Synopsis: Murder on fast rails and the crime gets the green signal.

About the Author: Dimitriy Kaplan is a full time student studying Comparative Literature. He writes as an Opinions Columnist for the Binghamton Pipe Dream and is an aspiring fiction writer in the genre of suspense and detective fiction. Samples of his writing can be found at www.dimitriykaplan.com.

In this sordid tale, a man finds out that he is not himself anymore.

* * * * * * * * * *

Derailed
by Dimitriy Kaplan

As I stepped outside through a strange set of doors that appeared to have been forged from iron, I’d done something I haven’t in years. I stopped, opened my eyes, took a breath of the cold November air and my surroundings froze. The trees appeared to melt from the glow of the setting red sun and the soundtrack to the serene backdrop of the lake thawed my frosty ears. I glanced across the horizon and my head was on swivel yet able to capture every moment as if I had pressed record. I took a step towards the tracks realizing this weekend would be the first of the rest of my life.

I knew things would be different when I decided to leave the grimy projects of Toronto, my girlfriend of five years and my career, but I didn’t care. My dead end job as a cashier at Goodman’s Pawn Shop had become tedious to the point of insanity and living in the same old broken down apartment with Samantha was producing the same effect. I was beginning to hate the world I had created for myself and a drastic change was exactly what I needed. I planned to go to Montreal to start over. It was as simple as that. I knew things would be difficult; building a life is hard enough the first time, but I would get through it and the first step came as I grabbed the handrail of the train and stepped inside.

I settled into my seat just as the train had begun to roll out of the station, it wasn’t too difficult to do so considering all that I had brought with me was a small luggage case. For lack of better options at the time, I had quite literally escaped my life in Toronto and packed only things for which I had really cared for. Inside my luggage case was about half of my wardrobe, my passport, a few photographs, an old pocket knife from the second war that my grandfather had given me and a few similar antique keepsakes of mine from home. I had always been fond of antiques. The shine of my fathers pocket watch soothed me as it glowed of the sun through my window. As a member of the train crew approached to check my ticket I gladly handed it to him. “Thank you… Mr. Downy. Have a great trip,” he mumbled as if it had been the thousandth time he’d said those words today.  I had several hours before I would check into the hotel that would be my home for a few months, I thought of how I would begin this new life of mine as I stared into the vast forest and felt myself dozing off counting the snowflakes on my window.

Just as fast as I had closed my eyes for what I thought was a brief moment, I had opened them to a veil of night against my window. The train was shaking rather vigorously and I quickly became startled. I had initially thought the mobile antique would fall apart on the tracks before my very eyes. It took me a few seconds to remember why I was even on a train and soon enough my mind was settled and seemingly at peace. I stood and began to slowly move through the train car to the nearest bathroom, not knowing whether it was on the first or second level of the train car. I hesitantly searched only to find a screech piercing my ears to an almost deafening level. Suddenly there was a frantic commotion within the train car and a small crowd of people had formed surrounding the bathroom I was on my way to. One shrill screech became two, and then a third from a woman that had soon fainted. She was then caught and escorted by a taller, lanky young man. I was incredibly irritated yet extremely curious as to what had occurred inside of the bathroom, it must have been surely something crude or horrifying to have caused such a wildly rapid commotion.

As I approached the end of the car my fears were confirmed by the most gruesome and terrifying sight I’ve ever seen in my life. I peered through the hysterical crowd of people to witness flashes of a sight that could normally only be portrayed in a horrendous movie. It looked as though some one had painted the walls of the train bathroom crimson by simply splashing buckets of paint. The man on the floor seemed as though he may have been a replica of his former self as he laid motionless, blood still crawling away from his body. I fell back against the wall and became uncontrollably dizzy. As the train rumbled vigorously and the body shook on the floor, I nearly became sick.

Once the train crew was alerted the crowd of people slowly became replaced with a crowd of terrified guards and crew. I retreated to my seat and continued to observe the eerie situation. I had stepped into a world of mystery and terror. Was the killer still inside the train and if so, within which car? Would he kill again? How long am I to wait to be certain of my safety? The horrors! I shut my eyes for a moment to reassure myself I had in fact awoken from my earlier nap and was not still dreaming.

Within a couple of moments the train’s loudspeaker was activated and the conductor had announced that our nearest stop was two hours away due to blizzard conditions that had closed nearer stations. To the dreadful fright of many passengers, the conductor proceeded to announce that he would not be able to stop the train right away to alert authorities because there was not a paved road for miles and the forest was blanketed in heavy snowfall that would cause for a difficult journey otherwise. A couple of women began to cry at the time of this announcement. The man next to me turned and began to discuss the recent inconvenience of the weather with me,

“How do you do, I’m Jack Feinman. This weather is just terrible, not to mention murder! Murder on the train! How could this have happened?”

“I don’t know,” I shrugged, portraying myself as visibly annoyed.

“Well this is a definite cause for a ticket refund at the very least, if I don’t say so myself.”

“Right,” I stated as my annoyance was growing exponentially.

“Anyway, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Daniel Walsh.”

“Oh nice to meet you Mr. Walsh, I’m going to go speak with the train crew.”

I turned to the window and began to stare into the depth of the forest, I sank into my seat and opened my father’s pocket watch; it no longer glimmered in the light of the sun.

The train car in which the bathroom was located was unsettled to say the least; throughout the entire train, passengers were in a state of nervous panic. Many of the passengers seemed to be looking over both their own shoulders and those of their neighbors in paranoia. The excitement of the train had mesmerized me but I felt that I needed to stand or walk within the train rather than await my own horrible death. I stood and walked up the stairs to the second level of the train car, across the aisles and then back to the first level. I thought that the killer could be within this very train car, or perhaps in the very next one. I wasn’t even sure of what the train crew was doing about the incident other than keeping their passengers in suspense of a killer running about. I wanted to know what the train crew was doing about this.

There were about thirty minutes remaining before the train would arrive in Montreal to a rather large group of police authorities as I would have expected. I sat in my seat and stared into the darkness of the window for the remaining time, noticing the panic had somehow settled in the quiet background of the night. The train finally stopped about ten minutes from Montreal and I could no longer wait on the crew to get their act together and to deliver me safely to Montreal. I utilized this brief pause in the motion of the train to simply step off of the train. I figured I would walk for ten or twenty minutes within this miniscule town hoping they had a cab that would complete my journey. As I was about thirty yards from the train I heard another irritating screech from the direction of the train. I figured it had only been a figment of my imagination. This one was reflected from my ears as it was nothing in comparison to the past two hours of my life. Whether or not it was real, I had been glad to escape the terrible fate of whatever was occurring on the train.

The next morning I awoke within my hotel trapped within the soft linens of my bed. I had made it to my hotel last night by midnight after finding a cab in the town nearby. As I stepped outside of my hotel room I found a copy of a newspaper lying conveniently on top of my door mat. As I read through the first page I read the story headline that stated, “Murder Aboard the Railways,” and I was vividly reminded of my previous night. I looked meticulously through the article that proclaimed, “The two bodies that had been found on the Montreal bound train from Toronto last night appeared to have been grotesquely stabbed hundreds of times with a small blade. The victims, an apparently unrelated Paul Roberts and a Jeanne Gruleaux, were found about an hour and a half apart from each other. The Montreal forensics department has ruled that the murder weapon appears to be an old military knife, found at the scene, dating as far back as the early 1940’s.” My eyes lingered on the page of the paper for a brief moment after I had finished reading. I suppose the killer had also been fond of antiques.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Dimitriy Kaplan 2012

Image Courtesy: Google Images snap from “In the mouth of madness” (movie)

Synopsis: Even lack of faith and beliefs doesn’t change the fact that all good men have an angel looking over them.

About the Author: Chrys Fey is an avid writer. Every day she can be seen with a pen in her hand or pounding away at the computer. Strange suspense stories are her specialty. At this very moment, she is working her fingers black and blue, and sacrificing her brain to numbness, by writing the fourth and final book of her supernatural-thriller series. Visit her how-to blog about writing a novel at: writewithfey.blogspot.com

In this haunting tale, a man runs away from his fate and is helped to face it with pranormal assistance.

* * * * * * * * * *

Fallen
by Chrys Fey

Deep in the frozen woods of Northern Michigan, a small cabin is nestled among towering trees that sway in the bitter breeze. A stooped old witch, with a warty nose and a taste for sweet-toothed little children, does not live here. A man with dark hair and sharp brown eyes named
Jared Myers does.

Jared was a cop, but when he was shot in the chest during an undercover sting six months
ago, he was forced to retire. He had been tracking down a cop killer, a cold and ruthless man known as Thorn Blackstone. Somehow his cover was blown and Thorn came after him with blazing guns, and the bullet that sliced through Jared’s bulletproof vest came within inches of his beating heart. The scar it left behind is a constant reminder that a man who murdered hundreds of police officers had unsuccessfully tried to take his life, which is why Jared is living in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, just in case Thorn ever decides to finish what he started.

Behind a computer, positioned in front of a window where he can stare out into the screaming darkness, Jared spends his days and nights writing horror novels. After twenty years of being on the force, he knows what sort of sickness humans are capable of. He has seen it with his own eyes.

Jared was finishing the end of a very gory chapter when an explosive bang shot through the night, rattling the doors and windows of the small cabin. His head snapped up and he stared out the window. Off in the distance, a blinding light exploded outward like a nuclear blast and rushed at him. He shielded his eyes as the flood of light washed over the cabin, swallowing it whole, licking it with its bright tongue. White light seared Jared’s eyelids. He groped at his face with his hands, fighting to block the deadly glare.

The wave drew back into the distant woods like a tidal wave retreating back into the ocean. The light faded. Jared uncovered his eyes, blinking rapidly against the assault. He looked out the window. There was the gentle sparkle of a billion stars in the black and purple sky. Far away, in the thick blackness of the forest, he saw the light wink out like a dying flashlight.

Jared jumped out of his chair, which fell backwards and hit the ground with a thud. Still a cop to the marrow of his bones, Jared shoved his feet into heavy boots, tugged on a thick jacket, and grabbed his loaded rifle off the fireplace mantel. He rushed out the front door toward the origin of the blast.

He ran through bushes that clawed at him with their thorny fingers, and jumped over far roots that tried to trip him. When he got closer to the location, he slowed. He didn’t know what he’d find. A military testing site, a plane crash, a UFO.

The sound of something moving beyond the brush ahead of him caught his attention. He crept closer, his gun raised. Whatever is there, he’s not taking any chances. Any animals that were in this area would’ve been scared away for miles from the explosion of light, but something is there.

Jared’s heart was pounding a strong dose of adrenaline through his veins. He slipped through a shield of bushes and pointed his gun at the dark movement. His finger, which started to squeeze the trigger, instantly lifted.

A woman was walking barefoot in the fresh fallen snow. She wore a sweeping black cloak with a hood over her face. Jared stepped cautiously closer and lowered his weapon.

“Excuse me,” he called out. The woman came to a stop. “Are you okay?” She turned around and Jared felt the full force of her punch in his gut. Her eyes were a pale and eerie gray.

She pushed back the hood and a shock of glittering white hair fell down her back. Her skin was as white as the snow around her, her lips were full and raspberry red.

Jared hastily put his weapon at his side. “Are you okay,” he repeated, speaking softly, not wanting to alarm her. He put his hands out as if he were approaching a frightened animal that could easily be rabid.

“I crashed,” she replied, then her eyes rolled back and her body went limp.

Jared caught her and hoisted her into his arms. Cursing, he carried her all the way back to his cabin and laid her down on his couch. He looked at her for a long time. Who is she? Where did she come from? She looks like she was carved from moonstone. Her white hair shimmered with flexes of silver, and those eyes….

Jared couldn’t help himself from starring at the pale eyelids that were hiding those remarkable eyes.

He raked his fingers through his windblown hair. “Jesus, what are you doing,” he asked himself. She could be a psychopath. She could be a murderer. She could be an extraterrestrial. “And you brought her home. Idiot!” He shook his head in disbelief. All of his cop instincts were ringing, but every time he looked at her, they became silent.

He watched her for a long time, until the roaring fire in the fireplace died down to a few sputtering flames. When the cold started to seep through the cracks of the cabins walls, he got up to stoke the fire and bring it back to life. He crouched in front of the fireplace, poked the charred logs and tossed on a new one.

“I don’t feel the cold.” Jared whirled around to see the woman sitting up, perfectly erect, those smoky eyes on his. “Or the heat.”

“Who are you,” Jared asked her.

She stood up with the grace of a ballerina. She unclasped the silver at the nape of her neck and let the cloak slip from her shoulders. Jared’s breath escaped him. Underneath, she wore a white silk dress that flowed smooth and cool down her body. She was a pristine vision. She can’t possibly be real.

“You can call me Nevaeh,” she said, her voice creamy, and she held out her hand.

Reluctantly, Jared took her slender hand with his and felt warmth leap off her palm and shoot straight through him. He snatched his hand back. She smiled at him. “And I already know who you are. Jared Myers.”

“How do you know my name?” She didn’t answer. “You said you crashed. Were you in a car accident? Maybe you bumped your head.” Or maybe she crash landed her mother-ship.

Nevaeh only smiled.

“You could have a concussion,” he continued. “Coffee might help.” It was pathetic, but it was the only excuse and the only remedy he could concoct.

“I don’t drink coffee,” she answered.

“Then what do you drink? Milk? Water? Blood?”

Nevaeh laughed, a rich sound. “Do you think I’m a vampire?” She tilted her head, her hair sparkled in the light. She slanted those pale gray eyes at him as if in mockery. “I don’t suck blood and I don’t have a concussion. I was weak before, from the impact of the crash. And no, I wasn’t in a car accident. I fell from the sky.” She smiled that mysterious smile at him. “I’m your angel, Jared. I was sent here because someone is going to try and kill you.”

Jared stared at her, unable to look away and for the strangest reason he found himself believing her, at least the part about someone coming to kill him. He’d been expecting it.

“When,” he wanted to know.

Speechlessly, Jared watched as her face went utterly blank and the gray of her eyes turned white. He swallowed hard. She’s a crazy psychic. She’s a witch. She’s a freak. His mind was telling him to turn and run, but his feet were cemented in place. He kept his eyes glued to her. She appeared to be just a statue of white, but he could see her chest rising with each slow breath she took.

“Trust me,” she whispered as she framed his face with her hands and laid her lips on his.
Jared jolted from the searing touch of her mouth, but all of that was soon lost.

The whole world seemed to whirl around them. As if possessed, Jared’s arms came around the mysterious, hypnotic woman and pulled her to him. Her body molded against his as fluid as molten glass. The shock Jared felt the moment their bodies melded, had him deepening the kiss. She tasted like sweet fire. It was intoxicating, addicting.

As he kissed her, his whole life didn’t just flash before his eyes, it spun around him. He saw everything from being born to the moment Thorn Blackstone shot him in the chest. He felt the bullet penetrate him, felt it rip through him, felt the burning pain.

Jared pulled back quickly and gazed into Nevaeh’s eyes. She is definitely not like any other woman he has ever met, ever kissed, ever laid eyes on before in his entire life. She is strange and magnificent, but he still doesn’t know who she is or where she came from.

Nevaeh glanced at the front door, then at Jared with wide eyes. “It’s time,” she said. The window behind her shot out, spraying shards of glass in all directions. Sparks flew from the computer and the lamp shattered.

Jared shoved Nevaeh to the ground and covered her with his body. Bullets shredded apart the couch and speckled the wall. Jared crawled along the ground, grabbed his rifle, and then dragged Nevaeh to the back of the cabin.

“Officer Myers,” a male voice shouted over the gunfire. It dripped with hate and anger.

Jared recognized Thorn Blackstone’s voice immediately, but he didn’t stop. He continued to pull Nevaeh to the back, to safety. The front door burst open at the same time as he opened the back door and pulled Nevaeh out.

With his hand in hers, they ran through the woods and snaked in and out of trees. Thorn chased after them, shooting off rounds. Bullets hit the trees around them, spraying bark at them like shrapnel.

The black night enveloped them, but it didn’t swallow them. Gunfire still followed as they ran deeper and deeper into the woods. They tripped over sneaky roots and thick, fallen branches. Nevaeh’s bare feet sank into the soft snow and Jared kept yanking her free, pulling her forward. He can’t let them slow down. He can’t let them get caught.

He tugged Nevaeh behind a wide tree and nudged her behind him. He raised his rifle. If he doesn’t take Thorn out now then they will both end up dead. He waited for Thorn to come into view, aimed, fired.

Thorn staggered back. Blood ran down his arm from the hole in his shoulder. Jared cursed. He had meant to give him a fatal wound. “Come on, Nevaeh. We have to get out of here.” He turned and Nevaeh wasn’t there. His stomach dropped to the soles of his feet. “Nevaeh?!” He ran through the woods desperately searching for her. Trees whizzed past him and his eyes darted from left to right, but he couldn’t find her anywhere.

He stopped running, his heart a jackhammer in his chest as he scanned the pitch blackness for her. He stalked forward, his ears straining.

Where did she go? He could only hope she was hiding somewhere.

A twig snapped to his right. He swung the rifle and came face to face with Thorn and the
semi-automatic that was pointed at his chest.

“You didn’t think I’d let you live did you?” Thorn sneered at him, a tall menacing man with cold blue eyes. His inky black hair was in a ponytail. “I’m going to kill you just like all your other pig friends.”

Jared glared at him down the length of his barrel. “You’ll have to kill me before I kill you.” He shot his rifle. The long, lethal bullet sailed through the air toward Thorn who shot his own gun a second too late.

The bullet from Jared’s rifle dived into Thorn’s chest, right into his pumping heart, killing him instantly. Then all of a sudden, Nevaeh materialized in front of Jared, catching the bullet from Thorn’s gun. Jared blinked in astonished confusion; Nevaeh had appeared out of thin air.

She turned slowly and smiled at him. He watched in horror as blood spread across her stomach, and leaked down the white silk. Her mouth peeled open and she pitched forward.

Jared dropped his rifle, caught her, and brought her gently to the ground. He cradled her in his arms and stared helplessly at the blood that was pouring out of her.

He looked into her mystifying eyes. “Why’d you do that?”

A smile spread on her lips and she lifted her hand to his cheek. It was icy cold. “I told you,” she whispered. “I am your angel.” Jared shook his head, tears biting his eyes.

Nevaeh’s hand slipped from his cheek. With the expel of her very last breath, she faded away into a sparkling dust that rose up and swirled into the night sky toward the full moon.

From the forest floor, his arms empty, Jared watched the glorious remains of his angel float back up to heaven.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Chrys Fey 2012

Image Courtesy: www.layoutsparks.com

Synopsis: Legends and Myths are born of Men and Monsters; here is one to thrill and chill your Sunday.

About the Author: Josh Bugosh is a full-time graphic artist with a passion for prose. He writes short stories in a variety of genres, from the thrilling to the comic. So far, Josh has written well over a dozen short stories. He has been previously published in Death Head Grin, Fictitious Magazine, and Liquid Imagination. He also writes short film screenplays for Lobsterdance Productions  (www.vimeo.com/lobsterdance). Samples of his writing and his graphics pieces can be seen on his deviantArt page at mondoboss.deviantart.com

In this urban legend, Maynard proves his might against the multiple monsters and wins over his friends yet again.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Monster Wrestler
by Josh Bugosh

The cheap red and white bobber hit the river’s surface with a humble plop and drifted in the easy current. Maynard reeled in some line and stood at attention behind the railing of the bridge, dutifully awaiting a bite. The sun gleamed on his black skin and summoned glistening rivulets of sweat down his dark brow.

He did not wince in the heat. His eyes were calmly focused on the water.

Behind him, Frank, Bill, and Shep lounged around a huge cooler. All three of them were squirming under the sun like giant grub worms, seared pink in the sun. Their fishing rods were propped up on the rail, and Shep, the oldest, relaxed permanently in a fold-out chair.

“Sure is hot,” Frank marveled. “Beers all around?”

Bill and Shep both grunted, which meant “Hell yeah, I’ll have a beer.” As Frank rummaged through the cooler, he looked up at Maynard, who was still studying the waters.

“Hey Maynard, you wan’ a beer?”

Maynard answered without averting his gaze.

“Nope, I believe I am just fine.”

His response was short and to-the-point, but Maynard was not being rude. His concentration was ten-fold that of the others. Even now, a smile grew on his rugged, leathery face, a sure sign that he was about to make a catch. Bill walked over, beer in hand.

A couple of feet away from Maynard’s bobber, a muddy shadow hovered closer and closer.

“Keep leadin’ it along, Maynard, you got it.”

A smile was the old black man’s only answer. Just a little closer…

A shadow more than ten times the size of the fish floated into view, and the lesser of the two darted away as the bumpy head of an alligator poked up.

“Aw, dammit,” Maynard spat, his smile gone. “Goddamn Wally, ruined my chance!”

Bill groaned, his gravely voice belting out his sympathy.

“You were so close, pardner, Damn gators keep comin’ back. Might as well pack it up.”

Maynard leaned his rod against the railing and bent down to pick up a small rock.

“Muthafuckin’ gatah!” he cursed, and tossed the stone into the water. It landed close to the reptile’s face, and the creature darted back into the depths.

Bill leaned back. “Well, hell, they were gone for a bit, but not long enough. Whaddaya say we pack up? I’m dyin’ out here anyway.”

Maynard’s face twisted into a frown of determination.

“Nah, not just yet. I’m not quite ready.”

“Concurred,” called Shep from his chair, holding up his Budweiser.

Frank stood up and walked over to the rail. Below, the gator rose out of the murk.

“Shit, I think he’s gunnin’ for your fish!” he exclaimed, looking up at Maynard.

“He ain’t gonna get it. Muthafuckin’ gatah.”

“They’ll eat their fill if we stop scarin’ ‘em off,” Shep said wisely. Then, “If you think fishin’ with gators is a pain in the ass, well, you obviously haven’t had your boat turned over by Big Mumbo.”

“Big Mumbo…” Bill muttered. “He stole my bait when I was eight. Pulled my Fisher Price rod right out of my hands.”

“Son,” Shep said, narrowing his gaze. “Big Mumbo was dead by the time you could bathe yourself, let alone go fishing. You met one of his kids.

“He had kids?” Bill took a long swig of beer and sloshed it around in his mouth, then added, “That explains why people keep seein’ him all up and down the river.”

“I heard he ate a kid down at Biscayne Bay,” Frank said.

“Yup,” Shep confirmed. “That one is true. I was there, watched the kid get pulled under in a snap. Just like in Jaws.”

Bill took another gulp of Budweiser and looked at the old man suspiciously.

“Shep, since when didja ever go to the bay?”

“I was there then.”

“I don’t buy that.”

Shep’s can of Bud hit Bill square on the forehead with a sharp thwack.

“Don’t disrespect your elders, kid. Now get me another beer.”

Down below, two more alligators joined their friend.

“Shit…” Maynard grumbled, and he spat into the river. His loogie landed smack dab on one of the gator’s heads and it exploded into a brief fury. A spray of river water reached the top of the bridge.

Maynard chuckled like a dirty old man and reached into a vest pocket.

“How’d ol’ Big Mumbo die, anyway? Old age?” Bill asked as he popped the tab on a fresh beer and handed it to Shep.

“I reckon,” Shep wondered, his eyes drifting up to the ocean-blue sky. “He was pretty ancient.”

Frank, who was watching the gators, spun around and beamed at Shep.

“Hell naw, old Maynard here killed him, that’s what happened. Pulled his guts out through his mouth. Didn’t ya, Maynard?”

Maynard pulled a wriggling earthworm out of his bait box as he answered matter-of-factly.

“That would be correct.”

“Hmph,” Shep spat. “I’ve heard that story before. Heard a lot of tall tales, actually, but there’s one I don’t believe.”

“Aw, Shep, it’s true!” Frank stammered. “I’ve always heard that, and Maynard here confirmed it himself. Isn’t that right, Maynard?”

“Yyyep.”

Bill put in his word.

“You know, people keep telling’ me ‘bout this shit. Seems every night when I’m at The Rowdy Raven, there’s some drunk fool telling stories about the great ‘Maynard Wallace, Monster Slayer,’ but I ain’t never talked to one person who’s actually seen him wrestle as much as a goldfish.”

Shep grunted in agreement.

“Aw Bill,” Frank whined. “You too? You believe in Big Mumbo. Why’s Maynard’s monster killin’ all that different? He’s been wrestlin’ monsters since he was five! Haven’t you, Maynard?”

“Yessiree,” he said as he baited his hook.

“Look,” Bill said. “You’ve been around Maynard more than us. Have you ever seen him take on a monster?”

Frank shifted his feet and looked at the ground.

“Well, no…”

“Have you even seen a real monster?”

“Well yeah, I was fishing up the river a year ago and saw this giant snake lift up outta the swamp.”

“You’re makin’ that up.”

Frank couldn’t muster up a response.

Maynard finished baiting his hook and stepped up to the rail. At least five gators drifted in the water below.

“Hey Maynard, you’re not thinkin’ of castin’ out and catchin’ a gator, are yah?” Shep shouted.

“Nope, just getting’ ready. Damn gatahs can’t lounge around forever.”

Bill sighed and walked over to the cooler to fetch a beer for himself.

“Say, why don’t you just whip them critters and send them packin’? They’re nothin’ compared to Big Mumbo,” Bill said, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Wouldn’t be sensible to do that,” Maynard said, watching the alligators. “They’re just doin’ their thing. They ain’t evil like Big Mumbo.”

Bill shrugged, pulled out a Budweiser, and tipped it back.

A thunderous splash rose up and one of the gators vanished underwater.

“God damn it!” Maynard screamed.

The other gators had already darted away as a brilliant plume of red gushed up out of the water.

Maynard threw his fishing rod aside with a clatter.

“I am tired of y’all messin’ up my fishin’, dammit!”

He began to roll up his sleeves.

“Hey bud, watcha doin’?” Shep said, sitting up in his chair for the first time that afternoon.

Maynard grasped the railing with both hands and hoisted himself up and over the edge.

“Shit!” Bill yelled, rushing in.

Maynard hit the water and a furious ballet of splashing immediately ensued.

Frank rushed over to Bill’s side to see. Even Shep shuffled towards them to get a view.

Below, Maynard thrashed wildly in the river, spraying his spectators. In between explosions of water, his face was seen clenched in divine anger.

“See! I told ya!” Frank hollered. “A monster done arrived, and there’s Maynard, doin’ his thing!”

Bill and Shep watched, slack-jawed. At first, they couldn’t see what Maynard was struggling with. But then he lunged partially underwater and emerged with a slimy, slippery black monstrosity in his grasp.

He spun around in the water as the monster jerked back and forth like a struggling trout.

“That there’s a big damn fish.” Bill observed.

“It’s Big Mumbo Junior!” Frank yelled.

With a violent pull, the creature slipped out of the bear hug and disappeared. Maynard surveyed the water, hands out, ready for his next move. A huge diagonal slash in his shirt revealed a ragged wound. His blood seeped into the water and mixed with the vanished gator’s.

Everyone watched with stunned silence. Nobody dared to break Maynard’s concentration, not even Frank.

The water exploded behind Maynard and a black torpedo shot towards him. Maynard turned around fast enough to see the giant mass coming down on him. In an instant, both combatants vanished underwater.

“Maynaaaaard!” Frank screamed, and he whipped around to run down to the river’s edge.

Bill grabbed his shoulder and they locked eyes for a moment.

The surface lay calm, with drifting gator blood as the only sign of the carnage just witnessed.

“Shit. That there’s another Big Mumbo story for the books,” Shep said, taking a swig of beer.

“No…” Frank urged, gripping the railing fiercely. “Maynard’s not gonna be beat by a Little Mumbo.”

He paused, looking out at the water.

“He’s too tough.”

They stared at the river, the water drifting by lazily. A full minute passed.

Then another.

“Reckon he can breathe underwater?” Bill asked, the sarcasm now gone.

“Oh sure, and he’s strong underwater.” Frank said.

“Hmph,” Shep grunted.

Bill simply stared ahead.

Another minute passed. The water drifted lazily. Frank stood motionless, his fist clenched white-knuckled around the railing of the bridge.

Bill stood beside him, at a loss for words.

“Shit,” he said. “I don’t think he made it, bud.”

Frank didn’t respond, but his eyes drew wider.

Something dark slowly broke the surface.

First a rounded dome, then a stern face, then muscular shoulders. Maynard waded to the shore, bare-chested. Water-thinned blood streamed down his abdomen.

“Way to go, Maynard!” Frank called.

“Did he run away?” Bill shouted next.

Maynard stopped and looked up at them.

“No.”

Frank, Bill, and Shep exchanged confused glances.

“Would one of you guys go to the truck and fetch my knife? It’s the big one.”

Frank turned and rushed away wordlessly. A moment later, Bill called after him.

“Hey Frank! Get the camera, too!”

&&&

All four men gathered on the shore. Bill set his camera on a huge rock and pressed a button. Quickly, he hopped over next to the others, who stood side-by-side with ten feet of catfish in front of them.

“Alright, let’s grab this sucker,” Bill said as he grasped the open maw of the giant catfish. He slowly lifted it up.

“Grnnn, this boy’s heavy. How’d you ever survive him landing on you?”

Frank wrapped both of his arms around the tail and hoisted it up.

Shep and Maynard stood in the center, and Maynard spread his arm out in a pose, proud of his defeated foe’s grandeur.

“Shoot, I take back everything I said, Maynard.” Bill conceded.

“All is forgiven,” said Maynard, staring ahead for his picture, arms frozen outstretched.

“Shh, snap it shut.” Shep commanded. “Say cheese, boys.”

Each man put on a proud macho face as the camera’s timer went off and the flash lit the scene of a perfect picture. Three men, attesting to the legendary strength of one Maynard Wallace.

That picture still hangs in The Rowdy Raven to this day.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Josh Bugosh 2012

Image Courtesy: Top 5 Bizzare Fights between Humans and Animals

Synopsis: Sea voyages are always incredible and insightful; now discover their horror.

About the Author: James A. Ford is a writer in Ottawa, Canada, where he lives with his wife and two daughters. He is generally not suited for very much but once in a while he does pen an interesting tale.

In this oceanic voyage, friends devour their bonds of friendship and humanity.

* * * * * * * * * *

Custom of the sea
by James A. Ford

“I never took any food!” Phelps pleaded. His thin frame shook as he spoke, crouched in the corner of the bow of the life boat.

“Well who else?” Larkin asked. His large, still powerful frame standing feet splayed in the center of the boat, “The bar wrappers are right there beside you. A smoking gun – as they say.”

Phelps glanced at the empty wrappers. He just couldn’t remember.

Larkin spoke again, “Last night there were six bars left Phelps, now there are only three.”

The men stared at Phelps as if they’d caught him raping their wives. He had pilfered half of their meagre supplies to satisfy his own gut. Those three bars would have kept them alive for three more days – one bar per day divided equally between them. Three days rations gone.

The accused man cowered in the farthest corner of the bow squinting at the angry faces surrounding him. He knew it was over for him. These men, whom he had once laughed and drank with now radiated menacing intent.

Phelps couldn’t remember if he had eaten the power bars. For the last two days he had drifted in and out of consciousness. He wanted more then anything to believe he wasn’t capable of an act that had surely doomed them all. Then an idea came to him.

“If I did steal,” he sputtered, “I wouldn’t be that stupid,” pointing with his chin to the empty wrappers floating in the little eddies of water at the bottom of the hull.

“Maybe we woke up before you thought to chuck them overboard.” A heavy set bald man said, from the stern of the little vessel: Johnson. He had spoken little since their capsizing, but he stared at Phelps now with a cold fury in his eyes, the edges of his mouth twitching.

“I want to get out of this, back to my life,” Johnson said, moving forward. “I want to see my wife again, you Fucker!”

There was a sudden movement and Johnson’s powerful frame shot forward and lashed out at Phelps, swinging the heavy metal hand pump used for bailing. It hit Phelps squarely on the forehead with a flat, sickening crunch. He immediately slumped forward onto his face in the bottom of the boat.

The little boat rocked back and forth but Phelps didn’t move. The pool of water sloshing around the men’s feet started to turn pinkish red mixing with the blood that now squirted from Phelps’ mangled head. The three men stared down at Johnson’s handiwork.

With realization, the fury in Johnson’s eyes slowly faded, until he collapsed on the bottom of the wet hull. The two other men, Larkin and Crawford continued to watch Phelps’ body half expecting him to spring back to life. Neither moved or spoke.

Crawford reached out a thin hand and felt for a pulse at Phelps’ wrist.

“I think… I think he’s dead.” He said, looking up at Larkin.

&&&

The gentle rocking motion of the water was a lulling song. It sucked the energy and will from the men in the life boat. The slap of the waves against the hull acted as a metronome, keeping rough time with the ragged breathing of the sleeping men. The bedraggled and pitiful castaways lay motionless around the periphery of their little floating saviour, grabbing what rest they could. The killing of Phelps yesterday had made the men even more tired and despondent.

They had drifted for six days.

Their rented yacht Fallone had sunk in twenty minutes.

Forcing the four businessmen aboard to grab what supplies they could and jump into the small wooden life boat. They had watched as the Fallone had dipped gently beneath the surface, it had melted into the sea. Its bright white hull and sail still visible as it gradually sunk deeper into the vast depths of the mid Atlantic.

Their sailing trip had not proceeded as planned.

The men knew each other from their business dealings; if not actual friends they had been on friendly terms and drinking buddies for several years. Once the suggestion of a yachting trip was made – no one was sure by who – each man suddenly professed a long term desire to sail.

Though none had more then cursory sailing experience, their huge egos and past business successes lulled them into the belief that they could handle anything, and most certainly a sailing trip to Sable Island from Halifax. It wasn’t that far, they’d make it in a few days.

That was one week ago.

They had sorely overestimated their abilities.

They never made Sable Island, nor did they know that they had missed it by some twenty miles and had sailed on towards Bermuda. The Fallone had sunk three hundred miles south of Sable and they had drifted since then in the small life boat. The gulf stream had pulled them one hundred miles north east and if they had three months to spare they might drift all the way to Europe.

None of the men knew why the Fallone had sunk. Each assumed it was some negligence on their parts. It would have come as a shock to the others that one of their number was not as upset as they, regarding their present predicament. All the men were certain of one thing: their situation was dire.

The vast expanse of interminable water surrounded and engulfed the survivors senses, leaving no doubt who was the master and who the slave. The sea ruled them with its iron hand – sleeping now, but capable of smashing them in its grasp whenever it so desired.

The sun, cocky and brilliant in the sky was at present more of a danger than the miles of liquid death undulating beneath them. The calm roll of the sea was almost a pleasure now compared to the burning intensity of the equatorial sun.

The men slept the restless sleep of the hungry and exhausted. The growing hours per day that they lay about comatose were the only times they were able to escape their horrid suffering.

All but one.

One man lay as still as the rest, exhausted too and starving but far from sleep – mind sharp, eyes alert and ideas filled his head.

When one of the other men stirred, mumbling delirious dream words, the man, Larkin, closed his eyes and feigned sleep. He couldn’t risk anyone suspecting, not yet at least. He thought of the little cask of warm water and the box with the food – only three power bars and a few bags of crackers. Larkin’s mouth watered, not at the thought of the frugal supply of salvaged rations, but for something else. More and more each day. The intensity of the hunger gave him great strength. But as it stood now it was two against one, and Johnson was strong – he had killed Phelps with a single blow and little thought. Larkin sneaked a glance at the curled up and sleeping Johnson – yes, he’d have to go next.

Larkin smiled when he thought of Phelps; poor bastard had been so out of it he wasn’t even sure he hadn’t eaten those bars. Larkin still had their stale chemical taste in his mouth. He’d wolfed the bars down and left the wrappers strewn on Phelps.

He shut his eyes and the dreams came almost as soon as his eyes closed, and as always he dreamt of meat. His face broke into a grimace; it was as close as he ever got to a smile.

The first time he had tasted the forbidden meat was seven years ago. During another adventure vacation in New Guinea he’d asked his guides to take him off the beaten trail on a real hike, and promised to pay triple their normal fee; they took him to visit their home village, on the remote central mountain range.

Larkin had been impressed by the authentic, almost prehistoric, native village. That evening he was invited to a celebratory meal. The food was delicious, the roast meat especially to his liking. It had tasted familiar and yet not like anything he had ever experienced before.

After the guides had revealed to him the truth, he’d surprised himself by not even feeling ill. In fact, he’d wanted more. Seconds. That very evening he’d been made an honorary village member by the tribal chief who saw in his hunger a kindred spirit. The guides told him that it was believed that the essence of the man who had served as the main course – an enemy killed that very day in a tribal skirmish – would increase the strength and longevity of all who had partaken.

Seven years ago.

“Larkin. What do we do now?”

Larkin opened his eyes with a start, he’d dozed off. Crawford was standing over him.

“What do we do now?”

“About what?” He asked, blinking hard against the bright rays of the sun.

“With Phelps. What do we do?” Larkin glanced at Phelps’ corpse.

“Eat him.” He stated, and shut his eyes again.

“Very funny,” Crawford said,” seriously, should we dump him over the side before he starts to stink, or keep him for any inquest that is ordered.”

Larkin opened his eyes again,

“Inquest?”

“When we are picked up.”

“Who says that will happen, Crawford?.”

“Well. I mean eventually… Larkin, we will be picked up eventually.”

“You don’t understand do you?”

“What Larkin? What don’t I understand?”

“All we have out here is what is in this boat,” Larkin said, and paused for effect, “hopefully, we drift to land or the shipping lanes and are spotted. But now. Right now… this moment, all we have … to survive, is what is in this boat.” As Larkin finished he noticed Johnson had opened his eyes and was listening as well.

Crawford seemed unconvinced.

“Yes, right Larkin. Sure a hundred years ago, I could understand, but not now. Not in our modern age… I mean with our technology… Surely we don’t have to… resort…”

“What technology! Crawford, we barely made it into this boat with our clothes on.” Larkin shook his head slowly for effect, “No one even knows where we are. If they did would we still be here? Wake up man. We rented the Fallone for two weeks. That means no one will look for us for at least another week….”

“But…”

“But nothing. We’ll be dead in another week unless shit luck has someone stumble on us.” He looked slowly from one man to the other,” do you want to risk your life depending on luck. Either we use what is available,” he looked down at Phelps’ body, “or we die here.”

“Who will do it?” Johnson asked. Larkin looked over at him.

“I will,” he answered.

&&&

The waves slapped against the prow of the life boat. The monotonous rhythm subtle in its ambivalence toward the three men. The sea cared nothing for what it so thoroughly possessed. Content to allow the craft and the men inside to float aimlessly on the unending prison ground that was the surface of the sea.

The inside of the boat was covered in blood. It almost looked as if some child had gotten into a paint can and sloshed the viscous liquid everywhere in an effort to paint it red. Phelps was gone, his carcass tipped over the side yesterday. All that remained of him were a few cleanly chewed bones strewn about the bottom of the life boat.

Larkin felt strong. His being energized by his ability to feed openly on his favorite food. He had hid his hunger for so long, sometimes years at a time. The craving though, was always there, it never left him, it waxed and waned sometimes almost non-existent other times crippling. It lurking behind his eyes and rested uneasy just under his skin. Like a reformed alcoholic who broke out in a sweat every time he walked past a bar, and sometimes was compelled to go in for just one shot.

Larkin’s will was strong, but not invulnerable.

He found that he went out of his way to place himself in situations where his deviant hunger might find a chance to feed. Like the Fallone for instance. As soon as the yacht went down he knew he had secretly hoped for it all along. Larkin wanted to exercise the custom of the sea.

After discovering his lust for consuming human flesh, Larkin had read everything he could lay his hands on about the subject. He’d quickly found that many accounts existed of cannibalism due to necessity on the high seas. The necessity being to prevent starvation after abandoning a sinking ship. It was called the custom of the sea.

&&&

Phelps’ meat only lasted two days. Then the three men were hungry again; Larkin many times more then the others.

The next morning Johnson awoke with Larkin and Crawford standing over him. After a moment Larkin spoke in a hard but calm voice.

“Johnson, if we don’t do something we will all die soon.”

“Do what…” Johnson asked rubbing his dry crusty eyes.

“I’m sorry Johnson but it is the custom of the sea.”

“No! No, you can’t mean that.” Johnson said.

“One must be sacrificed to save the others.”

“No. I won’t be a party to this. I won’t draw any lots!”

“Well. Funny you should say that, we don’t want to draw lots either.”

“Then what?”

“Crawford and I discussed it while you slept and…”

“And what?”

“We thought you should go next.”

“No!.”

Larkin just nodded yes.

“You are serious?”

“Deadly. You see normally we would draw lots but you are a murderer…”

“That was an accident… I… didn’t mean to hit Phelps that hard.”

Larkin looked at Crawford. Crawford nodded his assent.

“There’s that… and … well we just don’t like you.”

Johnson started to move farther away from the two men.

“Don’t make this any more difficult Johnson.” Larkin said, he motioned to Crawford for help and the two men moved down the boat toward Johnson’s cringing figure.

&&&

“Well Larkin, just you and me now. How long should the … provisions last us?” Crawford asked.

Larkin raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders slightly,

“I would think no more then 36 hours. Last time, I found the meat would turn pretty quick after that.”

Crawford nodded automatically and then thought about the statement.

“What do you mean – last time? You mean Phelps? We threw him over the side less then a day after he died?”

“Yes.”

“Well what are you talking about then?”

“I wasn’t talking about Phelps.”

“You mean… you… you’ve done this before.”

Larkin smiled at him before he answered, “Yes,” he said nodding his head, “indeed I have. Not on the sea though. This is a new experience.”

“But…”

“Crawford, I must admit I was not that sad when the Fallone sunk.”

“You…Why…”

“I have what most might consider strange appetites.” Larkin grinned, “and exercising them out here is pretty much accepted. I might as well die happy. Don’t you think.” Crawford was staring at him and slowly shaking his head. Larkin continued, “Doesn’t matter, if I am finally picked up there will be no one but me to tell the tale.” Crawford, still dumbfounded just stared without seeing and Larkin was on him and easily pushed the knife into his throat. Crawford’s eyes sprang open wide. A gout of blood shot out following the removal of the weapon. With each beat of his heart Crawford watched smaller spurts of blood issue from his wound. Then his eyes dimmed and his body no longer registered the pain. Crawford’s last sight was rapidly dimming image of Larkin’s calm smile.

&&&

The grim faces of the men in the yacht were etched with concern and curiosity. They took the man’s hands and pulled him from the life raft that had been his home for two weeks.

Larkin looked up into those faces, each in turn and smiled as best he could. Now that he stood on deck he noticed the men were watching him intently, he believed he must look pretty bad. That was not true – from the men’s point of view Larkin looked pretty good for having just being hauled out of a small boat in the middle of the Atlantic. He appeared, to them, remarkably well fed.

Larkin tried to discern each man’s character from his face. The boat itself was roughly the same size as the Fallone had been, it would be easy to sink.

Larkin shook hands all around. His mouth started watering. He swallowed hard.

“Thank you. Thank you so much, for saving me. My name is Larkin, I’m the only survivor of the yacht Fallone.” The men nodded but said nothing.

“You have no idea what I have been through,” Larkin added, and smiled his smile. The men on the yacht watched him as he was led below by their cook. They smiled at each other knowingly, and each man swallowed hard as their mouth’s started watering.

**** THE END ****

Copyright James A. Ford 2012

Image Courtesy: Top 10 cases of human cannibalism

Synopsis: A hitman meets with the local Chinese crime boss about a hit he’s contracted to finish.

About the Author: Justin A. McWhirter is a recently starting out writer, originally from and still living in Connecticut, USA.

In this duel, a hitman dares a mafioso in a dramatic scene right out of a pulp movie.

* * * * * * * * * *

The Snakehead
by Justin A. McWhirter

Ace sat at the empty table in the corner of the Chinatown restaurant. The sounds of soft conversation and barely audible traditional music mixed soothingly together. It was the sharp smell of oriental spices from the kitchen and the faintest sense of opium leaking from the hidden drug dens somewhere in the back that kept him awake. He was entirely out of place in his black pinstripe suit, making no attempt to hide the fact he was the only westerner in the shady Asian eatery.

A mid-sized Chinese man entered the restaurant, immediately followed by two taller and thuggish looking men. The mid-sized man walked towards Ace’s table and pulled out a chair to sit, while his two followers casually sat at a table across the room keeping the corner table in their sights.

“Mr. Killer,” the Chinese man spoke in a heavily accented voice, wasting no time identifying Ace’s purpose for being.

“Mr. Chang, have a seat,” Ace said sarcastically, opening his hand to offer the seat across from him that Chang was already sitting in.

“Much obliged Mr. Killer.”

Chang reached across the table to grab the tea kettle that was in front of Ace. The sleeve on Chang’s arm slid up, revealing a triangle tattoo that had been hidden, but still meant to be seen. Chang grinned seeing Ace’s eyes focus on the ink, and poured himself the tea into a small ceramic cup.

“Heaven and Earth association,” Ace spoke quietly to fit the mood of the room.

“You are very informed for a westerner Mr. Killer,” Chang laughed taking a sip of his tea.

“Informed enough to know about your human smuggling operations.”

Maliciously, Chang laughed again, “Such information is not very hard to come by in my Chinatown Mr. Killer. I am a very wealthy and powerful man as a snakehead, something that you should take notice.”

“Is that some kind of threat?” Ace leaned back in his chair casually.

“That all depends on whether you wish to take it as one,” Chang placed his cup back down on the table, but kept his hands clasped around it. “I have been meaning to get in touch with you Mr. Killer. You are a stranger here in my Chinatown, and safe to say it is rather obvious when a stranger like yourself is out of place.  Why then Mr. Killer are you ‘loitering around my turf,’ as you westerners like to say?”

Ace cracked a slight grin, keeping an eye on the two other men that followed Chang in, and who in turn, kept a constant watch on Ace. “A smart man would never openly admit to a profession like mine. But then again, a smarter man would have known that you’d rather kill an unknown than let it simmer. However a killer in your territory would spark some interest of my intentions. Telling your goons I am a hitman got me a meeting rather than a bullet. But now with my cover blown, it is without any difficulty I tell you that I am in Chinatown on a job.”

“I believe you when you say you are a hitman, but the irony of that statement cannot be expressed enough. It now means that everything you say from this point forward cannot be taken with any grain of honesty.” Chang grinned again and took another sip of his tea. “I know your type. I’ve hired them out before. It is a very goal oriented business you work in. You’re westerner Machiavelli would be proud. Get the job done at all costs. There are no bonus points for honesty.”

“What can I say to you then that will allow me to go about my business?”

Chang thought for a moment, then reached across the table, took hold of the tea kettle and poured his cup full again. “Tell me who you are in Chinatown to kill.” Chang took a sip from the newly filled cup.

“I am here to kill you Mr. Chang.”

The snakehead was not prepared for that answer and spit out the tea in shock. “Mr. Killer, I find that very hard to believe.”

“I do not Mr. Chang. You are quite a ruthless snakehead, which has in turn made you many enemies who would be more than pleased to see you out of the way.”

“So you’re nothing more than a low level thug trying to make a name for your boss.”

Ace laughed, “I don’t have a boss. In fact, I have no idea who put me up to this or why they want you out of the way, but they paid in full and I have a reputation of customer appreciation to uphold.”

“Then how exactly do you plan on killing me? It will be in your best interest to know that I now have a gun aimed at you under the table, plus our friends over there have their eyes keenly fixed on you. Make any kind of move and it won’t just be your customer appreciation that dies.” Chang’s eyes narrowed and his voice turned from friendly to deadly. “In fact, give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

“I poisoned the tea, and you don’t have the antidote.”

“What?!” Chang moved his hand from below the table, and brought the gun to aim right between Ace’s eyes. The pinstriped man grinned, pleased at the snakehead’s reaction of surprise.

“Mr. Chang, I feel insulted that you thought I was to come here under my own accord without a plan for walking out. Oh, the end justifies the means, but only when I live to prosper from your death.” Ace looked to the other table and could see the two goons at the other table standing up now, each with an automatic weapon aimed right at the hitman.

“Give me the antidote Mr. Killer or I’ll have you blown away!” Chang screamed. Everyone in the restaurant was still: Waiters, patrons, and the goons… except Ace. He casually leaned back in his chair and laughed.

“Cut me a deal.”

“What?”

“I’d advise you start making me offers here Mr. Chang, it only takes about…” Ace mockingly looked at his watch, “oh I’d say three more minutes before the poison starts to take effect. It’s a very fast acting poison too so you won’t even know what hit you—“

“What do you want?!” Chang cut him off to save time.

“Honestly, I want you dead.”

“But you also want yourself alive.”

“Ahh… sadly this is true,” Ace laughed. He then paused for a moment to think, “Ransom yourself. Let’s say $100,000.”

“What?!”

“I know that’s a little steep, but I really don’t think you have much time to be arguing Mr. Chang,” Ace tapped his watch.

“What makes you think I have that kind of cash?”

“You are a very wealthy and powerful man as a snakehead. Isn’t that what you told me when you tried threatening me? Oh… that’s right, you did threaten me. Hmm… that’s going to cost you extra. Let’s see it was 100,000, but with the threats, oh and the use of my good poison-“

“Get on with it!” Chang stood up from his chair and shoved the gun at Ace, bringing it up to touch his temple. The hitman never even flinched.

“How about we go with $300,000?”

“Half and that’s all you’re getting.”

“It’s not my life that’s ticking away. I can stay here and haggle all I want. I have no place to be today.”

Chang panicked for a moment, before letting down his guard. He placed the gun onto the table and sat down again. “Fine, you win! Just give me the antidote.”

“Not so hasty. Money first.”

“You won’t get any if I’m dead.”

“Fair enough,” Ace laughed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small glass vile with a clear substance inside. Chang snatched it from his hand and poured the liquid down his throat as fast as possible. Ace took the gun Chang had left on the table and pointed it at the snakehead. “Now, about my money.”

This time it was Chang’s turn to laugh as he wiped away a few remaining drops of the liquid from his lips. “I give you nothing Mr. Killer. You dare pull the trigger with my guards keeping their eyes on you? Fire once and my men will leave you full of lead.”

But rather than find fear in the hitman that he expected, Chang saw the pinstripe man laugh again. “What is so funny?”

“You really take enjoyment out of insulting me don’t you?” Ace sneered.

“What do you mean?”

“I still plan on killing you and your guards before walking out of this pigsty.”

Chang laughed, nodding his head over to the goons across the restaurant. “It appears I have great reason to be doubting you on that.”

“There is only one thing you have said to me tonight that was the truth: never trust a hitman. All we care is about getting the job done. Very Machiavelli I believe you said.”

Chang grinned, figuring it was a last attempt by the hitman to save his life. “I believe I did say that.”

Ace looked at his watch again. “And yet you trusted a hitman on what is or is not a poison.”

“What do you mean Mr. Killer?”

“There was never any poison in the tea, you got here too soon before I could slip it in.”

“Then what did you give me?”

“The poison itself.”

Chang’s eyes suddenly shot wide open with panic from an uncomfortable pain that began to swell up in his throat. The two bodyguards looked confused at the scene across the restaurant. One looked to the other questioningly. It was all the time Ace needed. The hitman turned the gun from Chang to the goons, and shot one twice in the head. The other goon fired back wildly, missing Ace as the pinstriped man shoved the table down and used it for cover. When the goon stopped to reload, Ace popped up and only needed one shot to smash a bullet through his target’s temple.

Ace turned back to Chang who had fallen to the floor while wheezing out his final breaths. “Don’t ever insult me again Mr. Chang,” Ace grinned one more time seeing the snakehead’s eyes glaze over in horror.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Justin A. McWhirter 2012

Image Courtesy: Don 2 The Movie

Synopsis: An abandoned house, a weak old resident and a startled frustrated robber – this is a twsited tale.

About the Author: John Riebow was born and raised in Philadelphia, where he attended the W. B. School High School of Agriculture Sciences, majoring in Horticulture.  He holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Landscape Architecture from Temple University, is a LEED-Accredited Professional, and serves as Director of Design for a design-build-development general contractor.  His work has been placed in Abandoned Towers, Audience, Ensorcelled, Forge Journal, Loch Raven Review and Ninth Aspect.  He has been writing fiction, poetry and radio drama scripts for over twenty years and is currently working on a collection of short fiction.

In this tale of desperation, crime will not pay.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mercy
by John Riebow

Despite the chilly breeze blowing in the dark moon-less evening, the back of his neck was drenched with sweat, his heart pounding with nervous excitement. He hadn’t felt this way, this alive, since the last hit had coursed through his veins and made him the man he wanted to be. The indescribable sensation made the seconds feel as if they were minutes, the minutes hours as he moved through the world, time like warm water on his skin. He was poised in the shadows like a cat, looking, listening, sniffing at the air with an intense determination.

The house was a stone Cape Cod with a vinyl-clad dormer on the rear that spanned the entire width. There were three windows on the back upper level, two on the lower, one on either gable end and a bay window to the left of the front door, all dark, most with shades drawn low. Both front and rear doors were hidden behind aluminum storm doors, most often squeaky affairs. The garage door was a peeling wooden pair that swung out, like a carriage house, windowless. There were no cars parked in the driveway. The street in the old neighborhood was not like the modern cookie-cutter developments; it was narrow, without sidewalks and dark.

Many of the surrounding yards contained fences or overgrown trees and shrubs. He could move amid the September-flush foliage with little fear of being seen. There were many places to hide. The electric meter spun moderately, typical power draw of a refrigerator and a few clocks; there was no sound from the gas meter. From all indications, the house appeared empty.

Because the house was not far from a rippling creek, the first floor was elevated from the surrounding grade and the lower level windows, even if unlocked, were just out of reach. The doors looked pretty solid. He might try to jimmy the locks but that approach had not been too successful in the past. Just like hotwiring a car; opening a lock with a set of tools in the dark looked easy in the movies and television, but the reality was a completely different matter. He found that the most unobtrusive and least complicated methods of entry were usually the best option.

The window on the upper level to the left was just above a mudroom bump out of some sort and seemed a viable possibility. He stepped carefully up the stairs that led to the back door, got on top of the wooden handrail and, with a minimal groaning effort, was able to pull his hundred and fifty pound frame onto the mudroom roof. The sheathing was a weathered asphalt roll roof that had buckled in the sun and crackled, groaned and flaked in protest when he stepped over it. He lifted his feet higher, moved slower.

The window was now at knee height. The aluminum frame storm window screen was easily punched out of the way and pulled aside. He took the pocketknife from his pants and slid in under the lower sash. As he had hoped, the window was not locked and slid upwards with a squeal of protest. The sound echoed in his mind, loud, surely heard by the entire world. He waited, listened, but the evening remained silent, no one stirred. A passing car returned his thoughts to the moment and he arched one leg over the sill and into the room beyond.

The first thing that stuck him was the smell: dusty, musty, old, the way he remembered his grandmother’s place. Despite her being dead almost twenty years the sudden memory was vivid, as if he had just visited her yesterday. He slipped the rest of his body into the room and found himself on a dark hardwood floor that creaked under his weight. He stood motionless, let his eyes adjust to the deeper blackness and listened.

A sudden wind blew fiercely outside; the gable wall moaned and one of the old windows rattled. But there was nothing else. Silence resumed. He took the keychain light from his pants and shone it around the room. There were floor to ceiling shelves on all four walls, continuous except for window openings, filled with books, all shapes and sizes, laid out in rows, sometimes stacked upon one another, dusty all. He was in a library of some sort. The center of the room held a patterned area rug and a large wooden desk littered with papers. Beyond the wooden desk chair, the room contained a plush black leather couch. If he were into reading books, this might be a cozy little spot, he imagined, if.

The door to the hallway was partway open and he managed to slip through without moving it. The hall was carpeted, his footsteps muffled as he moved. The bathroom was on his right, cluttered, and dry, with no signs of recent use. There was a bedroom on the left and right, he went to the right first and shone his light around. It was a small simple affair; white walls, white ceiling, white carpet, a small bed, nightstand and bureau. The room looked plain, devoid of personality, spare. Thinking the drawers were probably as lacking as the room, he moved onto the next one.

The second bedroom was larger, the floor bare, the walls painted a vibrant green, a double bed in the center of the largest wall. There were pictures; photographs and paintings, the former black and white, the latter color, landscapes, men in suits, ladies in dresses and hats. No one wore clothes like that any more. This room reeked of it again: old. There were two nightstands, one on either side of the bed, each held a lamp topped by a faded flowered shade with gold tassels at the bottom. One contained a book, the other a watch, which he slipped into his pocket. There was a pile of folded clothes on top of the one bureau, a vase with artificial flowers on the other. Having seen the stack above the bureau, the idea of rooting through the drawers did not appeal to him.

Now that he confirmed the bedrooms were empty, he grew more confident no one was home this night. He moved quicker, took less care with his footsteps, made noise. He even considered turning on a light before he went downstairs.

“Don’t get too sloppy,” he whispered to himself and he moved through the hallway, using the flashlight to guide him down the carpeted stairs.

Every step protested his weight and the bottom landing groaned. He shone the light around the living room. Chair, sofa, television, VCR, a nice little clock on the fireplace mantle: now this was more like it. There might be a few things worth a couple of bucks. The candlestick holders on the one bookshelf might even be silver. He slipped the trusty musette bag from his shoulder and began to undo the strap catch when he heard something, or thought he did. A movement? The wind? A mouse? He froze in the middle of the room, switched off the light and waited. Nothing. Stillness. He relaxed a moment. “Don’t be so jumpy,” he told himself, “This was going to be easy.”

He had gotten himself under control and was thinking of the clock when the sound came again, a shuffling, definite movement in the next room. Was someone else in the house or was he just hearing things? Was there a cat or dog? Oh shit, if there was a dog…

His mind raced. Let’s figure this out, he thought. The next room had to be the dining room, then beyond, the kitchen. It wasn’t likely that there was someone in either room, so it was probably just the wind he heard, blowing a curtain maybe. He decided to check the rest of the place out to reassure himself before doing anything else. He moved cautiously toward the next room, through the large archway, and found himself in the dining room. There was not a table where he expected one and he walked into the dangling chandelier, which chimed in the night like tiny bells.

“This is weird,” he thought, catching the hanging globes with a shaking hand. Once the chime died away and he regained himself he heard the unmistakable sound: breathing, heavy, labored, raspy.

He froze; a shiver of fright ran through his entire body, from head to toe. His heart began to race and he felt suddenly light-headed. His eyes scanned the darkness but there was only shadow. He was not alone! The house was not empty! There was someone else there! But where?

The shuffling came again and tore him from his thoughts. His hands were suddenly drenched with sweat. In one brief second he lost control of himself, dropped the musette bag to the floor, the metal clasp rattling.

“What?” came a startled male voice in the darkness, then more shuffling, just ahead. “Who’s there?”

He stayed perfectly still, too afraid to move, too terrified to even breathe. His heart was pounding like a drum, loud in his ears, painful in his chest.

“I know someone else is here in this room.” The voice came again, closer, gaining strength.

What should he do? What could he do? Run? Run for the door? What if you needed a key for the lock, a key that wasn’t there? Dash back upstairs and out the window? Jump from the roof? That seemed like a long way to go. He would be caught surely. How was he going to escape?

“Show yourself, damn you!” the voice demanded. The sound came again, a body shifting on a piece of furniture, a mattress groaning. “What do you want in my house? Have you come to rob me? Kill me?”

The voice was not afraid. There was no terror between the words. This man was a fighter, he could sense that in the dark. What if he attacked? What if he had a gun? Now the would-be thief was really scared. Taking things from an empty house was one thing, having to fight for something was another matter altogether. He had no strength in that moment, didn’t think he could even raise his hands to defend himself when the attack came.

“I’m old. I can’t hurt you. Show yourself.”

He remained still, stunned, unsure what to do next, when the sudden and blinding light hit him like a punch to the stomach. He was winded, gasping for breath.

“Don’t worry, I can barely get up,” the voice explained.

As his eyes adjusted to the lamplight, he saw the figure of an old man huddled on a bed in the corner of the room, a gaunt face and pallid hand the only parts of the small frame visible from under the pile of covers. The man lay there, studying him, and did not move.

After a moment of weighing the scene, he finally got the courage to ask a question. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Lung cancer,” the old man said bluntly, watching him with glassy eyes. “Stage four. I’m dying, not long to go now.”

Now that his terror began to subside, the housebreaker considered the old man. Despite the apparent frailness, there were remnants of strength in the pockmarked face, especially around the eyes. There was something about the way the man furrowed his brow that belied a sort of toughness and he knew that if this encounter had taken place just a few years before the old man would have no-doubt kicked his ass.

“May I?” the man asked, indicating to a metal flask on the bedside table.

“What’s that?”

“Liquid morphine. The only thing that works anymore.”

The housebreaker nodded and watched the old man drink from the flask with a visible sign of relief. The poor bastard must be in a lot of pain, he thought.

“You must be really desperate to be here like this. What sort of pain are you in?” the old man asked, as if reading his thoughts.

A sudden anger began to swell in him now that his plans were foiled. He didn’t need stay here listening to this old fool. He needed to get out, get away.

“It’s ok. Calm down,” the man said with a weak wave of his little hand. “I’m old. I won’t put up a fight. I won’t remember what you look like. You must really need something I have. Are you on drugs?”

The housebreaker looked away, as ashamed as if his own grandfather had broached the question. It wasn’t simply about drugs, but trying to regain that feeling that meant he was alive.

“There’s a safe upstairs,” the old man began. “There’s money inside. I’ll give you the combination.”

Was he hearing things right? What was this old fool saying? “Why would you do that?”

“Because I need you. I’ll give you the combination if you do me a favor.”

“I’m not here to bargain,” the housebreaker retorted, growing more confident and angry. “You’re here alone, defenseless. You will tell me.”

“I will not!” the old man roared with a sudden and terrifying strength that cowed the thief. “I will not tell you a thing until you promise to do me a favor.”

His mind reeled. The whole situation was ridiculous. He either needed to get the hell out of there or knock the old guy on the head and take a few things he could sell for the next hit, not stand here making small talk with his would-be victim.

“What can I do for you?” he asked with a bitter sarcasm. “Turn myself in? Put my life of crime behind me? Stop taking drugs?”

“I don’t really care what happens to you the moment you step out that door, but I want you to do something first.”

“What? What do you want?”

“I don’t know what sort of a man you are,” the old man wondered with a probing tilt of head. “I can guess, but I don’t know, not really.”

“Come out with it already.”

There was a pause as the old man straightened himself in the bed. He looked to the thief, ready to gauge his response. “I want you to kill me.” He declared.

“What?”

“You heard. I want you to kill me.”

“You’re crazy!” He didn’t have time for this. He should just get the hell out of there.

“No, I’m not crazy,” the old man said with a melancholy chuckle. “I’m dying, but slowly, too slowly and too painfully. I want it to be over. Now. I want you to end it.”

“No.” the housebreaker said, his whole body shaking in negation. He was not a killer. He could never. He wasn’t that sort of man.

“Come on. It will be easy.” the old man managed between a sudden bout of coughing.

“No.”

“What are you, some sort of coward?”

If truth were told, he was a coward. He was a coward who took always took the easy way. He had resigned himself to this reality sometime ago. School had been too much work, so he took the easy way and dropped out. Getting a job was too hard, so he took the easy way and stole. Even thieving was too much effort sometimes. He was inherently lazy, inherently a coward and was not sure if this had turned him to drugs, or the drugs had made him the way he was. It didn’t matter much any more; he was too lazy to ponder such things for long.

“Look, my wife and best friends are dead, my children grown and far away. I’m alone. I have no one. My youth, my career, the glories and tests I saw in the war are all behind. I am no longer the man I was; I can’t live life the way it needs to be lived, so it’s time to get out of the way and make room for the next guy. I don’t have any guns in the house or I’d do a Hemingway, so I’m asking my fellow man for a helping hand.”

The old man was a sad figure for sure, but he could no sooner kill him than run down a dog with a car, but the money was tempting. How much was there, he wondered.

“All right. I’ve thought about it. Give me the combination and I’ll do it.”

A sudden joy came to the old man’s face. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” the housebreaker assured with an affirming nod. “Now give me the combination.”

A deal was struck. The old man told him to go up to the back bedroom, where he would find a safe in the closet near the old black and white picture of the New York skyline. “It’s in the back, you’ll have to pull it out.”

The thief vaulted the stairs, thinking with delight how easy this was going to be. He would open the safe, take the money and go out through the window by which he entered. He would be long gone before the old man figured out that he’d been tricked and wouldn’t have to kill anyone.

The safe was right where the old man had said, a big mass of pale green steel. Like the house and its inhabitant, the thing was old. He struggled to pull the heavy safe out of the closet and into the light from the bedside lamp. The door had a large black dial with white numbers. The old man said to go from right to left and back to right. He spun the dial: 36, 19, 38 and waited for the click, but nothing happened. Maybe he did something wrong. He spun the dial twice to the left to clear it and settled on the first number, then the second and third. Nothing. Maybe he misheard the man and should start left, then go right and back to left. He cleared the dial and began with the left, with no result. He tried again, several times in each pattern, but the door remained fastened.

“It’s not working. I can’t get it open.” He called down the stairs. Had he heard wrong, or had the old fool been messing with him? The thought of being so close to the money drove him downstairs.

“What am I doing wrong?” he asked, but there came no answer.

He found the old man in bed, hollow eyes looking to the ceiling, metal flask inches from his bony hand, visibly dead. His face looked oddly happy. Did he know relief in the end? But it was not the sight or smell of death that caused the housebreaker’s face to suddenly blanch; it was the open cell phone on the sheet that shook him. He made for the door, threw open the latch and ran straight into the arms of a police officer, a second by his side, gun drawn.

The rest of the night was a blur, as the adrenalin rush began to subside and his body started to experience the painful withdrawal symptoms of his dependency. He raged and roared and threw himself around the cell, cursing the old man with each new searing shot of agony.

**** THE END ****

Copyright John Riebow 2012

Image Courtesy: The Virginia Department of Historic Resources

Synopsis: An unfortunate, handicapped boy grows up computer savvy and uses chat rooms to assuage his deficiencies by manipulating strangers.

About the Author: After careers at sea and in teaching Gary Ives now lives and writes in the Ozark mountains of Arkansas with his wife and two big dogs where he grows apples.

In this surprising story, we find disability turning into undesirable talent.

Special Guest Artist, Fabio Sassi, a new generation of Beatnik Artwork.

* * * * * * * * * *

Can You Come Here For Christmas?
by Gary Ives

As an often delusional, always irrational, drug addicted petty criminal, Oliver Wexler’s mother, had long ago dissolved into the confusion of the city’s underclass of felons, druggies, and crazies. His father? You’ll have to ask the invisible mother. Good luck with that. So in his infancy Oliver had become a ward of the state, another abandanado to be blessed by the benefice of bureaucracy. Oliver, like many of his hapless contemporaries, bore the stigma of his mother’s drugs; he was mute and hunchbacked. The vagaries of growing up institutionally offer drastically distinct experiences than, say, the conventional family of three or four; it’s a different county. Add to the mix disabilities, like Oliver’s and it’s almost a different planet.

Be that as it may, Oliver survived the early years of warehousing, evolving as a precocious reader and acute observer. No doubt it was different in earlier times, but now, in a world without speech the computer and the printed word assume much, much larger importance. In his thirteenth year Oliver boarded as a student at the Munsler Eddins School, an institution for young people who were blind, deaf, and or mute. While already a capable signer and lip reader, the Munsler Eddins instructors polished and refined these skills. Signing and lip reading are mechanical skills taught by inculcation, repetition and drill. Quite necessary albit extremely boring. Endowed at the turn of the last century by Mister Valentine Munsler, millionaire piano manufacturer and chair of the state’s Republican Party, the philosophy of the Munsler School was to prepare alumni for independent living, or as old Mr. Munlser would have put it, “to get them the hell off the government teat.” Not surprisingly, vocations such as piano tuning, broom and mop construction, and basket weaving were traditions. Later, facing bankruptcy, the Munsler school was absorbed into the state school for the blind, simply called The Eddins and became The Munsler Eddins School. As a state enterprise, academic subjects were mandated and special classes were develop    d for the physically challenged. Perhaps to counter the monotony of the mechanical skills emphasized at Munsler Eddins, young Wexler excelled in academic and computer skills. At 17 he was graduated one week before Christmas and thrust into the wide world like a watermelon seed pinched into the air.

Initially what young Wexler yearned for more than anything was a complete separation from the former life. Self sufficiency would bring contentment. As a minor he was still legally tethered to the state’s social service bureau. He wanted out. That and a room of his own and the glory of privacy. His assigned social worker was a benign overworked soul with a caseload of 134. As long as Oliver had no problems she had no problems, his check kept coming, and he was free with the sole obligation to report in to children’s services once a month for a 5 minute interview. No problem, and when he turned 18 he could petition for complete freedom provided he could prove that he had become self-supporting. And there it was, a suitable room in a clean three story building occupied the day before Christmas. Then between Christmas and New Years his social worker pegged him for an interview which led to full employment clerking in a news kiosk at the federal building. Alone, all alone at Christmas you may think as a sad, sad situation for young Wexler, but quite the contrary. He reveled in his new solitude and privacy. Christmases past had always been strange. Routines turned on end, staff behaved differently, affected and insincere. To be sure the profusion of sweets and the things wrapped in paper were nice, but why? He never understood. A pair of little red marionettes, articulated wooden soldiers at the end of strings had been his only memorable Christmas gift, this when he was 11. After holidays, a moody, hungover and snappish staff skulked about for weeks. Now a stack of books, a new teapot, cigarettes, a couple of joints, and a big bag of Cheetos, this Christmas was serene. Wexler would always remember this joy of his first independent Christmas.

At work the only really rushed times were early morning and mid to late afternoon. The morning crowd bought coffee, pastries, newspapers, and smokes; the afternoon, magazines, candy and tobacco. The job, while certainly not challenging, was easy. Checking inventories, making coffee, keeping things clean and neat and smiling at the customers – a breeze. A singular advantage of working in the Federal Building was wi-fi. There were always quite intervals mid morning and afternoon. Plenty of time to go online. The wireless network allowed anonymous internet access from Oliver’s kiosk. Because he had signed up for online college courses, social services had provided a laptop. By early summer he had saved enough to buy a much nicer more powerful unit which belonged, of course, exclusively to him. This proprietary feeling amazed and bolstered his sense of self. For Oliver this feeling was much as another might experience on buying his first car or first house.

He settled into an easy routine of work and study. Usually he did his coursework during the slack hours at the job. After work he stopped by the same Jewish deli or a Chinese place for takeout to carry home. His birthday was in January; then he would petition the state for his complete independence. Keeping his social worker buoyed to his cause was crucial. Remaining a ward of the state until he reached 21 was his worst fear. When she suggested the Pennington Group, a deaf/mute support group, he acceded, though he did not want to.

This group of a dozen met on Thursday nights in a church basement about a mile from Oliver’s. Rather to his surprise he found he enjoyed the interaction, especially signing with adult mutes. Of particular interest was Naomi Speers who coincidently worked in the Federal building for the U. S. Marshal’s Service. However she always entered and left by the north entrance and had never frequented his kiosk.

After this discovery Naomi made it a point to visit Oliver on her afternoon break. She’d buy a candy bar and the two would sign chat for a few minutes. He learned that she appreciated her job as a file clerk but enduring frequent practical jokes and ridicule of the marshals was more than unpleasant; it was painful.

“They don’t think I understand tricks. They think I can read lips only when they want me to. Like yesterday, Officer Khol increased the radio volume to the maximum. This made the boss come out of his office with an ugly face. Khol told everybody that I had increased the radio volume. Everyone in the office laughed. The boss laughed with the others. It is not nice to laugh because I cannot hear.”

“This happens. Bad people touch my back. ‘This will bring good fortune.’ they say. We read lips. We read faces and we can read eyes. They think we are stupid.”

Oliver and Naomi had a conversation on this subject at least once a week. Besides seeing each other at work and with the Pennington Group, they e-mailed and IM’ed frequently.

In a chat room one night in August, Oliver conversed with a college student in Boston. This evening Oliver presented himself as a 19 year old girl living on a ranch in Wyoming and he skillfully drew the student into the charade.

“Do you have snow in Boston? It is windy here with lots of snow. My dad and my brother are taking a load of hay to some steers”

“Wow. Yep we have about 4 inches here. It must be cool living out West on a ranch.”

“LOL Always work, work, work. I am supposed to be driving the tractor now, but I got the chicken pox, so my dad’s driving the tractor and my brother’s pitching hay to the stock.”

“Do you go to college?”

“No. My brother does. I am just a cowgirl. What do you study in college?”

“History and English. I want to be a teacher. What do you do for fun?

“LOL In the winter nothing but work. Summer I play on girl’s softball team. Brother ropes steers in rodeo. Dad drinks beer and watches the television.”

“What about your mom?”

“She died when I was little. Our cook is my ‘mamicita.’”

“That’s sad. Is the cook Hispanic?”

“Yep, most of our ranch hands are Mexicanos. Are you Hispanic?

“No, Polish.”

“My dad says that Krakow is as beautiful as Vienna. Have you been to Krakow?

“No, no I’ve never been to Poland, but my grandmother and grandfather are from there. What was your dad doing in Krakow, in the war or something?

“No he was delivering bull semen he had sold to a customer.”

“Bull semen? LOL.”

“We sell bull semen all over the world, and we also raise beef we sell here. Before you ask, a vet does the collecting and packing.”

“LOL , my name is Stephen, what’s yours?”

“Stephen you don’t spell with a vee?”

“Nope, p  h. Maybe it’s a Polish thing.’

“Do you play sports, Stephen?”

“Soccer, but not on the college team; it’s just a scrub team, buncha guys. Tomorrow we play the Brazilian Team. May I put you on my friends list, so we can talk again?

“My brother goes to college in San Francisco and he dates a girl whose brother plays soccer on the German team. The teams there are sort of divided by ethnicity. Is it that way in Boston?”

“Yes, but not exclusively. My team is all mixed up, Latinos and Anglos from all over. What’s your name?”

“After soccer games they all go to a German bar. That sounds like fun. Is it that way there?”

“Oh yes. But are you going to tell me your name?”

“My mamicita is calling me. Thanks for the good chat, I’ve enjoyed it, Stephen with a p h. Maybe we will meet again sometime. Gotta go.”

This was a thing Oliver often did in the evenings, posing as some invented character. He’d been all over the board as women, men, old, young, Black, Hispanic. Stringing someone along gave him enormous pleasure. Perhaps it was the underlying sense of control, but the sheer novelty of assuming another persona was very satisfying. It was a thing that didn’t need analyzing. He would retell his tales to Naomi who told him he was crazy to do such a thing, however she enjoyed the stories to no end.

“Why didn’t you give him some made up name?”

“No, I just like to play a little game. It’s not for making friends for real.”

But….to his surprise the next evening soon after going online he received an IM

“Hey cowgirl, Stephen with a ph here, howzit?”

“Hi Stephen how r u?”

“Good. We won our game today.”

“Did you go to the bar?”

“Yes but only for ONE beer. I felt like going online. Sometimes I prefer solitude to beer, believe it or not.”

“That’s a good quality. I too like solitude. You would think living on a ranch would have a lot of quite, but it is rare. Interruption rules this place some days.”

“How big is the ranch?”

“Somewhere around 80.”

“80 Acres?”

“No, 80 thousand acres. Ranches here are much bigger than your Eastern farms. LOL. Our nearest neighbor has a 160,000 acre spread.”

“Jesus, that’s like a small country!”

“It’s a lot of territory. Of course not all of it’s good land. Lots of it is leased BLM land. We have a range of really steep hills and canyons that are too rough for pasture.  Like to ride up there in the summer. There’s a canyon an hour’s ride away that has two big springs.”

“When you say ride, do you mean horseback?”

“Yes, silly. I told you I was a cowgirl.”

“Are you going to tell me your name, or will I go to my grave still wondering.”

“Well in the interest of contentment it’s Linda. Just Linda.”

“Linda, Linda, Linda . Que Linda es Linda.”

Thereafter, Stephen appeared on the monitor nightly as Oliver’s tapestry grew. By Thanksgiving artificial Linda’s artificial brother Robert was home from artificial college for the holidays with his artificial girlfriend Freida. Her artificial father had made a very profitable sale to a large estancia in Argentina and bought an artificial Argentine mare for Linda. She called the mare Evita. It was her 20th Birthday/ Christmas present. Her artificial mamacita had suffered a case of Bell’s Palsy but was doing much better now. Linda was having her artificial pick up truck’s leather seats tucked and rolled, etc. etc.

Stephen by then had related much of his life’s history – growing up an only child in middle class Boston, son of a Methodist minister and a speech therapist mom. Among his pet peeves were bad language and his mom’s clients. He detested so-called handicapped people who milked the system for everything from parking permits to monthly checks.

“Just because some dummy can’t hear or talk, I’m supposed to support him? I don’t think so. We ought to send some of my mom’s clients out West to your ranch for a taste of the real world of a day’s work.”

“I’m with you Stephen. I like Western self-reliance. That’s why you don’t see a lot of sniveling cripples around here. Back East they’re like pigs at the trough, aren’t they?

“Amen”

“Stephen what do you think about coming out for a visit sometime? Would you be able to?

“Would I? !!!!!! God, I’d love to. What about your Dad, would he approve?

“And why not? He was cool with Robert bringing Frieda home for Thanksgiving. We have a guest house we use for customers, so there’s plenty of room. Besides I’ve already asked. Can you come here for Christmas?”

“Jesus – somebody pinch me. I must be dreaming.”

“Well, get the tickets. There’s a daily flight into Casper from Denver. I’ll pick you up. You’ll sit on the most beautiful tuck and roll job ever.

“I’m buying the tickets online, right now……arriving Thursday on Western Flight 712 at 2:40Pm

**** THE END ****

Copyright Gary Ives 2012

Image Courtesy: www.coroflot.com/fabiosassi © Fabio Sassi

Editor’s Note: Support our “Storm the Bookstores: Save the Short Story” Campaign. Click on http://igg.me/p/74309?a=473765 and show your support.

Synopsis: The search for love, peace and beauty begins at home.

About the Author: Mark Joseph Kiewlak has been a published author for more than two decades. In recent years his work has appeared regularly in The Bitter Oleander, Bewildering Stories, A Twist of Noir, Wild Violet, and Cezanne’s Carrot. His story, “The Present,” was nominated for the 2010 Spinetingler Award: Best Short Story on the Web. He has also written for DC Comics.

In this delightful fable, we are reminded that global peace is possible.

* * * * * * * * * *

Harmony
by Mark Joseph Kiewlak

Gene had been studying energy patterns all his life. Decades ago humanity had believed that energy and thought and matter were all separate things. Now we knew better. But the unfolding of true understanding had only just begun.

There was a knock at the door and Gene’s son Michael entered. Gene turned away from the computer screen.

“What are you working on, Dad?”

“The Harmony Theory,” Gene replied.

Michael yawned elaborately. “I’m getting ready for Scream Night,” he said.

Gene was still doing calculations in his head and was only half paying attention to his son. Michael was used to this. So used to it that even half of his father’s attention seemed like a blessing.

“Mom said she would come with me. Will you come too?”

“Sure,” Gene said. “Sure I will.”

It was only after Michael had left the room that Gene realized he had agreed to something.

&&&

The Harmony Theory was his life’s work. This was the case with many of the world’s scientists, but unlike so many of his brethren, so much of the world in general, Gene understood the theory. He believed in it, and not just for inspirational purposes. The Harmony Theory would literally save the world. It was, in fact, our lack of understanding that had set us adrift in the first place.

Even decades ago, years after the breakthrough, humanity had still struggled to take responsibility for their own lives. Even after the energy of the universe became a measurable force, mankind did not want to accept their crucial role in its maintenance. Even Gene’s wife Willow had struggled with it on that first night he had tried to explain.

They were in his lab, watching the patterns on a subatomic level, the dance of creation, and Willow, his girlfriend at the time, was wired head to toe with emotion receptors.

“I know they say it’s true,” she said, “and I was taught this even in kindergarten, but how does the energy of my thoughts help to build or destroy the universe?”

“Watch the screen,” Gene said.

Willow complied. On the screen individual energy patterns lapped like waves on an ocean. There was color and beauty and sense to the patterns, but it was nothing she could put into words. It seemed as much art as science.

“What does this have to do with the Harmony Theory?” she had asked.

When there was no immediate reply she turned back around and saw that Gene was on one knee before her. In his palm was an engagement ring.

“You are my life,” he said to her. “Marry me, Willow. And together we’ll change the universe.”

She was in tears and nodding her assent and the moment lasted an eternity. They held each other and cried and it was only after the emotion had been fully spent that Gene gestured again toward the screen and Willow understood. The energy patterns had undergone a visible change. They were softer, yet stronger somehow. The colors were more vibrant, the flow was easier, steadier than before. It was nearly impossible to quantify but undeniably true. Love had changed the world.

&&&

“The Harmony Theory attempts to describe the relationship between what we view as our subjective reality and the ways in which we yield or do not yield to the guiding instincts of our lives. This giving of one’s self over to the fundamental sense of the universe incorporates an individual’s positive energy into the greater whole of creation and strengthens rather than impedes the flow of energy throughout all levels of being.”

Gene had studied these words, and the tens of thousands that followed, like a bible. They were a part of the original theorem written some twenty years ago by pioneer physicist/metaphysician Norris Xavier Freeman. Freeman was the first to discover a practical method for measuring an individual’s energy output as it responded in conjunction with the other forces at play in any given moment of existence. Mankind had already surmised that one’s thoughts affected the outcome of all given events, but it was Freeman who proved it to the world in a way that at least a few could understand and were willing to accept.

Gene admired this man, but he had his own interpretations of Freeman’s work. It had taken five or six generations before the world was even somewhat ready to accept the notion that we had power over all that exists, that we were not helpless and weak in the face of Nature or any other force of the cosmos, that we were, in fact, co-authors of it all, contributing our own consciousness to the greater whole and able to affect change if we so desired.

Gene found it unfathomable that we did so little with this knowledge. Hunger and war and greed had been done away with, but more often than not we still didn’t listen to what the inner voice, the greater flow, was trying to tell us. Each day was a miracle of coincidence waiting for us to notice and abide by its precepts. The messages were not hidden. They were right there in our conscious mind, but we turned always away. We were forever focused on that which we imposed upon ourselves, all that we thought we should do, our seeming obligations and methods to pain. We constantly overlaid a pattern where one already existed.

And each time we did, the world was destroyed just a little more.

&&&

“Dad, are you ready? It’s time to go.”

Gene was immersed as usual in the visual cacophony on the screen before him. At times it was beautiful. Around the holidays it was achingly, transcendently so. But usually it was a mess. And Gene knew that our ocean would never be calm until we learned not merely to row in the same direction, but to stop rowing altogether and let the waves carry us.

Gene’s son Michael appeared in the doorway. “Dad? I’ve called you six times already.”

Gene turned away from the screen. “What is it, Michael?”

“It’s Scream Night. Mom and I are ready to go. You promised to come with us. Remember?”

Gene hesitated just a moment too long before he said, “I do remember.”

Michael turned away and slammed the basement door behind him. His footfalls were heavy on the stairs. Gene felt paralyzed. His head was filled with the need for harmonious thought, but not the thoughts themselves. So-called reality worked like that. By concentrating too hard on a desire we imposed its opposite.

Frustrated, Gene spun around in his chair until he was dizzy and sick to his stomach. He’d forgotten to eat all day. Again.

“What is Scream Night?” he said.

&&&

“Thanks for coming with me, Mom.”

The crowds were beginning to gather, in every neighborhood, all around the world. Candles were held high. Michael stared up at the thirty-foot high video screens that lined the walls of the great dome on every side. There were already thousands of people milling about and more filing in each moment. At least his mother understood. This thing was meant to be a family event.

She held his hand tightly, lest one of them be carried away to the other side of the dome. “I don’t like this,” she said. “It’s hot in here and pretty scary. Can we go out into the street?”

“Sure,” Michael said. He was just glad that one of his parents was with him.

Scream Night was one of those rare events meant to unite the world. In the past, most such events had been brought about as tragedies, when the fear of extinction, the notion that humanity’s path had taken a downward turn, had caused a widespread event to manifest — a war, a plague, a global energy crisis or natural disaster. Scream Night was supposed to be different. An outlet. A time designated to stand among one’s fellow man and shout to the world all our dismay and distrust, all frustrations emptied in a single vocal burst meant to cleanse the emotional palette. Michael thought it was a cool idea, and something he desperately needed. His scream would be directed primarily at his father.

As the night air touched her, Willow smiled at her son. “I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished with your life. The harmony of your soul. You’re a kind person. And you know yourself well.”

Michael had his guard up against such praise. “Most of the time,” he said.

“Your father feels the same way about you. He’s just as proud.”

Maybe this was a bad idea, Michael thought. He didn’t want to be naked in front of everyone. Every human emotion was in play around him. He scanned the faces, the gestures of every passerby. Those open to experience were excited. Others had been dragged here, though of course nothing really occurred against our will. Michael wondered why this barrier existed between his father and himself. The idea of love between them was simply shattering, a vulnerability that neither felt they could tolerate. It robbed too much of their pain. Michael had always concentrated on living the moment itself, while his father concentrated on dissecting it. There seemed no middle ground upon which they could meet.

A momentum was gathering now. Although there was no official hour, no chosen moment designated when the scream would actually occur, it was thought that once enough people had gathered, the energy of the event would take its own course. They would scream when they were ready.

Michael and his mother were strolling along the riverbank. The water was crystalline, aglow with moonlight. The last few decades had returned a purer beauty to us, and it added patience to the soul every time it was observed. Michael felt that he could wait a little longer to scream.

“Would you rather be somewhere else?” Willow said.

His mother was smiling again and she was truly beautiful. An anger flared up, directed at his father. Nothing should ever be wasted, yet every time his father focused away from his family, her beauty went unnoticed. This was as terrible a sin as anyone committed these days, but for Michael this evolution still was not enough. He had to remind himself that harmony wasn’t about a forceful compression of our being into a preconceived paradisiacal shape. It was allowing the shape to take its own form, or no form at all.

“We have to go home,” Michael said. “I have to talk to Dad.”

&&&

Not by chance had Gene stumbled across a broadcast of the worldwide Scream Night festivities. Coverage of the event was on every channel, every wavelength of perception currently employed. Gene felt embarrassment over his ignorance of this event. A caveman would know of it, but he had not. The technology of the present allowed for multiform, multisense inundation. Gene immersed himself in the images, the sights, sounds, and smells. It was worthy of study, but more to the point Gene felt as if by participating in this limited way he was somehow rectifying his earlier behavior toward his son. He wanted so badly to share in Michael’s existence. But he had never found a way in. The boy was so ultra-sensitive, so attuned to beauty and perfection, that Gene felt as if he would always say or do the wrong thing in his son’s presence, and so he had stopped really trying. It was far easier to study the theory than to live it.

Gene began to feel a commotion arising worldwide among the participants of Scream Night. Each individual, in concentrating upon their upcoming catharsis, was contributing a minute portion of their soul’s pain to this greater whole, feeling a union with others, sharing their grief. The event was taking shape in a way no one had anticipated. For the first time in his life Gene felt truly connected to his fellow man. The emotion receptors were registering a buildup to a never-before-achieved pitch. Even those not directly involved were still being fed the thought-energy of the people closest to them, and so became mirrors for a greater universal truth — all humanity in agreement that pain was pain, and that, in order to truly evolve, mankind must learn to embrace the inherent goodness of their essential being, not so that they could win the battle with themselves, but so that they could realize that there was no battle, that nothing could hurt us if we didn’t let it.

And then, all at once, everywhere across the world, everyone began, not to scream, but to cry.

Billions of people willingly shed their anguish, the tears flowing directly from their hearts.

And Gene, as always, went to work immediately, analyzing the data. He was sure that the key to the Harmony Theory was just one intuitive leap away.

He was still wired to the emotion receptors, but the feelings of the world had become mere background noise. An equation was forming in his mind. Something that could bring it all together. He was getting closer, closer. He was almost there.

Gene heard a knock at the door and recognized his son’s voice. “Dad, do you have a minute?”

The shape upon which he was concentrating was elusive, like an image seen among the shifting clouds. If Gene turned away even for an instant he knew it would be lost forever.

“Dad? I know there’s a lot going on in the world right now, but I needed to come home to tell you something. I needed to do it right now, because I might not be able to do it later. I don’t know how long my courage will last.”

Gene could see it beginning to form. He knew that his life’s work was mere seconds from realization. He would unlock the key that would end all suffering and put mankind forever upon the path to total unity and brotherhood. Everlasting peace.

“Dad?”

Gene turned away from the computer screen. It was the easiest decision he had ever made. His son was talking.

“What is it, Michael?”

“I just wanted to say that I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, son.”

And behind Gene’s back, unseen and unrecorded, the harmony readings went off the chart.

**** THE END ****

Copyright Mark Joseph Kiewlak 2012

Image Courtesy: “Pluck the Aura” by Ujjwal Dey