Magazine of the Dead is planning an anthology of zombie stories. We need your zombie stories. The guidelines are simple: stories should be no longer than 10,000 words. They should contain at least 1 zombie. They should be well written.
This will be a paperback book. The plan is to split proceeds with the contributors (after we have recouped our exspenses).
Send submissions to: magazineofthedead@yahoo.com
Put the word “Zombie” in the subject line.
Friday, April 6, 2007
The Man Who Ate Flesh
The Man who ate Flesh
By
David Nordahl
In the town of Thor’s Peaks there lived an old man that no one dared go near. He’d killed others and everyone knew that, even the sheriff. The people also knew that if they kept their distance they’d all be safe. Over the course of the years there was an uneasy truce between the man and the town. The truce was they wouldn’t interfere with what he needed to do and he wouldn’t go after any of them. That was until the day I decided to break the truce.
I can’t recall how the idea first popped into my head. I’m sure it started one night when I was at Lindee’s and after one to many I decided to do something about him. At first my bar buddies could talk me out of it usually with the promise of another round. After awhile the thought wouldn’t go away. Why should this man be allowed to keep going on killing these people. Don’t these people have families? Just because everyone else is afraid of him why should I be? I’ve lived a lot of places and never saw anything as silly as a whole town afraid of one old man.
Eventually it got so bad that the thoughts were with me when I got up and when I went to bed drunk or sober. I almost brunt my face off twice at work because I was thinking about him instead of what I was welding. Do you know what it’s like to have a thought in your head and not be able to get it out? Let me tell you I can now relate to most of the people in the asylum. People told me that I was nuts but unless I did something I would’ve been driven insane.
A few nights later after I made my choice, I won’t bore you with the details of the 3 a.m. decision making process. I was at the door of the man no one would even push out of the way of an on coming bus. A sip of whisky from my flask for courage and I banged on his door.
No Answer.
I banged again louder this time.
No answer.
This time I hit the door with all my might. Being a steel worker I had pretty good upper body strength the door started to rattle at the hinges. Finally after a few minutes the door creaked open.
I kicked the door open and I charged in.
The house had no working lights (a switch by the door proved that) the only light source came from the living room. I didn’t really care about being quiet. I was there to end it once and for all. I reached the living room when everything changed.
Instead of seeing a demented lunatic feasting on flesh and rubbing blood all over himself I found a very old and sickly looking man crying in a chair. He looked up at me with red eyes.
“Have you come to kill me?”
I nodded yes
“Then make it quick, I’ve lived like this for over thirty years. I can’t stand seeing all their faces when I go to sleep”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out my switchblade. The blade opened with that trademark sound. I walked up the old man and put the blade to his throat. His eyes pleaded with me to end it for him but at that moment I lost my nerve. I wanted to ask him why he did these things. Before I could his hand clasped mine and the knife slid across his throat. If I hadn’t been there I wouldn’t have believed that a person would or could kill themselves like that.
Blood first spewed on my face and then gushed on the floor. I wiped my face with the white handkerchief that I keep in my back pock. I wiped the blade, closed the knife and put it back in my pocket. I covered the old man’s face with the blood stained handkerchief. I really don’t think too many people will cry for him.
The deed done I went home and was fast asleep a little before four. The next morning I went to work, only one person mentioned the old man. Same at the bar most of the people had a sense of relief that the old man was dead. It was funny but it looked like some of the old timers started to stare at me with looks of dread on their faces. I guess some of them probably knew him before he went completely nuts. That night I had the worst dream of my life I had a vision of a red mist that hung over my head. I couldn’t make out any shapes. It started to swirl faster and faster until it formed a doughnut. In a voice that can’t possibly be part of anything in Heaven or Earth the red mist says “Flesh”. The doughnut turns into a cyclone and enters my stomach. That’s when I wake up.
I wake up dripping sweat and all I can think of is one of my bar buddies big meaty arms.
The End
By
David Nordahl
In the town of Thor’s Peaks there lived an old man that no one dared go near. He’d killed others and everyone knew that, even the sheriff. The people also knew that if they kept their distance they’d all be safe. Over the course of the years there was an uneasy truce between the man and the town. The truce was they wouldn’t interfere with what he needed to do and he wouldn’t go after any of them. That was until the day I decided to break the truce.
I can’t recall how the idea first popped into my head. I’m sure it started one night when I was at Lindee’s and after one to many I decided to do something about him. At first my bar buddies could talk me out of it usually with the promise of another round. After awhile the thought wouldn’t go away. Why should this man be allowed to keep going on killing these people. Don’t these people have families? Just because everyone else is afraid of him why should I be? I’ve lived a lot of places and never saw anything as silly as a whole town afraid of one old man.
Eventually it got so bad that the thoughts were with me when I got up and when I went to bed drunk or sober. I almost brunt my face off twice at work because I was thinking about him instead of what I was welding. Do you know what it’s like to have a thought in your head and not be able to get it out? Let me tell you I can now relate to most of the people in the asylum. People told me that I was nuts but unless I did something I would’ve been driven insane.
A few nights later after I made my choice, I won’t bore you with the details of the 3 a.m. decision making process. I was at the door of the man no one would even push out of the way of an on coming bus. A sip of whisky from my flask for courage and I banged on his door.
No Answer.
I banged again louder this time.
No answer.
This time I hit the door with all my might. Being a steel worker I had pretty good upper body strength the door started to rattle at the hinges. Finally after a few minutes the door creaked open.
I kicked the door open and I charged in.
The house had no working lights (a switch by the door proved that) the only light source came from the living room. I didn’t really care about being quiet. I was there to end it once and for all. I reached the living room when everything changed.
Instead of seeing a demented lunatic feasting on flesh and rubbing blood all over himself I found a very old and sickly looking man crying in a chair. He looked up at me with red eyes.
“Have you come to kill me?”
I nodded yes
“Then make it quick, I’ve lived like this for over thirty years. I can’t stand seeing all their faces when I go to sleep”
I reached in my pocket and pulled out my switchblade. The blade opened with that trademark sound. I walked up the old man and put the blade to his throat. His eyes pleaded with me to end it for him but at that moment I lost my nerve. I wanted to ask him why he did these things. Before I could his hand clasped mine and the knife slid across his throat. If I hadn’t been there I wouldn’t have believed that a person would or could kill themselves like that.
Blood first spewed on my face and then gushed on the floor. I wiped my face with the white handkerchief that I keep in my back pock. I wiped the blade, closed the knife and put it back in my pocket. I covered the old man’s face with the blood stained handkerchief. I really don’t think too many people will cry for him.
The deed done I went home and was fast asleep a little before four. The next morning I went to work, only one person mentioned the old man. Same at the bar most of the people had a sense of relief that the old man was dead. It was funny but it looked like some of the old timers started to stare at me with looks of dread on their faces. I guess some of them probably knew him before he went completely nuts. That night I had the worst dream of my life I had a vision of a red mist that hung over my head. I couldn’t make out any shapes. It started to swirl faster and faster until it formed a doughnut. In a voice that can’t possibly be part of anything in Heaven or Earth the red mist says “Flesh”. The doughnut turns into a cyclone and enters my stomach. That’s when I wake up.
I wake up dripping sweat and all I can think of is one of my bar buddies big meaty arms.
The End
Thursday, April 5, 2007
The Customer Is Always Psychotic
The Customer Is Always Psychotic
By Joshua Weston
Breanna tightened her scrunchie around her ponytail and picked up the tray of food. Her scowl of disparagement and depression was wiped away with the swinging of the door, and she was out of the kitchen and into the dining area. Her smile was fake, but the customers couldn’t tell that. She walked over to the corner table with the steak and fries, and placed them in front of the man sitting there with a smile and a nod. “Is there anything else I can get you sir?” The silent shake of his head told her all she needed to know. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, just let me know.” She began to walk away.
“Hey, um… Breanna?”
She turned around, flashing that beautiful façade of a smile. “Yes sir?”
He arose from the table and a conniving grin appeared on his face. “Actually, there is something you can do for me.”
She cocked her head confusingly and reluctantly responded, “Y-yes, what is it?”
She hardly had the sentence out when he was upon her with a steak knife, stabbing at her body with great force and vehemence. A cackling sound emitted from his lips as he plunged the knife deep into her soft flesh. Even after she was dead, he still stabbed and stabbed.
By now the entire restaurant had erupted into the sounds of horrific screams and chairs being tossed to the side for a quick escape. One man sat in a booth, his work shirt covered in sauce and ketchup. As he rose, the knife wielding murderer noticed his nametag; his name was Frank.
Frank approached; a heroic inspiration about him. “Boy, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank was an impressively sized man, so he felt talking down to this asshole was not below him. “What’s your name, psycho?”
His eyes were glazed, narrow, and had an intent stare in them. “My name is John,” he said, with a slight tone of vilification. “And you’re in my way.” With that, he slid the knife in between his lips, wiping the memory of Breanna from the knife. The knife was not satisfied. It wanted more.
A patron took a wrong turn and ran too close to John, making that the last mistake he would make. John guided the hungry blade through the eye socket and straight to the brain of the poor soul, killing him instantly, then shoved him to the ground. He then raised his eyes to Frank. “Bring it, cocksucker.”
Frank began to run at John, but didn’t expect the pistol in John’s belt. Two bullets to the head dropped him and ended his life. There weren’t a lot of people left in the restaurant, but ones who were continued to be subjected to torture and death…
****
“Sir!”
John shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. “Uh, nothing; I’m fine. Thank you, Breanna.” He smiled nervously, and started to cut his steak. Breanna turned and walked away, passed through the door to the kitchen, and rolled her eyes.
John continued to eat, savoring every bite of the perfectly grilled steak. The fries were dipped into steak sauce; he enjoyed them that way. His meal was devoured quickly, and he finished it up with the rest of his soda.
He stood in the middle of the destruction, laughing wildly out loud, awaiting the inevitable firefight with the police. Everyone he could possibly hurt would feel the torture and pain he felt in himself. He ran out into the haze of red and blue lights, gun blazing…
He left a tip of four dollars on the table, and went to the counter to pay for his ticket. Then John stepped out into the sunlight, staring across the street at the convenience store. He wondered how many people were in there that would succumb to his murderous rampage.
That and he had a craving for a donut.
By Joshua Weston
Breanna tightened her scrunchie around her ponytail and picked up the tray of food. Her scowl of disparagement and depression was wiped away with the swinging of the door, and she was out of the kitchen and into the dining area. Her smile was fake, but the customers couldn’t tell that. She walked over to the corner table with the steak and fries, and placed them in front of the man sitting there with a smile and a nod. “Is there anything else I can get you sir?” The silent shake of his head told her all she needed to know. “If there’s anything else I can do for you, just let me know.” She began to walk away.
“Hey, um… Breanna?”
She turned around, flashing that beautiful façade of a smile. “Yes sir?”
He arose from the table and a conniving grin appeared on his face. “Actually, there is something you can do for me.”
She cocked her head confusingly and reluctantly responded, “Y-yes, what is it?”
She hardly had the sentence out when he was upon her with a steak knife, stabbing at her body with great force and vehemence. A cackling sound emitted from his lips as he plunged the knife deep into her soft flesh. Even after she was dead, he still stabbed and stabbed.
By now the entire restaurant had erupted into the sounds of horrific screams and chairs being tossed to the side for a quick escape. One man sat in a booth, his work shirt covered in sauce and ketchup. As he rose, the knife wielding murderer noticed his nametag; his name was Frank.
Frank approached; a heroic inspiration about him. “Boy, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank was an impressively sized man, so he felt talking down to this asshole was not below him. “What’s your name, psycho?”
His eyes were glazed, narrow, and had an intent stare in them. “My name is John,” he said, with a slight tone of vilification. “And you’re in my way.” With that, he slid the knife in between his lips, wiping the memory of Breanna from the knife. The knife was not satisfied. It wanted more.
A patron took a wrong turn and ran too close to John, making that the last mistake he would make. John guided the hungry blade through the eye socket and straight to the brain of the poor soul, killing him instantly, then shoved him to the ground. He then raised his eyes to Frank. “Bring it, cocksucker.”
Frank began to run at John, but didn’t expect the pistol in John’s belt. Two bullets to the head dropped him and ended his life. There weren’t a lot of people left in the restaurant, but ones who were continued to be subjected to torture and death…
****
“Sir!”
John shook his head, bringing himself back to reality. “Uh, nothing; I’m fine. Thank you, Breanna.” He smiled nervously, and started to cut his steak. Breanna turned and walked away, passed through the door to the kitchen, and rolled her eyes.
John continued to eat, savoring every bite of the perfectly grilled steak. The fries were dipped into steak sauce; he enjoyed them that way. His meal was devoured quickly, and he finished it up with the rest of his soda.
He stood in the middle of the destruction, laughing wildly out loud, awaiting the inevitable firefight with the police. Everyone he could possibly hurt would feel the torture and pain he felt in himself. He ran out into the haze of red and blue lights, gun blazing…
He left a tip of four dollars on the table, and went to the counter to pay for his ticket. Then John stepped out into the sunlight, staring across the street at the convenience store. He wondered how many people were in there that would succumb to his murderous rampage.
That and he had a craving for a donut.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Stories for Replicants
The new print anthology from MotD is out now.
The second anthology from Magazine of the Dead. Stories for Replicants contains all of the recent stories from MotD, plus several new stories that have not appeared on line. It features work by: Darran Anderson, Peter Wild, Harold Wilson, Christopher Allan Death, Norman A. Rubin, James Horn, Aurelio Rico Lopez III, Edward Rodosek, Terry Doss, James Riser, Nathan Tyree, Joey Ketcham, and a classic reprint from E.A. Poe.
See it here: http://www.lulu.com/content/777237
The second anthology from Magazine of the Dead. Stories for Replicants contains all of the recent stories from MotD, plus several new stories that have not appeared on line. It features work by: Darran Anderson, Peter Wild, Harold Wilson, Christopher Allan Death, Norman A. Rubin, James Horn, Aurelio Rico Lopez III, Edward Rodosek, Terry Doss, James Riser, Nathan Tyree, Joey Ketcham, and a classic reprint from E.A. Poe.
See it here: http://www.lulu.com/content/777237
Friday, March 30, 2007
Jesse Garon
Jesse Garon.
By Darran Anderson
They buried him in a shoebox a stone's throw from the shotgun shack. But some things don't leave so easily. Floating above the Tupelo bed, it coiled its umbilical cord tight round its infant brother, anchored itself to life. And it floated there, listening. And at night when the child slept, it feed and grew, planted seeds, suggestions. And sometimes, without knowing it, he, Elvis Aaron, listened.
The rest is well known. He called himself the Hillbilly Cat, laid down a record as a present for his mama, before long it was white jumpsuits and karate, emptying his rifle into swimming pools filled with light bulbs. All along he was plagued by strange compulsions, incompleteness, a hunger he couldn't satisfy. It was still there in the last days, bedridden and corseted, strung out on uppers and downers, slumped on the tiles of the ensuite bathroom. The face of Jesus on the floor
"That's alright mama, that's alright with me," harks from a busted up old turntable, still singing decades after they checked out, locked together spinning in some black orbit. But he forgives his brother. They're kin after all.
By Darran Anderson
They buried him in a shoebox a stone's throw from the shotgun shack. But some things don't leave so easily. Floating above the Tupelo bed, it coiled its umbilical cord tight round its infant brother, anchored itself to life. And it floated there, listening. And at night when the child slept, it feed and grew, planted seeds, suggestions. And sometimes, without knowing it, he, Elvis Aaron, listened.
The rest is well known. He called himself the Hillbilly Cat, laid down a record as a present for his mama, before long it was white jumpsuits and karate, emptying his rifle into swimming pools filled with light bulbs. All along he was plagued by strange compulsions, incompleteness, a hunger he couldn't satisfy. It was still there in the last days, bedridden and corseted, strung out on uppers and downers, slumped on the tiles of the ensuite bathroom. The face of Jesus on the floor
"That's alright mama, that's alright with me," harks from a busted up old turntable, still singing decades after they checked out, locked together spinning in some black orbit. But he forgives his brother. They're kin after all.
PF-FIS
PF-FIS
By
Terry Doss
"we came in," thinks Manuel as a he ducks a wild
swing.
"Careful with that axe, Eugene"
Eugene looks up from the skittering corpse and
points at Manuel, "One of these days, I'm going to cut
you into little pieces."
Manuel smiles, but it's not a funny joke. Rule 3
is all too real. Chance is all that separates him
from the body on the floor.
Eugene is a big old boy, and he is busy
emphatically bludgeoning the brain mass of the Charlie
on the floor. It helps if he imagines circuitry
breaking, like you'd expect from a bad science fiction
story. Eugene fills in the sound effects.
"Flicker, flicker, flicker blam. Pow, pow."
The body is no longer moving and Mrs. Clegg no
longer wants to tell the two of them about her
husband.
Manuel gives Mrs. Clegg a brief eulogy, "Life is a
short, warm moment, and death is a long cold rest,"
then spits on the Charlie she had become.
Eugene wipes his axe blade on the denim skirt the
corpse wears. Manuel pulls out a bottle and takes a
long slow pull. Mrs. Clegg no longer wants to tell
the two of them about her husband. All three have the
scent of gingerbread on their breath.
She couldn't afford to be disconnected so she had
been going to the charlie support group for the last
two years. That's where she had met Manuel and
Eugene. The support group focuses on the positive
aspects of being a charlie, but if any of them could
afford it, they would have their terminals capped.
Rule 2 in the support group is to remember; to
remember why they had become charlies and to encourage
them to use their skills while they can. Mrs. Clegg
had become a charlie for the recipes, so it wasn't odd
for her to come into the meeting with a new treat
every night. Manuel had become a charlie for the
porn.
Tonight Mrs. Clegg had come in with, "Lots of
gingerbread men. Take a couple if you wish." She had
never before used this particular gingerbread recipe.
Rule 1: Every moment is unique. The first sign of
a charlie going capital is repetition. It could start
with a jingle, a slogan, or a repetitive motion.
Because of this, the majority of coping techniques
deal with avoiding repetitions by constantly thinking
about what makes each instant in time unique from all
others. Tonight, for Mrs. Clegg, the gingerbread
recipe had been unique.
After the meeting Manuel and Eugene escorted her
home. As they walked, she told them about her
husband.
"Corporal Clegg had a medal too"
Manuel said, "Mrs. Clegg, you must be proud of him.
Mrs. Clegg noddded and changed the subject:
"Summer evenin' birds are calling."
The two men agreed that the summer birds were
indeed calling.
"Corporal Clegg had a medal too"
Eugene and Manuel both gave a quick look to each
other. Mrs. Clegg didn't seem to notice.
Dropping back a step, Eugene said, "Mrs. Clegg, you
must be proud of him.
"His boots were very clean," she said, and her face
fractured in a way that reminded Manuel of Geurnica.
A shocked face, displayed at unnatural angles. Eugene
smashed her face away for three minutes. Mrs. Clegg
no longer wants to tell the two of them about her
husband.
Manuel takes another tug from the bottle. "If I
were alone, I would cry."
"Pass the tequila, Manuel."
Manuel says, "I've had enough for one day," as he
hands Eugene the bottle, but in his mind he clearly
hears, "If you can hear this whispering you are
dying."
Manuel thinks, "The lunatic is in my head," but he
hears himself say, "I've had enough for one day."
Manuel tries to scream, "There's someone in my head
but it's not me. "
Eugene hears Manuel say, "I've had enough for one
day."
Manuel hears the bottle of tequila crack as it hits
the floor.
Eugene hears the scrape of his axe as he lifts it
from the pavement.
Eugene hears himself saying, "Flicker, flicker,
flicker blam. Pow, pow," but his mind is whispering,
"Isn't this where..."
By
Terry Doss
"we came in," thinks Manuel as a he ducks a wild
swing.
"Careful with that axe, Eugene"
Eugene looks up from the skittering corpse and
points at Manuel, "One of these days, I'm going to cut
you into little pieces."
Manuel smiles, but it's not a funny joke. Rule 3
is all too real. Chance is all that separates him
from the body on the floor.
Eugene is a big old boy, and he is busy
emphatically bludgeoning the brain mass of the Charlie
on the floor. It helps if he imagines circuitry
breaking, like you'd expect from a bad science fiction
story. Eugene fills in the sound effects.
"Flicker, flicker, flicker blam. Pow, pow."
The body is no longer moving and Mrs. Clegg no
longer wants to tell the two of them about her
husband.
Manuel gives Mrs. Clegg a brief eulogy, "Life is a
short, warm moment, and death is a long cold rest,"
then spits on the Charlie she had become.
Eugene wipes his axe blade on the denim skirt the
corpse wears. Manuel pulls out a bottle and takes a
long slow pull. Mrs. Clegg no longer wants to tell
the two of them about her husband. All three have the
scent of gingerbread on their breath.
She couldn't afford to be disconnected so she had
been going to the charlie support group for the last
two years. That's where she had met Manuel and
Eugene. The support group focuses on the positive
aspects of being a charlie, but if any of them could
afford it, they would have their terminals capped.
Rule 2 in the support group is to remember; to
remember why they had become charlies and to encourage
them to use their skills while they can. Mrs. Clegg
had become a charlie for the recipes, so it wasn't odd
for her to come into the meeting with a new treat
every night. Manuel had become a charlie for the
porn.
Tonight Mrs. Clegg had come in with, "Lots of
gingerbread men. Take a couple if you wish." She had
never before used this particular gingerbread recipe.
Rule 1: Every moment is unique. The first sign of
a charlie going capital is repetition. It could start
with a jingle, a slogan, or a repetitive motion.
Because of this, the majority of coping techniques
deal with avoiding repetitions by constantly thinking
about what makes each instant in time unique from all
others. Tonight, for Mrs. Clegg, the gingerbread
recipe had been unique.
After the meeting Manuel and Eugene escorted her
home. As they walked, she told them about her
husband.
"Corporal Clegg had a medal too"
Manuel said, "Mrs. Clegg, you must be proud of him.
Mrs. Clegg noddded and changed the subject:
"Summer evenin' birds are calling."
The two men agreed that the summer birds were
indeed calling.
"Corporal Clegg had a medal too"
Eugene and Manuel both gave a quick look to each
other. Mrs. Clegg didn't seem to notice.
Dropping back a step, Eugene said, "Mrs. Clegg, you
must be proud of him.
"His boots were very clean," she said, and her face
fractured in a way that reminded Manuel of Geurnica.
A shocked face, displayed at unnatural angles. Eugene
smashed her face away for three minutes. Mrs. Clegg
no longer wants to tell the two of them about her
husband.
Manuel takes another tug from the bottle. "If I
were alone, I would cry."
"Pass the tequila, Manuel."
Manuel says, "I've had enough for one day," as he
hands Eugene the bottle, but in his mind he clearly
hears, "If you can hear this whispering you are
dying."
Manuel thinks, "The lunatic is in my head," but he
hears himself say, "I've had enough for one day."
Manuel tries to scream, "There's someone in my head
but it's not me. "
Eugene hears Manuel say, "I've had enough for one
day."
Manuel hears the bottle of tequila crack as it hits
the floor.
Eugene hears the scrape of his axe as he lifts it
from the pavement.
Eugene hears himself saying, "Flicker, flicker,
flicker blam. Pow, pow," but his mind is whispering,
"Isn't this where..."
Monday, March 26, 2007
The Lek
The Lek
by Peter Wild
There is a sound and - before she even considers it, before she even brings herself to wonder what it could be or represent - she hears Carl, Carl who is not here, Carl who has gone. Before she so much as wakes to the situation, there is a question, in her mind, voiced by her (What's that?) and Carl's response (It's Superman, reading a book). It isn't until the riffling sound, as of pages being turned at speed, recurs that she shakes herself out of it or at least shakes her head and sits forward in her seat.
Elaine is sitting, with her legs folded beneath her, in the corner of the living room, hunched, clinging, into one side of the sofa as if pushed there by a crowd, as if forced to accommodate many others, despite the fact that the room is empty of anyone, save her. A quarter-filled glass of red wine (to be drank on the recommendation of her doctor to offset a painful trigeminal neuralgia), balanced on the chair arm, supported by the fingers of her left hand laced around the base and the stem, lurches violently to the left as she gets to her feet. And there is the sound again - a purring shudder, a feathery hiss in the baby monitor. She stands there, looking at the baby monitor on the mantlepiece, specifically the parabola of lights, the Nike swoosh that travels through green to red, with her glass of wine in one hand (now held around the belly of the glass) and her book in the other, glass high, book low, waiting and wondering. Is it a sound, she wonders, or a fault? Elaine knows that these machines, the baby monitoring paraphernalia, are given to faults, random sounds, aural scree that could be anything but are more often than not nothing. Four months of starting at the slightest sound have fostered a resistance in her to charge upstairs at the least prompting.
She stands there, tensing, her shoulders and her neck tight in anticipation of the sound and its repetition. But it doesn't come. There is nothing, not even breathing, to disturb the supposed calm. Elaine sighs or huffs or makes a sound that suggests to anyone listening that, although, yes, she is going to go upstairs to check on the baby, she doesn't really want to and feels mildly put out at the obligations of motherhood. It isn't a true sound - Elaine could happily stand and watch her baby sleep for a lifetime or longer - but its utterance reassures her in some way, makes her feel like a modern, independent woman who can raise a child whilst at the same time cossetting her alone-time, the life of her mind. And so, resting her wine glass on the mantle over the hearth besides the baby monitor and casually flinging her now-closed book on to the sofa in the bottomy warmth of the space she had left, Elaine crosses the room to the stairs and starts up, thinking, briefly, as she passes the photograph of their wedding, nailed, alongside half a dozen others, along the wall that leads from hallway to bathroom, of Carl.
It wasn't surprising that Carl's reaction was the first thing she thought of. She knew Carl - or rather felt she knew Carl - better than she knew herself. A year or so earlier, when their marriage was losing its footing, she had learned the meaning of a word - a word she had managed to travel twenty eight years without having heard before: propinquity. She told Carl. Propinquity. The marriage of minds. She told Carl she'd learned a word, thought it was beautiful, liked the way it felt upon her tongue. In the midst of overseeing a leveraged management buy-out, Carl could not have been said to have paid her his full attention. That was what the baby was about. Leastways from Carl's point of view. She needed distraction, he felt. Was becoming slightly dotty. This dottiness was only compounded in his view when Elaine took to saying the word propinquity at all hours of the day and night as if to illustrate the joy she took in their own marriage of minds. Whenever they talked or appeared to enjoy each other's company, Elaine would - Carl felt - spoil the moment by saying, Propinquity, as if it proved everything that needed proving. But all it served to do was push him away. Even Elaine, prone as she was to deceiving herself in matters of the heart, could see that she had, at least in part, made her bed. They had been so happy - she paused on the stairs to level the frame despite the fact that it was not at all skewed - that day at the South College Street Registry Office. So happy.
Elaine allowed herself a smile and felt strengthened somewhat inside to learn that already she could look back on times when they had been happy. She turned inwardly, intent on climbing the stairs, mapping out the familiar path taken twenty three dozen times a night, and stopped upon hearing the sound again. It wasn't like the pages of a book turned at speed, it was more like - the tabs young boys attached to the back wheels of their bikes in summertime in order to - what? She didn't know. The sound that those boys made as they cycled up and down the street, though. That was what it sounded like from the stairs. But there was more to it. A warmth, an urgency, a life. The sound had life, as if it was generated by something alive. She swallowed and moved more quickly, albeit still quietly, up the stairs to the mezzanine where she turned sharply to the left and followed the upper hallway to the end of the landing where she paused and ever so softly eased the door open. A crack. A crack was all. She eased the door open and cautiously edged her head into the gap to be greeted at once by everything that was dark and familiar: the fitted wardrobes (a gift from her brother-in-law, as was, Steven, the joiner, the spare-time joiner, with a flair for interior design), the rug Carl rescued from a Turkish bazaar on their honeymoon, the super kingsize bed Carl had insisted on (he couldn't sleep, he'd told her, if he couldn't spread out like a starfish baking in the sun) and there, the cot, on the left hand side, her side. She liked to sleep with her hand awkwardly caught between the bars, near without quite touching her son, Edmund. All was as it should be, she thought. She could hear the baby's gentle breath, the in, the gulf of silence, the out, the in, the gulf of silence, the out. The time she had spent in this doorway listening out, sometimes anxiously listening out, for the rise and fall, the hook and catch of his breath. What could -?
And then she saw it and, even as she fussily rebuked herself for missing that which was in plain sight, her stomach shrank and her eyes grew wide and the taste of already-drunk wine rose in her throat. She thought she was going to be sick. There was a bird in the cot alongside her sleeping son. She thought it was a bird. It had two feet. Or not feet. A bird didn't have feet. What did a bird have? She couldn't think. There was a bird. She could hardly get further than that. There was a bird and the bird was moving, calmly, royally, at its own speed, from one end of the cot, from her son's sleeping head, to the other, to his feet, to passed his feet, where there was only the space he would grow into - at which point the bird turned, heading back, repeating the process or gesture or whatever it was, like a guard, like a trooping guard. She was terrified. Nauseous. Her first instinct - to get her son away from the bird - was followed by a more rational restraint (because the bird could do a lot of harm in the time it took her to travel across the bedroom, from the door to the cot). She had to be careful. She was terrified and she wanted to vomit right where she was, on the carpet - but she didn't because she couldn't because she knew that she had to get closer and see if she was mistaken (could it be a toy of some kind thrown into deranged relief by the play of light and dark from the streetlight outside?). She had to be mistaken. Even as she watched the bird plod from one end of the cot to the other, even as she knew, indefatigably, that there was a bird, a strangely elongated bird, right there in the cot beside her son - even as she knew this for the fact that it was - she denied it. It couldn't be a bird. Not really. It couldn't be a bird. Even though she knew it was.
She took a step into the room and in doing so allowed a degree more light inside as the door drew wide. The bird jerked its head in her direction and then rose up, somehow, hopping rather than flapping its wings (if it had wings) - and Elaine stopped in her tracks. The bird faced her (and she knew, as she looked, that it couldn't see her, that as she looked at the bird, the bird was looking at either wall) - but somehow it knew enough to face her, in a way that she would understand. The two of them stood, obliquely facing one another (Elaine had time to wonder what kind of a bird it was, it had the manner of a quail but it was much, much bigger, an armspan, she imagined, from beak to tail feather) each taking a measure of the other. The bird lowered its head and Elaine started - she started to wonder whether the bird was harmless, irrespective of however it had made its way into her bedroom and into the cot - as the bird transformed, so it appeared, before her very eyes.
A cone of feathers rose up, cobra-like, about the bird's head, forming a tube that reached a foot or more into the space that separated them. Elaine's breath caught. She raised a hand as if to protect herself. The bird seemed to lean toward her, ever more closely, and the cone of feathers rippled or shuddered alarmingly, at her. She took a step backwards and then another step backwards and then she closed the door to the bedroom shut, its feeble click serving to soundtrack her dash along the length of the landing and into the bathroom, that other sound - the awful shivering made by the bird and its cone of feathers - trailing her like a phantasm, raising the skin on her arms and her neck and once more turning her stomach, over and about, like a hapless dinghy caught out in a storm at sea.
The bathroom offered scant comfort. Her mind and her heart were racing. She knew (she did) that she couldn't leave her son alone in there with a bird. It was insane. How did a bird -? But there wasn't time. She was frightened. She was frightened but she had to act. This was about more than herself. This was a test of her motherhood. Even here, though, in the astringent calm of her bathroom, the bird could be heard. Rippling. The awfulness of her situation gripped her, the fear. That awful rippling. It was like the imagined movement of insects crawling beneath her skin, hard and oily cockroaches competing for space in her stomach cavity. She placed her hands upon the sink and looked at the woman whose face stared out from the mirrored cabinets. What were her options? She could call Carl? He'd instructed her not to call. Not for a little while. Surely this was an emergency? It wasn't like a spider in the bath. This was an emergency. But what if he arrived, sweating and uncomfortable from (wherever it was he was and whatever it was he was doing) only to find that the bird was a product of her imagination? What if he arrived and saw the red wine and her pale, stretched features and imagined her - what? drunk? irresponsible? What if he threatened to take Edmund away from her? Edmund was all she had. She couldn't risk calling Carl. Not yet, at any rate. Not until she was sure. (Again, though, her mind swung, how sure did she have to be? She had seen the bird with her own eyes. She had seen it and so belief, whether the bird was real or not, didn't come into it. She'd either seen a bird or she was insane and was seeing birds, threatening birds, where birds were not...)
She couldn't call Carl. She was alone. She had no-one to turn to and nobody could help her. It was up to her. Whatever it was she was going to do (and, even as she made her way out of the bathroom and along the hall to the bedroom with fear, lodged, coiled, in her belly and her heart, stuttering, tap dancing in her chest, she didn't know what it was she would do, had no clue, was blank, terrified thoughtless), she knew only that it was down to her and her alone.
*
By the next morning, such fears seemed quaint, antique. Upon waking, the image of her, treading, daunted, along the hallway to the bedroom door, like a Victorian aunt holding the trembling wick of a candle in a saucer more formally reserved for tea, seemed utterly ridiculous. Last night was a world away. Waking, she was a different woman. If only Carl - Carl, who had left her in the midst of post-natal depression as a result of the fact that he had needs, needs she was not able, in her current state to address - if only Carl could see her now. With a bird nestled like a lover beneath her naked arm and many others shuffling about the bedroom and, indeed, the rest of the house (if the information she'd been given was correct), suddenly, anything and everything seemed possible.
The loss of her son, all that the birds demanded, seemed a small price to pay.
by Peter Wild
There is a sound and - before she even considers it, before she even brings herself to wonder what it could be or represent - she hears Carl, Carl who is not here, Carl who has gone. Before she so much as wakes to the situation, there is a question, in her mind, voiced by her (What's that?) and Carl's response (It's Superman, reading a book). It isn't until the riffling sound, as of pages being turned at speed, recurs that she shakes herself out of it or at least shakes her head and sits forward in her seat.
Elaine is sitting, with her legs folded beneath her, in the corner of the living room, hunched, clinging, into one side of the sofa as if pushed there by a crowd, as if forced to accommodate many others, despite the fact that the room is empty of anyone, save her. A quarter-filled glass of red wine (to be drank on the recommendation of her doctor to offset a painful trigeminal neuralgia), balanced on the chair arm, supported by the fingers of her left hand laced around the base and the stem, lurches violently to the left as she gets to her feet. And there is the sound again - a purring shudder, a feathery hiss in the baby monitor. She stands there, looking at the baby monitor on the mantlepiece, specifically the parabola of lights, the Nike swoosh that travels through green to red, with her glass of wine in one hand (now held around the belly of the glass) and her book in the other, glass high, book low, waiting and wondering. Is it a sound, she wonders, or a fault? Elaine knows that these machines, the baby monitoring paraphernalia, are given to faults, random sounds, aural scree that could be anything but are more often than not nothing. Four months of starting at the slightest sound have fostered a resistance in her to charge upstairs at the least prompting.
She stands there, tensing, her shoulders and her neck tight in anticipation of the sound and its repetition. But it doesn't come. There is nothing, not even breathing, to disturb the supposed calm. Elaine sighs or huffs or makes a sound that suggests to anyone listening that, although, yes, she is going to go upstairs to check on the baby, she doesn't really want to and feels mildly put out at the obligations of motherhood. It isn't a true sound - Elaine could happily stand and watch her baby sleep for a lifetime or longer - but its utterance reassures her in some way, makes her feel like a modern, independent woman who can raise a child whilst at the same time cossetting her alone-time, the life of her mind. And so, resting her wine glass on the mantle over the hearth besides the baby monitor and casually flinging her now-closed book on to the sofa in the bottomy warmth of the space she had left, Elaine crosses the room to the stairs and starts up, thinking, briefly, as she passes the photograph of their wedding, nailed, alongside half a dozen others, along the wall that leads from hallway to bathroom, of Carl.
It wasn't surprising that Carl's reaction was the first thing she thought of. She knew Carl - or rather felt she knew Carl - better than she knew herself. A year or so earlier, when their marriage was losing its footing, she had learned the meaning of a word - a word she had managed to travel twenty eight years without having heard before: propinquity. She told Carl. Propinquity. The marriage of minds. She told Carl she'd learned a word, thought it was beautiful, liked the way it felt upon her tongue. In the midst of overseeing a leveraged management buy-out, Carl could not have been said to have paid her his full attention. That was what the baby was about. Leastways from Carl's point of view. She needed distraction, he felt. Was becoming slightly dotty. This dottiness was only compounded in his view when Elaine took to saying the word propinquity at all hours of the day and night as if to illustrate the joy she took in their own marriage of minds. Whenever they talked or appeared to enjoy each other's company, Elaine would - Carl felt - spoil the moment by saying, Propinquity, as if it proved everything that needed proving. But all it served to do was push him away. Even Elaine, prone as she was to deceiving herself in matters of the heart, could see that she had, at least in part, made her bed. They had been so happy - she paused on the stairs to level the frame despite the fact that it was not at all skewed - that day at the South College Street Registry Office. So happy.
Elaine allowed herself a smile and felt strengthened somewhat inside to learn that already she could look back on times when they had been happy. She turned inwardly, intent on climbing the stairs, mapping out the familiar path taken twenty three dozen times a night, and stopped upon hearing the sound again. It wasn't like the pages of a book turned at speed, it was more like - the tabs young boys attached to the back wheels of their bikes in summertime in order to - what? She didn't know. The sound that those boys made as they cycled up and down the street, though. That was what it sounded like from the stairs. But there was more to it. A warmth, an urgency, a life. The sound had life, as if it was generated by something alive. She swallowed and moved more quickly, albeit still quietly, up the stairs to the mezzanine where she turned sharply to the left and followed the upper hallway to the end of the landing where she paused and ever so softly eased the door open. A crack. A crack was all. She eased the door open and cautiously edged her head into the gap to be greeted at once by everything that was dark and familiar: the fitted wardrobes (a gift from her brother-in-law, as was, Steven, the joiner, the spare-time joiner, with a flair for interior design), the rug Carl rescued from a Turkish bazaar on their honeymoon, the super kingsize bed Carl had insisted on (he couldn't sleep, he'd told her, if he couldn't spread out like a starfish baking in the sun) and there, the cot, on the left hand side, her side. She liked to sleep with her hand awkwardly caught between the bars, near without quite touching her son, Edmund. All was as it should be, she thought. She could hear the baby's gentle breath, the in, the gulf of silence, the out, the in, the gulf of silence, the out. The time she had spent in this doorway listening out, sometimes anxiously listening out, for the rise and fall, the hook and catch of his breath. What could -?
And then she saw it and, even as she fussily rebuked herself for missing that which was in plain sight, her stomach shrank and her eyes grew wide and the taste of already-drunk wine rose in her throat. She thought she was going to be sick. There was a bird in the cot alongside her sleeping son. She thought it was a bird. It had two feet. Or not feet. A bird didn't have feet. What did a bird have? She couldn't think. There was a bird. She could hardly get further than that. There was a bird and the bird was moving, calmly, royally, at its own speed, from one end of the cot, from her son's sleeping head, to the other, to his feet, to passed his feet, where there was only the space he would grow into - at which point the bird turned, heading back, repeating the process or gesture or whatever it was, like a guard, like a trooping guard. She was terrified. Nauseous. Her first instinct - to get her son away from the bird - was followed by a more rational restraint (because the bird could do a lot of harm in the time it took her to travel across the bedroom, from the door to the cot). She had to be careful. She was terrified and she wanted to vomit right where she was, on the carpet - but she didn't because she couldn't because she knew that she had to get closer and see if she was mistaken (could it be a toy of some kind thrown into deranged relief by the play of light and dark from the streetlight outside?). She had to be mistaken. Even as she watched the bird plod from one end of the cot to the other, even as she knew, indefatigably, that there was a bird, a strangely elongated bird, right there in the cot beside her son - even as she knew this for the fact that it was - she denied it. It couldn't be a bird. Not really. It couldn't be a bird. Even though she knew it was.
She took a step into the room and in doing so allowed a degree more light inside as the door drew wide. The bird jerked its head in her direction and then rose up, somehow, hopping rather than flapping its wings (if it had wings) - and Elaine stopped in her tracks. The bird faced her (and she knew, as she looked, that it couldn't see her, that as she looked at the bird, the bird was looking at either wall) - but somehow it knew enough to face her, in a way that she would understand. The two of them stood, obliquely facing one another (Elaine had time to wonder what kind of a bird it was, it had the manner of a quail but it was much, much bigger, an armspan, she imagined, from beak to tail feather) each taking a measure of the other. The bird lowered its head and Elaine started - she started to wonder whether the bird was harmless, irrespective of however it had made its way into her bedroom and into the cot - as the bird transformed, so it appeared, before her very eyes.
A cone of feathers rose up, cobra-like, about the bird's head, forming a tube that reached a foot or more into the space that separated them. Elaine's breath caught. She raised a hand as if to protect herself. The bird seemed to lean toward her, ever more closely, and the cone of feathers rippled or shuddered alarmingly, at her. She took a step backwards and then another step backwards and then she closed the door to the bedroom shut, its feeble click serving to soundtrack her dash along the length of the landing and into the bathroom, that other sound - the awful shivering made by the bird and its cone of feathers - trailing her like a phantasm, raising the skin on her arms and her neck and once more turning her stomach, over and about, like a hapless dinghy caught out in a storm at sea.
The bathroom offered scant comfort. Her mind and her heart were racing. She knew (she did) that she couldn't leave her son alone in there with a bird. It was insane. How did a bird -? But there wasn't time. She was frightened. She was frightened but she had to act. This was about more than herself. This was a test of her motherhood. Even here, though, in the astringent calm of her bathroom, the bird could be heard. Rippling. The awfulness of her situation gripped her, the fear. That awful rippling. It was like the imagined movement of insects crawling beneath her skin, hard and oily cockroaches competing for space in her stomach cavity. She placed her hands upon the sink and looked at the woman whose face stared out from the mirrored cabinets. What were her options? She could call Carl? He'd instructed her not to call. Not for a little while. Surely this was an emergency? It wasn't like a spider in the bath. This was an emergency. But what if he arrived, sweating and uncomfortable from (wherever it was he was and whatever it was he was doing) only to find that the bird was a product of her imagination? What if he arrived and saw the red wine and her pale, stretched features and imagined her - what? drunk? irresponsible? What if he threatened to take Edmund away from her? Edmund was all she had. She couldn't risk calling Carl. Not yet, at any rate. Not until she was sure. (Again, though, her mind swung, how sure did she have to be? She had seen the bird with her own eyes. She had seen it and so belief, whether the bird was real or not, didn't come into it. She'd either seen a bird or she was insane and was seeing birds, threatening birds, where birds were not...)
She couldn't call Carl. She was alone. She had no-one to turn to and nobody could help her. It was up to her. Whatever it was she was going to do (and, even as she made her way out of the bathroom and along the hall to the bedroom with fear, lodged, coiled, in her belly and her heart, stuttering, tap dancing in her chest, she didn't know what it was she would do, had no clue, was blank, terrified thoughtless), she knew only that it was down to her and her alone.
*
By the next morning, such fears seemed quaint, antique. Upon waking, the image of her, treading, daunted, along the hallway to the bedroom door, like a Victorian aunt holding the trembling wick of a candle in a saucer more formally reserved for tea, seemed utterly ridiculous. Last night was a world away. Waking, she was a different woman. If only Carl - Carl, who had left her in the midst of post-natal depression as a result of the fact that he had needs, needs she was not able, in her current state to address - if only Carl could see her now. With a bird nestled like a lover beneath her naked arm and many others shuffling about the bedroom and, indeed, the rest of the house (if the information she'd been given was correct), suddenly, anything and everything seemed possible.
The loss of her son, all that the birds demanded, seemed a small price to pay.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Wretched
Wretched
by Aurelio Rico Lopez III
Miserable, I am
Wandering among tombstones,
Surrounded by countless names
Of people I have
Never met.
Miserable, I am
Missing the Old Days
When men fled in my wake
And women trembled in prayer
Holding fast to their
Dear children.
Miserable, I am
Gazing at the horizon,
Night sky aglow
With towering buildings and neon billboards,
My kind replaced by new monsters
Corporate moguls,
Corrupt politicians,
Child-abusing holymen.
I do not belong here.
I should have died with
My brethren who met
Their demise at the tip
Of a hunter's wooden stake.
Gone are the hunters,
And I am destined to meet an end
Unworthy of my kind,
Watching helplessly as
My body crumbles into ash
To rejoin Mother Earth.
by Aurelio Rico Lopez III
Miserable, I am
Wandering among tombstones,
Surrounded by countless names
Of people I have
Never met.
Miserable, I am
Missing the Old Days
When men fled in my wake
And women trembled in prayer
Holding fast to their
Dear children.
Miserable, I am
Gazing at the horizon,
Night sky aglow
With towering buildings and neon billboards,
My kind replaced by new monsters
Corporate moguls,
Corrupt politicians,
Child-abusing holymen.
I do not belong here.
I should have died with
My brethren who met
Their demise at the tip
Of a hunter's wooden stake.
Gone are the hunters,
And I am destined to meet an end
Unworthy of my kind,
Watching helplessly as
My body crumbles into ash
To rejoin Mother Earth.
Monday, March 19, 2007
The Doomed Delivery
The Doomed Delivery
By Christopher Allan Death
The glossy brown UPS delivery truck chugged through the falling snow, undeterred by the biting wind and frigid ice. Roland Mansfield had a reputation among his peers as being perhaps the most reliable postal service driver around, and he wasn’t about to let some little insignificant snowstorm tarnish his record.
Peering through the foggy ice-covered windshield, Roland surveyed the bleak country surroundings. Although the tumultuous blizzard restricted eyesight beyond a hundred yards, he could still make out several farmhouses spread across the secluded Colorado countryside. Huge snowdrifts leapt upon the skeletal structures, burying them beneath forty-two inches of fine sterling white powder. Everywhere he looked was covered with snow. The rural town of Bennett had been reduced into a frozen white winter wasteland.
Secretly Roland wondered how anything could survive amid such harsh conditions. He had a hard enough time making ends meet in his downtown Denver neighborhood without having to worry about killer snowstorms and subzero cold temperatures.
Just last week the landlady had evicted Roland from his comfortable Denver flat, and his precious Denver Broncos football team had been stomped by their archrival Oakland Raiders. Now he was lost among the deserted Colorado countryside with a truckload of expensive Christmas packages. How could life get any worse?
Roland sighed and unfolded a large yellow roadmap. He had gotten lost several times before during his eclectic delivery route, but never this far from Denver … and never in the midst of some implacable snowstorm.
“Damn winter weather.”
Roland pinched the map between two greasy fingers, trying to identify his exact position among the deserted Icelandic terrain. Every time he thought that the snow flurry would dissipate, a new blast of winter fury would pelt his little delivery truck and send him careening across the road.
The only thing Roland hated more than snow was driving on an empty stomach. And right now he was combating both.
Stretching his hand over his generous flannel-covered gut, Roland could feel his stomach grumble. He had been driving ever since 6:00 AM , stopping only once for coffee and his favorite McGriddles sandwich, and now he could feel the consequence of his absent-minded eating habits.
Some people said that eating too much fast food would make him fat, but Roland didn’t care. During his teenage years he played offensive lineman for Overland High School , and excessive ingestion never hindered his academic career. Now a ripe 35 years old, he was paying for his careless youthful lifestyle.
During college, his old fraternity buddies used to demoralize Roland endlessly because of his unquenchable appetite and particular carnivorous tastes. They would joke that anything walking on four legs was prey for the overweight, under-exercised scholar. But he couldn’t argue. Beef was his favorite meal.
You are what you eat, Roland.
You are what you eat.
Roland shook his head, trying to ignore his pleading stomach. Right now he had more important matters at hand, besides trying to locate his next meal. Right now he needed to find 2301 Penrith Road , before the blizzard got any worse. But thoughts of food continued plaguing his mind until a small structure emerged from the mist ahead.
Roland eased his truck onto the shoulder. He could see a dark shanty-like structure through the pelting snowstorm. The building braced itself against the howling wind – a magnificent feat considering that Roland himself could have flattened the dismal wooden structure – and provided a welcome sight among the limitless frozen desert.
Stepping out into the biting storm, he trudged through knee-deep drifts of snow. A neon sign in the window announced that he had arrived at Carl’s Pub. He could see several figures within. They had probably become trapped inside when the blizzard hit, seeking warm shelter and a hot meal. Frankly, Roland couldn’t blame them.
“Nice to know I’m not the only person out here in this god-forsaken countryside,” he scowled, dusting off his heavy winter parka. Four glum-looking patrons watched the hefty deliveryman enter through the heavy glass door. Nobody smiled or made any movement toward him.
“Is there any chance I could find directions around here?”
“Maybe … it depends who’s asking.”
Roland glanced across the mahogany bar. A thin man suddenly appeared behind the counter, as if the wind had picked him up and thrown him across the room. He observed Roland mischievously through foggy blue eyes, and finished sponging out the inside of a dingy shot glass.
“What brings you to Bennett, stranger?”
“My name is Roland Mansfield, and I work for UPS.”
“You need directions?”
“I got lost when the blizzard started.”
“It happens every year about this time. The snow lasts for days on end, and traps everyone inside their homes. Some folks go hungry because they can’t even get into town.”
“Cold as shit out there.”
Roland smiled at the ridiculousness of his words. Even shit was warmer than the atmosphere that permeated Carl’s Pub. Cold resentment dwelt among the patrons and cut beneath his skin like razorblades. He could feel their eyes slice across his pasty complexion like butchers appraising a prize calf.
“Could you help me find 2301 Penrith Road ?”
“What did you just say?”
“ 2301 Penrith Road . Do you know where I can find it?”
The skeletal bartender grinned thinly. His bulbous eyes blinked multiple times in quick succession, and a red serpent-like tongue swept across his porcelain-white canines. The man reminded Roland of some emaciated dog.
“You’re looking for the Larson family farm.”
“Excellent. I was starting to think that I would never make any progress. So how far is the farm from here?”
“About five miles east I reckon.”
“Finally some good news … thanks for all your help.”
“Usually the Larson’s prefer a little less fat on their steaks, but I suppose one can’t be too picky in this weather.”
Roland stopped in mid-stride and turned toward the bartender. Something about the man’s tone made his blood run cold. The bartender cast a distinct languishing glance over his portly stomach.
“Excuse me?”
“You better hurry on with your delivery or else the Larson family will go hungry.”
With one final goodbye, Roland hurried out into the snow. He was glad to leave the stuffy little bar and its outlandish inhabitants behind. Even the blistering storm felt warmer than the icy stares he accumulated inside.
Hopping back into the corpulent delivery truck, he warmed his hands over the outdated economy heating system. For some reason he could not forget the canine resembling bartender or his haunting words. Something within the leering eyes and hoarse speech made his blood run cold.
Roland shook his head. He would feel much better after this miserable delivery was over and done with. Then he could mosey home and relax before a roaring fire, watching his favorite television series on HBO. Nothing could cure business-day blues like good old-fashioned television … except maybe a nice rare corn-fed sirloin steak. The very thought made his mouth water.
Unfortunately food was not his top priority at the moment, so that meant his steak-inaugurated daydreams would have to wait until later. Right now he had to locate the Larson family farm. That meant twenty more minutes of driving blindly through the blustery winter snowstorm.
Roland threw his vehicle into gear and waded through twenty inch drifts of heavy white snow. He could feel the tires spinning beneath him, but somehow the delivery truck managed to crawl back onto the main road.
After he traveled approximately two miles down the snow-swept highway, the familiar feeling of solitude began to creep back into his mind. Everything from the utter silence to the consummate boredom made the occupation of UPS deliveryman a very difficult career. And right now, Roland Mansfield was beginning to experience the consequences of his chosen profession.
Snow swept across the battered windshield. Wind whistled through the barren trees. Outside Mother Nature unleashed her full fury, throwing the entire countryside into complete chaos, but inside the cab of Roland’s little UPS truck, everything was perfectly silent. Even the steady hum of his six cylinder engine could not completely erase the utter calm.
Just as Roland was about to stop searching for the elusive Larson home, he noticed a muddy structure in the distance. Although torrents of snow interrupted his view, and thick white fog blurred his vision, he knew immediately that he had finally found 2301 Penrith Road . The mere thought sent an excited chill down his spine … confronted with the promise of a warm meal not too distant in his future.
Roland pressed down on the gas pedal with reinvigorated enthusiasm. He could almost taste the juicy steak in his mouth already, tickling his palate and filling his nostrils with the intoxicating aroma of cooked meat. Even the most ruthless winter storm could not dissuade him now.
Turning into a long snow-covered driveway, he noted the hand-made wooden mailbox and rigorously resurrected barbed-wire fence. Obviously the Larson’s were a family well equated with the hardships of country life. They were probably a proud fourth generation farming family, like Roland had read about in the Denver Post. He wouldn’t be surprised if they churned their own butter and slaughtered their own meat.
The latter thought made Roland wriggle uncomfortably. Something about the carnivorous bartender’s words made him extremely uneasy. What had he mentioned about the Larson’s; something about preferring a little less fat on their beef? For some reason Roland couldn’t think straight anymore. Maybe the absolute isolation was beginning to play with his imagination.
He shook off any unpleasant thoughts and tucked the Larson’s package under his arm. The faster he delivered this package, the faster he could get home and eat.
Romping through the snow once more, Roland paused briefly before house 2301. Through the large sectioned windows he could see a strange dim-lit interior. The dining room was sparsely populated, furnished with only a tall wooden table and several hand-crafted chairs surrounding. In the corner hung some variety of dismembered elk, expertly skinned and all its innards exposed.
Roland shivered momentarily and stepped back.
That was strange.
For some reason several delivery trucks surrounded the house, half covered with snow. Although some shown obvious signs of age (complete with rust and broken windshields), others appeared quite new. He even noticed one particular pizza
delivery car buried beneath an exceptionally large snowdrift.
Roland shrugged to himself with a slight chuckle. Perhaps he wasn’t the only deliveryman trapped amid this killer snowstorm. Still, the thought was not altogether comforting. The sight of rusted metal jutting through the snowy ocean at odd angles created an ill-omen for the delivery man.
Maybe if Roland hadn’t been so desperate to escape the pelting ice and torrential wind, he wouldn’t have knocked on the old wooden door. Maybe if he wouldn’t have spotted Carl’s Pub beside the road, he would have turned back toward town. But he did knock on the door … and within the swirling snowstorm he could hear his heart skip a beat.
Before Roland could bat an eyebrow the door swung wide open, revealing a huge bear-like man clad in threadbare overalls. His huge barrel chest rippled beneath the flimsy denim straps, and almost immediately Roland knew that he shouldn’t have come.
The man smiled, brushing long strands of straw-blond hair from his eyes. Every facet of his figure spoke about his difficult lifestyle – everything from his pronounced jaw down to his hairy lumberjack forearms. But within his cold blue eyes, Roland saw a dormant red flame.
“Why hello Mr. Delivery man. For a while we thought you wasn’t comin’. The family will be mighty pleased.”
Roland shrank back from the huge man. His voice was rough and cruel, bubbling up from his abdomen and exploding from his lips. It reverberated throughout the house with frightening weight.
“This is one wicked storm,” Roland croaked feebly.
“Oh yeah … the storms hit this time every year. Lucky you managed to get here though, else me an’ the family might starve.”
“Well then I guess this is your lucky day.”
“Why don’t ya come on in an’ meet the family.”
“I really can’t. I need to get back to Denver .”
“Well isn’t that a shame. Dinner’s almost ready.”
The big man grinned even wider, and his hands curled into tight fists. Something about his tone of voice told Roland that he better accept the man’s invitation.
“I suppose I can come in for a second.”
“Why that’s real kind of you.”
Roland edged past the big man and peered into the humble cottage. Suddenly the scent of decaying meat and human feces entered his nostrils. The aroma nearly made him choke.
“Hey family, our guest is here for dinner!” the big man shouted, flexing his grossly overdeveloped biceps. Despite his inch-tall work boots, he still stood a foot taller than Roland. And he probably weighed 250 pounds of pure muscle.
Suddenly a haggard-looking lady appeared around the corner. She eyed Roland through glazed brown eyes, and adjusted the ragged mop of gray hair that hung freely about her emaciated shoulders. Roland noticed the same feral flame that he had seen several times before.
“Well then, bring him inside Rodney! The children are hungry, and I don’t want to keep our guest waiting.”
Roland tried to duck outside the door, but the big man named Rodney was too fast. He seized Roland’s arm and marched him toward the kitchen.
Despite all his strength, Roland could not break free. The man’s grip was like iron, and every time he struggled it became even tighter. Now his adrenalin pumped at two hundred miles an hour. Every bone in his body was tensed and ready for action. Roland’s primitive survival instincts had just kicked into fifth gear.
Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Larson toiled over a large boiling pot. The water bubbled furiously, muddy and hinted with the scent of several spices. At the table three strapping teenage farm boys eyed the delivery man hungrily. Each one looked exactly like his father: dirty blond hair and heavily pronounced features. Not to mention muscles the size of Roland’s head.
“What’s for dinner?” Roland asked hopefully.
“Stew,” Mrs. Larson answered simply.
“It smells awfully good.”
“Why thank you. The main ingredient hasn’t even been added yet.”
“And what would that be?”
“Why, human meat of course.”
Roland’s expectant smile turned into a dismal frown.
“Ex … excuse me?”
“I would invite you to have a meal, but our last specimen ran out about a week ago,” she said, waving her dirty spatula toward the corner.
That was when Roland noticed that the carcass of beef was not beef at all. It was a human being, and now Roland could see the facial features clearly. Two sunken blue eyes stared emptily from the sallow face, complimented nicely by his gaping mouth – frozen in a scream of terror.
“The pizza boy didn’t have much meat on him anyway.”
The three teenage boys laughed heartily.
Roland felt his knees begin to quiver. He was vaguely aware of some vile liquid in his mouth, but he didn’t notice until several minutes later that he had actually vomited on himself.
While the beastly woman edged forward, meat cleaver in hand, Roland was only aware of one thought running through his head. It ran over and over and over and over without end.
You are what you eat, Roland.
You are what you eat.
By Christopher Allan Death
The glossy brown UPS delivery truck chugged through the falling snow, undeterred by the biting wind and frigid ice. Roland Mansfield had a reputation among his peers as being perhaps the most reliable postal service driver around, and he wasn’t about to let some little insignificant snowstorm tarnish his record.
Peering through the foggy ice-covered windshield, Roland surveyed the bleak country surroundings. Although the tumultuous blizzard restricted eyesight beyond a hundred yards, he could still make out several farmhouses spread across the secluded Colorado countryside. Huge snowdrifts leapt upon the skeletal structures, burying them beneath forty-two inches of fine sterling white powder. Everywhere he looked was covered with snow. The rural town of Bennett had been reduced into a frozen white winter wasteland.
Secretly Roland wondered how anything could survive amid such harsh conditions. He had a hard enough time making ends meet in his downtown Denver neighborhood without having to worry about killer snowstorms and subzero cold temperatures.
Just last week the landlady had evicted Roland from his comfortable Denver flat, and his precious Denver Broncos football team had been stomped by their archrival Oakland Raiders. Now he was lost among the deserted Colorado countryside with a truckload of expensive Christmas packages. How could life get any worse?
Roland sighed and unfolded a large yellow roadmap. He had gotten lost several times before during his eclectic delivery route, but never this far from Denver … and never in the midst of some implacable snowstorm.
“Damn winter weather.”
Roland pinched the map between two greasy fingers, trying to identify his exact position among the deserted Icelandic terrain. Every time he thought that the snow flurry would dissipate, a new blast of winter fury would pelt his little delivery truck and send him careening across the road.
The only thing Roland hated more than snow was driving on an empty stomach. And right now he was combating both.
Stretching his hand over his generous flannel-covered gut, Roland could feel his stomach grumble. He had been driving ever since 6:00 AM , stopping only once for coffee and his favorite McGriddles sandwich, and now he could feel the consequence of his absent-minded eating habits.
Some people said that eating too much fast food would make him fat, but Roland didn’t care. During his teenage years he played offensive lineman for Overland High School , and excessive ingestion never hindered his academic career. Now a ripe 35 years old, he was paying for his careless youthful lifestyle.
During college, his old fraternity buddies used to demoralize Roland endlessly because of his unquenchable appetite and particular carnivorous tastes. They would joke that anything walking on four legs was prey for the overweight, under-exercised scholar. But he couldn’t argue. Beef was his favorite meal.
You are what you eat, Roland.
You are what you eat.
Roland shook his head, trying to ignore his pleading stomach. Right now he had more important matters at hand, besides trying to locate his next meal. Right now he needed to find 2301 Penrith Road , before the blizzard got any worse. But thoughts of food continued plaguing his mind until a small structure emerged from the mist ahead.
Roland eased his truck onto the shoulder. He could see a dark shanty-like structure through the pelting snowstorm. The building braced itself against the howling wind – a magnificent feat considering that Roland himself could have flattened the dismal wooden structure – and provided a welcome sight among the limitless frozen desert.
Stepping out into the biting storm, he trudged through knee-deep drifts of snow. A neon sign in the window announced that he had arrived at Carl’s Pub. He could see several figures within. They had probably become trapped inside when the blizzard hit, seeking warm shelter and a hot meal. Frankly, Roland couldn’t blame them.
“Nice to know I’m not the only person out here in this god-forsaken countryside,” he scowled, dusting off his heavy winter parka. Four glum-looking patrons watched the hefty deliveryman enter through the heavy glass door. Nobody smiled or made any movement toward him.
“Is there any chance I could find directions around here?”
“Maybe … it depends who’s asking.”
Roland glanced across the mahogany bar. A thin man suddenly appeared behind the counter, as if the wind had picked him up and thrown him across the room. He observed Roland mischievously through foggy blue eyes, and finished sponging out the inside of a dingy shot glass.
“What brings you to Bennett, stranger?”
“My name is Roland Mansfield, and I work for UPS.”
“You need directions?”
“I got lost when the blizzard started.”
“It happens every year about this time. The snow lasts for days on end, and traps everyone inside their homes. Some folks go hungry because they can’t even get into town.”
“Cold as shit out there.”
Roland smiled at the ridiculousness of his words. Even shit was warmer than the atmosphere that permeated Carl’s Pub. Cold resentment dwelt among the patrons and cut beneath his skin like razorblades. He could feel their eyes slice across his pasty complexion like butchers appraising a prize calf.
“Could you help me find 2301 Penrith Road ?”
“What did you just say?”
“ 2301 Penrith Road . Do you know where I can find it?”
The skeletal bartender grinned thinly. His bulbous eyes blinked multiple times in quick succession, and a red serpent-like tongue swept across his porcelain-white canines. The man reminded Roland of some emaciated dog.
“You’re looking for the Larson family farm.”
“Excellent. I was starting to think that I would never make any progress. So how far is the farm from here?”
“About five miles east I reckon.”
“Finally some good news … thanks for all your help.”
“Usually the Larson’s prefer a little less fat on their steaks, but I suppose one can’t be too picky in this weather.”
Roland stopped in mid-stride and turned toward the bartender. Something about the man’s tone made his blood run cold. The bartender cast a distinct languishing glance over his portly stomach.
“Excuse me?”
“You better hurry on with your delivery or else the Larson family will go hungry.”
With one final goodbye, Roland hurried out into the snow. He was glad to leave the stuffy little bar and its outlandish inhabitants behind. Even the blistering storm felt warmer than the icy stares he accumulated inside.
Hopping back into the corpulent delivery truck, he warmed his hands over the outdated economy heating system. For some reason he could not forget the canine resembling bartender or his haunting words. Something within the leering eyes and hoarse speech made his blood run cold.
Roland shook his head. He would feel much better after this miserable delivery was over and done with. Then he could mosey home and relax before a roaring fire, watching his favorite television series on HBO. Nothing could cure business-day blues like good old-fashioned television … except maybe a nice rare corn-fed sirloin steak. The very thought made his mouth water.
Unfortunately food was not his top priority at the moment, so that meant his steak-inaugurated daydreams would have to wait until later. Right now he had to locate the Larson family farm. That meant twenty more minutes of driving blindly through the blustery winter snowstorm.
Roland threw his vehicle into gear and waded through twenty inch drifts of heavy white snow. He could feel the tires spinning beneath him, but somehow the delivery truck managed to crawl back onto the main road.
After he traveled approximately two miles down the snow-swept highway, the familiar feeling of solitude began to creep back into his mind. Everything from the utter silence to the consummate boredom made the occupation of UPS deliveryman a very difficult career. And right now, Roland Mansfield was beginning to experience the consequences of his chosen profession.
Snow swept across the battered windshield. Wind whistled through the barren trees. Outside Mother Nature unleashed her full fury, throwing the entire countryside into complete chaos, but inside the cab of Roland’s little UPS truck, everything was perfectly silent. Even the steady hum of his six cylinder engine could not completely erase the utter calm.
Just as Roland was about to stop searching for the elusive Larson home, he noticed a muddy structure in the distance. Although torrents of snow interrupted his view, and thick white fog blurred his vision, he knew immediately that he had finally found 2301 Penrith Road . The mere thought sent an excited chill down his spine … confronted with the promise of a warm meal not too distant in his future.
Roland pressed down on the gas pedal with reinvigorated enthusiasm. He could almost taste the juicy steak in his mouth already, tickling his palate and filling his nostrils with the intoxicating aroma of cooked meat. Even the most ruthless winter storm could not dissuade him now.
Turning into a long snow-covered driveway, he noted the hand-made wooden mailbox and rigorously resurrected barbed-wire fence. Obviously the Larson’s were a family well equated with the hardships of country life. They were probably a proud fourth generation farming family, like Roland had read about in the Denver Post. He wouldn’t be surprised if they churned their own butter and slaughtered their own meat.
The latter thought made Roland wriggle uncomfortably. Something about the carnivorous bartender’s words made him extremely uneasy. What had he mentioned about the Larson’s; something about preferring a little less fat on their beef? For some reason Roland couldn’t think straight anymore. Maybe the absolute isolation was beginning to play with his imagination.
He shook off any unpleasant thoughts and tucked the Larson’s package under his arm. The faster he delivered this package, the faster he could get home and eat.
Romping through the snow once more, Roland paused briefly before house 2301. Through the large sectioned windows he could see a strange dim-lit interior. The dining room was sparsely populated, furnished with only a tall wooden table and several hand-crafted chairs surrounding. In the corner hung some variety of dismembered elk, expertly skinned and all its innards exposed.
Roland shivered momentarily and stepped back.
That was strange.
For some reason several delivery trucks surrounded the house, half covered with snow. Although some shown obvious signs of age (complete with rust and broken windshields), others appeared quite new. He even noticed one particular pizza
delivery car buried beneath an exceptionally large snowdrift.
Roland shrugged to himself with a slight chuckle. Perhaps he wasn’t the only deliveryman trapped amid this killer snowstorm. Still, the thought was not altogether comforting. The sight of rusted metal jutting through the snowy ocean at odd angles created an ill-omen for the delivery man.
Maybe if Roland hadn’t been so desperate to escape the pelting ice and torrential wind, he wouldn’t have knocked on the old wooden door. Maybe if he wouldn’t have spotted Carl’s Pub beside the road, he would have turned back toward town. But he did knock on the door … and within the swirling snowstorm he could hear his heart skip a beat.
Before Roland could bat an eyebrow the door swung wide open, revealing a huge bear-like man clad in threadbare overalls. His huge barrel chest rippled beneath the flimsy denim straps, and almost immediately Roland knew that he shouldn’t have come.
The man smiled, brushing long strands of straw-blond hair from his eyes. Every facet of his figure spoke about his difficult lifestyle – everything from his pronounced jaw down to his hairy lumberjack forearms. But within his cold blue eyes, Roland saw a dormant red flame.
“Why hello Mr. Delivery man. For a while we thought you wasn’t comin’. The family will be mighty pleased.”
Roland shrank back from the huge man. His voice was rough and cruel, bubbling up from his abdomen and exploding from his lips. It reverberated throughout the house with frightening weight.
“This is one wicked storm,” Roland croaked feebly.
“Oh yeah … the storms hit this time every year. Lucky you managed to get here though, else me an’ the family might starve.”
“Well then I guess this is your lucky day.”
“Why don’t ya come on in an’ meet the family.”
“I really can’t. I need to get back to Denver .”
“Well isn’t that a shame. Dinner’s almost ready.”
The big man grinned even wider, and his hands curled into tight fists. Something about his tone of voice told Roland that he better accept the man’s invitation.
“I suppose I can come in for a second.”
“Why that’s real kind of you.”
Roland edged past the big man and peered into the humble cottage. Suddenly the scent of decaying meat and human feces entered his nostrils. The aroma nearly made him choke.
“Hey family, our guest is here for dinner!” the big man shouted, flexing his grossly overdeveloped biceps. Despite his inch-tall work boots, he still stood a foot taller than Roland. And he probably weighed 250 pounds of pure muscle.
Suddenly a haggard-looking lady appeared around the corner. She eyed Roland through glazed brown eyes, and adjusted the ragged mop of gray hair that hung freely about her emaciated shoulders. Roland noticed the same feral flame that he had seen several times before.
“Well then, bring him inside Rodney! The children are hungry, and I don’t want to keep our guest waiting.”
Roland tried to duck outside the door, but the big man named Rodney was too fast. He seized Roland’s arm and marched him toward the kitchen.
Despite all his strength, Roland could not break free. The man’s grip was like iron, and every time he struggled it became even tighter. Now his adrenalin pumped at two hundred miles an hour. Every bone in his body was tensed and ready for action. Roland’s primitive survival instincts had just kicked into fifth gear.
Inside the kitchen, Mrs. Larson toiled over a large boiling pot. The water bubbled furiously, muddy and hinted with the scent of several spices. At the table three strapping teenage farm boys eyed the delivery man hungrily. Each one looked exactly like his father: dirty blond hair and heavily pronounced features. Not to mention muscles the size of Roland’s head.
“What’s for dinner?” Roland asked hopefully.
“Stew,” Mrs. Larson answered simply.
“It smells awfully good.”
“Why thank you. The main ingredient hasn’t even been added yet.”
“And what would that be?”
“Why, human meat of course.”
Roland’s expectant smile turned into a dismal frown.
“Ex … excuse me?”
“I would invite you to have a meal, but our last specimen ran out about a week ago,” she said, waving her dirty spatula toward the corner.
That was when Roland noticed that the carcass of beef was not beef at all. It was a human being, and now Roland could see the facial features clearly. Two sunken blue eyes stared emptily from the sallow face, complimented nicely by his gaping mouth – frozen in a scream of terror.
“The pizza boy didn’t have much meat on him anyway.”
The three teenage boys laughed heartily.
Roland felt his knees begin to quiver. He was vaguely aware of some vile liquid in his mouth, but he didn’t notice until several minutes later that he had actually vomited on himself.
While the beastly woman edged forward, meat cleaver in hand, Roland was only aware of one thought running through his head. It ran over and over and over and over without end.
You are what you eat, Roland.
You are what you eat.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
House For Sale
HOUSE FOR SALE
By
Harold Wilson
Dearest Erica,
There must've been a storm last night, because I heard a window cover banging against the house all night. I'll fix it when I get back from town. Other than that, the house is in great shape. Much better than the picture, and it smells different out here. You can’t tell that from a picture. I'm at the post office as I write this, and looking over Main Street and all the shops they have here. Truly, the twentieth century didn't make it here, and if it did, they probably shot it. The biggest store here is the Taxidermist. I checked out the school for Kenny and it looks quaint. It looks better constructed than the bank, so that should make you feel better, and the postal clerk I spoke to, Dave, said their school is tops in the county. The people here aren’t stereotypical rednecks. They’re extremely laid back, and I think we could use some laid back feelings for a while, how about you? We might want to consider buying another house to rent out. I saw for sale signs on almost every house on our street. One last thing, I bought a swing for the porch, so we can sit outside and watch the stars on those cool, starry nights. I can't wait until you get here. Love Henry
Dearest Erica,
The house is ready to move in. I spent all last night cleaning, because I couldn't sleep anyway. I forgot to fix that window cover, and it banged away again last night. I would've gone out and fixed it, but it was raining. Not to mention the house is surrounded by woods. The locals fill me with warnings about bears, so I thought I'd play it safe and wait until morning. Go ahead and call me a coward. We'll see how courageous you are when the night falls in this part of town. Turning in now, but I will be dreaming of you. Love Henry.
P.S. Tell Kenny I miss him too!
Dearest Erica,
I got good news and bad news. The good news is that I worked out a sweet deal for another house for sale on our block. I talked the guy down to twelve thousand. Apparently the owner was so desperate to sell, that he called back in less than an hour to accept my offer. I’m having dinner tonight with our new real estate agent, Terry, and he’ll give me the details on how much profit we might make. Terry is getting on in years (time for a life insurance policy, right babe?). The bad news deals with the mysterious banging I keep hearing. I checked around the house and discovered --- we don’t have window covers. So what’s causing the banging? My guess is that a rodent of some sort made a home in our attic. It’s probably a raccoon or a squirrel, yet when I checked the attic I couldn’t find a single dropping, claw mark, or anything. I tried calling you this morning, but I guess you were at your mother’s. Our phone gets installed next Monday, and the cable guy just showed up. I have been here almost a week with no cable. It’s a miracle I haven’t gone bonkers. I’m still bonkers for you my love, and I’m counting the days until we’re together again. Love Henry.
Dearest Erica,
I’ve tried calling you for the past two days, but I received a busy signal every time I tried. So, without being able to consult you, I bought a dog. Now I know you don’t like dogs, especially since Kenny got bit by that Dalmatian last year, but the former owner assures me it’s really good with kids. I named her Blondie, and she is a mixed breed, but mainly Golden Retriever. The first night she woke me up at 3 A.M. barking at something on the front porch. While trying to calm Blondie down, I heard a strange sliding noise out on the porch. It sounded like something dragging its feet, right outside the front door. By the time I ran outside with a broom and a kitchen knife (the only weapons at my disposal) there was nothing out there. Blondie stood by the door whimpering, and refused to step outside. I sure can pick the heroic pets, huh? The next night Blondie woke me again with a bark so shrill, that it made the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. When I got downstairs, Blondie was barking fiercely at the door, while backing away, like she expected something to bust through at any moment. I could see shadows moving through the curtains, but by the time I built up the courage to investigate, whatever it was left, leaving no trace. I think I’ll buy a gun tomorrow or maybe a more courageous dog. Maybe I’m just getting cabin fever being out here alone. I’m gonna call all day tomorrow until I get a hold of you. I miss you and love you. Love Henry.
Dear Erica,
This letter should reach you a little later than the others. I'm waiting for the postman to drive by, because I can't drive to the post office. I awoke this morning to four flat tires. That's right! Four flat tires! I didn't check, but I bet they got the spare in the trunk too. I know what you're thinking already, but honestly my love; I haven't made any enemies in town. I haven't pushed insurance on anyone who didn't ask me about it first. When I sold a few policies, I gave good deals. I had dinner with Terry, but I covered the tip, and I left more than 20 percent. Honestly babe, I've made nice with everybody I've met. Maybe it was some punk kids out on a vandalizing kick. Let's hope they got it out of their system. Either way, I'm definitely buying a gun when or if I get back to town. I'll try to call you as soon as I get to a phone, or whenever our phone gets hooked up, whichever comes first. Love and miss you both, Henry.
Dear Erica,
If it wasn't for bad luck--- you know the rest. Nobody showed up from the garage yesterday, but the postman, Dave, came back to tell me that they would be out here first thing in the morning. I don't like being trapped here. Wait! The guy from the auto garage just pulled up. Hold on!
I've got wheels again! I'm at the post office now as I finish this letter. Hopefully it will make it to you before the other one, or maybe you'll get them both on the same day. I'm buying a shotgun. Things got pretty hairy last night, and I'm not too confident in the defense capabilities of our new canine friend. The porch visitor came back last night, and Blondie barked her head off. When I got downstairs and opened the door, she cowered in a corner and peed on the floor. When the mysterious banging starts up (it has been banging much more lately), Blondie hides under my bed and whimpers. I still have no idea what’s causing the banging from the attic. I crawled up there with a flashlight, but it stopped as I got close. The minute my head hit the pillow, the banging started again. I've taken to sleeping with the radio on, so I can drown out the beautiful peace and quiet of the country that we hear so much about. I tried calling the house, but an operator told me our number had been disconnected. I guess I told the Phone Company the wrong cutoff day. My bad! Less than a week until you can share my misery, but once you get here I feel the misery will melt away. I miss you and Kenny. Love Henry.
Dear Erica,
Don't come here! This whole hillside is cursed! You know I don't believe in ghosts or any of that crap, but something very strange keeps happening here. I don't believe in the supernatural, but I believe my own eyes. And ears! That banging reached an all time high last night and this time when I went to investigate, I saw... something. It's hard to describe... It looked fluorescent, or neon, like white and blue and the only word that came to my head---ghost! You know I don't believe in ghosts, but it appears our new home is infested with them. And they appear to be overcoming their initial shyness. As I write this (it’s just past noon) the banging in the attic has started up again. It never banged in the day until now, and the banging sounds louder and more violent than ever. I can see my breath. That’s how cold it is in this house right now. The temperature outside is near 90, but it feels like an ice -box inside. I turned the air conditioner off two days ago. I turned it off, because the last two nights I woke up shivering, and my blankets were off the bed. Last night, I found them downstairs stuffed into the trashcan. Blondie ran away! When I returned home yesterday, she blasted out the front door as I opened it. She never looked back. And that’s what we're gonna do. Run away and never look back. I don't care if we have to stay at your mother's for a year until we can sell this place, but we can't stay here. I'm going into town to finalize some things, and then I'm heading back here, packing up my things, and heading to you my love.
Love Henry.
Dearest Mother,
Kenny and I have just arrived to our new dream home. Kenny loves the porch swing. I think Henry put it up, because I don't remember seeing it in the picture. Henry's car is here, but he isn't. All his tires are flat, so I assume he caught a ride into town with someone. I hope he isn't angry with me for taking Kenny to see my sister in Ohio for a week, but I don't think he remembers me telling him about it. You know how scatterbrained Henry can be sometimes. He must have the thermostat down to zero, because it's freezing in this house. I'm gonna cut this short, so I can fix supper for my little one and my husband when he gets back. I hear something banging, maybe that’s him now.
Love your daughter, Erica.
The end
By
Harold Wilson
Dearest Erica,
There must've been a storm last night, because I heard a window cover banging against the house all night. I'll fix it when I get back from town. Other than that, the house is in great shape. Much better than the picture, and it smells different out here. You can’t tell that from a picture. I'm at the post office as I write this, and looking over Main Street and all the shops they have here. Truly, the twentieth century didn't make it here, and if it did, they probably shot it. The biggest store here is the Taxidermist. I checked out the school for Kenny and it looks quaint. It looks better constructed than the bank, so that should make you feel better, and the postal clerk I spoke to, Dave, said their school is tops in the county. The people here aren’t stereotypical rednecks. They’re extremely laid back, and I think we could use some laid back feelings for a while, how about you? We might want to consider buying another house to rent out. I saw for sale signs on almost every house on our street. One last thing, I bought a swing for the porch, so we can sit outside and watch the stars on those cool, starry nights. I can't wait until you get here. Love Henry
Dearest Erica,
The house is ready to move in. I spent all last night cleaning, because I couldn't sleep anyway. I forgot to fix that window cover, and it banged away again last night. I would've gone out and fixed it, but it was raining. Not to mention the house is surrounded by woods. The locals fill me with warnings about bears, so I thought I'd play it safe and wait until morning. Go ahead and call me a coward. We'll see how courageous you are when the night falls in this part of town. Turning in now, but I will be dreaming of you. Love Henry.
P.S. Tell Kenny I miss him too!
Dearest Erica,
I got good news and bad news. The good news is that I worked out a sweet deal for another house for sale on our block. I talked the guy down to twelve thousand. Apparently the owner was so desperate to sell, that he called back in less than an hour to accept my offer. I’m having dinner tonight with our new real estate agent, Terry, and he’ll give me the details on how much profit we might make. Terry is getting on in years (time for a life insurance policy, right babe?). The bad news deals with the mysterious banging I keep hearing. I checked around the house and discovered --- we don’t have window covers. So what’s causing the banging? My guess is that a rodent of some sort made a home in our attic. It’s probably a raccoon or a squirrel, yet when I checked the attic I couldn’t find a single dropping, claw mark, or anything. I tried calling you this morning, but I guess you were at your mother’s. Our phone gets installed next Monday, and the cable guy just showed up. I have been here almost a week with no cable. It’s a miracle I haven’t gone bonkers. I’m still bonkers for you my love, and I’m counting the days until we’re together again. Love Henry.
Dearest Erica,
I’ve tried calling you for the past two days, but I received a busy signal every time I tried. So, without being able to consult you, I bought a dog. Now I know you don’t like dogs, especially since Kenny got bit by that Dalmatian last year, but the former owner assures me it’s really good with kids. I named her Blondie, and she is a mixed breed, but mainly Golden Retriever. The first night she woke me up at 3 A.M. barking at something on the front porch. While trying to calm Blondie down, I heard a strange sliding noise out on the porch. It sounded like something dragging its feet, right outside the front door. By the time I ran outside with a broom and a kitchen knife (the only weapons at my disposal) there was nothing out there. Blondie stood by the door whimpering, and refused to step outside. I sure can pick the heroic pets, huh? The next night Blondie woke me again with a bark so shrill, that it made the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. When I got downstairs, Blondie was barking fiercely at the door, while backing away, like she expected something to bust through at any moment. I could see shadows moving through the curtains, but by the time I built up the courage to investigate, whatever it was left, leaving no trace. I think I’ll buy a gun tomorrow or maybe a more courageous dog. Maybe I’m just getting cabin fever being out here alone. I’m gonna call all day tomorrow until I get a hold of you. I miss you and love you. Love Henry.
Dear Erica,
This letter should reach you a little later than the others. I'm waiting for the postman to drive by, because I can't drive to the post office. I awoke this morning to four flat tires. That's right! Four flat tires! I didn't check, but I bet they got the spare in the trunk too. I know what you're thinking already, but honestly my love; I haven't made any enemies in town. I haven't pushed insurance on anyone who didn't ask me about it first. When I sold a few policies, I gave good deals. I had dinner with Terry, but I covered the tip, and I left more than 20 percent. Honestly babe, I've made nice with everybody I've met. Maybe it was some punk kids out on a vandalizing kick. Let's hope they got it out of their system. Either way, I'm definitely buying a gun when or if I get back to town. I'll try to call you as soon as I get to a phone, or whenever our phone gets hooked up, whichever comes first. Love and miss you both, Henry.
Dear Erica,
If it wasn't for bad luck--- you know the rest. Nobody showed up from the garage yesterday, but the postman, Dave, came back to tell me that they would be out here first thing in the morning. I don't like being trapped here. Wait! The guy from the auto garage just pulled up. Hold on!
I've got wheels again! I'm at the post office now as I finish this letter. Hopefully it will make it to you before the other one, or maybe you'll get them both on the same day. I'm buying a shotgun. Things got pretty hairy last night, and I'm not too confident in the defense capabilities of our new canine friend. The porch visitor came back last night, and Blondie barked her head off. When I got downstairs and opened the door, she cowered in a corner and peed on the floor. When the mysterious banging starts up (it has been banging much more lately), Blondie hides under my bed and whimpers. I still have no idea what’s causing the banging from the attic. I crawled up there with a flashlight, but it stopped as I got close. The minute my head hit the pillow, the banging started again. I've taken to sleeping with the radio on, so I can drown out the beautiful peace and quiet of the country that we hear so much about. I tried calling the house, but an operator told me our number had been disconnected. I guess I told the Phone Company the wrong cutoff day. My bad! Less than a week until you can share my misery, but once you get here I feel the misery will melt away. I miss you and Kenny. Love Henry.
Dear Erica,
Don't come here! This whole hillside is cursed! You know I don't believe in ghosts or any of that crap, but something very strange keeps happening here. I don't believe in the supernatural, but I believe my own eyes. And ears! That banging reached an all time high last night and this time when I went to investigate, I saw... something. It's hard to describe... It looked fluorescent, or neon, like white and blue and the only word that came to my head---ghost! You know I don't believe in ghosts, but it appears our new home is infested with them. And they appear to be overcoming their initial shyness. As I write this (it’s just past noon) the banging in the attic has started up again. It never banged in the day until now, and the banging sounds louder and more violent than ever. I can see my breath. That’s how cold it is in this house right now. The temperature outside is near 90, but it feels like an ice -box inside. I turned the air conditioner off two days ago. I turned it off, because the last two nights I woke up shivering, and my blankets were off the bed. Last night, I found them downstairs stuffed into the trashcan. Blondie ran away! When I returned home yesterday, she blasted out the front door as I opened it. She never looked back. And that’s what we're gonna do. Run away and never look back. I don't care if we have to stay at your mother's for a year until we can sell this place, but we can't stay here. I'm going into town to finalize some things, and then I'm heading back here, packing up my things, and heading to you my love.
Love Henry.
Dearest Mother,
Kenny and I have just arrived to our new dream home. Kenny loves the porch swing. I think Henry put it up, because I don't remember seeing it in the picture. Henry's car is here, but he isn't. All his tires are flat, so I assume he caught a ride into town with someone. I hope he isn't angry with me for taking Kenny to see my sister in Ohio for a week, but I don't think he remembers me telling him about it. You know how scatterbrained Henry can be sometimes. He must have the thermostat down to zero, because it's freezing in this house. I'm gonna cut this short, so I can fix supper for my little one and my husband when he gets back. I hear something banging, maybe that’s him now.
Love your daughter, Erica.
The end
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
