The following piece of fiction contains bizarre and digusting images. Reader discretion is advised.

Roger locked the door to his efficency apartment. He threw off his coat and almost mangled his tie as he yanked it free of its double windsor prison. He pulled the paper with the telephone number out of his pocket and sat on the edge of his still folded out day bed. He had been excited about making this call an hour ago, while he was still sitting in his car. He even considered using his cell phone, but he worried about what would happen if the conversation got lurid. He waited until this moment, but his zeal had faded and was replaced by anxiety. If it is a prank of somekind, I’ll never live it down. It will haunt me. But what if this is my chance? My only chance? He reached for his phone and began dialing the number. 

His hand trembled as he put the reciever to his ear. It rang once. I wonder who will answer! Will it be a man or a woman? It rang a second time. What if it really is Irene? What will I say? ”I saw your number on the bathroom stall and thought that you’d want a little rumpy-pumpy.” His vision of a night with a sexually frustrated erotic dynamo started to fade on the third ring, when someone picked up on the other end of the line.  Roger’s heart pumped in his chest as he head her breathing. The phone connection was staticy, but he could hear her! That is feminine breathing if I ever heard it!

(Ending Version 2)

“Hello.” said Roger. The line remained staticy, though Roger could hear a sound, somewhat like a voice echoing in a tin can. “Hello? I can’t hear you very well. Can you hear me?” asked Roger, not noticing an inky cloud puffing out of the reciever. When he saw it, he dropped the phone on the floor. The black smoke filtered out of the phone swiftly; in the cloud he could see the face of a young woman. He fell over himself, tumbling to the floor. The amorphous cloud grew; a dozen faces floated in the cloud. Each face was unique, except that every face writhed in pain, sneering with mouths lined with fangs. Roger pushed himself away from the apparition as dozens of arms and legs began to form on the cloud’s perimeter.

“What are you!” he shouted, not knowing what else to say. He reached for a knife from his galley kitchen’s counter. His hand shook as he pointed the blade at the apparition. One of the hands swiftly reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. He shouted in pain as the thing pulled him towards itself. Its voice, echoed and tinny, called to him.

“We need you.”  it said as it wrenched his wrist around. Roger screeched in pain as the creature pulled at him. One of the mouths sunk its fangs into his flesh as several hands groped clumsily at him while others held him fast. Looking up at the apparition, Roger felt faint and powerless. He felt as though he left his body; he watched as the creature tore at his clothes. He watched as the mouths bit at him, sucking his blood. He winced as the scene became too disgusting to watch, but he could not look away. The apparition had many genitals; some male, some female. No! Stop! STOP! He tried to cry out, but the apparition was pulling his mouth open, pushing a tongue down his throat. He gagged, almost vomiting; he felt helpless and broken…

When he awoke, he was still bleeding. He pulled himself to the bathroom and let the hot water of the shower wash over him. He looked at his hands; they were wrinkled and spotted. These aren’t my hands. They can’t be. He rushed from the shower and saw that his face was heavily wrinkled. I look like I aged 80 years! What the hell did that thing do to me? As he looked in the mirror, he could see the apparition behind him, a hand reaching out and clasping him painfully on the shoulder.

“We want more.” said the creature, speaking in Roger’s voice and looking at him with Roger’s youthful face.

“No!” screamed Roger pleadingly, tears welling in his eyes.

“Then another. Bring us another. If not, we will be back.” The apparition slowly disappated back into the telephone, leaving behind only a dial tone. Roger nervously grabbed at the phone and terminated the call. Naked and alone, he felt vulnerable and afraid. His eyes fell on the torn clothes on the floor and the blood, his blood. He looked at the phone number and knew that there was only one way to deliver himself from the creature and what might be endless, nightly torture.

The next day, he went to the super market and went into the bathroom. He had taken a permanent marker with him; he started to write the phone number on the wall of one of the stalls. He felt guilt filling him as he scrawled ”For a Good Time, Call Annie” above the number. The words became blurry as tears filled his eyes. He left the stall, taking his marker with him, hopeful and fearful.  

This story was inspired by a conversation I had with my good friend Missie. The conversation was basically about preventing indolence via robotic companions that would persuade one to do whatever it was that one was not doing. I claimed that mine would be a robot with whips for hands. So, The Government Tower was born. I had considered making it much longer, but I’m not certain that it needs to be. Actually, I think that if it was much longer, it would fade into redundancy.

One thing you will note in this story is that it seems very personal; it is a reflection of my feelings as an artist working in an age that doesn’t always appreciate art, especially if that art comes in a written form. Sometimes it feels like you need to shoehorn something that is special to you just so that it fits into one or another market. An editor will say (not in these specific words) ”I like this or that, but you need to change everything that makes it unique.” Personally, I’d rather not make a dime than change a story based on making it more saleable. Maybe that’s why I’m on the fringe.

And yes, I left the ending that way for the enjoyment of the readers. You’ll see what I mean when you get there.

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Another Icarus had gone by. Plummeting to the concrete ocean miles below, I could hear his scream come and go like a passing train. Out of morbid curiosity, I rushed to my window to watch him fall. I looked out at the clouds and craned my head out the window. There was no glass in the government tower, nor were there bars. The Icarus hit the building, leaving a short bloody trail before he came away from the building again, flailing limply. He shrank out of sight, and soon I couldn’t even hear his screaming. I returned to my desk and stared at the type writer; it was old and the letter ‘e’ would stick more often than not. I looked at the door to my cell and wondered when it would come.

I am Quinn, and I am a writer. However, as is typical, my work did not coincide with what society wanted. When I dropped out of college, I started living at The Fringe of the World, an apartment complex and bohemian paradise. Artists, actors, writers, musicians, and philosophers of every stripe were there. We were a community of people outcast by the working class and by the nobility. We were the tinder and fuel of a bonfire of creativity. Too frivolous to be workers and not serious enough to be nobles, the bohemians were both literally and figuratively on the fringe. As an uncontrolled creative force, it was not long before the government decided that it didn’t want us anymore. It started with a single government funded art show.

Government funded art had no soul, but the workers and nobles loved it. I remember one painting I saw at the first government art show: it was a zaftig woman wearing overalls that were too large for her. The apron front draped in such a way that there was a tantalizing peek of her bosom. She hefted a large mallet over her shoulder, and stood on a pile of rubble amidst a background torn by war. I remembered thinking that she looked as much like a man as a woman; her breasts were all that made her truly feminine. That was how government art always was; it was made to appeal to both men and women, both the rich and the poor. Every painting, every sculpture, every photograph had to speak to the entirety of the social order. It seemed to me that the goal was to entertain rather than inspire. It was then that I decided that I disliked the Government.

Years later, when I was arrested, I was with a group of bohemians outside of a Government art show at the Metropolitan Museum. We were camped out on the steps, selling our wares and performing a few one act plays. Most people just walked by us, ignoring our work. Some would watch a dancer and yell for her to strip; others would try to haggle the price down to nickels for limited edition books, hand bound by the author. Then, as swiftly as a summer’s rain, the police were there. They were on us like a flood, washing away all evidence of our presence. They collected our work and used it as evidence against us in the trials that would follow. That is how I came to be in the Government Tower.

The Government Tower is the tallest building in a city of tall buildings. It stands alone on a plot of land central to the rest of the city, like a long length of spear jutting out of a beast’s back. The tower is miles high, and most of the cells are on the highest floors. “The prisoners are free to leave at any time,” I heard the warden joke once, and it was true. We were free to leave, but we would have to go out the windows. A fly would probably slide down the sheer sides of the Government Tower, so climbing down is a hopeless endeavor. That is why I called the ones that fall by my window “Icarus.” I like to fancy that they thought they could fly, but they broke their wings. I don’t want to think that life could become so bleak that a leap was the only solution. There was another way out of the Government Tower: reform. That is where It comes in.

It comes to each room once each day. It takes your work for the day, and looks it over. If the work is judged as appropriate, the prisoner is moved to a lower cell. If the work is not, then It administers punishment. The first time It looked at one of my works, I was trembling with fear. Its red eyes scanned the pages, evaluating the story I wrote. I had written something about a boy and his dog; it was touching and slightly melodramatic. I had hoped that it had a flavour that would please the government’s palette. It simply stored the sheets in his chest, and then, after a second a whirring rose. A clash of sprockets sounded as gears grinded to life; a snake-like leather whip emerged from It’s wrist. With a deft, sudden motion, the leather snapped a thin strip of flesh off my hand with a crack.

It turned without a word, and walked away, locking the cell door behind himself. I think of It as masculine. Perhaps it is because of the way the robot was crafted: wide shoulders and narrow hips gave It the appearance of strength. Blood stained iron was It’s skin; the head was wide and flat, resting on an unperceivable neck that hid within a tall collar. It was impressive, and frightening.

I considered the story again and rewrote it. I checked the grammar, spelling and punctuation carefully. Again It appeared and again I felt the brutal crack of its whip. For weeks I produced work; comedy, drama, horror, love stories and more. Each was read by the robot, accepted, and then the machine’s whips came to life, snapping through the air with grace and precision. Finally came the day that I stood on my window sill. I interrogated myself passionately, wondering where I went wrong. Was the plot too vapid? The characters too complex? Why couldn’t I get it right?

I looked down at the long fall and imagined how easily I could end my torment. A single step was all it would take. The wind whipped around me as I stood there considering my fate. The door opened and It entered. The robot stood ready to receive my work but I had none to give. Its iron talons crunched down on my wrist as it pulled me from the window sill and dragged me from the room. I kicked at the robot and grasped at the walls as it pulled me along. Down one flight of stairs we went, and into a cell I was tossed. It had been nearly six months, but I was one step closer to freedom.

I thought I had figured out the rehabilitation. It wasn’t meant to make me write the right thing, rather it was meant to break me of the habit all together. When It came again, I stood proudly with my hand extended. I had not written again. The mechanized beast grabbed hold of my hand and twisted it painfully, bringing me to my knees. I looked up at It’s emotionless eyes and felt tears welling out of my own. I had thought I figured it out, and my broken fingers proved otherwise. My hand swelled and pulsed pink. I could barely sleep due to the pain. I fell into and out of dreams and upon awaking I struggled to my type writer.

My fingers waltzed clumsily, like a drunken couple, over the keys. I wrote about my dreams and my pain; I poured my emotions out onto the paper and prayed that it would lead to my reprieve. I wrote a simple story:

“Jaime met a friend. The friend and Jaime hadn’t seen each other in quite a long time. Jaime was happy to see the friend, and Jaime was surprised to hear that the friend was to be married. Jaime had become sad, for Jaime did not want to lose the dear friend. Jaime pleaded for the friend not to marry, as the marriage would destroy him. The friend disagreed. The friend said that marriage was going to complete the life the friend always wanted. Jaime cried as the friend left. Jaime cried and wouldn’t stop crying even if his body dried out.” I read and re-read the paragraph, and then I heard It coming from afar. It’s heavy iron feet plodded, maybe seven cells away. Depending on what happened, I might have had time to change the story. I read it again and I tore it to shreds. I sat back down at my typewriter and furiously wrote my story. I needed an hour, not minutes. I started to type fervently, each paragraph punctuated with It’s heavy footfalls. I considered all I had created in my months in the Government Tower. A hundred lives, maybe a thousand, and all were quelled because of the Government’s guidelines. I had a choice: I could keep trying to please the Government, or I could be true to myself.

I will fold this story, and I shall take it with me. Perhaps it will give me the wings to fly out of this prison. If not, at least I will have created something I could take true pride in. I have led a life blessed by my muse, but to be true to her, I have only one course of action to take.

The following story was inspired by a trip to the bathroom while I was at work. There were two telephone numbers written on the wall and I found myself wondering whose they were and why they would be writing their number on the walls of a men’s room.

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Warning: The following short story contains imagery that some may find offensive or distasteful. This story may not be suitable for all audiences, as it involves sexuality, adult-like themes, and some pottyish humor. Reader discretion is advised.  

 In other words: If you are offended by this story, try coming back later. I might have something more to your taste.

Shit! I need to piss!thought Roger as he raced to the bathroom closest to his cubicle. He had put off his trip to the bathroom as long as he could; he was beyond just doing a pee dance. It had become a full blown emergency. He pushed open the door to the men’s room with all the fury of an offensive tackle. He started to unbutton his pants as he slammed shut the stall door. He hated urinals with a passion; he couldn’t see why when in public, he had to relieve himself in such a public way. He let his bladder do its job and felt a nearly orgasmic rush of relief. As he finished, he decided that while here, he might as well tend to other pressing business that had recently occurred to him needed tending. He let his pants fall and he took a seat.

The beige partitions which made up the stall had very little in the way of graffiti on them. His co-workers were proud of their work place; at least most of them were. By the toilet paper container mounted on the wall, a very well drawn cartoon of the secretary at reception drew his eye. She was drawn with massively heaving breasts and pouty lips that Angelina Jolie would envy. A poorly drawn, disembodied cock was furiously discharging onto her head. Roger smirked, thinking about what it would be like to… Wait! What’s that?he thought as he spied a phone number written lightly on the wall in a bubbly, girlie script. He pondered it for a moment, then it left his mind once he flushed the toilet. He didn’t think about it again until lunch time.

He sat alone, reading a book about men stabbing each-other with swords. As his attention waned, he thought about the number. He thought about whose number it could be. It could be a guy, but the writing is so feminine. Well yeah, it would be, because it would be a gay guy. What if it was one of the cleaning ladies? That would explain why the number wasn’t washed off. Then again, the picture wasn’t washed off either. Maybe it belongs to the girlfriend of one of the guys? Maybe he’s looking to share… He thought of the possibilities and his mind raced. Could someone have put it up for revenge? Could it be an ex’s number? Then, a thousand neurons fired in his brain: Is a woman working here so hard up that she would secretly enter the men’s room and scrawl her own number on the wall? 

He thought about that possibility through the rest of the day; hardly able to concentrate on his work, his mind wandered to which woman the number could belong to. There was the young girl two rows over who always wore dresses; she had a very lean frame and long legs. He imagined what it would be like to have those legs wrapped around him. He imagined Irene, a zaftig girl from the third floor, dancing naked in his bedroom. The thought of her voluptuous body glistening in the morning light made it uncomfortable to continue sitting. He went back to the bathroom, furtively taking a sheet of copy paper and a pen with him. He quietly opened the door, and immediately smelled Fat Brian in the stall at the far end of the bathroom. Roger thanked God that the stall he entered earlier was empty. He breathed in small gasps as he wrote the number down. 

Roger heard Fat Brian flush his toilet, so he tried to rush out of the stall. A wave of anxiety washed over him: What if he sees me leave without flushing? He’ll think I left a submarine for another sailor to decommission. Roger flushed the toilet and heard Fat Brian stirring about, turning on the faucet. He knew he’d have to go out there and wash his hands. If he didn’t, he reasoned that Fat Brian would wonder why he flushed and then stood around in the stall. Roger put on his best bathroom face, which was a blank expression, and went to the sink. Fat Brian was violently rubbing a paper towel on his shirt; his big belly had settled on a wet spot on the counter, causing him no end of frustration.

“Look at this! Soaked!” ranted Fat Brian. “You’d think people would wipe the counter if they splashed it, but no! No one ever cleans up after themselves. It’s infuriating, you know?” Roger nodded his head in what could be construed as agreement, though it was more indifferent than anything else. He washed his hands as Fat Brian continued complaining in a never-ending burbling. Roger just continued feigning attention until he found a chance to leave when the boss entered the bathroom. Roger returned to his cubical and looked at the telephone number eagerly. He watched the clock as the last hours of his work day slipped away. He started planning on when he would call the number.

(Continued Tomorrow)

The following is based on a recent blog post that my friend Missie had made about a short adventure she had walking by the Stadium Theatre on Main Street in Woonsocket. I took some liberties with details, and of course added a haunting or 300. This works less as a horror story, and more as a mild drama with supernatural tones. Maybe I should develop it further? It features one of my stock characters; Belphegor, a Minstrel Show performer, supernatural entity, and sometimes nice guy. He first made an appearence in an RPG I ran, and I have wanted to revisit the character again.

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Late at night, a young woman walked past the Stadium theatre downtown. It had been a great theatre eighty years ago, but its heyday was lost in the past. Now, it was home to sporadic over-priced shows featuring impersonators of great performers. She smiled to herself, remembering what the theatre had been to her; she was part of the theatre’s renovation, but now it had taken on a life of its own; a life less glorious than it had been nearly a century before, but definately better than being an additional municipal parking lot. Looking through the dark windows, she tried to see inside the lobby. Just then, a booming chord sounded from within the building.

Her mind ran wild for a moment, thinking firstly of The Phantom of the Opera. She just giggled at herself and walked along, dismissing the sounded chord as someone practicing for an upcoming show. What she could not see through the darkness was the spectre of a man in his late forties, dressed in a trim-fitting tuxedo emerged from the orchestra pit. His hair is a tangled mess and his boney fingers are capped with long, thick nails. He shuffled despondently across the floor, making his way to the door. He was certain someone had to have heard him; he thought he saw eyes in the darkness. He was certain of it. Pressing his hand against the glass, he sighs softly and his head droops down like a flower in need of water.

“She done gone.” boomed a bass voice from the stage, followed by a horse-like laugh.

“No one hears us.” said the man in nearly a whisper as he turned. A man in blackface sat on the edge of the stage, letting a leg sway to and fro and propping his elbow up with his other leg. His hair was dusty and kinked; he wore stiped pants and a dickie without a jacket. The spectral organist gaped at the blackfaced man and rushed towards him, wagging his finger in protest.

“You don’t even belong here! Why are you here?” asked the organist.

“Everyone’s gotta haunt somewhere, and I figured here was as good as anywhere. What’d you expect? I’d be haunting a tub ‘a fried chicken? You think I’m some kinda poutry-geist?” the blackfaced man laughed at his own joke with another horse-like laugh. The organist just fumed; he had been alone for so long, and didn’t want to share his home with this buffoon. The blackfaced man’s heart crumbled when he saw how sad the organist had become.

“You know, there was somebody there just now.” said the blackfaced man seriously.

“But what does it matter? I’m dead…”

“Dead, but not gone.”

“Not gone, but forgotten.”

“There you are wrong. I bet there’s someone out there that remembers you.” The blackfaced man tried his best to comfort the organist, but his despair seemed just to double. “Hey! Why don’t you play something?” asked the blackfaced man.

“Why?” responded the organist.

“Because I’d like to hear it.”

The organist’s fingers pushed at the keys, and the wurlitzer sprang to life. The tune was ponderous and slow at first, but slowly gained momentum. Soon, it became bouncy and joyful; the organist’s face beamed with joy as the blackfaced man’s white teeth gleamed in a wide smile. He watched as the theatre slowly filled up to capacity. He always loved opening night.