad’s stack of old magazines scattered between us.

“Let me see them.” I held out my hand, but he turned the magazine around instead of handing it to me. The woman posing in the centerfold in glorious black and white did indeed have nice boobs and I told him so. Of course, at fourteen, all boobs were nice in my opinion, except for

maybe old ones. I’d never seen old ones, but I was sure I didn’t want to. After about two hours of gawking at the Boobie-mags, we decided to go for a walk. The sun wasn’t straight up yet, so if we wanted to make it someplace cool, we knew we’d have to move quickly. After debating for a bit, we decided to see who was hanging around down at the creek. With any luck, Jamie Seymour would be there. Just the thought of her in her bathing suit made me pitch a tent in my jeans. Before we left, I paid a visit to the outhouse. It didn’t take me long.

The creek ran along the outskirts of town, just on the other side of Larch road. Being from the poor-side of town, we didn’t have bicycles like some of the social boys and girls, so we walked everywhere. Larch road was about three miles from Jake’s house. I remember clearly how the sun beat down on me that day and how the sweat seemed to pour off of us in buckets as we hiked toward the creek. I asked twice to just forget about it, but after mentioning the stuff about Jamie and her bathing suit, there was no way that Jake was going to turn tail. He was a boy on a mission.

About three blocks from Larch road, I was looking at Jake when he pointed up the road suddenly. In the usually empty field on the corner, there was a bunch of hard to make out structures.

“You see that?” He said

“Are they building something?”

“No, dummy. The carnival’s here.”

I was wrong about there being no way that Jake would turn tail. One look at the carnival and he said, “Come ‘on, let’s go get some bread from my Old Man.”

When we got back to Jake’s house, his Old Man slipped him a fin and told us to get lost, which we did. A five-spot would keep us both in rides and cotton-candy for a whole week. We stopped by my house on the way to the carnival and told my mom where we would be. She asked if Jake was going to spend the night and I told her yeah. She rolled her eyes and said that dinner would be in the oven and not to come home too late or she would send my pops out after us. It was the oldest threat in the book and a classic. It was a classic because it always worked.

The carnival was the one of the major attractions for Tracy in the fifties. With little else to do, just about the whole town turned out during the week or so that they were there. One of my favorite games was the dart throw. I always played that game last- otherwise I would spend all of my money on it. The carnie at the dart throw was a short fellow with mutton-chops and small, circular eyeglasses. I paid my dime and threw my three darts. I managed to get two of the balloons, but not the third one.

“Wanna go again?” The carnie asked.

I looked at Jake since he had the bread and he shook his head no.

“Naw,” I said to the carnie with a shrug.

“Oh come ‘on,” the carnie said. He pulled his glasses down to the tip of his nose and looked over them at me. His blue eyes mesmerized me for a few seconds. Not just because they seemed to glow in the dark, but because his pupils looked like squares. I rubbed my eyes and looked at him again, but he’d already stepped back from the counter.

“You sure,” he asked, holding out a handful of darts to me. “I tell you what, I’ll give you three throws for a nickel and if you win, you’ll get your pick. How’s that grab you, huh?”

I looked up at the lines of small Teddy-bears and various other stuffed animals and thought about how keen it would be to give Jamie Seymour a really big one next time I saw her. In my mind’s eye, I could actually see her jumping for joy, and then rubbing her boobies in my face to thank me. I was fourteen after all.

I looked back at Jake. He nodded yes and handed me a nickel, which I promptly handed over to the carnie. Like the time before, I made the first two shots, and then missed the third.

“Aww, that’s too bad,” The carnie said. “Better luck next time, kid.”

He smiled at me, displaying the brownest teeth I’d ever seen. Shoulders slumped, I turned to walk away, but turned back around and asked, “Which Booth is Johnny Wilkes working?”

The carnie looked like I’d asked him if his mom was working the peep-show.

“Who, you say?”

“Johnny Wilkes. He ran off with the carnival last summer.”

The carnie screwed up his face in thought. It looked like it hurt him to do it.

“I dunno no Johnny Wilkes,” he said. “We weren’t here last summer.”

I pointed to the large banner that was stretched out in front of the carnival and said, “It says Bracer and Sons. That’s what it said last year.”

“Mr. Bracer owns more than one show,” the carnie said, turning around to signal that the conversation was over. I wanted to press him further, but Jake grabbed my arm and pulled me around.

“Check it out, daddy-o.”

He pointed across the carnival toward a large tent. Just outside a big man with slicked-backed hair and a handle-bar mustache was guarding the entrance. Right next to him was a large sign with the words, ‘Hoochie Coochie Tent’ printed in large, red letters.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Whatarya, a dummy?” He said. And when I still looked confused, he said, “Boobs, Daddy-o. Girls show their goods in there.”

“Wow,” I said, still staring at the tent entrance where a crowd of men was beginning to form.

“We need to find a way in there,” Jake said.

He grabbed my arm and began to pull me toward the tent. I dug the heel of my boot into the loose dirt of the field and said, “No, it’s getting late. We need to start heading back.” He accused me of being a drag, but in the end, he knew that I was right and we left.

On the way home, we talked about how many rides we’d go on the next night. We planned on going to the carnival every night that week. We would play all of the games and go on every ride, twice.

“I dunno, daddy-o,” Jake said just before we arrived at my house. “I really want to get into that tent.” He said it again just before we were about to turn out the lights for the night.

“They’re not gonna let us in there,” I said, pulling the blanket up around my shoulders and turning onto my side, away from him. “They don’t allow kids in the boobie-shows.”

“We’ll see,” he said. “There’s got to be a way.”

The next day, a kid from town went missing. The five year old wandered off from his parents at the carnival while they were waiting in line at the Farris Wheel and disappeared. The rumor was that the police cordoned off the carnival and searched for him, but little Billy Giles couldn’t be found anywhere. Both mine and Jake’s parents forbid us to go back to the carnival after that. We were pretty upset. The carnival would only be in town for a few more days and our parents had to be drags about the whole thing. After all, we weren’t five years old. Jake and I took some solace in knowing that we still had a good stack of mags that we hadn’t used yet. It was a small comfort, but better than nothing.

The following Friday, just before sunset, I found myself lying on one of the cots in the tree-house. I was lying flat on my back, throwing a ball against the ceiling repeatedly. Jake had run into his house to grab a couple of sandwiches and returned a few minutes later with a paper bag and a smile.

“What’s cooking?” I asked.

“You still wanna go?”

“To the carnival?”

“No, to the pep rally. Whatcha think? Yeah, the carnival.”

“We can’t. We’ll get in trouble.”

Jakes smile grew wider.

“I grabbed us some chow and some water. I still have some bread left over from the other day, about three dollars and change. Oh, and I told my old man that we’re going to camp out in your back yard tonight.”

I sat straight up on the cot and gawked at him, stunned.

“You did what?”

“I want to see those boobs,” he said. “I have to see them.” He crawled back out through the small tree-house door and began to climb down the ladder. When just his face was visible above the floor, he said, “You coming or are you going to sit there by yourself like a big baby?”

“I’m coming,” I sighed, rolling my eyes and getting up from the cot.

“Cool, Daddy-o,” he said and disappeared down the ladder.

We crossed the street in front of Jakes house, walked a few blocks and then took a detour behind the abandoned dairy that sat just across the street from my house. The last thing I wanted was for my parents to see us walking in the direction of town. By the time we reached the carnival, the sun had disappeared behind the Altamont hills.

Being Friday night, the carnival was filled with at least twice as many people as there was the night that Jake and I went. I could hardly take a step without someone elbowing me or stepping on my foot. We pushed through the crowd and made our way to the Farris Wheel. After waiting in line for almost an hour, we jumped on the wheel and slowly climbed into the air, stopping at every cart to let people on and off of the ride. One of my favorite parts of the Farris Wheel was when it stopped at the very top. From up there, I could see the entire carnival. Out in the distance, there was a vast ocean of darkness, speckled here and there with faint lights. Jake nudged me and pointed toward the tent that we’d seen the last time we came. From our vantage-point, we were able to see in front of the tent and behind it.

“Look at that,” he said. “Looks like Mr. Bracer’s a cool cat.”

Three figures who were obviously kids stood behind the tent, talking to Mr. Bracer. After one of the kids handed something to Mr. Bracer, he pulled part of the tent aside and allowed them through.

“He let them in!” I said.

“Yeah, it looks like he made them pay for it, though.” Jake said. “We’ll have to find out how much he’s charging.”

The remainder of the Farris Wheel ride was about as fun as watching grass grow. All we wanted to do was get off of the damned thing and when it finally did slow down and begin to let people off, we were on the far side. The process moved as fast as pond water. Eventually, we did get released from our bonds and when we did, we made a bee-line straight to the spot where we saw the kids enter the tent. When we got there, Mr. Bracer wasn’t there anymore, but Johnny Wilkes was.

“Whataya want?” Johnny asked us, rather rudely when we ran up to him.

“Hey Johnny!” I said. “They told us that you weren’t with the carnival.”

He looked at me like I was something that he needed to scrape off of his shoe and said, “Who the heck’s Johnny?”

“You are,” I said, “Johnny Wilkes…aren’t you?” I would’ve sworn on a stack of bibles that he was Johnny Wilkes, but his reaction made me second-guess myself.

“I dunno any Johnny Wilkes,” he spat. Then, he lowered his voice and leaned in toward us. “Hey, you cats trying to get into the show?”

“Ahh…” I began to say something, I’m sure, but I have no recollection of what it was. Thankfully, Jake took over the conversation.

“How much is it?”

“Well, let’s see,” The boy who wasn’t Johnny Wilkes said. “Since you cats think you know me, I’ll let you in for; let’s say…ummm… a buck a piece?”

Jake turned out his pockets and counted through the money that he had left.

“We only have a buck-fifty,” he said, handing the cash out toward the boy with no name.

“Well that isn’t a buck a piece, is it?” The boy said. “Three quarters is what the rubes pay.”

“It’s all we have,” Jake said. “Take it or leave it.”

“Oh, I’ll take it,” the kid said, “but you’ll have to come to the last show, just after the place shuts down. I don’t want you running around telling the other young cats that you got in for less than they did.”

“Deal,” Jake said and handed over the last of his money. What time does the carnival close?”

“Be here at midnight,” the kid said. “Sheila will give one last performance, just for you.”

Sheila, I thought. What a nice name. She must have nice boobs.

We wandered around the carnival for the next few hours, mostly by the arcade, where people would often drop their change. We ended up finding over a buck in nickels, pennies, and dimes, and used to money to go on a few rides and play a few games. When the cash ran out, we found a relatively unpopulated corner of the carnival and ate the sandwiches and crackers that Jake brought with us. We stayed there until the rest of the people cleared out of the carnival and the rides sat unoccupied. When the last person left for the night, we caught one of the carnies walking by and asked him what time it was.

“Just before midnight, I would guess,” the carnie mumbled.

It was time.

When we arrived at the back of the big tent, the kid that was there previously was replaced again by Mr. Bracer.

“Can I help you boys?” Mr. Bracer asked, politely.

“Johnny, I mean the kid that was here before told us to come back at midnight for the special show,” Jake said.

“Oh, and did this kid tell you how much it would cost you to see said show?” Mr. Bracer asked.

“We already paid him, sir,” I said.

“Sir? Oh my dear child, I’m not a sir. You can call me Mr. Bracer. If you say that you already paid the lad than I will take you at your word. Trust isn’t common in my business, but I find that when it comes to the young, it’s almost always a given. Therefore, I shall give mine to you.”

He grabbed hold of the side of the tent and a hidden flap came loose. When he pulled it back, I was surprised to see a heavy looking wooden door behind it. Mr. Bracer opened the door and ushered us into a small room.

“Sheila should be ready soon, boys,” Mr. Bracer said and then closed the door, leaving us in darkness.

“I can’t see anything,” I whispered. “Where are you?”

“I’m right here,” Jake said. “Just wait Daddy-o, she’ll be out soon.

I couldn’t take it. I fumbled behind me; searching for some kind of door knob but all my hands felt in the blackness was the smooth wood of the door. In that moment, I felt like I was going to

suffocate. I panicked, turned and went to bang on the door to be let out. Before my fist could bang against the wooden door, a bright light lit up the center of the room.

The woman named Sheila didn’t come in through the door behind us, nor did she come in through any other door that we could see. Jake and I looked at each other when the strange, bright light beamed down in the center of the room and when we looked back, she was there, dressed in some weird outfit. Years later, I saw the same kind of outfit when I dropped my wife off at her belly dancing class. Practically naked where it counted, she also had one of those strange mask things covering her nose -the ones with the beads that hung down in front of her mouth. All I could see of her besides her flat, bare belly and smooth thighs and arms was her eyes, and her black, silky hair, which was tied in a long pony-tail that hung behind her. From both nowhere, and everywhere, music began to pour into the room. When the music started, Sheila began her dance.

She swayed from side to side, gyrating her hips in a way that awakened feelings inside me that I never knew existed until that moment. Twirling, she danced up to where Jake and I were standing. When she reached us, she turned toward Jake, pressed her chest against his and then slid down to her knees, only to bounce back up again and turned to me. Hips still turning in circles, she faced away from me and pressed her rear-end against me. Then she pulled her hair to the side and looked at me over her shoulder, waiting.

“Undo it,” Jake said, nudging me with his hand.

That’s when I realized what she wanted. I reached out with a trembling hand and unfastened the back of her sequined brassiere. As soon as the two metal clasps sprung apart, the woman danced back to the center of the room, removing her brassiere as she went. When she pulled it away, the sight of her breasts took my breath away. I was expecting that would be better in real life than in the magazines, and I was greatly disappointed. Sheila didn’t have breasts as much as she had two small mounds of flesh at each side of her chest, both with a silver-dollar sized hole at the centers.

I’m not sure who screamed first, but the screaming came. From each of the holes where the woman’s nipples should have been, something began to pour out, something small, black, and in great numbers. Millions of tiny creatures joined together in a single flow of movement, flooding out of the dancing woman and trailing down her body like black oil. When the stuff crossed over her toes and hit the ground, it didn’t surprise me that it headed right for us.

Jake and I turned to run at the same time and bounced off of each other. I managed to keep my footing, but Jake didn’t. The swarm of tiny creatures touched his skin and that was the end for him. There was some kind of mojo about them – some way that just their touch could paralyze someone and render them helpless. When the stuff flowed over Jake’s shoe and disappeared under the leg of his trousers, he kicked like a mule a couple of times, and then just laid there, immobilized, unable to stop the black flowing menace as it crawled up his body, exited through the top of his white T-shirt, and poured into his mouth like water swirling around a toilet-bowl.

There was no screaming as the substance invaded the inside of Jake’s body. I don’t think he could’ve screamed if he wanted to. He couldn’t seem to be able to move his head, but his eyes, his eyes stared right me the whole time, opened wide and pleading for help.

I turned and began to bang on the wooden door with both fists, screaming as loud as I could. The woman that Mr. Bracer called Sheila never moved from the center of the room. She stood beneath the spot-light with her shoulders pulled back, her head turned up to the ceiling. I wasn’t nearly as worried about her as I was the black stuff. The black stuff paralyzed you. The black stuff poured inside your mouth and got inside you. I continued to beat on the door and yell for help, casting quick glances down at Jake every few seconds. When I saw that his eyes were closed. I stopped banging on the door and stared down at him, watching for any sign of movement.

“Jake?” I said. “Jake, are you okay?”

Jake’s eyes opened so suddenly that I almost screamed out in surprise. He sat up in a single motion and turned his head to face me – just his head – his body didn’t move an inch.

“I can see them,” Jake said in a low, raspy whisper.

“Who?”

“All of them,” he said. “They want me to go home with them.” Then, smiling grotesquely, “They want you to go home with them too…” His smile widened until his mouth opened bigger than I ever imagined a mouth could open, then, the stuff came. The black stuff began to fall from his mouth in a downpour, moving much faster than when it came out of the woman. It slid across the ground quickly, searching for a new home, searching for me.

I scrambled around the sides of the room, not wasting time on the door that I already knew would not open. The black swarm picked up speed and chased after me. I bolted to where the woman was standing, still gazing up at the center of the ceiling, and threw her down on top of the coming swarm. It completely engulfed her, flooding around her and continued on its path. I didn’t scream after the swarm began chasing me. I didn’t beg for help or cry out, not even once. That’s what I still believe today is what saved my life.

It must’ve been my third or fourth lap around the room with the swarm hot on my trail that the stuff showed its true intelligence and dispersed. Instead of chasing me in a straight line, it began to spread out, covering every inch of the floor as it crept toward me. Whether it was luck or divine intervention, I do not know, but when Mr. Bracer eased the door open and peeped inside, I was standing right next to it. I slammed into the heavy wooden door, using my shoulder and knocked the old man off of his feet. He yelled and screamed as I hurdled over him and began to sprint across the carnival grounds. From every corner of the carnival, carnies began to chase after me. A couple nearly grabbed me, but I managed to slip past them. I was in front of them, but I knew that they were right behind me – one misstep and…. I tripped on the edge of concrete that separated the dirt of the field with the hard black-top of the road and went flailing out into the street, landing on my belly.

The second I fell, I knew that I was done for. There was nothing for me to do but roll over, sit on my rear, and wait for them to devour me. To my surprise, they weren’t on top of me, nor right behind me. All of the carnies were standing at the entrance of the carnival looking out at me. As I watched them, the carnies began to slowly step backward fading one by one into the darkness of the carnival. After a minute or so, they were all gone.

Home, I thought, run home now. I managed to get to my feet but some sudden force knocked me to the ground again.

When I scrambled back up, the carnival looked different. The only way I could describe it to the police back then and to my mother and father was that it looked like it was under water. Weird looking ripples appeared across my field of vision and pulsed from one side of carnival to the other, and then back again. Every time the pulse happened, the carnival became smaller, more compact. Within minutes, the whole place was as big as the tent that I’d escaped from. There was a single flash of bright light, and then the place went dark. I couldn’t see it, but I knew that it was still there. I could hear it folding in on top of itself, bending and compressing into something smaller than the sum of its parts. That’s when the odd sound came, directly above me. It reminded me of my mom’s vacuum cleaner in a way, but less gravelly sounding. In the star-filled sky above me, I could barely make out the triangular outline of something hovering above me. It issued one last whirling sound, and then disappeared.

The police were called and mine and Jakes parents helped search for him, but found no trace. I knew that they wouldn’t. Jake was gone. Not like they all suspected – another boy running off with the carnival, but really gone. He wasn’t on the planet anymore. My mother and father didn’t believe my story and neither did the police. Even after swearing to the god that they themselves told me existed, they called me a liar. I was covering for Jake, they said. Even Jake’s parents figured that he’d run off and didn’t put too much effort into finding him.

These are adults, I remember thinking. They are grownups – people who’ve forgotten what it was like to be young. They’ve forgotten the largest truths in life. Monsters do exist. They exist on earth and beyond, in places far and distant. These people lie to themselves about what is real and what isn’t. How could ever trust someone like that.

END

Death Rattle

          ‘They knew that there would never be a moment when their lives would not be in danger. Still, the prospect of living, even one more day without each other was too much to bear.’

          Chrissy Michaels scrolled through her completed manuscript with a feeling of satisfaction. This may be the best story I’ve ever written, she thought. She saved ‘Kelsey’s Battle’ to her desktop and then closed the document.

          What now? She wondered. Oh, I know. There’s that one I wanted to write about the vampire detective. She opened up a blank word document and was about to type the first line of her next story when a small chime from her computer let her know that she had a new email. She double-clicked on her browser and saw that the new message was from Death Rattle Magazine. She’d submitted many stories to Death Rattle over the past year and Mr. Giggle Hat was the latest. Every one of her submissions was rejected and she didn’t really think that Mr. Giggle Hat would be any different. She clicked on the email and was surprised by the message.

 

Dear Chrissy Michaels,

Thank you for your submission of Mr. Giggle Hat. We enjoyed your story, but found that the final paragraph lacked originality. The way that Carla Wilkes dies (with a hatchet to the head) seemed cliché to us and a bit unoriginal. We would be delighted if you would change the ending and resubmit your story for consideration.

 

          Chrissy Michaels read the message and then re-read it. They liked it, she thought, this one? Of all of the stories that she’d submitted, Mr. Giggle Hat was her least favorite – It creeped her out to write it. She only did it as a form of therapy. When she was a small girl, her parents bought her a clown doll for her birthday. The box said that his name was Mr. Giggles, but for some reason that Chrissy couldn’t recall, she started calling the doll Mr. Giggle Hat. For the first few months, she played with Mr. Giggle Hat with no problems. By the time fall came, bringing the shorter days with it, Mr. Giggle Hat found a place on Chrissy’s night stand at bedtime. That’s when the weird stuff began. Chrissy would wake and find her doll on the floor, under her bed, and one time, in her dresser drawer. After the drawer incident, she put Mr. Giggle Hat at the bottom of a huge pile of junk in her closet and closed the door.

          When summer rolled around again, Chrissy’s parents had a garage sale. Excited, Chrissy ran to her room to find the doll. She would sell it at the garage sale and then it would be some other kid’s problem. She looked for Mr. Giggle Hat where she’d left him months before, but he wasn’t there. Frantically, she searched her whole room, pushing her bed out from the wall and emptying her dresser drawers, but the doll was nowhere to be found. The rest of the school year, Chrissy was plagued with bad dreams about Mr. Giggle Hat lurking in her closet or under her bed, waiting for her to fall asleep so he could get her.

          In her story, Mr. Giggle Hat did just that, only he came back when the main character was a teen and murdered all of her friends during a wild party while her parents were away. The last character to die was the protagonist, Carla. Carla set Mr. Giggle Hat on fire and watched while the doll screamed and died. Only he didn’t really die. He turned up while she was in the bath and dropped a hairdryer in the tub.

          Really, Chrissy, could you be anymore cliché? She brought up the original manuscript of Mr. Giggle Hat and did a quick run through, just to fine-tune the editing. Then, she went to the end and made her changes. When she was finished, the protagonist survived the bath, and her teenage years. Mr. Giggle Hat returned to finish her off ten years later by stabbing her in the eye with a potato peeler while she was preparing dinner for her daughter’s fifth birthday. In the new final paragraph of the story, the daughter is taken to a foster home after the brutal murder of her entire family by a mysterious killer. All she brought with her was a small bag of clothes and a half-burned clown doll under one arm.   Chrissy finished and read over the ending. It was still a bit cliché, but she thought that it was light-years better than the original ending.  Satisfied, she submitted the new draft of Mr. Giggle Hat to Death Rattle Magazine and turned off her computer.

          A few minutes later, Chrissy climbed into bed and set the alarm on her phone to six-thirty, just five and a half hours later. She set the phone down on the night-stand, turned off the bedside lamp, and wrapped her arms around her pillow. Just as sleep was beginning to take over, she heard the chiming of her phone. Sighing heavily, she rolled over and checked her email. It was a message from Death Rattle Magazine.

          “No way,” she said to herself. “That was way too fast.” She opened the email and grinned in the light of her phone as she read it.

 

Dear Chrissy Michaels,

Thank you for your submission of Mr. Giggle Hat. We loved your story and would like to publish it in our upcoming issue of Death Rattle Magazine. You will be contacted soon with further information.

P.S.

We especially loved the part about the potato peeler. Nice touch!

 

          Still smiling, Chrissy read the email one more time, just to be sure. Then, she set her phone back down and hugged her pillow again. My first story, she thought as sleep began to take her again. I’ve sold my first story.

          At exactly three o’clock in the morning, Chrissy woke to scratching sounds. She sat up in bed, frightened. She didn’t own any pets and lived alone. She listened, holding her breath. After a full minute, she decided that she must’ve been having a bad dream. Thinking about Mr. Giggle Hat always brought up bad memories for her. She went to the kitchen and drank a glass of water. When she returned to her bedroom, she saw that the closet door was slightly ajar. Did I leave it like that? She wondered. She walked toward the closet slowly and creaked open the door – nothing. Chill out, Spaz, she thought. Are you really afraid that a doll will come and get you? Chucking, she closed the closet door all the way, then climbed back into bed and wrapped her arms around her pillow again, but the pillow felt different somehow – all wrong. It wasn’t lumpy and broken, but firm. She turned on the lamp and saw that somehow, her broken pillow was replaced by one of the firm pillows from the other side of the bed. When did I do that? She wondered. She searched around the bed for her pillow, then on the floor, but couldn’t find it. Where did it go? She thought; under the bed? 

          She leaned over the edge of her bed and lifted the comforter from the floor. Slowly, she lowered herself, headfirst, until she could see underneath the bed-frame – nothing. With a deep sigh, Chrissy turned out the lights and fell asleep.

          When the alarm woke her at precisely six-thirty, Chrissy sprang into action. She kept her time-line short in the mornings. If she didn’t, she found that she would become distracted and end up leaving late more times than not. After the shower, she slipped into her wardrobe and applied her make-up. Coffee, cereal, and throwing a couple of diet bars into her purse for lunch took all of fifteen minutes. When she went into the garage and locked the door behind her, it was exactly seven o’clock.

          She unlocked her car and eased into the driver’s seat. Once there, she performed her daily routine of adjusting the outside and rearview mirrors. Satisfied that nobody snuck in and moved her mirrors during the night, she slid the key in the ignition. The car’s engine squealed to life. She reached up to the visor and pressed the white button on the garage door remote, but nothing happened. She clicked it again – then again.

          “Shit,” she said. “You got to be joking.”

          Frustrated, she opened the car door and climbed out. Just above her car was a string that hung down from the garage opener. The string, when pulled, acts as an override, allowing the door to be pulled up and down manually. Chrissy leaned over the hood of her car and reached for the string, missing it by less than an inch. She leaned closer, the car hood digging into her thigh. The string bounced off of her finger-tips a few tips while she groped for it, but she just couldn’t seem to get a grip on it. She pulled the beige skirt that she was wearing to the middle of her thighs and hiked her right knee onto the top of the hood. That time when she reached, she was able to grab the string. She gave a quick pull and the metal lever at the center of the garage door opener sprung open. Just then, something wrapped around her left ankle and yanked it under the car.

          When her foot was pulled under the car, Chrissy screamed. She screamed because it surprised her. She screamed because she was frightened. She screamed because her foot went under the car, but her leg didn’t. There was a sharp snapping sound when her shin-bone broke against the car’s front end. Chrissy fell backward from the hood and landed on her back. She didn’t have time to squirm. She looked toward her broken leg and stared in shocked horror at the face of Mr. Giggle Hat poking out from under the car. His eyes were alive and orange-red and bloodshot – his mouth a mess of jagged teeth and dripping drool. He didn’t look like the real Mr. Giggle Hat, but the one that sometimes found her in her darkest dreams. He reached out with two clawed hands and grabbed her just behind her ankles. As he yanked her under the car, Chrissy’s screams carried out to the street. Unfortunately, there was nobody close to hear them.

          Chrissy Michael’s body was found a few days later by her mother. The police report documented the broken shin bone and several lacerations covering her body, the bulk of which were located about her breast and abdomen. Defensive wounds on her hands suggested that she was attacked by someone much bigger and stronger than she was. The report made no mention of the potato peeler that was found lodged deep inside her left eye-socket.

***

          Laura Dahlke was putting the final dishes in the dishwasher when she heard her phone chime from the counter. The email was from Death Rattle Magazine regarding her submission that she’d sent in just that morning. She smiled when she read the message.

 

Dear Laura Dahlke,

Thank you for your submission of Woman’s Best Friend. We loved your story and would like to publish it in our upcoming issue of Death Rattle Magazine. You will be contacted soon with further information.

P.S.

We especially loved the part where the cat ate the protagonist’s face. Nice touch!

Kill The Flats

One second I was standing in my foxhole, looking down range through a mounted scope and the next, I was thrown to the ground. As I fell sideways, I caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a small ball of light whizzing past my head, leaving a bright yellow-orange trail behind it. I hit the dirt and immediately jerked back up to my feet, making sure to keep my head below the edge of the foxhole. Smith was bent over on the other side of the hole, looking at me like I just shot his cat.

“What the hell, mayne!” He said. “You almost got yourself dusted; you idiot!”

I opened my mouth to respond in my usual sarcastic manner, but when I saw that that time, he wasn’t joking…I held my words back.

“Sorry,” I said, bending my head down in shame. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

His expression lightened a little and he slammed his palm against the side of my shoulder, almost hard enough to knock me down again.

“No shit, you weren’t paying attention,” he said, smiling. “Just get your head out of your ass before you get us both killed; okay?”

I nodded; that was all he expected. We pulled up our weapons and looked over the side of the foxhole; the enemy troops were done playing with the small fire and were in the process of beginning their nightly barrage of electrical impulse mortar rounds. It was like clockwork, every night, the same thing.

It’d been two years since the invasion. Smith and I were in it since the beginning, fighting off the Flats – that’s what we called them, the Flats; trying to get them to consolidate into pockets so that we could destroy them. The Flats were too smart for our tactics though. They roamed around in small bands, not putting all their eggs in one basket; so to speak. We would wipe out one wave of their foot Soldiers and another would just come right up behind them and take their place on the front line. If there wasn’t so many of them, the war would’ve ended much sooner than it did in my opinion.

Most of the battles happened at night. During the daylight hours, we’d take the time to get some much needed rest, and the Flats would disappear into their hand-made dwellings, probably planning their next attacks. It was very seldom that one of our own would get picked off during the day, but it did occur. A few times, a Flat would come into one of the caves that we slept in ever since they destroyed our structures, and kill one of us. We’d wake up and take out the suicidal bastard, but by then, the damage was done, we’d be too frightened to go back to sleep and thus, become weaker during the night time battle.

***

As the weeks, months and years grinded forward, both sides fell into a kind of deadlocked face-off. At first, the battlefield had been more all-encompassing. We’d drop into enemy territory and clear them out as fast as we could. Since the destruction of the vast majority of technology on both sides, the battlefield has become more linear; limited resources were saved for the development of improved weapons systems.

Large, earth destroying weapons still existed, but neither side would dare use them; that would defeat the purpose of the war altogether. It wasn’t about wiping out the enemy completely, it was about the control of resources; specifically, food. Food supplies dwindled as the war raged on, but we were still able to grab a quick meal off of fallen foes, if they had any left that was. Sometimes, they would be so destroyed, so completely unrecognizable, that finding the food was impossible.

“You see that?” Smith asked. I was beginning to become drowned in my thoughts again and his voice pulled me out. I looked down range through my scope, just in time to see a squad of Flats disappear into a foxhole. I assumed that they were relieving the Flats that’d been in there before them, so I waited patiently for the former squad to come out, so I could pick them off.

“What the hell?” I said after a few minutes. “How many Flats does it take to fill a foxhole?”

“Maybe they’re dead…” Smith said.

I thought about what he said and it made sense.

“Shit…” I said. “We could’ve taken it this whole time?”

“Hey you two…”

I spun around. Two Soldiers were lying on their bellies, looking down at us.

“We’ve come to relieve you,” one of them said.

I looked at my watch and then back at them, confused.

“We still have a few hours,” I said.

“The commander wants you two to report to the cave,” the other one said. “He sent us to replace you.” I looked at Smith with a perplexed expression and he shrugged.

“Guess we better go,” he said.

The two replacements crawled into the foxhole, took our weapons, and aimed them down range. Smith and I crawled out the same way and low crawled until we came around a tall crop of boulders that shielded the cave entrance from the battlefield; it took awhile.

When we walked into the cave, the commander was waiting for us. We stood at attention and rendered a salute; he didn’t return it. He walked toward the back of the cave and we followed. When he reached the back wall, he motioned for us to come closer so he could keep his voice low.

“We’ve received intelligence that the Flat’s primary leadership is making a site visit across the way. This is reliable information and we need to act on it fast. I’ve selected the two of you to infiltrate the Flat encampment and take them out. You will be alone, but we will try and keep them busy from our side. “

He handed us a small tablet computer, displaying a picture of one of the Flats.

“This is the primary leader,” he said. “Our hopes are that if we can get him, the rest will be easier to manage. If you can’t get any of the others, get him. Do you have any questions?”

We both shook our heads.

“Good…now go see the arms sergeant and get some weapons. Make sure that you switch out your chest armor for the lighter stuff. Good luck gentlemen; move out.”

He snapped to attention and rendered a salute to us. I played with the idea of not returning it…a grave sign of disrespect, but decided that a salute wouldn’t kill me.

***

After a quick trip to see the arms sergeant, we took off, heading first back around the side of the cave and then slid on our bellies until we reached the far side of the enemy encampment. From our position, we could see the fierce battle raging on both sides. After we left, the commander stayed true to his word. Light rounds and electrical burst lit up the ground all around the two bases. Nobody would be looking at us.

The Flat’s base was no more than a small town that they’d taken over. They built up a high wall around the perimeter and dug fox holes around the outside. Smith and I continued to low crawl until we were centered on the side of the base. Our eyes had become adjusted to the darkness and through the gloom; we could see two fox-holes defending the side of the base…just two. I was shocked by how complacent the Flats had become and made a mental note to report the information to the commander when I returned…if I returned.

We made an on-the-spot decision to part ways and belly up to each of the two foxholes alone. I low crawled across the field of tall grass and approached the side of the foxhole. When I peeped down inside, I was happy to see only one Flat, and he was fast asleep. I slid my knife out of my boot, fell on top of him, pressed my hand over his mouth, and cut his throat. After he stopped twitching, I removed his uniform and quickly changed into it. When I met Smith at the wall, we both looked like Flats.

The Flats had taken measures to prevent the scaling of their wall, but the coils upon coils of razor wire only made it easier. I got a few fresh cuts in my hands and wrists as I was climbing it, but almost as soon as my boots hit the ground inside the compound, the bleeding stopped. I stayed close to the wall and scanned my surroundings. We came over into a small lot that was divided by intersecting roads. The abandoned homes and buildings that lined the sides of the roads were dark, but in the distance, a shiny beacon called to us. A tall building, clearly visible from our position, lit up the night sky.

***

We didn’t attack the building in a suicidal rush, screaming religious prayers as we took round after round, before plummeting to our deaths. Instead, we simply walked past the guards that were posted outside and pushed our way through the double doors that once served as the main entrance to the city courthouse. We were dirty, we had blood on our uniforms, and we must’ve smelled like death, but nobody looked at us with suspicion. On the contrary, the looks we received bordered somewhere between sympathy and downright admiration.

We took the stairs to the second level of the building and split up, walking along the hallways, looking for signs of where the Flat leadership could be. I met Smith back at the staircase a few minutes later and we continued to the top floor, skipping the third altogether. There was lot more activity on the fourth floor and as soon as we stepped into the hall, I knew that we were in the right place. There were Flats moving along the hallways at a rapid pace, some holding tablets with the screens lit up, all looking like they were late for an important meeting. Smith and I waited until most of the activity moved away from where we were and then split up again. I walked slowly down the hallway, listening intently as I passed every closed door. I reached the end of the first hall and then turned down another that was longer, with a pair of double wooden doors at the end. That must be the place, I thought.

I walked down the hall at a slow pace, but not too slow. I didn’t want to look like I was all out attacking the place, but I didn’t want to look like I was creeping the hallways either. I continued to focus on the doors as I walked toward them and when I was about half way down the hall, they opened, spilling out about ten fast walking Flats. I almost lost it right then, but managed to keep my cool. I ducked into a close by washroom, entered one of the stalls, and waited for the herd of Flats to pass.

I heard and smelled them draw closer; their meaningless, garbled speech filled my ears and their unmistakable scent attacked my senses. Just when I thought that the coast must be clear, the wash room door opened. I nudged the stall door, just far enough to look out. One of the Flats was standing in front of a urinal, whistling. He finished his nasty business, put his junk away, and turned to find me standing in front of him. I thought that he’d be scared out of his mind, but he only gave me a warm smile, exposing his ugly, flat teeth at me. He reached out his hand.

“Thank you for your service, young man,” he said.

I took his hand and pressed it into my own. The Flats get insulted if you refuse to do that. It worked out in my favor anyway because just as his eyes lit up with understanding at the touch of my cold, dead flesh, I pulled him to me, exposed my many rows of beautifully pointed teeth and sank them all into his throat.

***

The wash room door burst open just as I was draining the last drop of the Flat’s blood. I shot to my feet, hissing and exposing my blood soaked fangs. Smith closed the door behind him and pressed his back against it.

“Looks like you got em,” he said. He was looking down at the president’s face. “You wanna turn him or leave him in a stall?”

“Let’s just leave him,” I said. “We don’t have time to turn him…help me out.”

Together, we dragged him into the stall that I’d been hiding in and closed the door. Then, we licked up what little blood managed to fall onto the floor, leaving the washroom nice and clean. At the sink, I washed my face, making sure that every drop of blood was removed before we left.

When we walked out of the building a few minutes later, nobody tried to stop us. These fools, I thought…so complacent and ignorant. The base alarm went off as we were climbing back over the wall. We scaled faster, cutting our hands to ribbons and managed to get over without being seen. On the other side, we jumped

into the foxhole that I’d vacated earlier and waited. We didn’t have to wait too long; the sky lit up again with a storm of light rounds, explosions, and electric bursts that made the barrage earlier seem like practice. That was our cue; we climbed out of the foxhole and ran.

Though a storm of fire from both sides, Smith and I sprinted across the wide piece of earth that separated the two bases. I managed to keep up with him, but his stride was longer than mine and I found myself a few paces behind him by the time we reached the center of the field. Being my battle buddy since day one, he wasn’t about to leave me behind. He turned and grabbed me, thrusting me forward.

“Let’s go partner!” He shouted. “You’re not going to croak on my watch!”

He was facing me, running backward, and smiling. Slightly insulted and feeling that my physical abilities were being made fun of, I stepped it out a bit.

“There you go, Soldier!” He shouted and turned back around.

An explosion ripped across the field to our right, leaving an violet glow in the pockmarked earth, and then more mortars began to fall around us. We started to zigzag, trying to throw off the enemy’s aim. Smith began to run faster. He zoomed past me, apparently forgetting his earlier promise and pulled out about five paces in front of me before exploding in a cloud of glowing dust.

“No!” I screamed, but didn’t stop running. I made it to the fox holes and blew right past them, heading for the cave entrance, but before I reached it, another explosion hit just behind me and slammed my body into one of the large boulders. The lights went out.

***

I woke up a week later in a hospital bed. My company moved me to the town infirmary after they’d taken the enemy base. According to the commander, I’d been able to relay the weaknesses of the town’s defenses, at least enough so that he could act on it.

The battle was short lived. Within two days after my long sleep began, the battalion, along with reinforcements, attacked the compound. They made quick work of the Flats and took over the base, vacating the cave for good. The surviving

Flats were stored for food and entertainment purposes and I was branded a hero. I didn’t feel like a hero though. I knew that it was by pure dumb luck that the president just happened to wander into the wash room while I was in there. I knew, deep down inside, that I was meant to be dead, along side of James.

The war was wrapped up within a few months. The commander was right. Without their primary leader, the Flats lost the will to fight. I’m told that the rest of the battles went fairly easy for our side after Smith and I paved the way. I didn’t fight in any of them. By the time I healed completely, I was transferred, stationed at one of the darkest bases on the planet. It was my reward for being a hero; you see?

Sometimes, I wonder what we’ll do when the food runs out. If the powers that be are smart about it, they will create Flat farms, multiplying them so that they could always be readily available when we need them; but, I think that it’ll go the other way. It wasn’t long ago that we were Flats ourselves and some things carry over. After all, isn’t war itself a Flat trait? I fear that we’re doomed in the long run, but I take solace that when the end does come, it will be the end of us all. Hopefully, I’ll grow tired and go sunbathing long before that.

Dragan’s Ride

The Eternal Road cut through the barren wasteland. On either side of it, long dead bushels of vegetation tumbled about in the wind. In the purple sky, the deep red sun cast just enough light to stave off the darkness. On the road, a single knight on horseback slowly made his way south, deeper into the region that the people of Steelborne village called the Great Void.

In the Great Void, nothing could survive for more than a day.  That was the common assumption. Nobody knew for sure, since all who travelled there, whether by choice or banishment have never returned. There were stories though. Some of the townsfolk whispered silent tales of creatures that actually did live in the Great Void. Creatures that would sneak into the village when the town was sleeping, creep past the sentries, and steal off with someone. Neither size nor age seemed to matter. Old as well as young would sometimes vanish without a trace during the night, leaving the village population to speculate about their fates.

Sir Dragan Ross never believed the whispers. Like most of the village, he thought that the tales of monsters, living in the shadows and stealing off with food in the form of unwary adults and children was just fiction – churned out for entertainment. Parents used the tales as bedtime stories and to scare their children into behaving, but that was all. He never believed for a moment that the tales could be true; at least not until his Alyssa vanished from their bed. Dragan always assumed that the children who went missing a couple times a year simply wandered off into the Great Void. The adults, well they most likely went of their own accord. Perhaps they grew tired of life and were too craven to bring about their own end. After he woke in the morning to find his wife’s side of the bed empty – after he searched every centimeter of the village and came up empty handed, he knew that he’d been very wrong. Alyssa would have never run off. She was taken – her and their unborn child.

“If you go, you’ll not return,” the village magistrate, Sir Arnold Gessip told Dragan as he saddled his horse. The magistrate was a squat, balding man of about forty years. The man had a nervous disposition which caused him to sweat profusely and wring his hands when he spoke to people. Some took this as a sign of cowardice, but Dragan knew better. He’d fought side by side with Sir Arnold and knew what kind of man he truly was.

“Then I’ll be with her forever.” Dragan said.

Sir Arnold stepped out in front of Dragan’s horse and grabbed the leather strap that rested along the side of its long, brown face. His shaking stopped and all of a sudden, ten years melted away from his face. Dragan saw the man that he’d fought beside return in an instant. He saw steel in the magistrate’s stance, and he saw steel in his cold blue eyes.

“I need you here, brother,” Sir Arnold said. His voice was devoid of the quivering and shuddering that he’d become known by. “We can’t afford to lose you. What if the North Folk attack again?”

“The North Folk have stayed on their side of the mountain for the past ten years,” Dragan said. He clicked to his horse with his mouth and pulled the reins hard to the right. The horse’s head jerked suddenly, breaking Sir Arnold’s grip from the reins. “I don’t imagine them coming back soon. Besides, you know I have to go. We’re bound by god, Alyssa and I. And I promised to protect her.”

“You’ll d…d…die out there,” Sir Arnold said, his voice lost the steel that it had momentarily held.

Dragan looked to the north and took note that the red sun was hanging just above the top of the mountain. He guessed the time to be between midmorning and noon.

“Yeah,” he said and spurred his horse sharply. The horse reared back, its front legs kicking the air in front of it, and then bolted along the Eternal Road with the red sun at its rider’s back.

***

Ten years past, when Dragan rode into battle with Sir Arnold and the other village Knights, he travelled completely clad in steel. But, steel was heavy and the Great Void was vast. In place of the weight of steel, he loaded up his saddle-bags with dried beef and as much water as he could carry. Even with the extra provisions, the work-load for his horse was cut in half. His full suit of armor made enough weight to be another person. He needed to travel far, he needed to travel fast.

By the time Dragan made his way over the low hills to the south of the village and began down the Eternal Road through the Great Void, the sun hung low in the sky, silhouetting further low hills in the distance.  He brought a roll-up blanket to sleep in, but would’ve preferred to have some type of shelter. As darkness fell, he decided to stop and wait for the light to return. He pulled his horse to the side of the Eternal Road, untied his roll-up blanked from just behind the saddle, and sat, cross-legged on the desert floor, still holding his horse’s reins. He’d never seen the red sun so low in the sky before and as it slowly melted behind the far off low hills, the landscape seemed to ignite in purple and red fire, before extinguishing completely, yielding to the blackness of the sunless sky.  

Normally, the white, brighter sun would begin to light up the northern sky within a turn of an hourglass of the red sun’s departure. Because Dragan was still in the shadow of the high hills, it took a bit longer, about a turn and a half. When it did come, the sky was no longer purple, but a bright, brilliant blue. Unfortunately, with the white sun, came the hotter temperatures. As soon as enough light returned for Dragan to see, he rolled up his blanket and mounted his horse. Looking up at the blue sky, he placed the flat palm of his right hand to his chest and said a silent thank you to the spirit of his mother for blessing him with the idea to carry extra water. Even in the shade of the high hills, he could already feel the heat beginning to rise.

Sir Dragan rode the hard, rock-like surface of the Eternal Road for another ten turns of an hourglass, constantly scanning the dry, dead spaces to either side of him. He saw many people laying along the sides of the road, but none of them the one that he was searching for. The people he saw were robbed of flesh – rendered into dry, brittle, bones with tattered, baked scraps of cloth hanging from the ends of their ribs. Of living things, there were no signs. By the time he rode up to the base of the low hills, he was in the shade again. He pulled out one of his last two remaining bladders of water and drank half of its contents. The cool wetness felt good flowing over his dried, cracked lips. He put the remainder of the water back into his saddle bag, looked to the sky, and said another silent prayer to his mother’s spirit for carrying him safely across the dead valley floor. He also prayed for strength as he mounted the low hills. Nobody had ever been so far into the Great Void, and what lay beyond it was a mystery. Hopefully, he thought. It won’t be more of the same.

Dry as the valley floor beneath, the low hill that the Eternal Road passed over was shadowed on both sides by high walls of rock and soil. It was a dangerous crossing if one didn’t keep their wits sharp. Every once and a while, a large boulder would come loose and roll down onto the road. The path was littered with rocks and boulders of all sizes and Dragan found it tedious to maneuver his horse around the debris, while keeping alert for dangerous falling objects. Just as the last of the blue was fading from the sky, he came upon a gap in the side of the earthen wall – just a small cave, perhaps large enough for two men. He dismounted and pulled down his bedroll. After tying his horse to a large rock, he squeezed into the cave.

When he woke a few turns later, the sky was purple again. Sir Dragan relieved himself on a nearby rock, silently cursing the wasted fluids. After finishing off one of the bladders of water, he was on his way again. Just a short distance up the road, the debris became less evident. The dirt and rock walls to the sides of him gradually lowered until they vanished completely, allowing him to see, far off on both sides, rolling hills that seemingly had no end. It was around mid-day that he crested the hill and glimpsed the other side.

It was another valley, but not like the treacherous one that he’d travelled through the day before. As the land grew farther from the base of the low hills, it became greener, almost appearing blue in the light of the red sun. From the west side of the valley, stretching all the way to the east, a wide river cut through the land. The deep line of flowing purple was unmistakable, even from such a great distance. Where the river met the Eternal Road, Dragan found his destination. A large, strange-looking pavilion sat at the center of the valley, a swarm of carriages buzzing about it.  From where he was standing, it looked hive-like. This is what you came for, Sir, he thought. She’s down there. Go get your woman or die in the trying. He removed the last bladder from the saddle-bag and drank the entire contents in single, long series of swallows and then threw the empty container onto the side of the road. After one final prayer to his mother, he said, “Make my sword strong and true,” and then took off down the hill at a fast trot.

***

“Take it easy, man!” Corporal Clemens said, sucking on his finger. “Don’t push it until I tell you to.” He and Private Jefferies were tasked with lifting the large crates of recently delivered provisions onto the transport cars. He eased his fingers back under the bottom of the large crate and just as they were completely under it; Private Jefferies lifted his side again.

 “Shit, man!” Corporal Clemens shouted. He slapped the Private across the side of the face so hard that the lower ranking man’s cap flew off. “Are you stupid or what?”

“You’re not allowed to hit me!” Private Jeffries complained. “I’m reporting you to the Lieutenant!”

“Tell her,” Corporal Clemens said, raising his hand, “and I’ll do it again.”

He expected the Private to cower away from him. The lower enlisted were all afraid of him. Instead of flinching though, the Private just stood there, gawking at him.

“What the hell are you looking at, shit head? Let’s get this damn box picked up.” He leaned over to grab the bottom again, thinking, if this idiot lifts before I tell him to again, so help me I’ll, but his thought was interrupted by a loud thumping sound. “Jefferies,” he said, standing back up, but Jefferies was no longer visible over the top of the box. “What the hell, man. Where’d you…” he turned around and came face to face with one of ‘them’. The barbarian swung something and Corporal Clemens tried to cry out, but bodiless heads cannot speak.

***

These people are small and soft – easy to kill, Dragan thought. He gave the head at his feet a kick and it bounced off of the side of the queer pavilion. Then, he approached the structure, slowly walking towards it with his arm extended outward. When his palm touched the smooth, white surface, it felt cool to the touch. It’s as hard as steel, he though – a steel pavilion. Just then, a loud sound erupted that startled him into taking cover behind the square object that the two men he had killed were trying to lift.

With the sound, came the swarm. Queerly dressed people flooded out from every side of the steel pavilion. They gathered around him, forming a circle.

“Just relax,” one of them said in an odd accent. “Nobody here’s trying to hurt you.”

The small man was wearing the same kind of clothing that the two men Dragan killed wore. He moved toward Dragan slowly with his palms held out in front of him.

He wears no steel, Dragan thought. Only cowards wear no steel. Dragan lifted his hand to his chest and prayed, one final time to his mother. “Bless me with a quick death,” he said and then charged the man with the queer accent. He closed half the distance quickly, but fell short when a burst of energy ran through him. In that sudden moment, he lost all control of his body. His limbs went slack and he soiled his undergarments. They hit him with another burst of energy and his consciousness fled as well.

When he came to, he was lying on a hard, steel table. He tried to move but his arms, legs and chest were bound by thick straps. He looked to one side and saw that the table next to him was barren. He looked to his other side and saw his wife’s sweet face.

“Alyssa,” he said. Her eyes were closed. She couldn’t hear him. “Alyssa, wake,” still nothing. He struggled against his bonds, trying to free his hand. He wanted to reach out to her, to touch her. But, his bonds were too strong. He was at the mercy of the soft people and he knew it. Searching the surrounding room, he saw them, hiding behind some kind of see-through wall, staring at him.

“Release me, cowards,” he said to them. They didn’t answer him – at least not loud enough for him to hear. He thought that he could see their lips moving, but no sound seemed to come out. He gave up. He’d found his wife and whatever fate awaited them, he figured that they’d meet it together. He stared at her sleeping face and whispered, “I love you.”

***

“They’ve never wandered out this far,” Lieutenant Moore said as she and Colonel Everett stared at the pair of captives from behind the protective shield. “What do you think he was looking for?”

“Lieutenant, don’t be thick,” Colonel Everett said. Look at the way he’s staring at her. She’s probably his wife or something.”

Lieutenant Moore watched the savage closer. “Yeah, I can see that. He killed two of our men, sir. You’re not planning on keeping him, are you?”

“What else can we do? It’s not his fault that we took his woman. We’ll just have to try and assimilate him into civilized society and if it doesn’t take – well, we’ll cross that road when and if we come to it.”

The lieutenant turned and faced her commander.

“Sir,” she said, “will this ever end? I mean, will there ever be a day when we get back to normal?”

The Colonel pondered her question for a few moments and replied, “When the smart people sent our planet across the universe, they folded time and ended up transporting people from all across the timeline. You know this. You know that we have these dark ages’ people to the north, Vikings and pirates in the oceans, and Neanderthals in the Rocky Mountains and other places.  After a hundred and twenty-two years, we haven’t been able to assimilate even a small fraction of them. And don’t forget that they’re breeding. Hell, they’re breeding faster than we can assimilate them. Now, Lieutenant, knowing all of this; answer your own question.”

“No,” Lieutenant Moore said. “I don’t think so.”

 

The Last Dance

I could almost taste her – feel the warm, sticky trickle of her life washing over my lips – the metallic essence filling my mouth. Could she sense my hunger for her? Somewhere, deep inside – in that dark, damp place where she hides away her deepest, most terrifying nightmares during the day – I thought she could.

I didn’t have any special powers that enabled me to take over the will of my prey. I did not benefit from having eternal life either. I was not a zombie, a vampire, or any other such mythical creature. I was just a man – a man who liked the taste of women.

I loved to feel them struggle beneath me – to feel them twitch as I tear into them. I loved to hear their cries when I ravished them and their sudden stillness when the light finally dimmed in their eyes. This one had a way about her that excited me. She was vibrant. Life seemed to pour from her.

My excitement grew when I caught her looking me up and down. She’s judging me, I thought. If I’m lucky, I’ll be invited home with her. She saw that I caught her and lowered her eyes – embarrassed. She flashed a coy smile and then snatched up a piece of her lovely dirty blonde hair and bit down on the end. I ordered her another drink. She downed it in one, long series of gulps and then led me to the dance floor.

The dance floor was packed. The heat from the overhead lights and the other bodies in motion raised the temperature to sweltering levels. Sweat began to pour out of her as she moved, rendering her top useless. I could see how much she wanted me – feel the evidence rubbing against me when we embraced. I was sure that she felt my wanting as well.

After the third or fourth song, she led me from the floor. I thought that we were heading back to the bar – instead, she led me to the exit. A taxi was waiting for us when we walked out. We climbed in and immediately began to attack each other. I found my hands roaming everywhere over the outside of her clothes – sometimes under. The cab driver never said a word.

I don’t remember her paying for the cab fare, but I assumed that she must have. I followed her up to her door and waited while she fished around in her purse for her house keys. When she finally pulled them out, I took them from her and unlocked the door.

She didn’t waste any time. She pushed me inside and slammed the door behind us. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pressed me against a wall. Her kisses were passionate, wet, satisfying. She paused long enough to take off my tie and remove my jacket, then started kissing me again as she worked on unbuttoning my shirt, with her teeth. My blood pressure rose every time she took one of my shirt buttons between her teeth and bit it off.

After she pulled off the last of my shirt buttons, she peeled my shirt off of me and began to kiss, nibble, and lick my neck. That was the part of the night where I would usually lure my prey into the bedroom so I could have my way with them, but it just felt so good that I didn’t want it to end. Her kisses began at my ear, trailed down the side of my neck, then around to the front of my throat. I couldn’t resist her anymore. I wrapped her up in my arms and pulled her up off her feet. It was time to hit the sack.

Before I could lift her, she bit into me. I screamed out and tried to push her away, but I couldn’t fight her off. I could hear her drinking from me – robbing me of my life’s blood. My thoughts scattered. I only remember thinking that of all the girls, in all the clubs, I found the one that was just like me.

It didn’t take long for my strength to give out. Within seconds, my arms fell to my sides and my knees buckled. When I collapsed, she went down with me, mounting me in a lovers embrace. As the world slowly disappeared, replaced by darkness, only the sucking sounds continued.

She wasn’t there when I woke up. I felt people around me before I heard them. Someone was pressing on my chest very hard. Someone else was wrapping something around my neck. I opened my eyes and they all reeled back. I managed to stand up, noticing that the four people in front of me took a few more steps backward when I did.

“What the…” one of the paramedics said. “What’s wrong with his eyes?” 

I turned to flee, meaning to find the front door and found a mirror instead. The bandage that was wrapped around my neck was soaked through. My face looked white and smooth. I could see what the paramedic was talking about; two glowing, red orbs were set in the place where my human eyes used to be.

I turned back to the four people and tried to speak, but nothing came out except a long stream of grunting sounds. I reached my hand out to them, pleading for them to help me, but one of them let out a scream of revulsion. My instincts kicked in and I ran. 

I have never seen my night-dancer again. I’ve searched in more places than I can count, but she chooses to stay away. The first few years after the change, I told myself that she recognized the beast within me – she saw a fellow traveler. Those were the reasons that she turned me. Now, I know that this is a punishment. I still hunt, kill, and feed, but no longer get any enjoyment from it. My human senses and desires are gone forever, replaced by more primal needs.

This is my atonement – my hell.

 

 

Eight Minutes

She sees me staring at her and waves me over. My body moves towards her. It’s maddening to not be able to communicate with her. I want to call out to her, to tell her that we should go somewhere else – perhaps a nice little restaurant where we can drink and chat until the early hours of the morning. Then, perhaps we could go home and work on making that baby that she’d been talking about having. Her hair is the same as it was the last time I saw her. It’s always the same.

We embrace and kiss like we always do. It’s torture to know that my lips are meeting hers, but not be able to feel the touch of her skin. I have no control over what I say or do. I fix her scarf for her and lead her to the hotdog stand. We chat about our day as the vender prepares our rushed, yet delicious dinner. It would probably seem weird to most people that my wife and I meet every year at a hot-dog stand for our anniversary, but it’s where we met. It’s our little thing.

We stay close to the stand after the vender gives us our hotdogs, enjoying the warmth from the grill. We eat in a hurry – the movie will be starting soon and we don’t want to be late. She talks about her day, I’m hardly listening. I’ve heard it all before. I stare at her beautiful face, taking in her beauty and study every curve of her face, every line. God, I wish I could smell her. She checks her watch and says that we have to hurry. Then, she throws away the remaining half of her hotdog, motions for me to follow her, and steps into the street. My mind screams out to her, yells for her to come back – begs her. She rushes past a parked car and my mind races when the bright headlights of the bus spotlight her. She freezes and stares momentarily at the instrument of her death, then steals a quick glance at me just before the end. The expression on her face isn’t one of fear or terror, but of love. Just before the bus hits her, I open my eyes. The cycle is complete.

The chamber door opens and I step out. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the brightness of the chamber-room, but I know that Frank is standing nearby – he always is. His concerned face comes into focus slowly.

“Do you need to sit down, Joe?” He asks.

“No Frank, thank you.” He should know better. I’m a veteran.

I pull out my wallet and hand him my Identification card. He turns to the holographic keyboard and begins typing.

“Okay, you got the entire eight minutes. You get the frequent trip discount at eighty percent…so that’s twelve-hundred and fifty dollars.” He passes my card through the holographic monitor and grimaces when the screen turns red.  “Looks like you’re almost out of credits,” he says.

“I get paid tomorrow. Can you spot me?”

He considers my request for a second and then hands me back my card. “Okay,” he says, “but just this once. You really need to slow down on this thing. Perhaps trip to someone else’s past for a change.”

I’m still shaking my head no as I climb back inside the chamber.

“Well, it’s your mind, Frank says, grabbing the outer-chamber door, “and your wallet. See you in eight minutes.” He closes the door and the lights go out. I close my eyes tight until the bright flash passes. When I open them again, I see her standing on the corner by the hotdog stand. She sees me staring at her and waves me over.

A House in The Clouds (Re-imagined)

Hank Anderson could hear them talking around him. They thought that he couldn’t, but he could – every word. The Illness that confined him to a hospital bed left him weak, and the struggle to move or speak had become too unbearable. But his ears – they worked just fine.

All this fighting and squabbling over a simple set of switches, he thought. Stupidity. Even if they left him hooked up to the dammed machines, it would only be a matter of hours, maybe days, until the cancer finally took him. Better to get it over with quick. Besides, he promised to meet Anne, and she’d been waiting for him for over twenty-five years. It was time – time to go to her, to be with her in their house in the clouds. That’s what she had called it, their house in the clouds.

***

Hank met Anne in a coffee shop back in 1973. She had to be around twenty-five years old back then, he figured and Hank was attracted to her from the moment he saw her, sitting across the dining room, tucked into a small booth reading. Feeling his gaze, she peeked over the top of the book and smiled at him.

If someone were to ask Hank what the first thing was that caught his attention about Anne, he would have said her eyes. She had the most beautiful brown eyes he’d ever seen. The kind of eyes a man could get lost in, Hank would often think.

He got his cup of coffee and made his way to where she was sitting. She looked up at him as he approached, smiled, and then returned her gaze to her book.

“Is there someone sitting with you?” He asked

“Do you see anyone?” Not bothering to look at him.

Hank was amused by her answer. We got a smart ass here, he thought.

“Well, umm…What I meant to say was, may I join you?”

Anne glanced up at him again, saw his haggard expression and relented.

“Free country.”

Six months later, they were married.

Hank was a strapping, young, twenty-six year old man at that time. He sold life insurance door to door back then and didn’t make a lot of money, but he managed to earn enough to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads, and the three children who came soon after. Everything was perfect in their lives. Hank and Anne took care of their little family the best way they could and enjoyed the benefits that came from hard work and true love.

In 1983, Anne was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was thirty-two years young at the time, and the doctors seemed to have high expectations. For good reason too, since the tumors shrank and they were able to be removed after only one round of chemotherapy. It was branded a miracle – full recovery. Anne was given a new lease on life, and the Andersons continued to chug along through life together.

The second time that Anne was diagnosed with cancer was in 1985. She went to the Doctors for a check-up and came home with a death sentence. It seemed that the good ole experts had counted their proverbial chickens before they hatched and now had egg on their faces. That time, the cancer had spread unchecked through her body. The quacks gave her six months, but told her that with some of the newer treatments, she could possibly last a year – Anne declined. She said that a better quality of a short life was more important to her than an agonizing long one. Reluctantly, Hank supported her decision. With nothing left they could do, the doctors prescribed Anne pain killers and sent her home to die.

Hank and Anne didn’t take the time they had left together for granted. They lived every day as if it were their last. Often, during that first year, Hank would wake up and find Anne staring at him with teary eyes and a warm smile.

“You okay Hun?” he would ask her.

“Just enjoying the moment,” she’d say. Enjoying the moment became her favorite response to everything. It was all she could do.

One night, toward the end of that first year, Anne shook Hank awake.

“What’s wrong Baby, are you okay?” Hank said.

“I was just wondering something, but I don’t know exactly how to word it.”

“What is it Hun? You can ask me anything.”

“Oh… I was just wondering if you plan on, you know, getting remarried after I die.”

“Hell no!”

Squinting her eyes, she stared at him with her famous ‘you’re full of shit’ glare.

“Seriously, Baby” Hank said “I look forward to eternity with you. If they have weddings in the afterlife, we’ll do it all again, okay?”

She snuggled him a little tighter. Hank noticed tears beginning to run down her cheeks and gently wiped them away with his hand.

“Truly?”

“Truly, and don’t go thinking that you’re off the hook once you get up there either. I better not show up and find you wrapped around the arm of James Dean!”

“James Dean?” She said, snuggling her face against his neck. “He’s hot.”

They both started laughing, which led to kissing, which led to…well, you know.

It was good for Hank to see her smiling. It renewed his strength in a way. Later on, after she’d become noticeably sick, but before she was on permanent bed pan status, they stayed up in the reading room talking to each other and enjoying each other’s company. They talked and laughed like they did when they’d first met. Nothing was sacred. They talked about politics, they talked about the neighbors and the kids, but mostly, they talked about heaven and what they planned to do there when they were together again.

“What do you think its like?” Anne asked.

“I don’t know,” Hank said. “Whatever you want it to be like, I guess.”

“Do you think that you can really do anything – be anything?”

Sitting close together on the sofa, flames snapping in the fireplace, Hank pulled his wife close to him and squeezed her tight. “I do, Baby,” he said, staring into the fire. “I really do.”

“Well then,” she said. “I know what I’m going to do to occupy my time until you get there.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m going to build us a house. That way, you’ll be able to find me, and we can have a special place just for us – our own little place, tucked back in the clouds. We’ll have a large porch where we can just sit and drink cold tea, and look down on our children and grandchildren together.”

“A house in the clouds?” Hank asked.

“Yes”

“I can’t wait to see it.”

“You’ll really meet me there?”

“You know I will.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

When Anne passed away a few months later, Hank figured that he would follow her within the next few years. He’d already been having heart problems by then, but as the years churned by, he realized that God wasn’t going to let him go so easily. If it hadn’t been for their children, he may have tried to speed things along, but he promised her that he would look after them.

After the children were grown and gone, Hank retired from his job and spent most of his days at his home, waiting. A visiting son or daughter would often swing by the house and find him sitting on the back porch, glass of tea in his hand and staring up at the sky. He would spend hours like that, imagining himself sitting on a porch with Anne, holding hands at their house in the clouds.

***

He could hear them in his room again – the quacks and the kids. They were talking about him like he wasn’t there.

“The court made a ruling on the matter, the do not resuscitate order stands.” The doctor said.

“He’s our father,” Ricky, Hank’s oldest son said. “We think that we know what he wants better than some stupid court.”

Hank had heard enough. He gathered what little strength he had and called his oldest son’s name.

“Ricky, come here.”

All three of his kids gathered around his bed, but it was Ricky who spoke to his dying father.

“Papa?” He said. “Papa, can you hear me?”

Hank managed to lift his hand and Ricky held it.

“Papa,” Ricky said. “They want to let you die. Tell them that’s not what you want.”

“Come…Closer…,” Hank rasped, “all of you.”

Ricky, James, and Jessica all leaned closer to their father. Jessica, his only daughter, gently pulled his long, unkempt grey bangs away from his fading green eyes.

“What is it, Papa,” Jessica said. “Do you need anything?”

Tears welled up in Hank’s eyes as he looked at each one of his children. We did a great job, Baby, he thought. They’ve grown up good and right.

“What can we do for you Papa?” James asked. Crying, he leaned down and kissed his father’s pale forehead. Before he could pull away, Hank surprised all by grabbing his son’s head and looking into his eyes.

“Let me go.” He said

The machines were switched off soon after. As Hank’s life faded, he saw visions in his mind that he hadn’t been able to recall for many years. Snap-shots of his childhood and the rest of his life played out before him. He relived his wedding and drank in the happiness that he saw on Anne’s face. He saw his children being born again and experienced again the awesome feeling of becoming a father. When the life inside him drained away completely, he was smiling.

***

“Welcome home son.”

“It’s so bright,” Hank said to the voice. “I can’t see you.”

From out of the light, a form emerged. His mother, looking like she did when she was very young, walked toward him.

“Mom?” Henry said.

“I’ve missed you so much Henry.”

“Is this heaven?” He asked.

“Not quite” She said. “You have a choice to make son. You can move on and create your own paradise – a world that only you can imagine, or you can choose to be reborn. The choice is yours, but you must make it, there is no turning back.

“Easy,” Hank said. “I’m moving on. I promised Anne that I would meet her. She’s waiting for me.”

His mother placed her hands on his shoulders and looked at him tearfully.

“What is it?” Hank asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh Henry,” she said. “Anne chose to be reborn.”

Hanks mouth hung open in disbelief.

“But, she promised me,” he said. “We had a plan.”

“She said that if fate brought you two together once, then perhaps it will bring you back together again.”

Hank thought about his mother’s words for a moment and then made his choice.

***

“Don’t run off too far, Yvette!” the little girl’s mother called out. We’re going to be having the cake and ice-cream soon.”

“Okay, mommy,” the Yvette said. With all of the kids at her sixth birthday party, the swings at the playground were constantly being used. When she saw one empty, she ran for it. After a few attempts, she managed to get herself onto the swing. Grunting and twisting, she couldn’t seem to make it work.

“Daddy, come push me!” she yelled to her father over her shoulder.

“I’ll be right there, sweetie!” he called back from his usual place at the grill.

About half way across the playground, she saw a boy about her age. The boy was squatting down on his bare knees, shoveling sand into a red plastic bucket with a small, matching shovel. The swing forgotten, Yvette worked her way off it and skipped up to where the small boy was playing.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

“Making a house,” the boy answered without looking up. “I wanna make houses when I grow up.”

“Can I help?”

The boy let out a long sigh.

“I guess. Do you know how to make houses?”

“Sure,” Yvette said, “I love houses!”

The boy finished packing sand into the bucket, flipped it over, and then gently lifted it, leaving a perfectly round tower of sand. He stood up with the empty bucket and handed it to Yvette.

“You get the sand and I’ll make the house okay? Next time, you can make the house.”

“Okay,” Yvette said, smiling. She reached out for the bucket, but as she looked at his face, she found that she’d forgotten all about making houses. She stood there, staring at him. He must’ve seen something in her face too, because he stared back at her, studying her face.

His eyes, Yvette thought, staring into the boy’s brown eyes, so pretty.

END

Mommy Loves You

Reblogged from R.M. DuChene:

Troy Creech looked around the living room when he walked in the house. Head barely poking through the door, he listened for sounds. Not just any sounds, but the banging and slamming of heavy items that would alert him, in advance, that his mother was in one of her moods. After he was assured that the coast was clear, he walked the rest of the way into the house, threw his book bag down, then headed for the kitchen.

Read more… 1,501 more words

Flowers for My Love

Driving to the edge of town

fast upon the road

I needed to get something

For my true love to behold

 

A small shop up ahead

seemingly out of place

A large sign spelled out flowers

I knew I’d found the place

 

My true love adores flowers

Roses would be sure

to show how much she means to me

When I make our date at four

 

To show up empty-handed

would be far from okay

Anniversaries come only once a year

And it was ours that day

 

I made it to our meeting place

I showed up just in time

On the crowded hillside

I saw that love of mine

 

I walked up to her slowly

I smiled at her and said

“I brought flowers for your grave my love

for last years are now dead.”