by Monica Marier
Andrew steeled his courage. He knew he would in very big trouble for doing this. The world did not smile on eleven-year-olds who were all alone in the city at 11pm, especially if he were one of “The Meatheads.”
The “no trespassing”, “no soliciting”, and “keep out” signs hung on the gate of Number 23 Girton Rd. certainly didn’t indicate that Mr. Bates would be happy to see him in any case.
Rumours abounded concerning Mr. Bates, the neighbourhood’s bizarre recluse. Big Dan said that he was a murderer in hiding after escaping from jail. Others said he had some weird disease that he picked up in India or China that made his skin and hair turn paper-white. General consensus, even among adults who didn’t know he was listening, was that Mr. Bates was “weird.”
Andrew had overheard his mum one morning before school talking to Mrs. Canuddy. Bates was mad or on medication or both and his relatives had dumped him there when they didn’t want to care for him anymore. He was an “angora-phobic” (Andrew wondered what a fear of fluffy jumpers had to do with it) who wouldn’t leave the house. Mr. Bates paid for one of the neighbor lads to bring his groceries once a week and everything else was handled by post.
Andrew, of course, had different suspicions. Tonight he would find out if he was right. His hands and knees began to sweat as he approached the white door. He kept telling himself it would all be fine. If you’re wrong you just look like an ass and you run home.
But what if I’m right? He asked himself.
His hand trembled as he lifted the ring of the knocker shaped like the head of Mercury. Before Andrew could strike the plate with it, the door was jerked inwards by a very strong hand. Andrew sucked at his fingers as his eyes darted up to the pale scarecrow in front of him.
Mr. Bates was indeed pale, Andrew had only gotten a look at him from a distance, but up close it was even more apparent. He looked washed out, like the Star Wars t-shirt Andrew had accidentally spilled bleach on. Mr. Bates was the colour that Han Solo had turned. He was tall too; Andrew was the biggest boy in his form by four inches and a good 10 kilos and still Mr. Bates towered over him. Most chilling of all were his eyes. Andrew had knew lots of people with pale blue eyes, but Mr. Bates’ eyes were so blue they looked white. All and all, he looked like a man that had had every ounce of blood wrung from him like a rag.
Mr. Bates’ expression at first had been one of pure bewilderment. It had now gone through impatient to irritated.
“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a strained reedy voice.
Andrew could only stare at the man, dumb and ready to piss his pants. He’d never felt more stupid or alone as he had at that moment.
“Come to bother the creepy old neighbour?” sniffed Bates. “That’s very clever of you. Your parents must be so proud.”
At the word parent, Andrew was suddenly reminded of his mission.
“I know what you are!” he shouted at the pale man.
Bates stiffened and froze; he then thawed into a calculated pose of casual indifference. “And what is that, pray tell?” he asked lightly, but Andrew wasn’t fooled.
“I’ve been watching you!”
“Do your parents know you’re here?” asked Jeremy gruffly, trying to change the subject.
“You’re really pale, you stay indoors all day and only come out in the dark!”
“I have porphyria—it’s a disease. Sunlight doesn’t agree with me.”
“Animals don’t like your house, dogs try to break their leads, and cats and squirrels stay away!”
“I don’t like animals getting in my garden. I have a system to keep them away. Now what are you driving at?”
“You wear really old clothes and talk funny.”
“That’s because I’m a loony. Now b-bugger off,” said Bates stumbling over the swear-word, like it was something foul-tasting. It reminded Andrew of his Gran, which immediately set bells ringing in his head.
“You said you were old! You’re not a psycho, and you don’t look old. You must be still in your twenties!”
Mr. Bates paused here and didn’t say anything. Flustered, he moved backwards and tried to fling the door shut, but by then it was too late. Andrew had stepped across the threshold, his meaty pre-pubescent arms extended and locked, while his bulky legs were braced against the door sill. Mr. Bates seemed momentarily flummoxed by this turn of events and struggled uselessly against the boy.
“Who are you?” asked Bates in astonishment, still trying to push the door closed.
Andrew knew that now it was time to drop the bomb before his arms gave out. “Look! I know you’re a vampire, Mr. Bates.”
Bates’ stopped fighting with the door and stared at Andrew.
“Prove it,” said Bates in a thin hollow voice.
“I can’t, but I just know, alright?”
“Well, have a jolly fun time explaining your theories to the police then,” said Bates a grim smile on his thin lips.
“I ain’t going to the police, Mr. Bates,” said Andrew.
“Since you don’t have any proof, you have nothing to bargain with, so hold your blackmail threats for someone else, I’m not buying.”
“I’m not trying to take your money either,” said Andrew with a sigh.
“Then why are you here?” asked Bates harshly. His body was hunched defensively behind the door, his strange white eyes screwed up in loathing and suspicion.
“I need your help,” said Andrew.
Bates cocked his head to the side. “Me? You want my help? But I’m the big terrible vampire! Aren’t you scared?” he asked, still cringing behind the door.
“I’m not scared of a tall pale nancy,” said Andrew carelessly. “Look, I’m not looking for money, I just want your help.”
“Believe me, little boy, vampires don’t help anything,” sniffed Bates.
“I know that!” shouted Andrew, angry at being called a little boy.
“Then how did you ‘just know’ I’m a vampire, and what do you want?”
Andrew looked Mr. Bates square in the eye. “I know you’re a vampire because me dad’s one.”
“Your dad?” asked Bates in astonishment.
“Yeah. And I need you to tell me how I can kill him.”
Showing posts with label macabre. Show all posts
Showing posts with label macabre. Show all posts
Friday, October 28, 2011
Friday, October 21, 2011
Reruns
Hi my name is Lilly, and you’re about to see me die about…. Nnnnnnnnnow.
Yep, there I am, running down the escalator—sorry mister—nearly knocking over an old lady and her baby. I’m yelling “shit-shit-shit” as I try to jump on the train before the door closes. They would be my last words. I hope my mother never finds that out. I suppose the ultimate lesson I learn is that a) appropriate footwear is important and b) never run to catch a freaking train. How I got this far in those damn heels I’ll never know. Fuck, I look like Wonder Woman! It’s a little impressive until…. Yeah… here we go.
Door closes on my arm. I can’t even cry for help, I’m just screaming over the whine of gears as the train pulls away, dragging me with it. Other people are waving at the driver to stop. That’s nice of them. It doesn’t work and the tunnel entrance looms closer; I’m about to be bisected by it.
I can never watch this part. You go ahead.
…
I hate that sound. It’s like a cow falling off a ten-story building.
Oh, NOW, he stops the train¬—stupid bastard. And the rest is all people shouting and ordering each other around until the ambulance comes. This part is pretty boring. Still, I can’t leave or go watch anything else. This is all there is. In about three hours, when the stretcher finally takes me away (in a black zipped-up bag) it’ll start over again.
A woman once told me I was a spiritual imprint. How she could talk to me, I don’t know, but she wasn’t the first person. Every now and then my fatal routine is a little different. There are people who weren’t there before watching me—not the me running, they’re watching the me that’s watching me. They sometimes ask me dumb questions: “what year is it,” “what’s my name,” “can I make a noise.” Other times they just look. Sometimes they scream and run away.
And then there’s you. I’m not sure what to make of you. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to tell anyone my story before. You’re different somehow.
So how do you like it? My eternal prison. Just a dimly-lit tunnel that smells of pee, the whine of passing trains, and every three hours… my own personal show.
I’ve never liked reruns.
Yep, there I am, running down the escalator—sorry mister—nearly knocking over an old lady and her baby. I’m yelling “shit-shit-shit” as I try to jump on the train before the door closes. They would be my last words. I hope my mother never finds that out. I suppose the ultimate lesson I learn is that a) appropriate footwear is important and b) never run to catch a freaking train. How I got this far in those damn heels I’ll never know. Fuck, I look like Wonder Woman! It’s a little impressive until…. Yeah… here we go.
Door closes on my arm. I can’t even cry for help, I’m just screaming over the whine of gears as the train pulls away, dragging me with it. Other people are waving at the driver to stop. That’s nice of them. It doesn’t work and the tunnel entrance looms closer; I’m about to be bisected by it.
I can never watch this part. You go ahead.
…
I hate that sound. It’s like a cow falling off a ten-story building.
Oh, NOW, he stops the train¬—stupid bastard. And the rest is all people shouting and ordering each other around until the ambulance comes. This part is pretty boring. Still, I can’t leave or go watch anything else. This is all there is. In about three hours, when the stretcher finally takes me away (in a black zipped-up bag) it’ll start over again.
A woman once told me I was a spiritual imprint. How she could talk to me, I don’t know, but she wasn’t the first person. Every now and then my fatal routine is a little different. There are people who weren’t there before watching me—not the me running, they’re watching the me that’s watching me. They sometimes ask me dumb questions: “what year is it,” “what’s my name,” “can I make a noise.” Other times they just look. Sometimes they scream and run away.
And then there’s you. I’m not sure what to make of you. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to tell anyone my story before. You’re different somehow.
So how do you like it? My eternal prison. Just a dimly-lit tunnel that smells of pee, the whine of passing trains, and every three hours… my own personal show.
I’ve never liked reruns.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Scaredy-Cat
By Monica Marier
I’m in a Hallowe’en-y mood today. Enjoy!
“…Kyle looked down at Tommy, and realized that he was dead. What he thought were the sounds of muffled speaking were actually a nest of rats that had carved a hole in his rotten stomach.”
“STOP!” shouted Isaac jumping to his feet, covering his ears.
“Aw jeez,” moaned Phillip through his pillow. “I told you Isaac would freak.”
“Scaredy-cat!” called Lewis and Phillip joined in. “Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!”
Alex stopped the story immediately, a fleeting expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. “Calm down, Isaac. It’s just a story. It’s not real.”
“No! I told you I didn’t want to do ghost stories! I told you!” moaned Isaac, running out of the bunkhouse.
He desperately tried to conceal the tears streaming from his eyes down his pointed features. His spidery limbs shivered in the chilly Fall night as he left bunk 2 for the seclusion of the pine thicket. Isaac didn’t much like it out here either. The wind howled mournfully through the trees as slivers of moonlight broke through the swirling tendrils of black cloud. Other than that, there was no noise out here. No humming of machines, no ticking clocks or the whir of the furnace. It was eerie and dark and very lonely out here.
The one comfort was that no one would see him cry.
Isaac cursed his own cowardice as he sobbed, his slippers padding silently on spiny pine needles. He was ten years old for Pete’s sake! He was too big to go screaming like a girl and crying every time his friends told a creepy story! But he couldn’t help it. They didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that while Alex was describing the rat-infested corpse of Dead Tommy, Isaac could experience everything.
He could smell the rotting flesh, hear the nightmarish squeaking. He could see Tommy’s eyes, milky white, staring unseeing at the ceiling while his friend screamed in unhinged terror. He heard the scream tear the very air as the rats dove for Kyle’s face, clawing at his eyes—!
Isaac had to stop himself in mid-thought as another sob broke free of his tight chest. He was scared —so scared that it hurt. Why did everything have to feel so real? He knew it was a story, yet he knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep that night. He would be seeing Dead Tommy in his dreams all night.
Isaac squealed as he heard footsteps and whirled around.
“It’s just me,” said Alex.
Isaac relaxed. It was okay to cry around Alex.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” said Isaac petulantly.
“Look I’m really sorry. But you said you’d be okay.”
“No, you said I’d be okay. I said you were full of it,” said Isaac looking upon Alex with an expression of hurt betrayal.
“I keep forgetting you’re such a…”
“Sissy?” prompted Isaac with venom.
“That you’re really imaginative,” said Alex, ever the diplomat.
“I hate it,” muttered Isaac.
“But you’re really good at coming up with your own stories! You know your sketchbook that’s full of dwarves and orcs and manticores and stuff.”
“Yeah, but I only like nice stories, where nothing bad happens. Nothing scary anyway. Bad things… hurt me.”
“Yeah I know.”
“I wish I could be brave like you,” said Isaac. Alex often bragged that he’d seen Friday 13th and Nightmare on Elmstreet without being scared. "I'd rather be brave than creative."
“I wish I could come up with stuff like you,” said Alex with a grin. “Come back inside. It’s freezing out here, and if Phillip’s dad catches us out here we’ll be in trouble.”
“Are the others going to call me scaredy-cat again?” mumbled Isaac.
“I won’t let them,” said Alex staunchly.
Isaac stood up with a sigh. “I really hate camping.”
******
20 years later…
Gilda closed the word document shuddered. She’d been biting her knuckles for the last few pages, her legs curling up on the sofa as she read the last chapter. She forgot that she was supposed to be editing and would have to re-read the last chapter again. She’d gotten too into the story.
Pushing the laptop to one side she glanced up at her husband in both admiration and shock.
“Good grief, babe! I don’t know how you manage to take the English language and write something so terrifying! Woof!” she said.
He just laughed good-naturedly at Gilda as he pulled the nachos out of the oven and stirred the chili. “Sorry. Too graphic?”
“No, it’s good. I think you have another best-seller, it’s just…” Gilda left off and shivered. “Your readers better be made of strong stuff, that’s all I’ll say. Enlighten me, honey. Were you always this ghoulish? Were you one of those kids who ate R.L. Stein books for breakfast every morning and pretended to be Freddy Krueger?”
Isaac smiled at his wife as she looked up at him wide-eyed. “Believe it or not, I was actually quite the scaredy-cat as a kid,” he said.
(Based on a true story.)
I’m in a Hallowe’en-y mood today. Enjoy!
“…Kyle looked down at Tommy, and realized that he was dead. What he thought were the sounds of muffled speaking were actually a nest of rats that had carved a hole in his rotten stomach.”
“STOP!” shouted Isaac jumping to his feet, covering his ears.
“Aw jeez,” moaned Phillip through his pillow. “I told you Isaac would freak.”
“Scaredy-cat!” called Lewis and Phillip joined in. “Scaredy-cat! Scaredy-cat!”
Alex stopped the story immediately, a fleeting expression of guilt crossing his handsome face. “Calm down, Isaac. It’s just a story. It’s not real.”
“No! I told you I didn’t want to do ghost stories! I told you!” moaned Isaac, running out of the bunkhouse.
He desperately tried to conceal the tears streaming from his eyes down his pointed features. His spidery limbs shivered in the chilly Fall night as he left bunk 2 for the seclusion of the pine thicket. Isaac didn’t much like it out here either. The wind howled mournfully through the trees as slivers of moonlight broke through the swirling tendrils of black cloud. Other than that, there was no noise out here. No humming of machines, no ticking clocks or the whir of the furnace. It was eerie and dark and very lonely out here.
The one comfort was that no one would see him cry.
Isaac cursed his own cowardice as he sobbed, his slippers padding silently on spiny pine needles. He was ten years old for Pete’s sake! He was too big to go screaming like a girl and crying every time his friends told a creepy story! But he couldn’t help it. They didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that while Alex was describing the rat-infested corpse of Dead Tommy, Isaac could experience everything.
He could smell the rotting flesh, hear the nightmarish squeaking. He could see Tommy’s eyes, milky white, staring unseeing at the ceiling while his friend screamed in unhinged terror. He heard the scream tear the very air as the rats dove for Kyle’s face, clawing at his eyes—!
Isaac had to stop himself in mid-thought as another sob broke free of his tight chest. He was scared —so scared that it hurt. Why did everything have to feel so real? He knew it was a story, yet he knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep that night. He would be seeing Dead Tommy in his dreams all night.
Isaac squealed as he heard footsteps and whirled around.
“It’s just me,” said Alex.
Isaac relaxed. It was okay to cry around Alex.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” said Isaac petulantly.
“Look I’m really sorry. But you said you’d be okay.”
“No, you said I’d be okay. I said you were full of it,” said Isaac looking upon Alex with an expression of hurt betrayal.
“I keep forgetting you’re such a…”
“Sissy?” prompted Isaac with venom.
“That you’re really imaginative,” said Alex, ever the diplomat.
“I hate it,” muttered Isaac.
“But you’re really good at coming up with your own stories! You know your sketchbook that’s full of dwarves and orcs and manticores and stuff.”
“Yeah, but I only like nice stories, where nothing bad happens. Nothing scary anyway. Bad things… hurt me.”
“Yeah I know.”
“I wish I could be brave like you,” said Isaac. Alex often bragged that he’d seen Friday 13th and Nightmare on Elmstreet without being scared. "I'd rather be brave than creative."
“I wish I could come up with stuff like you,” said Alex with a grin. “Come back inside. It’s freezing out here, and if Phillip’s dad catches us out here we’ll be in trouble.”
“Are the others going to call me scaredy-cat again?” mumbled Isaac.
“I won’t let them,” said Alex staunchly.
Isaac stood up with a sigh. “I really hate camping.”
******
20 years later…
Gilda closed the word document shuddered. She’d been biting her knuckles for the last few pages, her legs curling up on the sofa as she read the last chapter. She forgot that she was supposed to be editing and would have to re-read the last chapter again. She’d gotten too into the story.
Pushing the laptop to one side she glanced up at her husband in both admiration and shock.
“Good grief, babe! I don’t know how you manage to take the English language and write something so terrifying! Woof!” she said.
He just laughed good-naturedly at Gilda as he pulled the nachos out of the oven and stirred the chili. “Sorry. Too graphic?”
“No, it’s good. I think you have another best-seller, it’s just…” Gilda left off and shivered. “Your readers better be made of strong stuff, that’s all I’ll say. Enlighten me, honey. Were you always this ghoulish? Were you one of those kids who ate R.L. Stein books for breakfast every morning and pretended to be Freddy Krueger?”
Isaac smiled at his wife as she looked up at him wide-eyed. “Believe it or not, I was actually quite the scaredy-cat as a kid,” he said.
(Based on a true story.)
Friday, September 9, 2011
Jeremy Hunted 3: Breakfast Invite
This is part 3 of the Jeremy Hunted Story I started a few weeks back. Summary: Jeremy Bates, the Vampire and his friend, Andrew Fletcher, have a new lodger, Frank the semenary student.
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2
Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.
He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.
Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.
As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.
The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.
“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.
“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.
“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.
“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”
“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.
“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”
“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.
“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.
“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).
“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”
“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.
“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.
“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”
“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.
“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.
Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”
“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.
“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”
“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”
“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”
“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.
“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”
“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”
Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.
“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”
“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.
“It is?” asked Andrew.
“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”
“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.
Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”
“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.
“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.
Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.
“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.
“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.
“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.
Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.
"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.
(continued next week)
Catch up by reading:
Part 1
Part 2
Frank stumbled downstairs blearily, blinking his crusted eyes. He’d managed to sleep off the jetlag, after retiring to bed at 5pm and waking up at 7am. He felt thoroughly refreshed if somewhat rumpled and dehydrated. He was now ravenously hungry and bent on exploring his new city. A big hearty breakfast and several cups of coffee would be just the thing to start this day’s adventure.
He felt a little turned around, since his surroundings were still unfamiliar. He thrilled slightly at the remembrance that this would be his home for the next three months, but it changed to an awkward knot in his stomach when he remembered who his landlords were. Try as he might, a cohabiting gay couple was a bit much for his conservative upbringing—worse now that he was in seminary. It was mostly conjecture at this point, but there was no doubting that both men shared a close bond, to the point of constantly occupying each other’s personal space and giving one another pointed looks. He had also heard them talking about “a secret,” which meant they didn’t want anyone finding out about it.
Frank tried to keep an open mind about it, but forcing his mind to stay open was like trying to hold a mousetrap ajar with a his pinkie finger: painful and doomed to failure. He knew he was going to say something stupid and end up getting kicked out, or worse: it would get awkward. To Frank awkwardness was a worse fate than being homeless in a far-away country.
As he padded down the steps in his slippers, he heard low voices having another hushed argument. Frank swallowed another uneasy knot. There’d been a fair bit of hushed argument since his arrival yesterday, mostly regarding his taking lodgings here. In so far as he deduced, the big muscly one, Mr. Fletcher, was not keen on him staying here. The pale weird one, Mr. Bates, kept trying to talk Fletcher around to the idea, but so far no agreement had been reached. Frank couldn’t really blame them. A Catholic priest in the making wasn’t really the most welcome guest among their sort. Fletcher was probably afraid he’d start proselytizing at any moment. What they didn’t know was that Frances Tercero was, in all likelyhood, the least confrontational Italian-American on the face of the planet.
The moment Frank stepped into the hard-tiled dining room, the whispers stopped. He saw Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Bates staring at him with frozen nervous smiles gracing their faces. A prickling silence buzzed in the air pierced here and there by the hoot of turtle doves and the pneumatic hiss of a garbage truck. The fixed grins on his landlords’ faces faded into embarrassed cheerfulness, and Frank noticed what he thought was out of place. Instead of looking like they’d just woken up, Bates and Fletcher looked like they had only just come back from someplace. Fletcher’s leather jacket was slung over a chair and Bates’s linen coat was likewise tossed aside. Both men were sporting heavily rumpled clothes smelling of cigarette smoke, car exhaust and fried food. Wrinkles looked deeper, under-eye shadows looked darker, and their faces were shiny with sweat and oil.
“Late night?” asked Frank for lack of anything better to day.
“Uh, Yeah,” said Mr. Bates, cagily.
“Some nights we’re forced to work late,” said Fletcher rubbing his shaved head.
“What is it you do, Mr. Fletch—”
“Just call me Andrew. I know you Yank—er—Americans like to use first names. I don’t like bein’ called Fletcher much anyhow. And call him Jeremy,” Andrew added, pointing to Mr. Bates. Bates looked about to object at this but instead gave Frank another nervous smile and shrugged.
“Uh, okay. And you can call me Frank.”
“Gotcher,” said Andrew, stifling a yawn of pure fatigue.
“Have you settled in alright upstairs?” asked Jeremy.
“Oh, yes everything’s fine…Erm… It’s a very nice room… uh…”
Frank didn’t know how to broach the subject of food when his stomach loudly made his queries for him. Jeremy jumped to his feet (not without some effort and a large yawn).
“Oh, you’ll be wanting your breakfast!” he cried, stumbling to the kitchen.
Just then Frank caught sight of Andrew making a bid for his attention with waving arms. Frank glanced questioningly at hamfisted lug whose eyes were wide and staring; Andrew was shaking his head and mouthing, “NO! NO!”
“Uh! That’s alright! I was going to get breakfast on my sightseeing trip,” Frank said hurriedly. He winced at the thought of giving up an opportunity of free food but Andrew had seemed in dead earnest.
“You sure?” asked Jeremy popping his head back around the kitchen doorway. Andrew’s arms immediately dropped to his side while he adopted an innocent expression.
“Dead sure,” gulped Frank. “I’ll be fine. I was wondering though if one of you could help me with this map of the subway.”
“Where are you trying to get to?” asked Andrew.
“The British Museum, I think. Is that a good place for ancient artifacts?” asked Frank, digging the London pocket guide out from his back pocket.
Andrew stared blankly at Frank. “Dunno.”
“You idiot! What do you mean you don't know? It has only one of the most comprehensive collections of ancient artifacts in the world!” snapped Jeremy returning from the kitchen.
“I never been!” said Andrew shrugging. “Lived in Barnesly, din’ I?”
“You moved down here when you were nine. I’m sure you had school outings to the museum when you were a boy.”
“We went to a few museums,” conceded Andrew with a shrug. “Which is the one with all the mummies?”
“The British Museum,” said Jeremy rolling his eyes.
“Look! We went to near an hundred museums or other! You can’t expect me to keep ‘em all straight!”
“Well Frank, there’s your answer. If you want to know about the history of London, Andrew’s pretty much a dry well… Frank?”
Jeremy turned to regard Frank who had remained oddly silent. The seminarian was holding his chest and gasping for breath. A blueish cast was spreading over his lips and across his face as his eyes searched the room madly.
“FRANK!” shouted Andrew leaping from his chair and helping Frank into a vacant one. “Jer, call 999! He’s having a heart-attack.”
“It will be too late. It’s a blood clot,” said Jeremy in a low serious voice.
“It is?” asked Andrew.
“Yes. I can see it. It’s blocking his lung, there,” said Jeremy pointing to the left side of Frank’s chest. “It came from his leg; there’s another on its way up.”
“What do we do?" asked Andrew, agast.
Jeremy frowned and shuddered. “… Maybe… Maybe I can get it if I… I said I’d never do this…”
“Jer, you’ve got to, he’s going all blue!” pleaded Andrew.
“You call 999 then, and I’ll see to it,” said Jeremy quietly as Frank began to lose his balance and topple out of his chair. Jeremy raised a hand to steady him. Through the haze induced by lack of oxygen, Frank still had enough sense to register how strong Jeremy’s grip was.
Jeremy sighed a long ragged sigh with the crippling weight of anxiety in it. He then rolled up Frank’s pant leg until the white skin of his thin calf was exposed.
“Have you called them?” shouted Jeremy.
“Just finished, yeah, they’re on the way,” said Andrew.
“Good. Keep an eye on me then. If I lose control, you know what to do,” said Jeremy fixing Andrew with a dark stare.
Andrew swallowed and nodded, walking to his leather jacket and pulling out a magnum .44 revolver.
"Ready," he said putting his finger to the trigger.
(continued next week)
Friday, June 3, 2011
Free Tuxedo
By Monica Marier
This is based off a comic I started in 1999. It was called "Tomorrow the World" and was basically chronicling the personal lives of employees working for a Bond-ian villain with aspirations of global domination. I put the comic on the back-burner for now, but I plan to pick it up again later. (MUCH later.)
Stone Fox, AKA Jonny Fawkes, secret agent, pulled the diving mask off and climbed out of the shark tank. Floating in the tank were the mutilated remains of the two henchmen who had tried to jump him, and the sated sharks were docilely sleeping off their heavy dinner.
Fox kicked aside the fins and oxygen tank as he unzipped his diving suit to reveal his flawless tuxedo. Shaking the water droplets out of his luxurious hair, he looked around the secret underwater lair. On a platform was a large computer console — a jungle of screens, dials, and keyboards. And at the centerpiece, the computer mainframe… was a beat up DELL with a cracked screen. The screensaver was cycling through pictures of Christina Hendricks in provocative poses.
Stone Fox rolled his eyes as he logged in (using the password he’d gotten in his fortune cookie) and accessed Agent W’s desktop. He dragged the folder from the Dell to W’s drop box and watched the progress bar count down.
28% completed.
“I was wondering when you would arrive, Stone Fox,” came a sonorous voice from the far corner of the lair.
Drawing his Walther PPK from his tailcoat, Fox spun around to face... THE SCHMITZ.
The Schmitz stepped into the light, flanked by his two right-hand men, Erik Sigurd and Osamu Hidekei. Schmitz was trimly dressed in a caramel-colored jacket with a mandarin collar, his face still carefully in shadow. He wasn’t stroking a white Persian cat, but that was simply due to allergies.
“You’re finished Schmitz,” said Fox, eying the beat-up laptop — 41% completed. “We’ve got all the evidence and schematics we need to shut you down!”
56% Completed.
“However did you get past the whirling knives?” asked Schmitz, impressed.
“You should have gone with Ginsu, Schmitz. I found the knives to be rather… dull,” Fox quipped.
62% Completed.
“And the laser net?” asked Schmitz.
“I discovered the pattern immediately,” bragged Fox. “Nothing like a little hopscotch game.”
76% completed.
Schmitz nodded . “And poor Gregory. He couldn’t stop you?”
“Gregory? I found him rather ‘armless,” quipped Fox.
84% completed.
Shmitz and Fox stood in mutual silence.
92% completed.
“Sigurd? Hidekei?” said Schmitz. His two male-model cronies stepped forward.
“Sir?” they said in unison.
99% completed.
“Shoot,” said Schmitz.
Both men raised their glocks and fired. Sigurd hit Fox in the head. Hidekei shot the Dell.
The last thing Fox said as the world went red was, “That’s… cheating….”
***
“DUDE! I found another one!” shouted August. He yanked open the gym locker as far as he could. His quarter jangled in the key-slot. Keeping the spring-loaded door ajar with his shoulder, August reached in and pulled out a soft bundle wrapped in shrink wrap.
“Another tuxedo?” asked Rosario (called Zari).
“Yeah! This is like the third one, Zari!” shouted August, trying to peel off the sticky tape seal.
“Where do they all come from?” asked Zari peering in the locker with suspicion. It was like every other locker in the Employee Fitness Center. It was just a coin-operated metal locker with razor-sharp corners. No secret panels, no gateways to Narnia, just petrified gum and an old Band-Aid.
“Maybe some guy keeps leaving his dry cleaning in here,” suggested Zari.
“Then why is the key back in the lock?” asked August. He was now trying to bite through the cellophane.
“Maybe he didn’t want it anymore,” said Zari.
“Hope not, cause this is mine,” said August finally freeing the clothing from the bag and shaking it out “Ooh! Armani! Ver’ nice!” It smelled freshly laundered and the rich fabric shimmered under the florescent lighting. He examined the tag on the trousers.
“Aw MAN! 32 waistband,” he moaned.
“I wonder who it belonged to,” mused Zari.
“Whoever he was, he didn’t eat Lil’ Debbie’s Oatmeal Cream Pies for breakfast every day,” sighed August.
“Like you?”
“Well crap, I’m never going to find a 36.” sighed August. “You want it?”
“I’m a 34,” said Zari. “You can at least keep the jacket.”
“What the hell am I gonna do with a jacket and no pants?” said August in annoyance.
“You could wear a kilt with it.”
“A KILT?”
“Yeah, like Sean Connery.”
August snorted. “My family’s Dutch/German. We don’t do kilts. Well I already paid my quarter for this locker, so let’s cram our stuff in and hit the pool.”
August shoved his spare clothes into tight space and tried to cram his shoes in the upper shelf with no luck. “There’s something up there.”
Zari stood on a bench to peer in. “Oh, I see what’s doing that,” he said reaching in. “This was in the way.”
August glanced up as Zari pulled out something off-white and round. Zari proffered it to August to examine.
It was a human skull.
“Oh. That explains it,” said August nodding. “Is it clear now?” he asked, indicating the upper shelf.
“No, there’s a bunch of other bones. Femurs and junk.”
August sighed in frustration. “Forget it. I’m not cleaning all that crap out.” He tossed his shoes in and slammed the locker door shut before they tumbled out. Wrenching out the key, he shoved the elastic band over his bulky wrist.
“Come on,” said Zari. “We’re wasting valuable pool time.”
“That reminds me. Did you finish collating those mailing fliers for Monday?” asked August.
“I’ll do it Monday morning,” grumbled Zari.
“You better. Riggs will have my ass if they don’t go out before the new insurance packages take effect.”
“Aw come ON! Like SchmitzCo really hinges on the insurance benefits briefings.”
“I dunno. This company has a LOT of employees. We’re going global next week.”
“Big deal,” said Zari. “Do you even know what the hell this company does?”
August pondered this for a moment. “Bonds?” he looked at Zari questioningly.
Zari only shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I dunno either.”
August shrugged. “In the grand scheme of things, it probably has nothing to do with two cubicle monkeys like us.”
“Yeah. Remind me to steal some more pens when we get back on Monday.”
“Will do — Hey, Erik! Hey, Ossy!” August waved to Hidekei and Sigurd as they came in from the lobby, gym bags on their shoulders.
“Hey,” said Erik with a slight smile.“Sup!” said Ossy, grinning.
August and Zari walked across the slick tiles to the pool.
“I like them. They’re so nice,” said August in admiration.
He tossed the skull in the wastebasket.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Campus Spirit
By MONICA MARIER
“You’re a witch?” I asked, goggle-eyed.
Sandy just shrugged and pulled a lock of ash blond hair away from her mouth.
“Yeah,” she said.
It took a while before I could say anything else. One fact kept poking me in the back of the head like a pencil.
“BUT YOU’RE A REPUBLICAN!” I blurted out.
Sandy snorted and rolled her eyes. “So? Doesn’t matter.”
“I thought you couldn’t be both,” I insisted. There was something about Sarah Palin the NRA paired with incense and crystals that didn’t mesh.
“Look, you’re born a witch. It’s not a lifestyle choice like who you vote for or what color socks you wear,” she told me.
I shrugged, but I tried to thoroughly examine my roommate without staring.
It still looked like Sandy Parks: a skinny but rather plain-jane physical therapy major, with horsey teeth and freckles. She still had a drawl after moving here from Norfolk VA —not that it mattered. Her genuine snakeskin boots (that had seen better days) and straw cowboy hat was a dead giveaway.
She told me that she envied my “striking features” and overflowing EE cup, but I didn’t believe it for a second. Who’d want to be a big fat marshmallow when they were a size 2? You can fix bland features with a little makeup (which Sandy never tried to do) but you can’t fix fat.
And then this happened. We were on the floor, eating Milanos (hers) and watching The Last Unicorn (also her movie on her TV) when we suddenly announced she was a witch.
“Alright prove it,” I said, REALLY hoping she wouldn’t.
“’Kay,” she said. She pointed to a box of Pop Tarts (hers) on the shelf and said, “Cthinos h’yel meh taftut.”
If anyone ELSE had said it without a thick Southern Accent it probably would have sounded really cool.
The box flopped over and remained on its side.
“Pshh. Is that it?” I asked.
“Just wait,” she said and my eyes returned to the box. A rustling sound indicated that something was happening to one of the shiny foil packages. I stared as the rustling got louder and louder until—
“HIT THE DECK!” shouted Sandy suddenly.
Sandy and I ate the carpet as two shapes went whizzing overhead. There was a dull thudding sound as the room shook and I tentatively got up.
“Sorry,” said Sandy looking abashed. She rose and straightened her denim skirt. “I lost control a little.”
“A LITTLE?” I asked looking at the white cold walls.
Sticking out of the cinderblocks, like ninja throwing stars, were two perfectly toasted s’mores-flavored Pop Tarts. I gingerly pulled one out of the wall, after it was cool enough to touch. The icing was now a caramelized brulee, but otherwise intact. How it managed to fly into the rock-hard wall without crumbling and showering us with molten sugar was beyond me. Gingerly I bit off a corner that wasn’t covered in plaster. It tasted fine.
“Cool,” I said warily. “So what else can you do, other than fire ballistic pastries?” I asked.
She winced at my comment and I felt ashamed of myself.
“Sorry. I can’t turn the snark off sometimes,” I mumbled.
“Yeah, I know,” she said shaking her head indulgently. “Well, there’s a reason I told you I’m a witch, now that you ask me.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” I asked.
“I need your help with something.”
“Like what?” I asked, uncertainly. I was worried this was going to get uncomfortable and fast.
“I need you to help me get to a book,” she said.
Oh, thank GOD. She doesn’t want me to do something dumb with colored candles and silver knives, I thought.
“What kind of book. Is it expensive?” I asked.
“It’s priceless,” she said nodding. “It’s kept under lock and key at the library and only certain majors can get access to it.”
I nodded. There were a few of those. Our University was one of the oldest in America, which was really one of our only claims to fame these days apart from a champion ping-pong team.
“So where do I come in?” I asked.
“Well you’re a history major, minoring in archaic lore, right?”
“Yeah…” I said, growing nervous again.
“The book I need to get access to is the Necronomicon of Abdul Alhazred. I think MU has a copy of it in the Library.”
“Oh,” I said my stomach sinking. Maybe colored candles wouldn’t have been so bad. “Well, see, that’s going to be tricky. They kind of don’t let any students see that book anymore.”
“But they used to!” she cried.
“Yeah, but every time they did someone went bonkers! I think they were theorizing that the book had lead ink or fungoid spores in it — something that was making people go nuts. It’s sealed up in storage now.”
“Shit,” Sandy cursed a rare thing in itself. “Now what.”
“Well, they sell the English version in the campus bookstore,” I said.
Sandy looked up. “That might work,” she said, her eyes hopeful. “We can try anyway.”
“Well, okay. Let’s go — I could use a latte. What do you want it for any way?”
“Well you know how kids have been attacked on campus at night?” she said slowly.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I think the book might give me some clue as to how to stop it.”
I stopped dead as I strung the two factors together. Kids were getting attacked on Miskatonic campus behind the science buildings and Sandy wanted access to occult literature.
“What… are you saying something …weird is attacking students?”
“Rosemary West, what do you know about the reanimated?” Sandy asked me.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Frique and Fragg
Frique and Fragg were 2 mad scientist characaters that popped up in the comic I drew for my University Newspaper. They were living on campus experimenting on psyche students, despite the fact that F&F had been expelled already siting misuse of facilities. I LOVED their dynamic together and ever since SOME incarnation of F&F has cropped up in every world I've created.
My name is Elliot Fragg and my life sucks.
I’m not stating that looking for any sympathy or anything. I’m pretty resigned to the fact, but if you’re going to read this you need to understand from the get-go that my life has always sucked, and in all probability will continue to suck until I am dead. And it will suck because I’m the close personal friend of Lucas Frique.
So now that we got that out of the way, I’ll relate how this obnoxious little man became my friend. The whole of it is true apart from the stuff I made up ‘cause I can’t remember.
I’d been working with Frique since we were science lab partners in middle school, back in ’93. He was a pudgy short kid with glasses and unruly red hair that was always too long. He had a perpetual frown on his face which I found out was solely due to temperament.
Frique hated everything on principle.
He hated the teachers who didn’t ‘understand him.’ He hated the big jocks who dunked him headfirst in the toilet every day and took his money. He hated the kids who took pity on him and tried to be his friend (not that there were many). He chased them all off pretty quickly with his sharp tongue and halitosis.
Why he picked me for a confidant was beyond me. It wasn’t for my charisma or popularity. When you’re a legally-blind half-Asian albino in a crowd of ninety-four preteen peers, you’re pretty much screwed. I was a prominent nail just waiting for another hammer to come along. In fact my very apparent “Dork Readings” might have been what drew Frique to me in the first place. It also might have been the few times he saw me drawing fractals in my notebook or translating jokes into binary.
It was around second semester that he first addressed me. We’d made do with limited comments related to whatever project our class was working on, but he’d never said more to me than “pass the spectroscope,” or “your elbow’s in my petrie dish.” We’d just finished our geology lab a half-hour earlier than everyone else, when he slid over a piece of graph paper. It was a diagram for a circuit drawn in 4-color ballpoint pen.
“Do you think we should use FR-4 or CM-1 for a dielectric?” he asked me.
Just like that.
It was as if we were already in the middle of a conversation and things like introductions and general polite inquiry were out of the way. That’s how Frique was. He never beat about the bush or worried about making a good impression.
I don’t even think he knew my name at that time, unless he’d caught a glimpse of “Elliot Fragg” at the top of my worksheets and didn’t think it worth asking. He didn’t start calling me “Fragg” until years later. I was just “you” like there was no one else in his little world.
That frightened me.
We were a pretty insular pair all those years in school together and later on when we went to college for Chemistry. We made Hubris University’s investments in eye-wash stations well worth it.
And then there were the events preceding our expulsion.
That was the problem with Frique. He was a wheedler —a silver-tongued devil. He made everything sound so innocent right until you heard the police sirens. He never had to talk me into anything, because he knew that wasn’t how my mind worked. I attacked any given problem with the sheer desire of solving it, without stopping to think about repercussions. Usually, in a theoretical sense, there would have been no repercussions … if I’d been working with anyone but Lucas Frique.
For example, when I developed a compound that would reduce rotting road kill into eco-friendly compost more quickly, I never expected Frique to use it on the body of our Professor of Biochemistry he’d killed and buried behind our dorm. When I invented a breathable gas that was more effective than laughing gas to immobilize and numb dental patients, I didn’t expect Frique to use it on several members of the student body. A few of them ended up behind the dorm too. Frique would simply ruminate aloud on a subject like, “I wonder if it’s possible to create a machine to project a person’s thoughts,” and I would be on the first draft a few seconds later. Frique would provide the parts (which he probably stole) and correct my math while I feverishly designed and perfected. Then I would find out that Frique wanted to use my mind-reading device to dig up dark secrets about a teacher’s aide for the purpose of blackmail.
The manufactured viruses, the sonic wave devices, the electrically charged suits (I admit that making electro-shock suits was a real “duh” moment for me afterwards) and many more insidious devices were designed and perfected by me for Frique’s purposes. His test subjects were the students and staff at that unfortunate school. I never pleaded with him to stop. It would have been like trying to halt a landslide by waving a stop sign. And I was too scared — no —I was terrified beyond all reason.
I still am.
Every time he approaches me with that boyish face and impish expression of interest I break out in a cold sweat. I’m his to command — and as many times as I’ve tried to break away, I’ve never been able to manage it. He’d always draw me back with promises, with threats, and on one occasion, a gun. He’d never be able to let me go, because without me around there would be only him, talking to himself and letting his mind spiral into tessellating madness.
The man killed in cold blood, tortured his fellow humans and plotted the deaths of thousands in his dark dreams, and he was never frightened of that blackness in his soul … because I was his anchor to humanity. With me around, he’d never be alone. Being alone is the only thing Frique is terrified of. I'd kill myself if I wasn't terrified of Frique digging me up and keeping me alive with electric impulses — "The Fragg That Wouldn't Die."
Right now I’m working on a giant robot with nine kinds of weapons and a strain of flesh-eating bacteria. We’re going to hold the Smithsonian Institute for ransom until the Natural History museum updates its dinosaur exhibit.
It’s Frique’s attempt at being funny.
My life sucks.
Confessions of an Ethically Challenged Scientist
By Monica Marier
My name is Elliot Fragg and my life sucks.
I’m not stating that looking for any sympathy or anything. I’m pretty resigned to the fact, but if you’re going to read this you need to understand from the get-go that my life has always sucked, and in all probability will continue to suck until I am dead. And it will suck because I’m the close personal friend of Lucas Frique.
So now that we got that out of the way, I’ll relate how this obnoxious little man became my friend. The whole of it is true apart from the stuff I made up ‘cause I can’t remember.
I’d been working with Frique since we were science lab partners in middle school, back in ’93. He was a pudgy short kid with glasses and unruly red hair that was always too long. He had a perpetual frown on his face which I found out was solely due to temperament.
Frique hated everything on principle.
He hated the teachers who didn’t ‘understand him.’ He hated the big jocks who dunked him headfirst in the toilet every day and took his money. He hated the kids who took pity on him and tried to be his friend (not that there were many). He chased them all off pretty quickly with his sharp tongue and halitosis.
Why he picked me for a confidant was beyond me. It wasn’t for my charisma or popularity. When you’re a legally-blind half-Asian albino in a crowd of ninety-four preteen peers, you’re pretty much screwed. I was a prominent nail just waiting for another hammer to come along. In fact my very apparent “Dork Readings” might have been what drew Frique to me in the first place. It also might have been the few times he saw me drawing fractals in my notebook or translating jokes into binary.
It was around second semester that he first addressed me. We’d made do with limited comments related to whatever project our class was working on, but he’d never said more to me than “pass the spectroscope,” or “your elbow’s in my petrie dish.” We’d just finished our geology lab a half-hour earlier than everyone else, when he slid over a piece of graph paper. It was a diagram for a circuit drawn in 4-color ballpoint pen.
“Do you think we should use FR-4 or CM-1 for a dielectric?” he asked me.
Just like that.
It was as if we were already in the middle of a conversation and things like introductions and general polite inquiry were out of the way. That’s how Frique was. He never beat about the bush or worried about making a good impression.
I don’t even think he knew my name at that time, unless he’d caught a glimpse of “Elliot Fragg” at the top of my worksheets and didn’t think it worth asking. He didn’t start calling me “Fragg” until years later. I was just “you” like there was no one else in his little world.
That frightened me.
We were a pretty insular pair all those years in school together and later on when we went to college for Chemistry. We made Hubris University’s investments in eye-wash stations well worth it.
And then there were the events preceding our expulsion.
That was the problem with Frique. He was a wheedler —a silver-tongued devil. He made everything sound so innocent right until you heard the police sirens. He never had to talk me into anything, because he knew that wasn’t how my mind worked. I attacked any given problem with the sheer desire of solving it, without stopping to think about repercussions. Usually, in a theoretical sense, there would have been no repercussions … if I’d been working with anyone but Lucas Frique.
For example, when I developed a compound that would reduce rotting road kill into eco-friendly compost more quickly, I never expected Frique to use it on the body of our Professor of Biochemistry he’d killed and buried behind our dorm. When I invented a breathable gas that was more effective than laughing gas to immobilize and numb dental patients, I didn’t expect Frique to use it on several members of the student body. A few of them ended up behind the dorm too. Frique would simply ruminate aloud on a subject like, “I wonder if it’s possible to create a machine to project a person’s thoughts,” and I would be on the first draft a few seconds later. Frique would provide the parts (which he probably stole) and correct my math while I feverishly designed and perfected. Then I would find out that Frique wanted to use my mind-reading device to dig up dark secrets about a teacher’s aide for the purpose of blackmail.
The manufactured viruses, the sonic wave devices, the electrically charged suits (I admit that making electro-shock suits was a real “duh” moment for me afterwards) and many more insidious devices were designed and perfected by me for Frique’s purposes. His test subjects were the students and staff at that unfortunate school. I never pleaded with him to stop. It would have been like trying to halt a landslide by waving a stop sign. And I was too scared — no —I was terrified beyond all reason.
I still am.
Every time he approaches me with that boyish face and impish expression of interest I break out in a cold sweat. I’m his to command — and as many times as I’ve tried to break away, I’ve never been able to manage it. He’d always draw me back with promises, with threats, and on one occasion, a gun. He’d never be able to let me go, because without me around there would be only him, talking to himself and letting his mind spiral into tessellating madness.
The man killed in cold blood, tortured his fellow humans and plotted the deaths of thousands in his dark dreams, and he was never frightened of that blackness in his soul … because I was his anchor to humanity. With me around, he’d never be alone. Being alone is the only thing Frique is terrified of. I'd kill myself if I wasn't terrified of Frique digging me up and keeping me alive with electric impulses — "The Fragg That Wouldn't Die."
Right now I’m working on a giant robot with nine kinds of weapons and a strain of flesh-eating bacteria. We’re going to hold the Smithsonian Institute for ransom until the Natural History museum updates its dinosaur exhibit.
It’s Frique’s attempt at being funny.
My life sucks.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Friday Flash Anthology
Assuming I haven't already missed the deadline for this,
I've been wondering which story to submit for the BEST OF FRIDAY FLASH 2 Anthology. As John W. already posted, authors are CRAP at picking their best stuff so I thought I would narrow it down to 3 stories and let you guys pick. I know you're all busy, so I've stated the premise of each story next to the title if you don't have time to read or re-read it.
Three Finalists:
1. Joe Milgrave and the Devil: Joe summons the Devil (who doesn't REMOTELY look like Burt Reynolds) to beg one favor: Make Mrs. Milgrave agree with him.
2. Mr. Peterson's Tale
A wizened old exterminator tells of his harrowing encounter with "Ol' blinky."
3. Doctor Frankenstein's House of Pancakes The good Doctor F, his promethean construct, Igor and Stephanie are the staff at your not-too-average breakfast joint. "Try the thrcrapple."
Please vote for you favorite by leaving a comment with the number or title of your favorite story. If you've liked a different story that you think deserves submission, feel free to state as such.
I REALLY appreciate you taking the time to read this and vote. SUPER thanks in advance.
I've been wondering which story to submit for the BEST OF FRIDAY FLASH 2 Anthology. As John W. already posted, authors are CRAP at picking their best stuff so I thought I would narrow it down to 3 stories and let you guys pick. I know you're all busy, so I've stated the premise of each story next to the title if you don't have time to read or re-read it.
Three Finalists:
1. Joe Milgrave and the Devil: Joe summons the Devil (who doesn't REMOTELY look like Burt Reynolds) to beg one favor: Make Mrs. Milgrave agree with him.
2. Mr. Peterson's Tale
A wizened old exterminator tells of his harrowing encounter with "Ol' blinky."
3. Doctor Frankenstein's House of Pancakes The good Doctor F, his promethean construct, Igor and Stephanie are the staff at your not-too-average breakfast joint. "Try the thrcrapple."
Please vote for you favorite by leaving a comment with the number or title of your favorite story. If you've liked a different story that you think deserves submission, feel free to state as such.
I REALLY appreciate you taking the time to read this and vote. SUPER thanks in advance.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Cautionary Tale
This is based on conversation I've had with other moms.
“I can’t be sick, I have too much stuff to do,” I muttered as forced my sweating coughing carcass out of bed. I’d used my kids’ talking Spongebob thermometer only to confirm what I already knew. I was still sick as a dog. The pain in my chest and my stiff neck told me this wasn’t going to be pretty either, but I couldn’t sleep it off. I had to get the kids on the bus and then I had to scan and send all those forms. The cupcakes had to be done for the church bake sale and I had no ingredients. Heck, we didn’t even have milk or canned spaghetti. Then I had to get my dress fitted for Marnie’s wedding on Tuesday!
I was downstairs. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten there. I only remembered chugging cough sryrup like it was Gatorade. I was making lunches as fast as I could – which took a while considering that I first had to remember what bread looked like. My hands were covered in Skippy and grape jelly as I shoved the sandwiches into paper bags. Lisa couldn’t find her shoes, I had to help with that. Oliver suddenly remembered that he needed an example of art from the impressionist period. I jumped on the internet and shoved the damp page fresh from the printer into his hand as the bus pulled up.
No time for a breather, I had too much to do. I found myself in the bathroom with no memory of when I’d decided to go upstairs, or when I’d done it. I had a coffee mug in my hand. I took a decongestant, using my coffee to wash it down. I forced myself back on the computer downstairs as I signed and scanned every form for my boss. I had to email her twice. The first time I forgot the attachment and I almost forgot it in the second email that was apologizing for not sending the attachment. The computer freezing up saved me that embarrassment.
I shoved my damp head through my old grey sweatsuit¬–I was getting chills again. I did a load of socks and underwear before grabbing my car keys. Had I taken my antibiotic? I couldn’t’ remember. I ran up to the bedroom and emptied the pills out on the bathroom sink… then I did it again. I had no clue. I tried to count how many days I’d been on the pills but then I couldn’t remember how many there’d been in the first place. I decided that if I didn’t remember I probably hadn’t taken it yet. I downed the pill as my head spun so hard I had to sit on the tile floor again. Was this chest cold ever going to get better? I didn’t need this! I had too much to do.
When the spinning stopped I grabbed my car keys and headed to the car. I’d finish my errands and then take a nap. I promised myself. Let me just get through this day, and then I could rest.
*******
“Will?”
“Yeah, Sasha?” came Will’s voice from the hall.
“Did you lay all these pills out on the sink like this?” asked Sasha. She stood in her underwear in the bathroom. Every jar of pills and supplements that she owned had been opened and every pill had been placed in a straight line.
Will joined her and turned pale. “No. But the same thing happened to me about a week ago.”
“First the peanut butter all over the kitchen, then the car keys… now what is that about?” asked Sasha in a high voice.
“I’m starting to think this house was going cheap for a reason,” said Will shivering. “How did that lady die?”
“They said it was an overdose of cold medicine,” said Sasha. She noticed her breath forming in clouds. It had suddenly gotten very cold in the bathroom and just on the edge of hearing, Sasha thought she heard a woman’s voice, sighing. It said:
“I can’t be sick! I have too much to do!”
“I can’t be sick, I have too much stuff to do,” I muttered as forced my sweating coughing carcass out of bed. I’d used my kids’ talking Spongebob thermometer only to confirm what I already knew. I was still sick as a dog. The pain in my chest and my stiff neck told me this wasn’t going to be pretty either, but I couldn’t sleep it off. I had to get the kids on the bus and then I had to scan and send all those forms. The cupcakes had to be done for the church bake sale and I had no ingredients. Heck, we didn’t even have milk or canned spaghetti. Then I had to get my dress fitted for Marnie’s wedding on Tuesday!
I was downstairs. I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten there. I only remembered chugging cough sryrup like it was Gatorade. I was making lunches as fast as I could – which took a while considering that I first had to remember what bread looked like. My hands were covered in Skippy and grape jelly as I shoved the sandwiches into paper bags. Lisa couldn’t find her shoes, I had to help with that. Oliver suddenly remembered that he needed an example of art from the impressionist period. I jumped on the internet and shoved the damp page fresh from the printer into his hand as the bus pulled up.
No time for a breather, I had too much to do. I found myself in the bathroom with no memory of when I’d decided to go upstairs, or when I’d done it. I had a coffee mug in my hand. I took a decongestant, using my coffee to wash it down. I forced myself back on the computer downstairs as I signed and scanned every form for my boss. I had to email her twice. The first time I forgot the attachment and I almost forgot it in the second email that was apologizing for not sending the attachment. The computer freezing up saved me that embarrassment.
I shoved my damp head through my old grey sweatsuit¬–I was getting chills again. I did a load of socks and underwear before grabbing my car keys. Had I taken my antibiotic? I couldn’t’ remember. I ran up to the bedroom and emptied the pills out on the bathroom sink… then I did it again. I had no clue. I tried to count how many days I’d been on the pills but then I couldn’t remember how many there’d been in the first place. I decided that if I didn’t remember I probably hadn’t taken it yet. I downed the pill as my head spun so hard I had to sit on the tile floor again. Was this chest cold ever going to get better? I didn’t need this! I had too much to do.
When the spinning stopped I grabbed my car keys and headed to the car. I’d finish my errands and then take a nap. I promised myself. Let me just get through this day, and then I could rest.
*******
“Will?”
“Yeah, Sasha?” came Will’s voice from the hall.
“Did you lay all these pills out on the sink like this?” asked Sasha. She stood in her underwear in the bathroom. Every jar of pills and supplements that she owned had been opened and every pill had been placed in a straight line.
Will joined her and turned pale. “No. But the same thing happened to me about a week ago.”
“First the peanut butter all over the kitchen, then the car keys… now what is that about?” asked Sasha in a high voice.
“I’m starting to think this house was going cheap for a reason,” said Will shivering. “How did that lady die?”
“They said it was an overdose of cold medicine,” said Sasha. She noticed her breath forming in clouds. It had suddenly gotten very cold in the bathroom and just on the edge of hearing, Sasha thought she heard a woman’s voice, sighing. It said:
“I can’t be sick! I have too much to do!”
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Joe Milgrave and the Devil
I always loved those little Faustian Exchange stories and wanted to take a crack at one. I read the name Joe Milgrave in one of my books and the title jumped into my head. I liked the meter.
“Wow. You went through a lot of trouble for this,” said the Devil, straightening up. Joe couldn’t see him very clearly in the dim candlelight. It was the body of a trim muscular (if a little short) man of indeterminate age. Joe watched the man’s head turn from side to side, taking in the slaughtered pig, the pentagram drawn in swine blood, the smelly candles that gave off a choking smoke, and the crowning glory; the ram’s skull.
“Geez, son,” said the figure stepping idly across the circle that was supposed to be keeping him prisoner. “Most people just shout out, ‘hey Devil!’ They don’t turn their barn into a movie set from ‘Carrie’.”
Joe didn’t answer, however, as the Devil’s appearance suddenly rang a bell.
“BURT REYNOLDS?” he gasped.
The Devil only shrugged and looked quizzical, his handsome mustache twitching to one side as his thick brows arched. “You must be the millionth person to say that,” he said. “This Burt Reynolds fellah must be a handsome devil… get it?” he joked. He threw his head back for a high-pitched mirthful laugh that sure as HELL sounded like Burt Reynolds. Joe, being a “Cannonball Run” fan was that much more in awe of him now.
“Okey-dokey, Joe. So what did you drag me here for? Didja want proof I existed? Didja want to do the soul-for-favor exchange, or should we chalk this up to ‘dicking around with shit we don’t understand?” The Devil regarded Joe’s trembling knees, and the fervent look in his eyes. “I’d say it was all three, right Joe?”
“I need you to do something for me,” said Joe nodding.
“And what’s that, son?” said the Devil amiably.
“I want you to make my wife agree with me.”
Joe had never met the Devil or Burt Reynolds before, but got the distinct impression that this imposing man was seldom non-plussed. Yet, here it was, the drooping mustache, the eyes wide open and round as golf-balls.
“Mind running that by me again, Joe?”
“I’ve been married to Lida for twenty-six years,” said Joe in a low even voice, “…and she has never EVER agreed with me.”
“Chee whiz, son. I must admit that’s a first. Just agree with you? Why not have me make her obedient? It’s kinda the same thing?”
“No thanks, that’s not a problem.”
“Please elaborate, Joe. Enquiring minds want to know.”
“You know the passage from Corinthians: ‘Wives Be submissive to your husband?’”
“I think it was from Colossians, but go on.”
“Well, Lida always took that passage very seriously. But while she always gave into me, whether I wanted her to or not, she’s never agreed with me. She’d always call me an idiot, or a fool, or she’d just nod and say, ‘well I leave it to your conscience, Joe’.”
The Devil flinched. “Damn, son. You really won the lottery with that one.”
“Even if it’s just for a day, I just want to hear her say, “yes, Joe,” or “you’re right, Joe.”
“And you want that in exchange for your immortal soul??” asked the Devil incredulously. “A day? Son, you’re no poker player. Never go all-in on the first round.”
“How long’d you give me?”
“A little thing like that? How bout until the end of your natural life?”
“You’d do that??” asked Joe agape.
“Well not so fast now. This is kind of like getting a loan. There’s an approval process. Let me just pull out the Milton Index and see how you figure.”
“Milton Index?”
“It tells where you are soul-wise and how likely you are to go to heaven or hell. The way we figured it, there’s no point in giving out freebies for people who are going to end up in Hell anyway,” The Devil finished with a charming grin. Joe blanched a little.
The Devil pulled an oblong box from his pocket and consulted it. To Joe, it looked like an elaborate stud-finder. The Devil waved it at Joe and then shook the device and banged on the side in frustration.
“Well, shoot, Joe! You barely register on this thing.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Joe.
“What it means is that apart from our little meeting here, you are a pious man. And I don’t mean pious in that sense that makes you want to puke. You are a lawful, considerate, caring, God-fearing man!”
“I am?”
“The only real blot on your soul is your desire to get back at your wife. But you suffer quietly and are a good husband to her. What gives, Joe? You’re not a papist; divorce her! Live a good life and go to heaven like the goody-two-shoes you are.”
“But I love her,” said Joe sadly.
“You’re a piece of work, and no mistake, Joe. Alright. You got it. For the rest of your life (or hers, whichever comes first) your wife will agree with everything you say.”
There was a cloud of acrid smoke and the Devil was gone. Shaking and sweating, Joe cleaned up the barn as best he could, so he could be composed when he rejoined Lida in the kitchen.
“And where have you been?” asked Lida acidly. “And why do you stink like dead meat?”
“I’m going to lie down, Lida. I don’t feel so good,” said Joe.
To his amazement, Lida said, “You’re right, Joe. You look terrible.”
Did Lida actually agree with him? No snide comments? No trying to one-up him with an account of her problems? Joe smiled, but it was short-lived. He was now dimly aware of a numbness in his left arm that was rolling over his body and a painful throbbing in his chest.
“Lida…I do believe I’m having a heart-attack,” he mumbled through rubbery lips.
“Joe I think you’re right!” said Lida, agreeing with him again. She ran for the phone. “I’ll call 911.”
Joe was dead before the EMTs arrived, but as they rolled out the zippered bag to the ambulance, no one noticed the shadowy figure in the barn looking out and smoking a cigarette. The figure stomped out the smoldering butt and kicked the ground moodily.
“Shit. I hadn’t done it yet!” spat the Devil.
“Wow. You went through a lot of trouble for this,” said the Devil, straightening up. Joe couldn’t see him very clearly in the dim candlelight. It was the body of a trim muscular (if a little short) man of indeterminate age. Joe watched the man’s head turn from side to side, taking in the slaughtered pig, the pentagram drawn in swine blood, the smelly candles that gave off a choking smoke, and the crowning glory; the ram’s skull.
“Geez, son,” said the figure stepping idly across the circle that was supposed to be keeping him prisoner. “Most people just shout out, ‘hey Devil!’ They don’t turn their barn into a movie set from ‘Carrie’.”
Joe didn’t answer, however, as the Devil’s appearance suddenly rang a bell.
“BURT REYNOLDS?” he gasped.
The Devil only shrugged and looked quizzical, his handsome mustache twitching to one side as his thick brows arched. “You must be the millionth person to say that,” he said. “This Burt Reynolds fellah must be a handsome devil… get it?” he joked. He threw his head back for a high-pitched mirthful laugh that sure as HELL sounded like Burt Reynolds. Joe, being a “Cannonball Run” fan was that much more in awe of him now.
“Okey-dokey, Joe. So what did you drag me here for? Didja want proof I existed? Didja want to do the soul-for-favor exchange, or should we chalk this up to ‘dicking around with shit we don’t understand?” The Devil regarded Joe’s trembling knees, and the fervent look in his eyes. “I’d say it was all three, right Joe?”
“I need you to do something for me,” said Joe nodding.
“And what’s that, son?” said the Devil amiably.
“I want you to make my wife agree with me.”
Joe had never met the Devil or Burt Reynolds before, but got the distinct impression that this imposing man was seldom non-plussed. Yet, here it was, the drooping mustache, the eyes wide open and round as golf-balls.
“Mind running that by me again, Joe?”
“I’ve been married to Lida for twenty-six years,” said Joe in a low even voice, “…and she has never EVER agreed with me.”
“Chee whiz, son. I must admit that’s a first. Just agree with you? Why not have me make her obedient? It’s kinda the same thing?”
“No thanks, that’s not a problem.”
“Please elaborate, Joe. Enquiring minds want to know.”
“You know the passage from Corinthians: ‘Wives Be submissive to your husband?’”
“I think it was from Colossians, but go on.”
“Well, Lida always took that passage very seriously. But while she always gave into me, whether I wanted her to or not, she’s never agreed with me. She’d always call me an idiot, or a fool, or she’d just nod and say, ‘well I leave it to your conscience, Joe’.”
The Devil flinched. “Damn, son. You really won the lottery with that one.”
“Even if it’s just for a day, I just want to hear her say, “yes, Joe,” or “you’re right, Joe.”
“And you want that in exchange for your immortal soul??” asked the Devil incredulously. “A day? Son, you’re no poker player. Never go all-in on the first round.”
“How long’d you give me?”
“A little thing like that? How bout until the end of your natural life?”
“You’d do that??” asked Joe agape.
“Well not so fast now. This is kind of like getting a loan. There’s an approval process. Let me just pull out the Milton Index and see how you figure.”
“Milton Index?”
“It tells where you are soul-wise and how likely you are to go to heaven or hell. The way we figured it, there’s no point in giving out freebies for people who are going to end up in Hell anyway,” The Devil finished with a charming grin. Joe blanched a little.
The Devil pulled an oblong box from his pocket and consulted it. To Joe, it looked like an elaborate stud-finder. The Devil waved it at Joe and then shook the device and banged on the side in frustration.
“Well, shoot, Joe! You barely register on this thing.”
“What’s that mean?” asked Joe.
“What it means is that apart from our little meeting here, you are a pious man. And I don’t mean pious in that sense that makes you want to puke. You are a lawful, considerate, caring, God-fearing man!”
“I am?”
“The only real blot on your soul is your desire to get back at your wife. But you suffer quietly and are a good husband to her. What gives, Joe? You’re not a papist; divorce her! Live a good life and go to heaven like the goody-two-shoes you are.”
“But I love her,” said Joe sadly.
“You’re a piece of work, and no mistake, Joe. Alright. You got it. For the rest of your life (or hers, whichever comes first) your wife will agree with everything you say.”
There was a cloud of acrid smoke and the Devil was gone. Shaking and sweating, Joe cleaned up the barn as best he could, so he could be composed when he rejoined Lida in the kitchen.
“And where have you been?” asked Lida acidly. “And why do you stink like dead meat?”
“I’m going to lie down, Lida. I don’t feel so good,” said Joe.
To his amazement, Lida said, “You’re right, Joe. You look terrible.”
Did Lida actually agree with him? No snide comments? No trying to one-up him with an account of her problems? Joe smiled, but it was short-lived. He was now dimly aware of a numbness in his left arm that was rolling over his body and a painful throbbing in his chest.
“Lida…I do believe I’m having a heart-attack,” he mumbled through rubbery lips.
“Joe I think you’re right!” said Lida, agreeing with him again. She ran for the phone. “I’ll call 911.”
Joe was dead before the EMTs arrived, but as they rolled out the zippered bag to the ambulance, no one noticed the shadowy figure in the barn looking out and smoking a cigarette. The figure stomped out the smoldering butt and kicked the ground moodily.
“Shit. I hadn’t done it yet!” spat the Devil.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Mr. Peterson's Tale
This Week's Friday Flash is brought to you by low oxygen levels and codeine.
The old man leaned into the grey light.
"Yes'm. I seen 'em. I seen 'em many a time before. Dark corners, trail of black dust, like soot from the furnaces of Hell. That's them alright. I've fought them buggers for nigh on fifty years now, seen em smaller than a pinhead, and big as a dinner roll. They're a scourge on humanity and foul everything they touch. I've carried my weapons of duty to fight the good fight against their blight.
"But there's one as yet, I haven't squared with. You hear tales on the long nights when the old men sip their Rob Roys and tell tall stories. They all ran against him and lived to tell the tale. They were the lucky ones, and they say that none have ever faced him and come away whole – not entirely whole anyway – in the soul, ye see, ma'am.
"I crossed his path myself, when I was too young and carefree. They call hims Bingodangogumfree which in the old Indian tongue means 'one-eyed bastard'. When the settlers came to this land he was given the name 'Blinky', but there's still some among us think that names don't mean nothing. They say that he's Old Nick himself, walkin' the earth.
"Now when I seen him, it was dusk, I was in the old Mason house – don't look for it now, they tore it down years ago. I remember walking the floors, armed with my poisons and I heard a scuttling sound. "Skutter-skutter" it went – "skutter-skutter" like something with more legs than good intentions. I could feel the foul musty air press against me and I was too terrified to move. I could only stand with my feet stuck to the floor like tree-roots as I saw the huge creature shamble across the floor.
"He was bigger'n my Great Dane, Rufus – coulda swallowed him whole, and the sickly yaller moon shone on his greasy brown carapace. He stood up on his spindly legs, his great rotten body turned towards me with his one beady eye and an unearthly "chitter-chitter" noise came from his monstrous head. How I survived, I don't know. I coudln't move for fainting and the beast had me to rights, but he let me live. He only looked at me and turned away as if to say, 'not yet, boy. Your time ain't come yet.' He and I knew it would only be a matter of time before we would tangle again and it would be a battle for the ages.
"I never saw him again, but I will. Someday I will meet Blinky again. He'll kill me, or I'll kill him and we'll shake the very heavens with our struggle. Count on it, ma'am."
"Yeah," I said, eventually. "We'll I think most of the roaches are under the washing machine. See what you can do okay?"
"I will, ma'am. It'll be safe to come back in the three hours. I'll mail the bill to you."
"Uh-huh." I picked up my purse in a daze and dragged my kids to the car. "This is the last time I let your dad pick the cheapest exterminator in the phone book," I told them.
The old man leaned into the grey light.
"Yes'm. I seen 'em. I seen 'em many a time before. Dark corners, trail of black dust, like soot from the furnaces of Hell. That's them alright. I've fought them buggers for nigh on fifty years now, seen em smaller than a pinhead, and big as a dinner roll. They're a scourge on humanity and foul everything they touch. I've carried my weapons of duty to fight the good fight against their blight.
"But there's one as yet, I haven't squared with. You hear tales on the long nights when the old men sip their Rob Roys and tell tall stories. They all ran against him and lived to tell the tale. They were the lucky ones, and they say that none have ever faced him and come away whole – not entirely whole anyway – in the soul, ye see, ma'am.
"I crossed his path myself, when I was too young and carefree. They call hims Bingodangogumfree which in the old Indian tongue means 'one-eyed bastard'. When the settlers came to this land he was given the name 'Blinky', but there's still some among us think that names don't mean nothing. They say that he's Old Nick himself, walkin' the earth.
"Now when I seen him, it was dusk, I was in the old Mason house – don't look for it now, they tore it down years ago. I remember walking the floors, armed with my poisons and I heard a scuttling sound. "Skutter-skutter" it went – "skutter-skutter" like something with more legs than good intentions. I could feel the foul musty air press against me and I was too terrified to move. I could only stand with my feet stuck to the floor like tree-roots as I saw the huge creature shamble across the floor.
"He was bigger'n my Great Dane, Rufus – coulda swallowed him whole, and the sickly yaller moon shone on his greasy brown carapace. He stood up on his spindly legs, his great rotten body turned towards me with his one beady eye and an unearthly "chitter-chitter" noise came from his monstrous head. How I survived, I don't know. I coudln't move for fainting and the beast had me to rights, but he let me live. He only looked at me and turned away as if to say, 'not yet, boy. Your time ain't come yet.' He and I knew it would only be a matter of time before we would tangle again and it would be a battle for the ages.
"I never saw him again, but I will. Someday I will meet Blinky again. He'll kill me, or I'll kill him and we'll shake the very heavens with our struggle. Count on it, ma'am."
"Yeah," I said, eventually. "We'll I think most of the roaches are under the washing machine. See what you can do okay?"
"I will, ma'am. It'll be safe to come back in the three hours. I'll mail the bill to you."
"Uh-huh." I picked up my purse in a daze and dragged my kids to the car. "This is the last time I let your dad pick the cheapest exterminator in the phone book," I told them.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Don't Forget the Donuts
Rachael drank the dark re-fried office coffee and winced. It was usually bad, like the movie “Cocktail” was bad, but something was more off than usual. It now tasted like bad coffee that had been funneled through a garden hose. Looking at the prime suspect, the creamer, she spotted the bright yellow label with the words “Organic” across it. She groaned. For something that was supposed to be so natural and tamper free, why did organic milk and cream taste so…chemical?
Rachael tried not to let it bother her, but it began to rankle in her a little. A tiny fish hook of annoyance was teasing her skin and threatening to break the surface. She counted to ten and tried to breathe deeply as she walked past the grey labyrinth of cubicles. Rachael wanted to look at the clock, but was afraid to. Her stomach was telling her it must be close to lunchtime. Her brain wanted to cushion the blow, telling Rachael that it must be a good hour until 1:00–no, at least an hour and a half.
Holding her breath, Rachael looked up at the boring, white-faced bare-bones office clock and stifled a scream. It was 9:27 am. Her blackberry began to vibrate on her holster, and she fished around under her oversized green blouse to find it. A message flashed on it, saying “meeting w. team D.” A sudden jolt of memory hit her brain, still fuzzy from lack of coffee. Oh right. The meeting.
She speed-walked across the floor, with as much dignity as she could muster, her sensible flats flapping on the carpet as her long skirt caught on wastebaskets and protruding screws. Rachael’s unruly tangle of brown curls kept getting in her face, and she franticly searched her blazer pockets for something to tie them back. Sadly, she remembered too late that these pockets were only ornamental flaps, and she tore the left one by accident. Spying the copy cart, she quickly grabbed a brown utility rubber-band and attempted to tie back her brown halo. The raw rubber yanked fine hairs, torturing her scalp and drawing tears, which she brushed away in a hurry.
Forty seconds later she arrived at conference room C. She was the first one there. She sighed in relief and sank into one of the cushy black vinyl chairs. She had only to wait. With a tiny flutter of happiness, she leaned back in her chair, and stared at the ceiling, daydreaming. Her stomach gave a few rumbles, but she sipped her horrible coffee to shut it up.
Minutes ticked by. It was now 9:42 and Team D hadn’t arrived. More importantly, Ted hadn’t arrived. Ted was heading it, and Rachael was sort of grateful. She liked Ted. Ted didn’t condescend to her, he knew that being the only graphic designer on the floor, she got a lot dumped on her plate that she shouldn’t have to deal with. Ted was also vaguely aware of the software and programs she used. He’d heard of Adobe Illustrator, and knew what ppi meant, and didn’t ask dumb questions like “how do I put an image in power-point?” Ted had also said he was going to stop at Dunkin Donuts and pick up 2 dozen donuts in various flavors. That was worth this stupid meeting alone.
9:50 read the clock in the dark meeting room. Rachael slugged back the rest of her cold, grassy tasting coffee, but it didn't shut up the nagging voice in her stomach. The fishhook of annoyance was now burrowing into her skin, and she had to conscientiously unclench her jaw. Her dentist had warned her about that. She ran a tongue over the sharp points of her canine teeth and felt the serrated grooves caused by her anxious teeth-clenching. 10:03 Where the hell was everyone? With a sinking feeling, Rachael wondered if maybe she’d gotten the meeting place wrong. Maybe team D was in Conference room M or something waiting for her to show up with her thumbdrive.
Rachael stuck her head out the door and flagged down Evan.
“Hey, Evan, was Team D supposed to meet in here today?
Evan consulted the spreadsheet. “Eeee-yeah. 9:30-10:30, it says. Ted not there?”
“Nobody’s in here!” whined Rachael.
“Want me to call Ted?” asked Evan.
“Would you please? I wish somebody’s tell me what’s going on.” Rachael winced at her own voice. She knew she was sounding like a petulant four-year-old in front of Evan (who she thought was really cute).
“You want to go back to your desk and I’ll ding you if he responds?”
“I’m scheduled to be here until 10:30,” said Rachael evenly. “I might as well wait, in case someone shows up.”
“’Kay.”
10:14
10:20
Rachael was sweating she was so anxious and nervous. The hot sick feeling was roiling in her stomach. She was either being duped or she’d overlooked something important and made a huge mistake. Not knowing which it was added to her stress. Feeling sick to her stomach, she fished in her purse for her pill-caddy and fished out two iron pills. She swallowed them dry, and they stuck in her throat, giving her heartburn. Where was Ted? Where were the freaking donuts?
At 10:28, Ted finally waltzed through the meeting room door.
“Evan said you were in here,” he said shrugging.
“Ted,” began Rachael, fighting to keep her voice even. “Wasn’t there some meeting that was supposed to take place at 9:30?”
Ted shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Well, it turns out that all of Team D was on the smoking balcony during break, so we kind of had an impromptu meeting out there.”
“Um, I’m in Team D,” said Rachael.
“Don’t worry, I won’t mark it on your timesheet or nuthin’. It’s not your fault you don’t smoke.”
“But the meeting was about the graphic designs for the site!” hissed Rachael.
“Yeah, but we got some good ideas.”
“TED. I’M THE ONLY GRAPHIC DESIGNER.”
“Yeah, but we’ll tell you what you need to do, I took notes.”
Ted handed Rachael a crumpled napkin covered in ballpoint pen scrawl. The only legible word was “logo.” Rachael noted sadly that the napkin was from Dunkin Donuts.
“I suppose you ate all the donuts, then.”
“Yeah, but I thought you wouldn’t care, Rachael. You're always complaining that there’s too much junk food in the office, right?”
Rachael fought it. She really did, but the smell of cigarettes, and Ted’s smarmy grin, were testing her mettle. And now… no donuts?
“I’m sorry?” said Ted, half-heartedly.
“No, Ted. I’M sorry,” sighed Rachael, closing the door to the conference room behind Ted. “You should have brought the donuts.”
She felt her canines lengthen as she grabbed Ted by his stupid Spongebob tie and sank her teeth into his neck.
Rachael tried not to let it bother her, but it began to rankle in her a little. A tiny fish hook of annoyance was teasing her skin and threatening to break the surface. She counted to ten and tried to breathe deeply as she walked past the grey labyrinth of cubicles. Rachael wanted to look at the clock, but was afraid to. Her stomach was telling her it must be close to lunchtime. Her brain wanted to cushion the blow, telling Rachael that it must be a good hour until 1:00–no, at least an hour and a half.
Holding her breath, Rachael looked up at the boring, white-faced bare-bones office clock and stifled a scream. It was 9:27 am. Her blackberry began to vibrate on her holster, and she fished around under her oversized green blouse to find it. A message flashed on it, saying “meeting w. team D.” A sudden jolt of memory hit her brain, still fuzzy from lack of coffee. Oh right. The meeting.
She speed-walked across the floor, with as much dignity as she could muster, her sensible flats flapping on the carpet as her long skirt caught on wastebaskets and protruding screws. Rachael’s unruly tangle of brown curls kept getting in her face, and she franticly searched her blazer pockets for something to tie them back. Sadly, she remembered too late that these pockets were only ornamental flaps, and she tore the left one by accident. Spying the copy cart, she quickly grabbed a brown utility rubber-band and attempted to tie back her brown halo. The raw rubber yanked fine hairs, torturing her scalp and drawing tears, which she brushed away in a hurry.
Forty seconds later she arrived at conference room C. She was the first one there. She sighed in relief and sank into one of the cushy black vinyl chairs. She had only to wait. With a tiny flutter of happiness, she leaned back in her chair, and stared at the ceiling, daydreaming. Her stomach gave a few rumbles, but she sipped her horrible coffee to shut it up.
Minutes ticked by. It was now 9:42 and Team D hadn’t arrived. More importantly, Ted hadn’t arrived. Ted was heading it, and Rachael was sort of grateful. She liked Ted. Ted didn’t condescend to her, he knew that being the only graphic designer on the floor, she got a lot dumped on her plate that she shouldn’t have to deal with. Ted was also vaguely aware of the software and programs she used. He’d heard of Adobe Illustrator, and knew what ppi meant, and didn’t ask dumb questions like “how do I put an image in power-point?” Ted had also said he was going to stop at Dunkin Donuts and pick up 2 dozen donuts in various flavors. That was worth this stupid meeting alone.
9:50 read the clock in the dark meeting room. Rachael slugged back the rest of her cold, grassy tasting coffee, but it didn't shut up the nagging voice in her stomach. The fishhook of annoyance was now burrowing into her skin, and she had to conscientiously unclench her jaw. Her dentist had warned her about that. She ran a tongue over the sharp points of her canine teeth and felt the serrated grooves caused by her anxious teeth-clenching. 10:03 Where the hell was everyone? With a sinking feeling, Rachael wondered if maybe she’d gotten the meeting place wrong. Maybe team D was in Conference room M or something waiting for her to show up with her thumbdrive.
Rachael stuck her head out the door and flagged down Evan.
“Hey, Evan, was Team D supposed to meet in here today?
Evan consulted the spreadsheet. “Eeee-yeah. 9:30-10:30, it says. Ted not there?”
“Nobody’s in here!” whined Rachael.
“Want me to call Ted?” asked Evan.
“Would you please? I wish somebody’s tell me what’s going on.” Rachael winced at her own voice. She knew she was sounding like a petulant four-year-old in front of Evan (who she thought was really cute).
“You want to go back to your desk and I’ll ding you if he responds?”
“I’m scheduled to be here until 10:30,” said Rachael evenly. “I might as well wait, in case someone shows up.”
“’Kay.”
10:14
10:20
Rachael was sweating she was so anxious and nervous. The hot sick feeling was roiling in her stomach. She was either being duped or she’d overlooked something important and made a huge mistake. Not knowing which it was added to her stress. Feeling sick to her stomach, she fished in her purse for her pill-caddy and fished out two iron pills. She swallowed them dry, and they stuck in her throat, giving her heartburn. Where was Ted? Where were the freaking donuts?
At 10:28, Ted finally waltzed through the meeting room door.
“Evan said you were in here,” he said shrugging.
“Ted,” began Rachael, fighting to keep her voice even. “Wasn’t there some meeting that was supposed to take place at 9:30?”
Ted shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Well, it turns out that all of Team D was on the smoking balcony during break, so we kind of had an impromptu meeting out there.”
“Um, I’m in Team D,” said Rachael.
“Don’t worry, I won’t mark it on your timesheet or nuthin’. It’s not your fault you don’t smoke.”
“But the meeting was about the graphic designs for the site!” hissed Rachael.
“Yeah, but we got some good ideas.”
“TED. I’M THE ONLY GRAPHIC DESIGNER.”
“Yeah, but we’ll tell you what you need to do, I took notes.”
Ted handed Rachael a crumpled napkin covered in ballpoint pen scrawl. The only legible word was “logo.” Rachael noted sadly that the napkin was from Dunkin Donuts.
“I suppose you ate all the donuts, then.”
“Yeah, but I thought you wouldn’t care, Rachael. You're always complaining that there’s too much junk food in the office, right?”
Rachael fought it. She really did, but the smell of cigarettes, and Ted’s smarmy grin, were testing her mettle. And now… no donuts?
“I’m sorry?” said Ted, half-heartedly.
“No, Ted. I’M sorry,” sighed Rachael, closing the door to the conference room behind Ted. “You should have brought the donuts.”
She felt her canines lengthen as she grabbed Ted by his stupid Spongebob tie and sank her teeth into his neck.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Saturday in Golders Green
Lingonberry the cat looked down on the body from the bookcase. He arched his back and hissed at it, his ginger stripes sticking up like a boot brush.
“Shut up! Stupid cat!” hissed Beverly.
“Nyarrrrow!!” wailed Lingonberry before launching himself off the top shelf onto the sofa. Normally Beverly would have shooed him away– she didn’t like hair on her sofa– but seeing as it was covered in blood it seemed rather pointless now.
Beverly caught sight of herself in the mirror, standing over the body of the late Gregory Finster: shady solicitor. She self-consciously ran a hand through her spiky grey hair. She had always said she’d never be one of those old women– those bulldoggy women with severe frowns and even more severe haircuts. Yet, here she was. She even had the jumper with floral embroidery, which she wore under a man’s corduroy coat, complete with string bag. She had never realized it before until now– until she was staring at her reflection holding the bloodied fire-iron. The transition from forty-and-fabulous to cake-hatted-old-lady had been so gradual since Paul had died that she’d never noticed.
She felt like she was having an out of body experience as she tried to find the young woman hiding under all the folds and wrinkles on her face. She knew there were more pressing matters to deal with right now, like getting rid of Gregory’s body, but she wanted to look in the mirror a little longer. There was a knock at the door and she dropped the fire tongs.
“Shit!” she cried suddenly, looking at the body and the blood everywhere. She wrung her hands as she danced in her panic. If only she’d had more sense than to give Greg a key to her house. If only Greg hadn’t sneaked in and started taking photographs, photographs of things he should have left well enough alone about.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK
Her mind suddenly focused like a laser. Looking around she saw the utility closet. With tremendous effort, she rolled Gregory up in the living room rug and pulled it to the closet.
KNOCK-KNOCK!
“MUM? Are you in?”
“I’m on the toilet, David!” Beverly cried giving the closet one last shove. “Let yourself in!”
“It’s locked, mum!”
“Is it?” asked Beverly, who knew for a fact that the door was locked. “I’ll be out soon! Just hold on a mo’!”
Beverly’s eyes swung to the large red patch on the couch and she stifled a scream of frustration. She couldn’t hide the couch. Why in the hell did she get a white settee? She must have been mad! Turning around in circles, her vision lit on blanket she was knitting for her daughter. She threw the blanket over the vivid red stain, satisfied that the blanket covered it nicely. She winced. It still smelled horrible in here. It was probably due to Gregory. She needed something to cover it.
“Mum! Are you alright?”
“Must have been the curry I had!” she cried as she dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a few items. She plunked down a plastic bucket and sponge mop, sprayed disinfectant in the air, and saturated the couch with upholstery cleaner. She only just had the presence of mind to wash the blood off her hands.
“Come in!” she called.
“MUM! We’ve been through this! The door’s locked!”
“Oh! Silly me!” cried Beverly, running to the door.
She flung it open and flashed a giddy smile.
“Gran!”
“Gran!”
Beverly knelt down and scooped up her granddaughters, Kristen and Lizzie.
“How are my girls!” cried Beverly cheerfully.
“Krissie showed me the pirate movie and Mum yelled at her!” said Lizzie with a gap-toothed grin. “But I wasn’t scared!”
Kristen rolled her eyes. “You were so scared. You were hiding from skeletons all last night.”
“Did you forget we were coming, Mum?” asked David with a grin.
“No! I was looking forward to it! You know old people, Dave. When you got to go, you got to go.” Beverly didn’t meet his eyes as she led them hastily past the sitting room.
“The couch is still damp, dears. Let’s have a picnic on the terrace.”
“Hang about,” said David stopping in the living room and looking around.
Beverly was sure her heart had stopped as David’s sharp eyes took in the dry mop and bucket, the missing carpet and the knitted blanket on the sofa… with the needles still in it. Damn.
“Oh, I see what’s going on,” said David, with a crooked grin. “Mum, how could you?”
“Oh David,” began Beverly, fighting tears.
“You just had to finish tidying up before we came in!” cried her son, shaking his head.
Beverly nearly fainted, she felt so light-headed. “That’s right. I couldn’t resist one last bit of cleaning. The house was such a tip.
David shook his head. “You’re too much, Mum. You need to relax.”
“I am as God made me. Now who wants sandwiches?”
“Excellent! I’m starving!” cried Kristen running out onto the terrace. He father followed her. Soon only Lizzie was left.
“Gran?”
“Yes, Lizzie?”
“I’m a pirate! Arr!!” cried Lizzie.
Beverly paused a moment.
“Would Lizzie the Pirate like to dig for buried treasure in the garden?”
“YES!” cried Lizzie jumping up and down.
“Good! I’ll go get a spade,” said Beverly walking out the back door and towards the shed.
“I love going to Gran’s house,” declared Lizzie, joining her sister on the terrace.
“Why’s that Liz?”
“’Cause Gran always lets me dig in the garden.”
“Shut up! Stupid cat!” hissed Beverly.
“Nyarrrrow!!” wailed Lingonberry before launching himself off the top shelf onto the sofa. Normally Beverly would have shooed him away– she didn’t like hair on her sofa– but seeing as it was covered in blood it seemed rather pointless now.
Beverly caught sight of herself in the mirror, standing over the body of the late Gregory Finster: shady solicitor. She self-consciously ran a hand through her spiky grey hair. She had always said she’d never be one of those old women– those bulldoggy women with severe frowns and even more severe haircuts. Yet, here she was. She even had the jumper with floral embroidery, which she wore under a man’s corduroy coat, complete with string bag. She had never realized it before until now– until she was staring at her reflection holding the bloodied fire-iron. The transition from forty-and-fabulous to cake-hatted-old-lady had been so gradual since Paul had died that she’d never noticed.
She felt like she was having an out of body experience as she tried to find the young woman hiding under all the folds and wrinkles on her face. She knew there were more pressing matters to deal with right now, like getting rid of Gregory’s body, but she wanted to look in the mirror a little longer. There was a knock at the door and she dropped the fire tongs.
“Shit!” she cried suddenly, looking at the body and the blood everywhere. She wrung her hands as she danced in her panic. If only she’d had more sense than to give Greg a key to her house. If only Greg hadn’t sneaked in and started taking photographs, photographs of things he should have left well enough alone about.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK
Her mind suddenly focused like a laser. Looking around she saw the utility closet. With tremendous effort, she rolled Gregory up in the living room rug and pulled it to the closet.
KNOCK-KNOCK!
“MUM? Are you in?”
“I’m on the toilet, David!” Beverly cried giving the closet one last shove. “Let yourself in!”
“It’s locked, mum!”
“Is it?” asked Beverly, who knew for a fact that the door was locked. “I’ll be out soon! Just hold on a mo’!”
Beverly’s eyes swung to the large red patch on the couch and she stifled a scream of frustration. She couldn’t hide the couch. Why in the hell did she get a white settee? She must have been mad! Turning around in circles, her vision lit on blanket she was knitting for her daughter. She threw the blanket over the vivid red stain, satisfied that the blanket covered it nicely. She winced. It still smelled horrible in here. It was probably due to Gregory. She needed something to cover it.
“Mum! Are you alright?”
“Must have been the curry I had!” she cried as she dashed to the kitchen and grabbed a few items. She plunked down a plastic bucket and sponge mop, sprayed disinfectant in the air, and saturated the couch with upholstery cleaner. She only just had the presence of mind to wash the blood off her hands.
“Come in!” she called.
“MUM! We’ve been through this! The door’s locked!”
“Oh! Silly me!” cried Beverly, running to the door.
She flung it open and flashed a giddy smile.
“Gran!”
“Gran!”
Beverly knelt down and scooped up her granddaughters, Kristen and Lizzie.
“How are my girls!” cried Beverly cheerfully.
“Krissie showed me the pirate movie and Mum yelled at her!” said Lizzie with a gap-toothed grin. “But I wasn’t scared!”
Kristen rolled her eyes. “You were so scared. You were hiding from skeletons all last night.”
“Did you forget we were coming, Mum?” asked David with a grin.
“No! I was looking forward to it! You know old people, Dave. When you got to go, you got to go.” Beverly didn’t meet his eyes as she led them hastily past the sitting room.
“The couch is still damp, dears. Let’s have a picnic on the terrace.”
“Hang about,” said David stopping in the living room and looking around.
Beverly was sure her heart had stopped as David’s sharp eyes took in the dry mop and bucket, the missing carpet and the knitted blanket on the sofa… with the needles still in it. Damn.
“Oh, I see what’s going on,” said David, with a crooked grin. “Mum, how could you?”
“Oh David,” began Beverly, fighting tears.
“You just had to finish tidying up before we came in!” cried her son, shaking his head.
Beverly nearly fainted, she felt so light-headed. “That’s right. I couldn’t resist one last bit of cleaning. The house was such a tip.
David shook his head. “You’re too much, Mum. You need to relax.”
“I am as God made me. Now who wants sandwiches?”
“Excellent! I’m starving!” cried Kristen running out onto the terrace. He father followed her. Soon only Lizzie was left.
“Gran?”
“Yes, Lizzie?”
“I’m a pirate! Arr!!” cried Lizzie.
Beverly paused a moment.
“Would Lizzie the Pirate like to dig for buried treasure in the garden?”
“YES!” cried Lizzie jumping up and down.
“Good! I’ll go get a spade,” said Beverly walking out the back door and towards the shed.
“I love going to Gran’s house,” declared Lizzie, joining her sister on the terrace.
“Why’s that Liz?”
“’Cause Gran always lets me dig in the garden.”
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