1,000 Word Challenge: Deep Love

Ever since I saw this delightful salt cellar made by Missie, which was once on sale in her Etsy shop, I have had but one thought: this is the kind of thing Deep Ones would bring with them on a picnic. So, when Missie submitted this as part of the 1,000 Word Challenge, I decided I would need to tell this 1,060 word story.

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The sea undulated; its waves flowing like a thousand serpents under a bedsheet. The cold, indifferent Atlantic slapped against the stony shore. Water dripped off of me as I clambered amongst the rocks. My body was not used to the land anymore; I’d been living in the sea for nearly twenty years, emerging only to see Catherine. I could see her high above, looking out over the sea. She was waiting for me. My blessing divided us, but it could not destroy our love. Her hand rose above her head as she waved enthusiastically. I croaked an excited hello; walking closer, I saw that her hand had started to develop webs between her fingers.

“Your change has started.” I said, “I’m happy. Soon, you will be able to return to the sea with me.” Her smile vanished as I spoke, her enthusiasm fading like driftwood in the sun. She sat on the blanket she brought with her and began unpacking a small picnic.

“I’m afraid. I don’t know if I’m ready yet. I thought I wouldn’t be afraid when the time came; I thought that when the time was right, I would feel at ease. Yet, I don’t feel ready. When you left the land, you were as placid as a pond. Now that my time is coming, my soul churns like the ocean.”

“You cannot let your doubt dissuade you from your course. I had my doubts, but they washed away as I walked into the waves. The place for our kind is with our father and mother beneath the waves; the land holds no happiness for me, except for you. Now that you will soon return with me, I will never need to return.” I tried to comfort her, but I could see that I was failing. Instead of talking, I reached for a tuna sandwich and began licking the meat off of the bread.

“I’m afraid I’ll miss my family. I have so many friends now, and they are all so dear to me. I don’t know if I’m ready to surrender it all to the whims of fate.” I listened to her voice, which had started to deepen. Her eyes had also started to widen; I did not notice how much of the change she had undergone. She was becoming more beautiful in my eyes. I watched her as she delicately ate a piece of cheese with a salty rind. She smiled at me when she noticed my staring.

“We’ve been together too long for you to look at me so longingly.” she said.

“Yet, you are more beautiful than ever.” I said, trying to smile. We sat together quietly, enjoying the sound of the rolling waves. After a while, I noticed that the warm sun was starting to dry out my skin. “I need to go back to the water, dear. Would you like to swim?”

“I cannot; I need to go back to town. I will see you again next week?”

“As always,” I responded quietly, feeling crestfallen. I watched her walk away towards Innsmouth, the town I once called home. I called after her, but she didn’t hear me, so I followed her a short distance. She entered a car on the passenger side, and when I saw it was a young man driving, jealousy flooded through my veins. My squat legs carried me back into the ocean. The waves lapped over my webbed feet as I glanced back at the land. With a leap, I plunged into the water and swam under the waves. I swam deep into the darkness, where the light of the sun could barely be seen. The others of my kind congregated, swarming around our mother called Hydra. Her many eyes watched her children, grandchildren, and a dozen generations of our kind. The one-hundred youngest amongst us suckled on her many breasts, taking the sustenance they would need to grow strong.

“Mother!” I cried out, and one of her eyes fell upon me.

“Yes, young one?“ Her voice poured into my head, filling me with warmth.

“She turned against me, Mother! I saw her with a man. She left me to be with him. She refused to join us below the waves.”

“What would you have me do?”

“Crush them! Destroy them! Raise up the ocean and wipe them from the land.” Anger consumed me as I spoke irrationally. Hydra moved her immense body and the waters swirled violently. Her hand reached out, and I floated above her palm. With her attention focused on me, my brethren grew envious.

“I will not do this. If you would have revenge, you must take it yourself. Go to the land, find your revenge, but return to me safely.” Her words calmed me and stayed with me as I delved into the depths to find my harpoon.

By nightfall, I returned to the land and made my way to Innsmouth. The town was busy, its winding streets infested with tourists, and looked like clogged arteries ready to burst. I stayed in the shadows as I shambled through the back alleys. I saw Catherine’s home, the home I had paid for years earlier, and in front of it sat the car. A silver BMW. I crossed the street and peeked through the front window. The young man was sitting on the sofa Catherine and I bought nearly thirty years ago at a small antique shop in Arkham. He looked comfortable and content.

Catherine walked into the room, seeming like she was floating on the air. When her eyes caught a glimpse of me, she nearly screamed. The fear in her eyes confirmed my suspicions. I clenched the harpoon in my hands, feeling the cold, wet, unyielding steel. Rusty, but still sharp. I could see myself plunging the harpoon into that man who looked so human and weak. Yet, I refrained. She would undergo the change eventually, and then she would be mine.

Standing across the street, I hurled my rusty harpoon at the car. It landed true, piercing the front tire and burying its tip deep in the wheel well. The man rushed to the door, and I allowed him a glance of my form in the shadows. His face contorted with fear, he rushed back into the house. Content, I walked through the alleys, making my way back to my home.

1,000 Word Challenge: Metatron and Satan

Sarah sent this picture to me, which prompted the story below. This picture seems to be worth 1,065 words. I think this is kind of a contraversial story. While I have used a lot of characters from mythology in the past, these are characters that a great number of people still believe in. I haven’t purposely set out to offend people, but sometimes these things happen.  

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The sunlight poured over the barren moonscape, bathing the desolate satellite with warmth. A fat creature, blue skinned and bearing three mouths and three faces, grinned wildly as a young angel winged his way through the cosmos, landing lightly on the moon’s surface.

“The light warms me so, friend. Too long have I sat away from it.” The blue creature spoke with a friendly tone. The angel winced at the creature’s cacophony of voices, each gurgling and strained.

“I am no friend to you, Satan.” replied the angel, who wore a crown upon his fiery brow. Relaxing his thirty six wings, the angel fixed his three-hundred and sixty five eyes upon Satan, who laughed deeply. Metatron, the scribe and a prince among angels smirked at his fallen brother’s laughter.

“Friend or not, it is done, isn’t it?”

“Yes, the decision has been made.” replied Metatron as his gaze wandered to the Earth below.

“There is such peace now, without them.” observed Satan, sitting down in the dust and resting one of his chins on his open palm. “All the fuss over them, and now they are gone and we return back to the beginning. Is He rebuilding?”

“That is less and less your concern, Fallen One. There is still a matter of your transgressions.”

“But He is a forgiving God, isn’t he?” asked Satan with a wicked grin, “And I am willing to forgive if He is.”

“He doesn’t seek forgiveness. He seeks your repentance.” replied Metatron.

“I was made as He made me to be. There was nothing else I could do. I was created to serve Him and only Him. Did He expect me to serve any other? He needed an other half, and that is what He made me to be.” Satan dusted off his legs and willed a pair of wings to sprout from his shoulders. With a couple of beats, he began to ascend. Metatron followed, wary of the fallen angel.

“He let you out of your realm; He only wishes your submission to His Will.”

“I was not made that way, and you know that it true. Do you still sit in Heaven, Metatron?” asked Satan as the pair soared through the void of space towards the silent earth.

“I do.” answered Metatron hesitantly.

“So then you remember what you needed to do to gain that privilege? You needed to submit to God; you were beaten just to prove that you were not His equal.”

“That is the truth, but what of it?”

“Do you hold a grudge against God for His actions?”

“I do not. He does what must be done.”

“That is a truth we could argue until all of creation unravels. The truth I propose is that you were made to bear that punishment, so you can feel no anguish over its performance. You hating God for His beating would be like a human hating his lungs for breathing. He does not do what He must; we just do as He made us.”

“Your argument has become convoluted. I won’t listen to it any longer.” said Metatron. “Now turn around; the Lord comes.” Satan turned his back as reality warped and twisted. “He speaks through me.” said the angel. Satan rolled all six of his eyes.

“Then speak His words! Is it to be a lake of fire then? That is what was always said.”

“There will be no end for you, My child.” said God through Metatron. “I would not so easily cast away something I have made. You still have value, even if you cannot see it.” Satan listened, taking God’s words lightly. He simply waited, anticipating the worse.

“I want you to try where I have failed.” said God through Metatron. Satan’s jaws fell open as a surge of power bore through him. “Metatron spoke truly, as did you. I can only do as I must. Each of my creations can only do as I allow them to. You, my flawed creation, might be the answer. You were made to be free. You were made to be defiant. I ask you simply; remake the world. Use My power. I have failed, and I wish to see if you will succeed.”

“This is a game. This is just as we did to Job. You are only doing this to prove me wrong. This to humiliate me further. I will not have it!” raged Satan, keeping his eyes averted from Metatron.

“I ought to have known. You were made to defy me; you would not do this for me even if I begged.”

“That is right. I know your games, and I will not play them again. Let the world rot. It is what you deserve.” Satan flapped his mighty wings and began to fly towards the sun. Basking in the light, his skin began to change to fire. His faces began to melt, and his wings began to multiply. He couldn’t believe what was happening to him; he was becoming an angel again.

“I would have you by my side again, no longer my adversary.” said God through Metatron.

“Then where do we begin?” asked the new angel as it turned to face Metatron and the countenance of God. Looking upon the earth, devoid of life, the new angel smiled, thinking of the possibilities. “Must I make life? Couldn’t we leave the world as it is? It is perfect now. We don’t need to add more.”

“You may do as you will, Lucifer. You are the creator now.”

“Then, I will create paradise.”

“But who shall enjoy it? asked God through Metatron.

“I shall.”

“And when you grow lonely?”

“I shall not grow lonely. I will always have You.”

“But what if I take My Light away from you?”

“Then I would never forgive you.” replied Lucifer, staring into the eyes of God.

“But I forgave you.”

“But I am not You.” said Lucifer as he lifted a lump of clay from the ground, forming it in the image of a man. As he looked into the eye sockets he formed with his thumbs, he imagined what the creature he made would be like. Lucifer crushed the clay back into the earth angrily. “I cannot make something that will not turn its back on me. They will do to me as I have done to you!” shouted Lucifer, not realizing that Metatron was gone.

Rick, The Exploding Man

This is the first post in the 1,000 Word Challenge. The picture was supplied by my good friend Missie. Apparently, this picture is worth 1,048 words, as that is what I have written. I could easily trim it down by 48 words, but I like it as it is. So, I bend my rules. I do this so that characters can interject things like “So…” and “eh?” Yeah, yeah… I’m making excuses.

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“So, you still have that problem, eh?” Kevin looked at me through his sunglasses; I always hate people that try to have conversation while wearing sunglasses, ‘cause you can’t see their eyes. Eyes tell a lot about a person, and being a former superhero, I’ve grown accustomed to always establishing eye contact.

“It’s not really a problem. I got it under control.”

“Come on Rick! Then what’s with the warning signs, buddy?” Kevin poked at the graphics on my t-shirt. I frowned deeply; when I got pulled over once, a state trooper found out that I could explode at will and pushed through a law which required me to wear the proper Haz-Mat signage.

“It’s just some crap I have to go through.”

“So you’re in control of your power now? That’s good.” Kevin smiled, but I didn’t know if he was happy or uncomfortable because of his obtrusive sunglasses. “Well, I got to go mingle a bit. Have a good time at the reunion, man!” Kevin disappeared into a crowd of squawking women that had been our cheerleading squad back in ’78. The thirty years hadn’t treated most of them too badly, but some of them looked like tanned mummies with tall bleached blonde hair.

I looked around for a seat and was greeted by a cheerful woman in an orange tank top. “Hey Rick! I didn’t expect to see you here.” she said, attempting a hug.

“Hey Susan. It’s been a while.” Susan and I were an item back then, but my unique calling pushed her away from me. She had tried to convince me to join the army, but I wanted to stay stateside. War wouldn’t have suited me, and with the development of the neutron bomb, my skill would have been nearly useless.

“Are you still doing the hero thing?” she asked; I was suspicious that she was just making polite small talk like everyone else at the reunion, but she seemed honestly interested. Her eyes were fixed on me with curiosity.

“No, I’m too old for that now. Mostly, I work for a demolitions company. I help take down buildings and all that.” I tried to seem unenthusiastic, worried that she might think I’ve become some kind of exploding psychopath that enjoys blowing up buildings.

“That’s interesting. Did you ever get married?” She was drawing closer, close enough for me to smell a bit of alcohol on her breath. I had to wonder if she ever thought about what could have been.

“Nah. When I was working under the mask I was too busy. Now, well, I just don’t know a lot of people. How about you?”

“Married twice and divorced twice. I have a couple kids; they’re off to college now and once the nest is empty, it seems really empty.” Susan laughed at herself, “Of course an empty nest is empty. What else would it be?” We shared a smile and then there was a profound silence. I could feel the question floating in the air, fueled by cheap beer and nostalgia.

“Are you happy?” she asked, taking me off guard.

“I’m happy enough. I do honest work for fairly good pay. I mean, the money they save by having an indestructible, exploding man blow up a building for them has to go somewhere, right?” I laughed heartily.

“But are you happy not having been married? Not having kids?”

“I don’t think about it very much, Sue. My life, well, it just isn’t normal. I never had the same expectations as everyone else. Take Kevin; he was good at football, and his big dream was to join a pro team. He played a bit in college and in semi-pro teams, but he eventually settled into a middle management job at Stuyvesant Industries. That kind of thing isn’t really available to an exploding man. I mean, my vocation was pretty much handed to me at birth. I’m an exploding man, so I explode, you know?”

“I wish I could have had that kind of direction in life. I just feel like I’m like a butterfly, flitting around from place to place without any plan. When we were together, it was different; I had a dream. We could have been something. Me and the exploding man; imagine that.” Susan smiled, her cheeks flushed.

“We could have been something, but we weren’t. It wasn’t meant to be, Sue.” I couldn’t believe what I was saying; this was the girl I had always wanted to be with and always wondered what would have happened, yet I was pushing her away. It wasn’t that she had grown older; in fact, she was more beautiful than ever. I just thought about the men that she had been with before me, instead of me, and I felt the explosion start growing inside of me.

“We could be something still, Rick. We aren’t dead yet.”

“No, but you are drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, just a little buzzed. I’m buzzed and I’m seeing clearly.”

“Don’t do this, Sue.” I began to remember why I hadn’t let anyone into my life since Susan. The explosion was pushing at the lining of my stomach; the explosion was made of the anguish I felt when she dumped me for Edward Fay. It was made of the disgust I felt when I learned she had sex with him on their first date. It was made of the fear I felt about having a lonely life without love. When I tried thinking of Susan’s proposition in a positive light, I just thought of her children: living proof of her relationships with other men.

“What’s wrong Rick?” she asked in a tender tone that grated against the building explosion.

“I need to go Sue. This was a bad idea.” I walked away from her, looking back to see her standing alone, looking as though I just smacked her. Swiftly, I walked through the park where the reunion was being held and broke into a run when I saw a large pond. Leaping into it, I felt the water’s cool embrace. I let the explosion go, and it sent a torrent of water fifty feet into the sky. As the water rained back down, I decided that this would be the last high school reunion I’d attend.

Numbers on the Wall (Part Two, Ending Version 2)

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.  

 

The Government Tower, Or Quinn’s Story

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.

Numbers on the Wall (Part One)

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.

To Part 2 Version 1

To Part 2 Version 2

The Stadium (Inspired By Missie)

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.