Happy to report I've made another story available for free on Smashwords, this one called The Intersection, telling the tale of a small town police chief with a vexing traffic problem.
First published in the Night Terrors anthology from Blood Bound Books, if you like the story, I'd reccommend you click the link and head on over to Amazon and pick yourself up a copy, for more chilling tales of the beyond.
While we're on the subject of free stuff, I've got a guest blog going up next week over at Patricia's Vampire Notes, where I'll be giving away a signed copy of Applewood, my newly-released vampire, coming-of-age novel. I've posted a couple of the early reviews over to the right, and I'd very much appreciate your checking it out!
Of course, there is also the Goodreads Giveaway, in which I'm giving away signed copies of "Applewood" to two lucky Goodreads members. Details of that can be found both to the right and in an earlier post below.
And since I'm in such a . . . giving mood, why not give away a signed copy right here on this blog? Why not right now?
Here's the deal: Simply post a comment below (doesn't have to be fancy, just make sure you leave some way for me to get in touch with you, e.g. myname at gmail, or a link to your blog or twitter) and I'll have someone close to me randomly select a lucky winner (not me, making sure it's fair should one of my more frequent commenters care to give it a shot.)
Just two catches: First, let's keep it to the U.S. and Canada only -- memories of international ebay shipping charges still haunt! -- and second, I'd appreciate it if you'd leave a review or even simply a rating somewhere, be it Amazon, Smashwords, or your own blog.
Of course I hope you love it, but even if you don't, criticism is always welcome, and mentions anywhere help.
Now, I can't make you write a review or post a rating, and won't think any less of you if you don't. But I'd certainly appreciate it!
If you're partial to horror, liked "The Lost Boys," and enjoy both vampire tales and coming-of-age fiction like "Stand By Me," I'm fairly certain you won't be disappointed.
Let's have the contest end this coming Monday, June 20th, at noon, EDT, so folks won't have to hang on so long and it doesn't conflict with the other giveaways.
As always, thanks for taking the time to read my blog, and good luck!
Showing posts with label Free Fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Free Fiction. Show all posts
Friday, June 17, 2011
Monday, February 28, 2011
Wheat World
The girl’s brother died sometime in the night. The old man dragged the boy’s body into the stalks before she awoke. They were hours into their walk the next day before it occurred to the man she hadn’t asked about him.
As they walked, the man raised his head toward the eternal blue sky and wondered again when was the last time he’d seen the contrail of a passing airplane. Months? More likely, he knew, it was years. Johnny had been the one keeping track of time for them both. But he’d been killed long ago.
As was their custom, when the day got too hot or the girl too tired, they rested. There was no shade, for trees had long ago succumbed, so the two simply lay down in the tall stalks. While giving the girl a sip of water, the man wondered if it might be the last water on Earth.
Lord knows, they hadn’t seen a river or a stream in months. Ponds and lakes too were but a distant memory. They’d been the first to go. No, he thought, in the world of Q2, you took your water wherever and however you could find it.
He closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. Instead, the faces of those who had fallen along the way flashed before his eyes: the minister who had taken his own life rather than slow them down; the young couple lost to marauders; the bickering husband and wife who had taken their battle into the stalks one day and never returned; And Johnny, his own son. But the man wasn’t yet ready to think about what had happened to Johnny.
It occurred to him then that though he’d lost his own son, he’d probably miss the boy the most. There had been something engaging about the kid, some spark that seemed to have all but vanished from the world. What he’d miss most, he knew, was the kid’s sense of humor. God love him, the boy had kept that all the way to the end.
Ah, hell, he thought. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore except getting to the city. That had been their destination all along. It somehow made sense things would be better in the city.
They’d all heard the rumors that someone at Harvard or MIT had figured out a way to kill the stuff. That’s what Johnny believed anyway, and that slim hope was good enough for him. Further, the man knew they were getting close. He’d been catching glimpses of it on and off in the distance the past few days.
After an hour or so, he woke the girl and they continued their journey. Things were better for him. His head was higher than all but the tallest stalks. But for the girl, it was like walking through a jungle.
Something about Q2 had morphed over the years. Evolved. The stalks grew taller with each passing generation. The grains harder, sharper. The man did his best to blaze the trail, holding back the hellish stalks from whipping back and slapping the girl in the face. But both their faces were now tic-tac-toed with red welts and long scrapes, the evolving face of humanity in a world filled with Q2.
Late in the afternoon, the man stepped in some muck and heard something snap. He held up his arm to warn the girl before timidly, remembering the minister’s broken leg, putting some weight on it. He breathed a sigh of relief that nothing was broken, but still. Something was wrong. It took another moment to realize what it was. There should be no muck in a world where it no longer rained.
He glanced down and saw his foot was embedded a few inches deep in a wet hump of earth that was bordered by streamers of tattered blue flannel. To the left and right were more humps, dozens of them, along with what he now recognized as scattered clothing and shoes. Protruding from within them all were the yellowing remains of those who’d once worn them.
Looking closer, the man saw that from their almost fleshless skulls, sightless eyes hosted tall, healthy stalks. Wheat grew from the holes where noses used to be. The tallest stalks grew from the once moist wetness of their mouths. Further inspection revealed that their upper skulls had been blown away by something large caliber. The man noted absently that the wheat apparently found brain matter an especially good fertilizer.
Letting go of the stalks, he pulled his foot from the goo and turned to the girl. Take my belt, he said. Follow me. The girl nodded and reached out. Don’t look down, he added before the two wandered into the killing field.
Once through the worst of it, the man glanced up and saw the city was closer now. Another day’s walk at most. He allowed his mind to wander, to stop and consider how far they’d come in the years since Q2 had entered their world.
Johnny had seen it first, pulling up what he thought were weeds in the garden. The next day they were back, taller than before. The man first noticed it while pulling into his driveway, twelve-inch stalks growing from cracks in the asphalt that hadn’t been there when he’d left that morning.
After that, they saw it everywhere: in the yards, the playgrounds, and the baseball and football fields of their small town in northern Maine. Days after seeing it for the first time, the man saw it sprouting from his roof.
He and Johnny stayed in the crumbling home as long as they dared, keeping up with an outside world that was falling down around them. Before it fell, the government ferreted out what happened, if not how. Q2 was a strain of genetically modified wheat designed to grow pretty much anywhere. The agribusiness conglomerate that developed it believed they’d created something that would solve world hunger forever. How it escaped the lab, whether through terrorism or sheer stupidity, stopped mattering after a while.
Lost in thought, the man realized the sun was nearly down. The two had been walking uphill for a while. It was time to stop. Turning, he motioned the girl to rest and watched her collapse where she stood, quickly falling into unconsciousness. He waited for her breathing to settle before walking further on up the hill, from where he knew he’d be able to see the whole of the city.
Reaching the top, he pushed aside the stalks and glanced down to see the wheat stretched unbroken, into the city and beyond. The wide river that had once separated Cambridge from Boston was gone, consumed by the voracious wheat.
Across the wheat river, in the heart of the city, skyscrapers too hosted the plant. The iconic blue of the Hancock Tower was gone, replaced by the sallow yellow of the wheat growing up all fifty stories. To its right, the Prudential Tower looked for all the world like a single unearthly stalk of the substance.
Smaller surrounding buildings too were swathed in the stuff, those that still stood, that is. Many had collapsed from what the man guessed was the sheer weight of the stuff. These looked like perverse, gigantic haystacks from another world.
Turning to the east, he allowed his gaze to linger at the place where a great harbor once lay, and where beyond was once open ocean. Now, stretching toward what had once been harbor islands and beyond, was more wheat. The man had lived long enough with Q2 to be almost immune to its ubiquity and destructive power. But he shuddered to see confirmed with his own eyes something he had wondered about: it was indeed taking the oceans.
He stayed atop the hill a while before letting go of the wheat and turning back to where the girl slept. They’d come this far, he thought, and lost too many along the way not to go just one more day. Who knows. Maybe there would be civilized people down there, not just the marauders and scavengers and murderers he and his companions had mostly avoided along the way. Mostly.
If not, the man still had his pistol, though he vowed he wasn’t going to use that unless he could no longer care for the girl. She was the only thing he had left. Anyhow, Johnny had always believed things would be better in the city. And as the man lay down and closed his eyes he remembered that once, a very long time ago, that been good enough for him.
As they walked, the man raised his head toward the eternal blue sky and wondered again when was the last time he’d seen the contrail of a passing airplane. Months? More likely, he knew, it was years. Johnny had been the one keeping track of time for them both. But he’d been killed long ago.
As was their custom, when the day got too hot or the girl too tired, they rested. There was no shade, for trees had long ago succumbed, so the two simply lay down in the tall stalks. While giving the girl a sip of water, the man wondered if it might be the last water on Earth.
Lord knows, they hadn’t seen a river or a stream in months. Ponds and lakes too were but a distant memory. They’d been the first to go. No, he thought, in the world of Q2, you took your water wherever and however you could find it.
He closed his eyes, but sleep would not come. Instead, the faces of those who had fallen along the way flashed before his eyes: the minister who had taken his own life rather than slow them down; the young couple lost to marauders; the bickering husband and wife who had taken their battle into the stalks one day and never returned; And Johnny, his own son. But the man wasn’t yet ready to think about what had happened to Johnny.
It occurred to him then that though he’d lost his own son, he’d probably miss the boy the most. There had been something engaging about the kid, some spark that seemed to have all but vanished from the world. What he’d miss most, he knew, was the kid’s sense of humor. God love him, the boy had kept that all the way to the end.
Ah, hell, he thought. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore except getting to the city. That had been their destination all along. It somehow made sense things would be better in the city.
They’d all heard the rumors that someone at Harvard or MIT had figured out a way to kill the stuff. That’s what Johnny believed anyway, and that slim hope was good enough for him. Further, the man knew they were getting close. He’d been catching glimpses of it on and off in the distance the past few days.
After an hour or so, he woke the girl and they continued their journey. Things were better for him. His head was higher than all but the tallest stalks. But for the girl, it was like walking through a jungle.
Something about Q2 had morphed over the years. Evolved. The stalks grew taller with each passing generation. The grains harder, sharper. The man did his best to blaze the trail, holding back the hellish stalks from whipping back and slapping the girl in the face. But both their faces were now tic-tac-toed with red welts and long scrapes, the evolving face of humanity in a world filled with Q2.
Late in the afternoon, the man stepped in some muck and heard something snap. He held up his arm to warn the girl before timidly, remembering the minister’s broken leg, putting some weight on it. He breathed a sigh of relief that nothing was broken, but still. Something was wrong. It took another moment to realize what it was. There should be no muck in a world where it no longer rained.
He glanced down and saw his foot was embedded a few inches deep in a wet hump of earth that was bordered by streamers of tattered blue flannel. To the left and right were more humps, dozens of them, along with what he now recognized as scattered clothing and shoes. Protruding from within them all were the yellowing remains of those who’d once worn them.
Looking closer, the man saw that from their almost fleshless skulls, sightless eyes hosted tall, healthy stalks. Wheat grew from the holes where noses used to be. The tallest stalks grew from the once moist wetness of their mouths. Further inspection revealed that their upper skulls had been blown away by something large caliber. The man noted absently that the wheat apparently found brain matter an especially good fertilizer.
Letting go of the stalks, he pulled his foot from the goo and turned to the girl. Take my belt, he said. Follow me. The girl nodded and reached out. Don’t look down, he added before the two wandered into the killing field.
Once through the worst of it, the man glanced up and saw the city was closer now. Another day’s walk at most. He allowed his mind to wander, to stop and consider how far they’d come in the years since Q2 had entered their world.
Johnny had seen it first, pulling up what he thought were weeds in the garden. The next day they were back, taller than before. The man first noticed it while pulling into his driveway, twelve-inch stalks growing from cracks in the asphalt that hadn’t been there when he’d left that morning.
After that, they saw it everywhere: in the yards, the playgrounds, and the baseball and football fields of their small town in northern Maine. Days after seeing it for the first time, the man saw it sprouting from his roof.
He and Johnny stayed in the crumbling home as long as they dared, keeping up with an outside world that was falling down around them. Before it fell, the government ferreted out what happened, if not how. Q2 was a strain of genetically modified wheat designed to grow pretty much anywhere. The agribusiness conglomerate that developed it believed they’d created something that would solve world hunger forever. How it escaped the lab, whether through terrorism or sheer stupidity, stopped mattering after a while.
Lost in thought, the man realized the sun was nearly down. The two had been walking uphill for a while. It was time to stop. Turning, he motioned the girl to rest and watched her collapse where she stood, quickly falling into unconsciousness. He waited for her breathing to settle before walking further on up the hill, from where he knew he’d be able to see the whole of the city.
Reaching the top, he pushed aside the stalks and glanced down to see the wheat stretched unbroken, into the city and beyond. The wide river that had once separated Cambridge from Boston was gone, consumed by the voracious wheat.
Across the wheat river, in the heart of the city, skyscrapers too hosted the plant. The iconic blue of the Hancock Tower was gone, replaced by the sallow yellow of the wheat growing up all fifty stories. To its right, the Prudential Tower looked for all the world like a single unearthly stalk of the substance.
Smaller surrounding buildings too were swathed in the stuff, those that still stood, that is. Many had collapsed from what the man guessed was the sheer weight of the stuff. These looked like perverse, gigantic haystacks from another world.
Turning to the east, he allowed his gaze to linger at the place where a great harbor once lay, and where beyond was once open ocean. Now, stretching toward what had once been harbor islands and beyond, was more wheat. The man had lived long enough with Q2 to be almost immune to its ubiquity and destructive power. But he shuddered to see confirmed with his own eyes something he had wondered about: it was indeed taking the oceans.
He stayed atop the hill a while before letting go of the wheat and turning back to where the girl slept. They’d come this far, he thought, and lost too many along the way not to go just one more day. Who knows. Maybe there would be civilized people down there, not just the marauders and scavengers and murderers he and his companions had mostly avoided along the way. Mostly.
If not, the man still had his pistol, though he vowed he wasn’t going to use that unless he could no longer care for the girl. She was the only thing he had left. Anyhow, Johnny had always believed things would be better in the city. And as the man lay down and closed his eyes he remembered that once, a very long time ago, that been good enough for him.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Fortunato's Ghost
In celebration of cracking a thousand downloads of my free stories on Smashwords, and in anticipation of the May launch of my vampire novel Applewood, I'm delighted to report that I'm making my zombie short titled "Fortunato's Ghost" available as a free download on Smashwords. The story itself goes something like this:
"It is six months since the dead began to rise. The windswept islands of Boston Harbor have become refuge to the few hundred souls who have managed to survive. But Will Bartlett, a young man rescued from the hellish mainland, soon learns that entry into this new civilization comes at a very high price."
Confess I had a lot of fun writing this one. Though it didn't get into the anthology I wrote it for, it did find a home in Dead Worlds, Undead Stories from Living Dead Press, a great anthology containing some of my favorite zombie shorts. So if zombies are your thing, pick up a copy today!
Hope you enjoy reading "Fortunato's Ghost" as much as I did writing it. You can download the story in a variety of formats (or read it online) it by clicking here.
"It is six months since the dead began to rise. The windswept islands of Boston Harbor have become refuge to the few hundred souls who have managed to survive. But Will Bartlett, a young man rescued from the hellish mainland, soon learns that entry into this new civilization comes at a very high price."
Confess I had a lot of fun writing this one. Though it didn't get into the anthology I wrote it for, it did find a home in Dead Worlds, Undead Stories from Living Dead Press, a great anthology containing some of my favorite zombie shorts. So if zombies are your thing, pick up a copy today!
Hope you enjoy reading "Fortunato's Ghost" as much as I did writing it. You can download the story in a variety of formats (or read it online) it by clicking here.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
The Pit
Jack Nyhan was ready. Terminally ill, he’d lived a hard life filled with pain, most of his own making. When the brilliant white light appeared, he walked toward it and found himself young and strong again, in a place where dust and the screech of heavy machinery filled the air . . .
I'm pleased to report that "The Pit" is now exclusively available in my collection 21C and Other Sordid Tales:
I'm pleased to report that "The Pit" is now exclusively available in my collection 21C and Other Sordid Tales:
Available now wherever fine e-books are sold, or click the link in the "My Books" section on the right to find the collection at Amazon.
As always, thanks for reading!
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Ohrwurm
It was two years ago this upcoming Monday, having within days of each other had my first two short stories accepted for publication, I started this whole blog thing.
And why not? I had already written four novels, at least two of which I thought were pretty good. But I'd had no success either finding an agent or getting a publisher.
So I says to myself, I says self, you don't know a damn thing about writing short stories. But maybe, just maybe, if you could write a couple of shorts and get them published, get a couple of credentials under your belt, then maybe the novels would be taken more seriously. And thus "Ohrwurm" was born, my very first short story.
The coolest thing about it was, it came to me almost fully formed. Yeah, I had to sit down and try and put the words in the right order and all. But I knew exactly what was going to happen, I knew who the characters were, I knew where the action was going to take place. Hell, I even knew the song.
I was proud and excited when "Ohrwurm" was selected for inclusion in "Malpractice: An Anthology of Bedside Terror" published last March. And if you haven't picked that up yet, please proceed to the link on the right and purchase your copy today.
So, in celebration of the approaching creepy season and the second anniversary of this blog, I'm pleased to announce I've made "Ohrwurm" (which is also available in my collection Adamson's Rock and Other Stories) available as a free download from Smashwords.
You can download the story in the format of your choice (or read it online) by clicking here.
And no, I'm sorry. I can't tell you. I won't tell you. It is a burden I must carry alone.
But trust me.
You'd thank me.
And why not? I had already written four novels, at least two of which I thought were pretty good. But I'd had no success either finding an agent or getting a publisher.
So I says to myself, I says self, you don't know a damn thing about writing short stories. But maybe, just maybe, if you could write a couple of shorts and get them published, get a couple of credentials under your belt, then maybe the novels would be taken more seriously. And thus "Ohrwurm" was born, my very first short story.
The coolest thing about it was, it came to me almost fully formed. Yeah, I had to sit down and try and put the words in the right order and all. But I knew exactly what was going to happen, I knew who the characters were, I knew where the action was going to take place. Hell, I even knew the song.
I was proud and excited when "Ohrwurm" was selected for inclusion in "Malpractice: An Anthology of Bedside Terror" published last March. And if you haven't picked that up yet, please proceed to the link on the right and purchase your copy today.
So, in celebration of the approaching creepy season and the second anniversary of this blog, I'm pleased to announce I've made "Ohrwurm" (which is also available in my collection Adamson's Rock and Other Stories) available as a free download from Smashwords.
You can download the story in the format of your choice (or read it online) by clicking here.
And no, I'm sorry. I can't tell you. I won't tell you. It is a burden I must carry alone.
But trust me.
You'd thank me.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Nearly Dead
Apologies for not updating, and being derelict in commenting on my writer friends' blogs (which I am indeed reading, though). In addition to my previously announced melancholy over the Liberace museum closing, I’ve been busy.
I am pleased to announce I've released a free short, a St. Pete-centric, tongue-in-cheek Zombie tale titled "Nearly Dead" on Smashwords. You can download it in the format of your choice (or read it online) by clicking here.
Plot summary goes something like this:
In other news, I’ve completed reviewing the first-round edits of Applewood, my New England vampire novel, and will be sending them back in the next day or so. I’m certain the edits truly make it stronger. We’ve also had preliminary discussions about potential covers. Hard to believe it’s really happening.
One reason I opted to not self-publish this one (after making the rounds of agents and publishers, of course, and sitting at Dorchester for more than three years before they said no) was for just that, to have someone else read and edit and help with production, someone to tell me which parts suck (and not be afraid to use those exact words) and point out bad habits I’d fallen into.
Another curiosity about “Applewood” is there is a completed full-length sequel, picking up where the cliff-hanging end of "Applewood" leaves off. I started writing it as an exercise to more fully flesh out “Applewood” and it took on a life of its own.
I remember thinking at the time, “Is there any greater act of faith or stupidity than writing the sequel to an unpublished novel?”
Don’t know for sure, however I suspect J.K. Rowling and Stephanie Meyer were sane enough to wait and see if anybody cared about the first to write the next.
But between you and me, I think the second in the series is even stronger than the first, and project it would take another four books or so to truly complete the “saga.” I’ll keep you posted.
Course with my luck, vampires will be passé right about then . . .
As always, thanks for reading!
I am pleased to announce I've released a free short, a St. Pete-centric, tongue-in-cheek Zombie tale titled "Nearly Dead" on Smashwords. You can download it in the format of your choice (or read it online) by clicking here.
Plot summary goes something like this:
"When a New York crime boss sends a hitman to St. Pete in the middle of a zombie infestation, the hitman finds that though infested with the undead, his beloved St. Pete hasn't really changed that much. But even in the middle of an infestation, he has a job to do."The story is perhaps too St. Pete-centric for some, with unexplained inside jokes you'd maybe have to live here to know about. Or maybe, it doesn't work at all. Who the hell knows anymore? But hey, it's free, right?
In other news, I’ve completed reviewing the first-round edits of Applewood, my New England vampire novel, and will be sending them back in the next day or so. I’m certain the edits truly make it stronger. We’ve also had preliminary discussions about potential covers. Hard to believe it’s really happening.
One reason I opted to not self-publish this one (after making the rounds of agents and publishers, of course, and sitting at Dorchester for more than three years before they said no) was for just that, to have someone else read and edit and help with production, someone to tell me which parts suck (and not be afraid to use those exact words) and point out bad habits I’d fallen into.
Another curiosity about “Applewood” is there is a completed full-length sequel, picking up where the cliff-hanging end of "Applewood" leaves off. I started writing it as an exercise to more fully flesh out “Applewood” and it took on a life of its own.
I remember thinking at the time, “Is there any greater act of faith or stupidity than writing the sequel to an unpublished novel?”
Don’t know for sure, however I suspect J.K. Rowling and Stephanie Meyer were sane enough to wait and see if anybody cared about the first to write the next.
But between you and me, I think the second in the series is even stronger than the first, and project it would take another four books or so to truly complete the “saga.” I’ll keep you posted.
Course with my luck, vampires will be passé right about then . . .
As always, thanks for reading!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
urder
Olson put his key in the lock and opened the door. He recoiled from the sour aroma that emanated from inside the room, somewhere on the bad smell spectrum between spoiled meat and an adolescent boy's bedroom. After flapping the flimsy door a few times to air the place out, he stepped inside.
Tired and sweaty from a long day on the road, he wanted nothing more than a hot shower and to order up a movie. But first, a long piss was in order, to empty his bladder of the dozen or so cups of tea he'd endured that day. The things you do for money, he thought.
And what he did was collect money from little old ladies for home repairs that would never be done. Today's take alone was close to five grand . . .
I'm pleased to report that "urder" is now exclusively available in my collection 21C and Other Sordid Tales:
Tired and sweaty from a long day on the road, he wanted nothing more than a hot shower and to order up a movie. But first, a long piss was in order, to empty his bladder of the dozen or so cups of tea he'd endured that day. The things you do for money, he thought.
And what he did was collect money from little old ladies for home repairs that would never be done. Today's take alone was close to five grand . . .
I'm pleased to report that "urder" is now exclusively available in my collection 21C and Other Sordid Tales:
Available now wherever fine e-books are sold, or click the link in the "My Books" section on the right to find the collection at Amazon. As always, thanks for reading!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
And all the ships at sea . . .
America's number one talk-show host was already in a foul mood that morning. He'd noticed a small scrape on the door of his Hummer after the valet brought it around. Adding to his trauma, traffic to the studio was a real bitch.
Maybe that was why on this day (as opposed to any another) he was particularly sharp-tongued, inspiring some of his thirty-million or so listeners to action . . .
I'm pleased to report that "And all the ships at sea . . ." is now exclusively available in my collection 21C and Other Sordid Tales:
Maybe that was why on this day (as opposed to any another) he was particularly sharp-tongued, inspiring some of his thirty-million or so listeners to action . . .
I'm pleased to report that "And all the ships at sea . . ." is now exclusively available in my collection 21C and Other Sordid Tales:
Available now wherever fine e-books are sold, or click the link in the "My Books" section on the right to find the collection at Amazon. As always, thanks for reading!
Friday, January 8, 2010
Long Live the King
It was the first place he'd passed in a hundred miles. Arizona dust had long ago pummeled all the paint from the joint. The sign outside read "Shooters."
If there weren't already two or three cars out front -- two dilapidated pick-ups and an ancient Cadillac -- George probably would have passed the place by as abandoned.
But the prospect of a quick beer and a sandwich made him pull off the highway. That, and what the sign out front called "Air Cond t on ng." The freon in his car was long ago used up.
He parked beside the pickups and went inside . . .
I'm pleased to report that "Long Live the King" is now exclusively available in my collection 21C and Other Sordid Tales:
If there weren't already two or three cars out front -- two dilapidated pick-ups and an ancient Cadillac -- George probably would have passed the place by as abandoned.
But the prospect of a quick beer and a sandwich made him pull off the highway. That, and what the sign out front called "Air Cond t on ng." The freon in his car was long ago used up.
He parked beside the pickups and went inside . . .
I'm pleased to report that "Long Live the King" is now exclusively available in my collection 21C and Other Sordid Tales:
Available now wherever fine e-books are sold, or click the link in the "My Books" section on the right to find the collection at Amazon. As always, thanks for reading!
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Requiem
I was listening to Pinball Wizard from Tommy at about 7:30 that night when I heard the back doorbell ring. After a minute I heard my mother calling me.
I got out of my bed and faltered for a minute with the pain. I pulled up on my T-shirt and looked at my chest. It was all black and blue. I hadn’t yet found the courage to look at my balls. I knew I had been unconsciously rubbing them through my shorts.
"Who’s the numbnuts now?" I thought, and smiled. I’d have to share that one with Andy. But the brief smile reminded me of my split lip and I gasped in pain and stopped smiling.
I walked up the hall and into the kitchen and looked out the back door. I got scared as hell when I saw Mr. Thomas standing in the open doorway. I’m in big trouble, I thought.
He was just standing there on the back porch looking at me and then I noticed that Billy was with him too. Mr. Thomas had his big hand clutching Billy’s neck. Billy was looking straight down. The three of us stood there silently for a moment. Mr. Thomas looked at me and then down at Billy. Billy just kept looking at the floor.
“Come on now, do it,” Mr. Thomas said, looking at Billy.
Billy looked up at me. I was pleased to see that his right eye was blackened and half-closed but other than that he didn’t look any worse. I knew I looked much worse than he did. Although I hadn’t looked in the mirror yet.
I watched as Mr. Thomas squeezed Billy’s neck and then Billy held out his right hand to me.
“Come on now boys, shake on it,” Mr. Thomas said.
I looked over at Billy. We didn’t really look each other in the eye but I went over to him and took his hand and we shook up and down twice and let go. Billy looked back to the ground. Mr. Thomas nodded at me and then turned Billy around using the big hand that had never left Billy’s neck. A hand that had just four fingers, I knew.
Plenty enough, for now.
They left the porch for the short walk across the street back to their house. I went back to my room and lay down on my bed and chewed my lower lip. Pinball Wizard had ended and a song called Go to the Mirror was playing. It sounded like a command, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to follow it.
I lay back and thought for a while. Friendships were changing. And Billy was right. I was changing too.
- From Sumner Gardens
Rest in peace, Mr. Thomas.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Friday Fiction
Thick smoke clouded the interior of the vehicle. Stephen Harris and Johnny Walsh were seated up front. Cotter and Michael Harris were in the back. Cotter kept flicking his lighter on and off and staring into the flame.
"Cut that shit out," Harris said after a while. The noise had made his headache worse. Cotter did it a couple of more times before shoving the lighter into his coat pocket.
Michael handed the joint back up front to his brother. Harris took the last hit and threw the remnant onto the floorboard in front of him. He watched it burn for a moment before closing his eyes to quiet the throbbing in his head. The four sat for a while in stoned silence amidst the bluish haze.
"Whose car is this anyway?" Michael asked.
"Don't recognize it," Walsh answered after a moment.
Cotter began leafing through a stack of college-level textbooks he had found in the back seat.
"Must belong to one of them loser college kids here for car-eeer day," he said, sarcastically stretching out the word. He began tearing out pages in thick chunks and crumpling them into a small pile at his feet.
He stopped suddenly a moment later to snicker, "Hey Harris. There's a book back here about you."
The slight lisp caused by his two fully formed sets of front teeth made the name come out sounding a little bit like Harrith.
Although he had begun to nod off, Harris managed to raise his bleary eyes and look into the rear-view. Cotter was holding up one of the books. Harris quickly looked away. He couldn't read that good and anyway, it was even worse when he was stoned and had a headache and the letters were all backwards.
"Yeah? Whatsit say?" he asked, closing his eyes again.
"'Abnormal Psychology: Treatment and Effects'," Cotter answered. He and Walshie erupted with laughter.
Michael was smart enough to wait for his brother's reaction before daring to join in. From his perch in the backseat, he watched his brother slowly raise his head and open his bloodshot eyes to grin into the mirror. Cotter threw the textbook into the pile.
"Career day. Does it get any lamer than that?" Walsh asked.
Cotter tittered and began pounding his feet against the floorboards and drumming away on his knees, listening to the music in his head.
Michael looked out the window toward the school. The last lunch bell had already rung, which meant it was too late now for any of them to get back in without going through the office-note bullshit. Michael knew that none of them would even try, and the words were out of his mouth before he could even stop them.
"I dunno. People gotta do somethin with their lives don't they?" Michael answered.
He was thinking about how the four of them would split soon before spending the rest of the afternoon down in someone's basement, hanging out and getting even more wasted. He remembered foggily that things had been better for him until the sixth grade. Back then, he even had a few friends of his own. But that was the year they decided to hold his older brother back, his brother Stephen who was sixteen-years-old and still in the ninth grade.
"Shut the fuck up, ya homo," Walsh said, turning his head around to stare daggers at Michael in the back seat. Cotter abruptly stopped his drumming.
Michael watched his brother begin to raise his head, the movement as slow as an uncoiling snake. He turned slowly toward Walsh.
Walsh must have sensed something wrong too, because Michael saw that he remained frozen in that half-turned position until Stephen Harris spoke.
"Whaddyou call my brother?" he asked.
Michael watched Walsh curl his lips upward in imitation of a smile. He turned his head slowly toward the driver's seat to say, "Steve . . . come on man. You know I was just kiddin, right?"
He turned around to look at Michael.
"No hard feelings, right?" Walsh asked, his eyes imploring Michael to help get him out of this. And Michael probably would have too, but it happened way too fast.
Harris reached across the front seat with both hands and grabbed Walsh by the hood of his trademark white sweatshirt. Twisting it around his neck, he used the hood to push him hard against the door. His head made an ugly thump against the glass.
Walsh put his hands up in a defensive posture, but it was already too late. Harris sprang out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box and began to pummel him mercilessly. Michael's mouth remained open as he stared in mute horror at the sudden explosion of violence unfolding in the front seat.
And while he immediately recognized the sounds of screams and moans, Michael realized on some level that these sounded different somehow. It occurred to him a moment later that of course they would sound different, because this time, he wasn't the one making them. He felt rather than saw Cotter begin pounding his feet again and drumming away on his knees to music that only he could hear.
Tearing his eyes from the scene, Michael caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view. His mouth was open. Silvery liquid dribbled out. He turned away again to look out the window, toward the school. Moving his hands against the glass, he pushed as hard as he could. It felt like he was drowning, and the only dry land for a mile was in that brick building just across the way.
"You didn't answer my QUESTION," he heard his brother shout. "What did you call my brother?" he repeated as he pounded away on his friend.
For his part, Walsh was determined to take the pummeling like a man. He knew the coppery taste in his mouth was coming from a now split lip. But whatever else was gonna happen, he knew one thing for sure: however many times Harris asked him, he sure as hell wasn't gonna repeat it.
"Cut that shit out," Harris said after a while. The noise had made his headache worse. Cotter did it a couple of more times before shoving the lighter into his coat pocket.
Michael handed the joint back up front to his brother. Harris took the last hit and threw the remnant onto the floorboard in front of him. He watched it burn for a moment before closing his eyes to quiet the throbbing in his head. The four sat for a while in stoned silence amidst the bluish haze.
"Whose car is this anyway?" Michael asked.
"Don't recognize it," Walsh answered after a moment.
Cotter began leafing through a stack of college-level textbooks he had found in the back seat.
"Must belong to one of them loser college kids here for car-eeer day," he said, sarcastically stretching out the word. He began tearing out pages in thick chunks and crumpling them into a small pile at his feet.
He stopped suddenly a moment later to snicker, "Hey Harris. There's a book back here about you."
The slight lisp caused by his two fully formed sets of front teeth made the name come out sounding a little bit like Harrith.
Although he had begun to nod off, Harris managed to raise his bleary eyes and look into the rear-view. Cotter was holding up one of the books. Harris quickly looked away. He couldn't read that good and anyway, it was even worse when he was stoned and had a headache and the letters were all backwards.
"Yeah? Whatsit say?" he asked, closing his eyes again.
"'Abnormal Psychology: Treatment and Effects'," Cotter answered. He and Walshie erupted with laughter.
Michael was smart enough to wait for his brother's reaction before daring to join in. From his perch in the backseat, he watched his brother slowly raise his head and open his bloodshot eyes to grin into the mirror. Cotter threw the textbook into the pile.
"Career day. Does it get any lamer than that?" Walsh asked.
Cotter tittered and began pounding his feet against the floorboards and drumming away on his knees, listening to the music in his head.
Michael looked out the window toward the school. The last lunch bell had already rung, which meant it was too late now for any of them to get back in without going through the office-note bullshit. Michael knew that none of them would even try, and the words were out of his mouth before he could even stop them.
"I dunno. People gotta do somethin with their lives don't they?" Michael answered.
He was thinking about how the four of them would split soon before spending the rest of the afternoon down in someone's basement, hanging out and getting even more wasted. He remembered foggily that things had been better for him until the sixth grade. Back then, he even had a few friends of his own. But that was the year they decided to hold his older brother back, his brother Stephen who was sixteen-years-old and still in the ninth grade.
"Shut the fuck up, ya homo," Walsh said, turning his head around to stare daggers at Michael in the back seat. Cotter abruptly stopped his drumming.
Michael watched his brother begin to raise his head, the movement as slow as an uncoiling snake. He turned slowly toward Walsh.
Walsh must have sensed something wrong too, because Michael saw that he remained frozen in that half-turned position until Stephen Harris spoke.
"Whaddyou call my brother?" he asked.
Michael watched Walsh curl his lips upward in imitation of a smile. He turned his head slowly toward the driver's seat to say, "Steve . . . come on man. You know I was just kiddin, right?"
He turned around to look at Michael.
"No hard feelings, right?" Walsh asked, his eyes imploring Michael to help get him out of this. And Michael probably would have too, but it happened way too fast.
Harris reached across the front seat with both hands and grabbed Walsh by the hood of his trademark white sweatshirt. Twisting it around his neck, he used the hood to push him hard against the door. His head made an ugly thump against the glass.
Walsh put his hands up in a defensive posture, but it was already too late. Harris sprang out of his seat like a jack-in-the-box and began to pummel him mercilessly. Michael's mouth remained open as he stared in mute horror at the sudden explosion of violence unfolding in the front seat.
And while he immediately recognized the sounds of screams and moans, Michael realized on some level that these sounded different somehow. It occurred to him a moment later that of course they would sound different, because this time, he wasn't the one making them. He felt rather than saw Cotter begin pounding his feet again and drumming away on his knees to music that only he could hear.
Tearing his eyes from the scene, Michael caught a glimpse of himself in the rear-view. His mouth was open. Silvery liquid dribbled out. He turned away again to look out the window, toward the school. Moving his hands against the glass, he pushed as hard as he could. It felt like he was drowning, and the only dry land for a mile was in that brick building just across the way.
"You didn't answer my QUESTION," he heard his brother shout. "What did you call my brother?" he repeated as he pounded away on his friend.
For his part, Walsh was determined to take the pummeling like a man. He knew the coppery taste in his mouth was coming from a now split lip. But whatever else was gonna happen, he knew one thing for sure: however many times Harris asked him, he sure as hell wasn't gonna repeat it.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Friday Fiction
Now, I seen a lot of stiffs in my day and learned that one is pretty much like another. This one was splayed out face up along the fine leather couch.
He wore an expensive penguin suit - classic black - but his once snow-white pleated shirt with the fancy French cuffs was now stained more than a few shades darker than his red cummerbund.
I could tell immediately cause of death wasn't gonna be a problem on this one. Heck, if that's all she wanted to know, my job was already done. Because sticking out of his chest, glittering in the afternoon sunlight that poured through the large windows, was the fanciest-ass knife I ever seen.
Its gold handle was festooned with dozens of blue and red and white stones - diamonds and sapphires and rubies. I thought for just a moment if it was in the cards I go out that way, this was the sort of knife I'd want used for the job. A real first class shiv, all right.
It took some effort, but after a while I was able to take my eyes off the fortune in jewels and focus a little attention on the stiff.
He musta been a real fancy boy in his day – the last of which was yesterday, near as I could tell. He wore his jet black hair slicked back to reveal a high forehead. He had a pencil thin moustache that even in death made me dislike him. I hated that pencil thin look. It always made me wonder what they were trying to hide.
Out of habit I checked his shoes. Frederico Leone blunt-toed Palermo's. I knew their leather was as genuine and supple as the couch the guy died on. Yeah, he was a real fancy boy all right. I took one last look at his face before deciding I'd seen enough.
Turning slowly, I walked back across the room. After taking my seat, I reached over and poured myself another cup of java before remembering my manners and pouring Mrs. Stark a warmer upper.
I saw another one of those eclairs on the fine silver platter and reached across and plopped it in my mouth. Murder always makes me hungry. I washed down the last of the éclair with a long slug and then began to ask questions.
"Who's the stiff?" I asked, real matter of fact.
It may sound heartless, but it's the way I operate. These first moments on a case sometimes make all the difference
She managed to pull her head out of her hands and look over at me, obviously surprised at the tone of my question. She wasn't used to being talked to that way, that much I could tell.
I watched those slot machine eyes start spinning again while keeping my own expression impassive. The look she finally settled on was somewhere between resignation and helplessness. It looked like she was about to get something off her chest.
"I don't like your tone, Mr. Londergan, but I guess that's neither here nor there. I'll have you know, however, that I am not accustomed to coming down for my morning tea and finding . . ." she gestured toward the long couch. ". . . that sort of thing. You can imagine how shocked I was!"
She put on a kind of plaintive look that mightta melted some men's hearts. Not this one.
"Who's the stiff?" I asked again.
She blew out a long sigh as she realized I was the type of guy who wasn't gonna put up with her just blowing smoke. That thought had me reach into the inside jacket of my slicker and pull out my deck.
"Mind if I smoke?" I asked. She shook her head no.
I lit up a pill and drew the smoke deep into my lungs. Blowing it out, I watched the smoke waft upward and turn into a blue cloud two stories above my head. I was gonna wait her out. I had all the time in the world. And after a while, she started to spill.
"His name is Enrico Fermini. He's a . . . business associate of my husband. There was a party here last evening. It was a benefit for the natural history museum. We're always having parties and benefits here for one thing or another. My husband is on the boards of dozens of museums and charities."
When she paused a moment, I asked, "What kind of business your husband in?"
She thought a moment about her answer.
"Well, he doesn't have to work, not really. His ancestors saw to that. So he keeps himself busy with his charity work and also serves on some corporate boards. I guess the closest thing he does for a living is antiquities. He is a collector of fine things, my husband is."
Looking across at her, I couldn't argue the point. She went on
"I suppose his passions are things from ancient times, from Babylon and Sumeria, cradle of civilization type stuff. But lately . . ." She paused.
"What is it?" I asked.
"It just seems that lately, this hobby of his has brought him into contact with some . . . shall we say . . . unsavory characters. The world of antiquities like those favored by my husband is shadowy and filled with intrigue. There is a huge black market in the stuff, although I refuse to believe that my husband would ever deal in that particular world."
I took advantage of her pause to throw in a question I thought pertinent.
"And our Mr. Fermini over there – the guy on the couch with a stick in him – remember him? Was he one of those 'unsavory characters' you spoke of?"
It was harsh, I know, so shut yer yap. But I needed to keep her off balance, see. I wasn't sure yet if I was buying anything she was selling so I laid it on a little thick. The jury was still out on this one as far as I was concerned. She gave me a look that could kill.
I couldn't help but wonder whether that same look was also the last thing our unfortunate Mr. Fermini had seen.
He wore an expensive penguin suit - classic black - but his once snow-white pleated shirt with the fancy French cuffs was now stained more than a few shades darker than his red cummerbund.
I could tell immediately cause of death wasn't gonna be a problem on this one. Heck, if that's all she wanted to know, my job was already done. Because sticking out of his chest, glittering in the afternoon sunlight that poured through the large windows, was the fanciest-ass knife I ever seen.
Its gold handle was festooned with dozens of blue and red and white stones - diamonds and sapphires and rubies. I thought for just a moment if it was in the cards I go out that way, this was the sort of knife I'd want used for the job. A real first class shiv, all right.
It took some effort, but after a while I was able to take my eyes off the fortune in jewels and focus a little attention on the stiff.
He musta been a real fancy boy in his day – the last of which was yesterday, near as I could tell. He wore his jet black hair slicked back to reveal a high forehead. He had a pencil thin moustache that even in death made me dislike him. I hated that pencil thin look. It always made me wonder what they were trying to hide.
Out of habit I checked his shoes. Frederico Leone blunt-toed Palermo's. I knew their leather was as genuine and supple as the couch the guy died on. Yeah, he was a real fancy boy all right. I took one last look at his face before deciding I'd seen enough.
Turning slowly, I walked back across the room. After taking my seat, I reached over and poured myself another cup of java before remembering my manners and pouring Mrs. Stark a warmer upper.
I saw another one of those eclairs on the fine silver platter and reached across and plopped it in my mouth. Murder always makes me hungry. I washed down the last of the éclair with a long slug and then began to ask questions.
"Who's the stiff?" I asked, real matter of fact.
It may sound heartless, but it's the way I operate. These first moments on a case sometimes make all the difference
She managed to pull her head out of her hands and look over at me, obviously surprised at the tone of my question. She wasn't used to being talked to that way, that much I could tell.
I watched those slot machine eyes start spinning again while keeping my own expression impassive. The look she finally settled on was somewhere between resignation and helplessness. It looked like she was about to get something off her chest.
"I don't like your tone, Mr. Londergan, but I guess that's neither here nor there. I'll have you know, however, that I am not accustomed to coming down for my morning tea and finding . . ." she gestured toward the long couch. ". . . that sort of thing. You can imagine how shocked I was!"
She put on a kind of plaintive look that mightta melted some men's hearts. Not this one.
"Who's the stiff?" I asked again.
She blew out a long sigh as she realized I was the type of guy who wasn't gonna put up with her just blowing smoke. That thought had me reach into the inside jacket of my slicker and pull out my deck.
"Mind if I smoke?" I asked. She shook her head no.
I lit up a pill and drew the smoke deep into my lungs. Blowing it out, I watched the smoke waft upward and turn into a blue cloud two stories above my head. I was gonna wait her out. I had all the time in the world. And after a while, she started to spill.
"His name is Enrico Fermini. He's a . . . business associate of my husband. There was a party here last evening. It was a benefit for the natural history museum. We're always having parties and benefits here for one thing or another. My husband is on the boards of dozens of museums and charities."
When she paused a moment, I asked, "What kind of business your husband in?"
She thought a moment about her answer.
"Well, he doesn't have to work, not really. His ancestors saw to that. So he keeps himself busy with his charity work and also serves on some corporate boards. I guess the closest thing he does for a living is antiquities. He is a collector of fine things, my husband is."
Looking across at her, I couldn't argue the point. She went on
"I suppose his passions are things from ancient times, from Babylon and Sumeria, cradle of civilization type stuff. But lately . . ." She paused.
"What is it?" I asked.
"It just seems that lately, this hobby of his has brought him into contact with some . . . shall we say . . . unsavory characters. The world of antiquities like those favored by my husband is shadowy and filled with intrigue. There is a huge black market in the stuff, although I refuse to believe that my husband would ever deal in that particular world."
I took advantage of her pause to throw in a question I thought pertinent.
"And our Mr. Fermini over there – the guy on the couch with a stick in him – remember him? Was he one of those 'unsavory characters' you spoke of?"
It was harsh, I know, so shut yer yap. But I needed to keep her off balance, see. I wasn't sure yet if I was buying anything she was selling so I laid it on a little thick. The jury was still out on this one as far as I was concerned. She gave me a look that could kill.
I couldn't help but wonder whether that same look was also the last thing our unfortunate Mr. Fermini had seen.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Friday Fiction
It was late and the young man was tired. In his second semester at Syracuse, he was headed home on the Thursday before spring break.
The promise of some gas money had bought a ride with friends, though they could take him only as far as Sturbridge. And so it was just after eleven o'clock in the evening that they dropped him off at a Burger King on the Massachusetts Turnpike.
Stepping out of the car and into the cool night air, he waved goodbye to his friends, inwardly relieved to escape the cramped back seat, the too loud music, and the ever-present cloud of blue smoke.
Walking toward the restaurant, he assured himself again it wouldn't be too hard to find a ride home. It was only another twenty miles. He had always just assumed it would be close enough.
* * *
Through the darkness of the night, a black Lincoln Continental cruised along the Turnpike heading east at a steady hundred miles an hour. Behind its tinted windows, bass notes thumped percussively, while inside, the driver pounded spasmodically on the wheel.
In a greenish blur, he passed highway signs bearing the logo of the Turnpike, a cartoonish Pilgrim's hat. He smiled to recall that when he was a kid, the logo had been different. Same hat, but back then it had an Indian arrow running through it.
He cackled at the memory, while throughout the vehicle, George Thorogood's smoky rasp kept shouting out a question that in this car had no answer.
"Who do you love?
Who do you love?"
* * *
Hefting his duffel bag, the young man walked through the dining area and began tentatively approaching people. The first was a bespectacled man with a combover, seated in a booth against the window, drinking coffee and eating the last of his Whopper.
"Excuse me, sir," the boy said, putting on his friendliest and most non-threatening smile. "I'm trying to get to Dutton. You going anywhere near there?"
The man froze mid-chew before looking down at his lap, then out the window, looking anywhere except at the young man. The kid was polite, though. He'd gotten his answer. The next man he approached continued reading his newspaper while pretending he hadn't heard.
Sighing, the young man looked around the almost empty restaurant then down at his watch. It was after 11:30. He really should've expected this.
He glanced toward the counter and thought he caught the manager eying him suspiciously. He'd bought nothing since entering the restaurant and remembered suddenly he was famished.
* * *
The man in the black car reached beside him into a now almost empty box of Ho-Ho's. Drawing out the last of them, he threw the empty box into the back seat along with the rest of the garbage that had accumulated along the way.
The vehicle had been pristine when liberated from its owner, smelling then of leather and ArmorAll with just the barest hint of cherry. The car smelled now of its new owner, a sickly sweet scent of decaying Hostess treats along with a coppery, sanguineous undertone.
Scarfing down the last of the sweet cake, one hunger sated for the moment, the driver stole a glance into his rearview. He pulled his dark sunglasses down the end of his nose and stared a moment into his own yellowish wolves eyes, smiling to think he'd be home soon.
* * *
The young man sat in the booth recently vacated by combover mute guy, finishing off the last of his fries and sucking down what was left of his Coke.
A few older men and a couple of drunk fratboy types had come and gone in the few minutes it had taken him to eat. He had approached all of them, all with the same result.
There was this one man, a truck driver who'd overheard him asking for a ride. He seemed interested to help. A little too interested for the young man's liking. After declining politely, he hefted the duffelbag across his shoulder and hurriedly exited the restaurant.
He walked across the barren parking lot, past the gas pumps and toward the long curving exit. At the end of the ramp, he began walking along the breakdown lane of the dark highway where he started having second thoughts.
It wasn't too late to go back, he thought. Not too late to call someone for a ride.
But his parents would be asleep by now. And besides, this visit home was a surprise. Tomorrow was his mother's birthday.
Glancing up, he saw a bright halogen lamp a few hundred feet away. It looked as good a place as any to camp out a while and stick out his thumb. It was also a good place to be seen, giving potential drivers a chance to size him up.
Feeling better about things, he started walking in that direction. Halfway there, he heard a car coming from behind and stuck out his thumb half-heartedly, thinking he'd never be so lucky. A moment later he heard the loud screeching of brakes.
Still braking as it passed him by, the car swerved dangerously across the high-speed and passing lanes before finally coming to a stop in the travel lane about a hundred feet away. Curious and hopeful, the young man began walking toward the vehicle.
He heard the driver rev the powerful engine a few times. Moving closer, he heard pounding bass from a massive sub-woofer. When close enough to notice the car had Arizona plates, he looked up and saw the passenger window sliding open.
"I walked forty-seven miles of barbed wire,
I got a cobra snake for a necktie"
The young man walked over and put on his friendly smile. Bending over to peer in the window, he had to step backward against the powerful odor that wafted from within the vehicle. It was a sickly-sweet kind of smell along with a hint of something he remembered from the time he and his buddies snuck into a porno theater in Worcester.
Garbage was strewn throughout the vehicle. Empty boxes and plastic packaging along with the unmistakable white cardboard leftover from Hostess treats. He turned his head and took in a deep breath before bending over once again to peer in at the driver.
"A brand new house on the road side,
and it's made out of rattlesnake hide"
The driver was just a kid. A young teenager anyway. The young man kept the smile on his face while trying not to recoil from the vicious scars on the driver's face, leftover from what appeared to be third degree burns.
Pale and wan looking, he wore a khaki army jacket and jeans. His dirty blond hair was long and parted on the side, in a style the young man had seen only in movies from the eighties.
In another salute to the eighties, the driver was wearing Wayfarer sunglasses. Probably to hide the burns, the young man thought just before he spoke.
"Hey," he said, his voice friendly. "Thanks for stopping. How far you going?"
The driver did not glance his way when he answered in a voice the monotone of a longtime stoner.
"Grantham."
"Got a brand new chimney put on top,
and it's made out of human skull"
The young man froze a moment, puzzled for some reason. It was another moment before he realized what it was. He could have sworn the kid's mouth hadn't moved at all.
But it took only another second for him to decide. Grantham was the next town over from Dutton. It was just too good to pass up. Anyway, he had a good thirty pounds on the scrawny kid. What's the worst that could happen?
Reaching down, he opened up the door. "I'm going to Dutton," he said getting into the car. He didn't notice the dome light hadn't gone on when he opened the door.
"Come on take a little walk with me child,
tell me who do you love?"
He had to stop a moment to push a few Hostess backings off the passenger seat, some with chocolate or pinkish coconut still clinging to them. As he pushed them to the floor with his gloved hand, the young man realized the kid must have some sweet tooth. Most of them looked like they'd been licked clean.
"Who do you love?
Who do you love?"
The promise of some gas money had bought a ride with friends, though they could take him only as far as Sturbridge. And so it was just after eleven o'clock in the evening that they dropped him off at a Burger King on the Massachusetts Turnpike.
Stepping out of the car and into the cool night air, he waved goodbye to his friends, inwardly relieved to escape the cramped back seat, the too loud music, and the ever-present cloud of blue smoke.
Walking toward the restaurant, he assured himself again it wouldn't be too hard to find a ride home. It was only another twenty miles. He had always just assumed it would be close enough.
Through the darkness of the night, a black Lincoln Continental cruised along the Turnpike heading east at a steady hundred miles an hour. Behind its tinted windows, bass notes thumped percussively, while inside, the driver pounded spasmodically on the wheel.
In a greenish blur, he passed highway signs bearing the logo of the Turnpike, a cartoonish Pilgrim's hat. He smiled to recall that when he was a kid, the logo had been different. Same hat, but back then it had an Indian arrow running through it.
He cackled at the memory, while throughout the vehicle, George Thorogood's smoky rasp kept shouting out a question that in this car had no answer.
"Who do you love?
Who do you love?"
Hefting his duffel bag, the young man walked through the dining area and began tentatively approaching people. The first was a bespectacled man with a combover, seated in a booth against the window, drinking coffee and eating the last of his Whopper.
"Excuse me, sir," the boy said, putting on his friendliest and most non-threatening smile. "I'm trying to get to Dutton. You going anywhere near there?"
The man froze mid-chew before looking down at his lap, then out the window, looking anywhere except at the young man. The kid was polite, though. He'd gotten his answer. The next man he approached continued reading his newspaper while pretending he hadn't heard.
Sighing, the young man looked around the almost empty restaurant then down at his watch. It was after 11:30. He really should've expected this.
He glanced toward the counter and thought he caught the manager eying him suspiciously. He'd bought nothing since entering the restaurant and remembered suddenly he was famished.
The man in the black car reached beside him into a now almost empty box of Ho-Ho's. Drawing out the last of them, he threw the empty box into the back seat along with the rest of the garbage that had accumulated along the way.
The vehicle had been pristine when liberated from its owner, smelling then of leather and ArmorAll with just the barest hint of cherry. The car smelled now of its new owner, a sickly sweet scent of decaying Hostess treats along with a coppery, sanguineous undertone.
Scarfing down the last of the sweet cake, one hunger sated for the moment, the driver stole a glance into his rearview. He pulled his dark sunglasses down the end of his nose and stared a moment into his own yellowish wolves eyes, smiling to think he'd be home soon.
The young man sat in the booth recently vacated by combover mute guy, finishing off the last of his fries and sucking down what was left of his Coke.
A few older men and a couple of drunk fratboy types had come and gone in the few minutes it had taken him to eat. He had approached all of them, all with the same result.
There was this one man, a truck driver who'd overheard him asking for a ride. He seemed interested to help. A little too interested for the young man's liking. After declining politely, he hefted the duffelbag across his shoulder and hurriedly exited the restaurant.
He walked across the barren parking lot, past the gas pumps and toward the long curving exit. At the end of the ramp, he began walking along the breakdown lane of the dark highway where he started having second thoughts.
It wasn't too late to go back, he thought. Not too late to call someone for a ride.
But his parents would be asleep by now. And besides, this visit home was a surprise. Tomorrow was his mother's birthday.
Glancing up, he saw a bright halogen lamp a few hundred feet away. It looked as good a place as any to camp out a while and stick out his thumb. It was also a good place to be seen, giving potential drivers a chance to size him up.
Feeling better about things, he started walking in that direction. Halfway there, he heard a car coming from behind and stuck out his thumb half-heartedly, thinking he'd never be so lucky. A moment later he heard the loud screeching of brakes.
Still braking as it passed him by, the car swerved dangerously across the high-speed and passing lanes before finally coming to a stop in the travel lane about a hundred feet away. Curious and hopeful, the young man began walking toward the vehicle.
He heard the driver rev the powerful engine a few times. Moving closer, he heard pounding bass from a massive sub-woofer. When close enough to notice the car had Arizona plates, he looked up and saw the passenger window sliding open.
"I walked forty-seven miles of barbed wire,
I got a cobra snake for a necktie"
The young man walked over and put on his friendly smile. Bending over to peer in the window, he had to step backward against the powerful odor that wafted from within the vehicle. It was a sickly-sweet kind of smell along with a hint of something he remembered from the time he and his buddies snuck into a porno theater in Worcester.
Garbage was strewn throughout the vehicle. Empty boxes and plastic packaging along with the unmistakable white cardboard leftover from Hostess treats. He turned his head and took in a deep breath before bending over once again to peer in at the driver.
"A brand new house on the road side,
and it's made out of rattlesnake hide"
The driver was just a kid. A young teenager anyway. The young man kept the smile on his face while trying not to recoil from the vicious scars on the driver's face, leftover from what appeared to be third degree burns.
Pale and wan looking, he wore a khaki army jacket and jeans. His dirty blond hair was long and parted on the side, in a style the young man had seen only in movies from the eighties.
In another salute to the eighties, the driver was wearing Wayfarer sunglasses. Probably to hide the burns, the young man thought just before he spoke.
"Hey," he said, his voice friendly. "Thanks for stopping. How far you going?"
The driver did not glance his way when he answered in a voice the monotone of a longtime stoner.
"Grantham."
"Got a brand new chimney put on top,
and it's made out of human skull"
The young man froze a moment, puzzled for some reason. It was another moment before he realized what it was. He could have sworn the kid's mouth hadn't moved at all.
But it took only another second for him to decide. Grantham was the next town over from Dutton. It was just too good to pass up. Anyway, he had a good thirty pounds on the scrawny kid. What's the worst that could happen?
Reaching down, he opened up the door. "I'm going to Dutton," he said getting into the car. He didn't notice the dome light hadn't gone on when he opened the door.
"Come on take a little walk with me child,
tell me who do you love?"
He had to stop a moment to push a few Hostess backings off the passenger seat, some with chocolate or pinkish coconut still clinging to them. As he pushed them to the floor with his gloved hand, the young man realized the kid must have some sweet tooth. Most of them looked like they'd been licked clean.
"Who do you love?
Who do you love?"
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday Fiction
From his seat on the leather couch, Michael glanced up and saw it was after midnight now. He'd been watching television with the sound down while listening to the never-ending storm rage against his windows. It had increased in intensity sometime around ten o'clock or so, signaled by the tooth rattling return of thunder coupled with blinding flashes of lightning that had been the storm's hallmark when it first began almost two weeks ago.
He had shut the sound off because he wanted to just listen to the storm, realizing then how grateful he had been during those weeks for the boom of thunder in the nighttime, because it was a natural sound, and helped drown out those other sounds -- the unnatural ones -- that he knew had been out there all along.
Just before midnight, the storm finally began giving up the ghost. There was a booming finale that would have been worthy of a hundred July Fourth's, but it was soon obvious the storm was in its death throes. Now, ten minutes after its cacophonous climax, Michael heard only the occasional sound of a renegade raindrop pelting itself against a window, or heard intermittently the bathroom sound that a gutter makes as it drains itself.
With those other sounds gone, there was nothing left to stifle the unholy clatter being made out there by his brother and his former friends. He heard them knock every now and then against the vinyl siding, or bang away at the windows.
What was worse, they had mastered some kind of 'fingernail on a chalkboard' sound that was in the process of driving Michael positively batshit. But of course, his late brother would know exactly the sorts of sounds guaranteed to do just that.
He had shut the sound off because he wanted to just listen to the storm, realizing then how grateful he had been during those weeks for the boom of thunder in the nighttime, because it was a natural sound, and helped drown out those other sounds -- the unnatural ones -- that he knew had been out there all along.
Just before midnight, the storm finally began giving up the ghost. There was a booming finale that would have been worthy of a hundred July Fourth's, but it was soon obvious the storm was in its death throes. Now, ten minutes after its cacophonous climax, Michael heard only the occasional sound of a renegade raindrop pelting itself against a window, or heard intermittently the bathroom sound that a gutter makes as it drains itself.
With those other sounds gone, there was nothing left to stifle the unholy clatter being made out there by his brother and his former friends. He heard them knock every now and then against the vinyl siding, or bang away at the windows.
What was worse, they had mastered some kind of 'fingernail on a chalkboard' sound that was in the process of driving Michael positively batshit. But of course, his late brother would know exactly the sorts of sounds guaranteed to do just that.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Friday Fiction
Propane hissed. The coals began to glow. Familiar scents of summers past wafted into his nose.
The faint whiff of hot dog reminded him of the boys. He smiled and breathed deep.
He was no longer allowed to see the boys. Karen's lies had made sure of that.
Greg had sent her a letter today anyway. An invitation of sorts. It should arrive by Tuesday.
Taking another deep breath, he glanced toward the door and window and marveled at the utility of duct tape.
Closing his eyes, he lay back in the tub and smiled.
The cracks were tightly sealed.
The faint whiff of hot dog reminded him of the boys. He smiled and breathed deep.
He was no longer allowed to see the boys. Karen's lies had made sure of that.
Greg had sent her a letter today anyway. An invitation of sorts. It should arrive by Tuesday.
Taking another deep breath, he glanced toward the door and window and marveled at the utility of duct tape.
Closing his eyes, he lay back in the tub and smiled.
The cracks were tightly sealed.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Friday Fiction
The night before school was to begin, Dugan was at the kitchen table, eating a French bread pizza and reading a blurb in Time magazine about a strange new disease. The article said the disease began as a fever of unknown origin and ended always in death. What was worse, they weren't sure yet just how the thing was transmitted.
Hearing his father come down the stairs, he glanced up to notice he had, for some reason, shed his trademark torn flannel and jeans for a pair of chinos and a red sweater. He walked behind Dugan and began rummaging around in the fridge for something to eat.
"Where you goin?" Dugan asked after a while.
"Work," his father answered.
Dugan raised his head. "Where?" he asked.
"Thunderbird," his father answered. "Gonna bartend there a few nights a week."
Dugan looked back at his Time. Without thinking, he muttered, "That'll be convenient."
and the next thing he knew he'd been pulled out of his chair and heard it crash loudly onto the floor behind him. His father lifted him off his feet and spun him around, slamming his back against the still open fridge.
His left hand pressed viciously against Dugan's chest, squeezing out his breath. His right hand was fisted, raised over his shoulder and aimed toward Dugan's face.
"Whaddyou say to me, you little punk?" his father asked.
Dugan stared back a long moment, before he began to feel his bottom grow slowly wet, as the milk or the juice or whatever it was in the fridge that had been knocked over by the sudden violence began to dribble against his backside, before dripping down onto the floor that was now an inch beneath his feet.
He felt his face grow red with anger. His lip quivered. But he willed away the tears that now threatened to fill his eyes. The two stared each other down another moment until Dugan screamed suddenly, "Hit me!"
and a moment later, he screamed it again.
"Hit me!"
He watched his father begin to shrink slowly away from him and saw something in his eyes change. The pressure on his chest began to abate somewhat. Before he allowed that to happen, Dugan grabbed his father’s big hand in his own and again shoved it violently against his chest.
"Hit me!" he shrieked, demanding it now
and after that he couldn't stop the tears from falling and collapsed limply against the fridge, with only his father's big hand holding him up at all. He closed his eyes a moment before he felt his father begin to slowly lower him to the floor, where he collapsed onto the dirty linoleum and into the puddle of milk or whatever the hell it was, where he turned his bleary eyes up toward his father to beg and plead and cry and moan,
"hit me . . . please . . . just . . . hit me . . . please"
and some time after that he heard his father leave the house.
Hearing his father come down the stairs, he glanced up to notice he had, for some reason, shed his trademark torn flannel and jeans for a pair of chinos and a red sweater. He walked behind Dugan and began rummaging around in the fridge for something to eat.
"Where you goin?" Dugan asked after a while.
"Work," his father answered.
Dugan raised his head. "Where?" he asked.
"Thunderbird," his father answered. "Gonna bartend there a few nights a week."
Dugan looked back at his Time. Without thinking, he muttered, "That'll be convenient."
and the next thing he knew he'd been pulled out of his chair and heard it crash loudly onto the floor behind him. His father lifted him off his feet and spun him around, slamming his back against the still open fridge.
His left hand pressed viciously against Dugan's chest, squeezing out his breath. His right hand was fisted, raised over his shoulder and aimed toward Dugan's face.
"Whaddyou say to me, you little punk?" his father asked.
Dugan stared back a long moment, before he began to feel his bottom grow slowly wet, as the milk or the juice or whatever it was in the fridge that had been knocked over by the sudden violence began to dribble against his backside, before dripping down onto the floor that was now an inch beneath his feet.
He felt his face grow red with anger. His lip quivered. But he willed away the tears that now threatened to fill his eyes. The two stared each other down another moment until Dugan screamed suddenly, "Hit me!"
and a moment later, he screamed it again.
"Hit me!"
He watched his father begin to shrink slowly away from him and saw something in his eyes change. The pressure on his chest began to abate somewhat. Before he allowed that to happen, Dugan grabbed his father’s big hand in his own and again shoved it violently against his chest.
"Hit me!" he shrieked, demanding it now
and after that he couldn't stop the tears from falling and collapsed limply against the fridge, with only his father's big hand holding him up at all. He closed his eyes a moment before he felt his father begin to slowly lower him to the floor, where he collapsed onto the dirty linoleum and into the puddle of milk or whatever the hell it was, where he turned his bleary eyes up toward his father to beg and plead and cry and moan,
"hit me . . . please . . . just . . . hit me . . . please"
and some time after that he heard his father leave the house.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
ABSENTEE BALLOTS
I've got a second piece posted on the MicroHorror website, this one titled "Absentee Ballots." You can read the story by clicking here.
This is an abridged version of a story I entered at the last minute into Apex Digest's recent Halloween competition, themed "Election Horror." Had to whittle it from a thousand words (Apex's limit) down to MicroHorror's limit of 666. Probably more humorous than horror, but I had fun writing it.
It's a good example (I suppose) of how a story is never wasted. Whether it finds a home in the first place you send it or the fifteenth, if it's a good story and you believe in it . . . keep trying!
And thanks to Nathan Rosen, who truly does a remarkable job with MicroHorror. Not only does he provide a forum for new writers looking to be read, but he is remarkably personable in his communications and has an unbelievably quick turnaround.
To check out the Apex Digest Election Horror winners, click here. They're worth your time.
This is an abridged version of a story I entered at the last minute into Apex Digest's recent Halloween competition, themed "Election Horror." Had to whittle it from a thousand words (Apex's limit) down to MicroHorror's limit of 666. Probably more humorous than horror, but I had fun writing it.
It's a good example (I suppose) of how a story is never wasted. Whether it finds a home in the first place you send it or the fifteenth, if it's a good story and you believe in it . . . keep trying!
And thanks to Nathan Rosen, who truly does a remarkable job with MicroHorror. Not only does he provide a forum for new writers looking to be read, but he is remarkably personable in his communications and has an unbelievably quick turnaround.
To check out the Apex Digest Election Horror winners, click here. They're worth your time.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
New Fiction up on MicroHorror
Delighted to report I've got a new story titled Rated "M" up on the MicroHorror website. You can read the story by clicking here.
I got the idea for this one while perusing the late Thomas Dish's blog. One of my favorite writers, I've only recently learned of his passing.
Anyway, in one of his posts, he mentions a divorced friend of his who, in an effort to remain close to his son, allowed him to play the most gruesome video games.
I know, I know. Video games are not the cause of adolescent violence. It seems to me though they are, in many cases, a symptom.
MicroHorror is a cool website for flash horror fiction with a word limit of 666 words. Check it out!
I got the idea for this one while perusing the late Thomas Dish's blog. One of my favorite writers, I've only recently learned of his passing.
Anyway, in one of his posts, he mentions a divorced friend of his who, in an effort to remain close to his son, allowed him to play the most gruesome video games.
I know, I know. Video games are not the cause of adolescent violence. It seems to me though they are, in many cases, a symptom.
MicroHorror is a cool website for flash horror fiction with a word limit of 666 words. Check it out!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
On Kennebago Lake
After receiving my acceptance to "Northern Haunts," I got greedy and wrote another short called "Kennebago Lake." Whether the anthology was full or they already had their share of my . . . creature . . . or whether it just wasn't good enough, I don't know. But here it is!
I'd been in the cabin four days. It was small and barely furnished, but that didn't matter. It was the view overlooking Kennebago Lake you paid for. It was here me and my four-legged friend would recharge our batteries for the next two weeks.
The previous tenants left behind some supermarket tabloids. Caught up in reading about an alien-human hybrid, a familiar tinkling made me look up. The sun was almost down, but through the murky dusk I saw a man standing on the earthen dam that jutted across the lake.
Turning to MacGuff, I asked, "Wanna go out pup?" He thumped his tail against the doorway. I grabbed my coat and opened the door. The dog scampered down the steps.
I caught up to him in a small clearing. We walked through the woods and onto the seawall, where a slight breeze caused small waves to lap gently against concrete. I looked up to see the man had stopped at the spillway, where water flowed from the lake into the swamp below.
Crouched over, perhaps kneeling, he was reaching his arms into the falling water. I froze mid-step. Because beneath the sound of falling water, I heard high-pitched whistles and jungle like screams.
I felt MacGuff brush against me. Soft whimpering came from his throat. Looking down, I watched him take the cuff of my jeans in his teeth and begin pulling me backwards.
It was then I smelled a sulfurous, foul odor, of animal sweat and burnt rubber and dirty diapers. Gagging, I pulled my jacket over my face. The dog's whimpering was now a low, deep growl. I took the hint.
I found the cover of a large tree and went to my knees, pulling the dog close before turning again toward the creature. There was no doubt now this was the word to describe it.
I saw then that it was kneeling, yet still tall as a man. And it wasn't a dark suit or overcoat hanging from its body, but a reddish pelt of some sort. I blinked hard and told myself I was being silly.
Smiling, I recalled spending the last few hours reading about UFO's and strange phenomenon. This was simply a bear that had snuck out of its cave for a drink or . . . I shivered to think maybe it was something gone rabid.
As the moon peeked over the treetops, the creature stood. I watched mesmerized as it brought itself to full height of about ten feet.
After a moment, it began shaking itself the way MacGuff did after a swim or a bath. It was then MacGuff let loose a bark that shattered the stillness of the night. The creature snapped its head in our direction. My bowels loosened when I saw its orange-red eyes.
I shivered to realize that if I could see it, it could see me. There was something in those eyes that made me understand it had far better eyesight than me. Tearing my eyes from the creature's stare, I lunged behind the tree.
My sudden movement allowed MacGuff to leap from my arms. He ran to the lakeshore and began barking furiously. Without thinking, I followed, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him close.
Answering the dog's barks, the creature raised its head and let out a piercing howl. A shiver ran down MacGuff's back the same moment one ran along my own. The dog went silent, but the echo of the creatures howl lingered.
The creature turned toward us one last time before turning away again. It began to walk away. Upright. On two legs. MacGuff and I crouched together silently. The creature disappeared into the woods on the other side.
It was another few minutes before I finally dared stand and stretch my cramped and tired muscles.
I looked again toward where the creature stood, still smelling a faint hint of its musk. Bending down, I ruffled MacGuff's deep fur."Let's go home," I said, turning back the way we had come.
It was another moment before - as I knew I would - I heard the familiar tinkling of the dog's collar come from behind.
Copyright © 2008 Brendan P. Myers
I'd been in the cabin four days. It was small and barely furnished, but that didn't matter. It was the view overlooking Kennebago Lake you paid for. It was here me and my four-legged friend would recharge our batteries for the next two weeks.
The previous tenants left behind some supermarket tabloids. Caught up in reading about an alien-human hybrid, a familiar tinkling made me look up. The sun was almost down, but through the murky dusk I saw a man standing on the earthen dam that jutted across the lake.
Turning to MacGuff, I asked, "Wanna go out pup?" He thumped his tail against the doorway. I grabbed my coat and opened the door. The dog scampered down the steps.
I caught up to him in a small clearing. We walked through the woods and onto the seawall, where a slight breeze caused small waves to lap gently against concrete. I looked up to see the man had stopped at the spillway, where water flowed from the lake into the swamp below.
Crouched over, perhaps kneeling, he was reaching his arms into the falling water. I froze mid-step. Because beneath the sound of falling water, I heard high-pitched whistles and jungle like screams.
I felt MacGuff brush against me. Soft whimpering came from his throat. Looking down, I watched him take the cuff of my jeans in his teeth and begin pulling me backwards.
It was then I smelled a sulfurous, foul odor, of animal sweat and burnt rubber and dirty diapers. Gagging, I pulled my jacket over my face. The dog's whimpering was now a low, deep growl. I took the hint.
I found the cover of a large tree and went to my knees, pulling the dog close before turning again toward the creature. There was no doubt now this was the word to describe it.
I saw then that it was kneeling, yet still tall as a man. And it wasn't a dark suit or overcoat hanging from its body, but a reddish pelt of some sort. I blinked hard and told myself I was being silly.
Smiling, I recalled spending the last few hours reading about UFO's and strange phenomenon. This was simply a bear that had snuck out of its cave for a drink or . . . I shivered to think maybe it was something gone rabid.
As the moon peeked over the treetops, the creature stood. I watched mesmerized as it brought itself to full height of about ten feet.
After a moment, it began shaking itself the way MacGuff did after a swim or a bath. It was then MacGuff let loose a bark that shattered the stillness of the night. The creature snapped its head in our direction. My bowels loosened when I saw its orange-red eyes.
I shivered to realize that if I could see it, it could see me. There was something in those eyes that made me understand it had far better eyesight than me. Tearing my eyes from the creature's stare, I lunged behind the tree.
My sudden movement allowed MacGuff to leap from my arms. He ran to the lakeshore and began barking furiously. Without thinking, I followed, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him close.
Answering the dog's barks, the creature raised its head and let out a piercing howl. A shiver ran down MacGuff's back the same moment one ran along my own. The dog went silent, but the echo of the creatures howl lingered.
The creature turned toward us one last time before turning away again. It began to walk away. Upright. On two legs. MacGuff and I crouched together silently. The creature disappeared into the woods on the other side.
It was another few minutes before I finally dared stand and stretch my cramped and tired muscles.
I looked again toward where the creature stood, still smelling a faint hint of its musk. Bending down, I ruffled MacGuff's deep fur."Let's go home," I said, turning back the way we had come.
It was another moment before - as I knew I would - I heard the familiar tinkling of the dog's collar come from behind.
Copyright © 2008 Brendan P. Myers
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