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Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Predestined Accountablility

Check it. Last night was legendary. I don’t normally go for cougars but… I got the bitch hammered and went back to her place. She was a God nut and the old school wrathful pictures were not in line with what we did. I mean, I knew going in that she was crazy but I only knew half of it. The things she did blew my mind hole.
Afterwards she starts chanting Latin at this vengeful Jesus mural. I swear she smiled at me there at the end. Anyway, my vision goes all blurry and I woke up alone. Thank Poseidon, right?
I rolled out of bed, stumbled, and smacked my head on the floor, figured it’s residual tequila body. I mean, it was a short fall so I must have been on my knees. My legs failed me so I crawled to the wall where there’s a mirror to find, I’m a damn baby. That don’t make sense.
Then I hear the sweet voice of my mother dancing through the trailer. I smile, watching a runner of drool fall onto the floor. Mom comes and scoops me up. She starts cooing at my bump. She’s telling me I’m her good boy for not crying, what a big man I am. I snuggle into her.
“Mom, check it. You ain’t gotta worry. Despite the meth you did while pregnant, despite the neglect and the abusive boyfriends I’m successful. I have a nice car, big house, stable seven figure job. Even you overdosing when I was thirteen and leaving me your thug brother didn’t mess me up. I don’t hold it against you. I just wish you didn’t.
“That’s not how a man measures success. That’s what one of my ‘uncles’ taught me. Last night proves I can do anything. A couple years back I crashed this wedding. The hottest bridesmaid was the high school aged sister. I ruined her for boys her age. A year later I tapped the bride. Despite them hating me and crying to anyone that would listen I hit their mom last night.”
I try to say all that to the one woman I ever had true feelings for as I drink in the sweat tainted warmth of her loose skinned body. What comes out sounds like me shitting from my mouth. I want to cry but I can’t with mom holding me. Eventually she lays me back in the crib and puts the side up this time.
I’m in that prison when the ten year old girl climbs through the window. Fear coils in my tiny belly. Mom didn’t understand my words but it seems this girl did.
“Sometimes a miracle requires sacrifice. My daughters will never know the pain you are so proud of inflicting.”
The pigtailed psycho pulls a butcher knife, bigger than her, from behind her back. With a clumsy hand she carved me a second scream.


“So that’s how I got here Pete. Can I meet Jesus? My lawn needs work.”







#shortstory #dark #horror #magic #religion #writer #author

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

Dark Wicked Night


I never saw the man behind me. Sudden looseness around my wrists and ankles told me I had been untied. Rustling thundered in my ears. Rough burlap clawed at my face. The hood was removed. Stale air replaced stagnant, dim light after total darkness blinded me. There was a click as whoever did the deed exited.
Blinking fiercely I took in my surroundings. Small room, light grey walls, filled with the soft but constant sound of dripping water. It had the purgatory smell hospital rooms. Between me and them was a square table. Upon it were a Birmingham Screwdriver and simple but ancient wooden cup filled with water.
They sat across the table. A sharp dressed man focusing his malevolent gaze over my left shoulder. He danced a silver coin as old as the cup across his knuckles. Sitting on his lap was a garden gnome holding up a sign. It read, ‘Make your choice. Prove you are ready.’
I closed my eyes and thought for a moment. I did not understand the objects or the test. I answered on instinct, opening my eyes.
“Both.”
The sign now read, ‘He did it again. All yours.’ I swear it smiled before vanishing. Then the man look at me. I really wish whatever was over my shoulder had stayed interesting.
“Typical,” He seethed.
“Just a minute…”
“Shut up.” He never raised his voice. “All your life you claimed to be a democrat. But you ran for congress as a liberal republican. It worked but it is the same choice you always make. You straddle the line and deny who you are.”
“Just let me go. I can make it worth your while.” I was whining, but that was okay.
“You are a cliché, so let me speak your language. My give a damn is broken, and I am all out of fucks to give. The only price you can pay is remembering to pick a side. Safely in the middle is not a place of sanctuary.”
He picked up the golden hammer and went to work like a mafia dentist. My jaw shattered, then my ribs. Pain bloomed through me. The jerk began to whistle a catchy tune. I listened to the drumbeat of my pulse racing in my ears, counterpointed by pounding crack of my thigh bones, then my hands, then my feet. When he finally went to work on my skull I was sure I was dead. Reality began to fade into oblivion. I heard him speak.
“Both.”
A drop of water from the cup and I was whole again. Pain still echoed through my body. It was a phantom but my nerves did not get the memo. Then he turned the hammer around.
Using the claw he flayed my flesh. I was witness to every wet, ripping sound. Fire coursed along exposed muscles. My ears were treated to the soft sound of rain on the roof, my blood pattering onto the floor. The scent of iron filled my nose.
My vocal chords ruptured before my voice gave out. Then, like a priest giving a benediction he sprinkled me with the water and began again.
He was a creative man. I was missing for three days that felt like my elected term. When he was done he took both cup and hammer. Still whistling he departed without a word.

I remembered every promise I ever made. To the people that voted me in, to my friends, even to my mother. I do not sit in the middle anymore. I have kept them all. I also can’t hang my own pictures.





#shortstory #dark #author #horror #magic #monster #socialcommentary #writer

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Making the Man

Red and blue flashing lights brought me to consciousness. I remembered slipping off to dreamland in my own bed. So either I had developed a case of sleep driving or some weird shit was going down. I had a couple seconds to assess my situation while I pulled over.
I was driving a Model T… not my car.
I was wearing a finely tailored zoot suit… not my clothes.
In the passenger seat was a crumpled paper bag filled with blood stained bills… not my money.
If the copper sees the money from the bank job I’ll pull the Thompson from under the blanket in back and resolve him. …Not my thought.
You prefer to use the twenty two in the shoulder holster? It’s a harder shot and you’re not a gangster… yet. Still not my thought, what the hell?
I slipped the bag onto the floorboard as nonchalantly as I could. To cover the action I plucked a smoke from the pack sitting next to the sack. Not my brand, actually, I didn’t even smoke. My lungs took to it like an old friend though, and that thing inside my head let out an audible sigh.
A nightstick tapped insistently on the window and I rolled it down.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?”
Because you’re a pig who knows what I did. It will be your last mistake copper!
“Honestly officer, I have no idea.”
“You were weaving back there, son.”
Get the goddamn gun! Riddle him with holes. He’s stalling; I can see how he’s looking at the passenger compartment.
“Sorry officer, I think I was trying to doze off there.”
“You been drinking tonight?”
Yes! Out of your mother’s navel. That whore will give it up to anyone, including your father you bastard whoreson!
“N-no, officer! Just tired.” My arms had started to reach for the back seat. I forced them still by clutching the wheel. My muscles strained and my neck creaked with the effort.
“You okay son? Anything you want to tell me?”
I’m fine officer, but you’re about to have a very bad day.
“I’m just not feeling like myself.”
“We all have days like that.” The cop laughed. “Get home safe.”
Part of me heard it right, but that other thing in my head, well it heard, ‘step out of the car.’ The cop was part of the real world though. He was from a place where people did rational things.  Pulling out the Thompson and firing it empty was pretty far from rational.
Put on his clothes.

The sports car flying by at over a hundred miles an hour brought me back to consciousness. I had a couple of seconds to assess my situation as I pulled in behind the maniac.
I was driving a police charger… not my car.
I was wearing a peace officer uniform… not my clothes.

Make sure the strap is off the sidearm, this punk has to pay! …Not my thought.







#author #dark #horror #shortstory #writer

Thursday, November 6, 2014

Et Tu Berliner?


Help me, one of a few universal phrases that translates so perfectly we can recognize it without sound.
Conversely, trying to figure out what someone means when they ask for help without dialogue and diagrams is like trying to figuring out what your mother really wants for Christmas. My guilt makes me digress. Let me back up.
Hanging above my desk in a place of honor is a framed photograph of a man I greatly admire. You would recognize it if you saw it. It is of this man in the last happy moment of his life.
I was in the office waiting on a call. The call was to let me know when the heart I was transplanting began its airlift. As soon as that phone rang I would rush to the hospital. Being it was my first time performing the surgery my nerves were on edge and I was doing some deep breathing. When I looked at the picture my hero was looking in the wrong direction.
I blinked, sure it was the stress causing the hallucination. When my eyes refocused they witnessed his mouth open as if he had something to tell me. I rubbed my eyes to make the insanity go away. When the dots cleared I saw his mouth moving in that timeless cry. Help me!
“How can I help you?”
But I knew. I’m what you might call middle of the road, or pick and choose when it comes to politics and causes. So while I am pretty adamant that anyone who owns a gun should take safety courses I don’t think they need to be a marksman. I own a gun. I have taken courses. I am not the world’s greatest shot. However, my hero needed me. He was smiling at my thought process.
With the rifle in hand I stood in front of the picture and between worlds. My heels still felt the hardwood but my toes were on soft grass, I could tell even through the shoes. The stale odor of my coffee wafted from the office behind me to mingle with scent of said grass and exhaust from the world before me.  I was a ghost in two places, unseen in both. I took careful aim at my target. I had to wait for the right moment or this would all be for nothing. My heart hammered with my thoughts of healing a wound to the world but finally I steadied my aim and waited for the face I knew would arrive.

Cell phones have no respect for cross time events. They are also loud as hell, even between worlds. Just as I was squeezing the trigger my phone exploded with the call I had been waiting for. It ripped me completely back to my own time. Just before I fell out of that other world I saw his head going back and to the left. My shot had gone nowhere near the book repository I had been aiming at.






#shortstory

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Spotlighting

So I met this author on Google+. She does an author spotlight every Friday and is just kind of all around awesome as a person. In the sense of turn about is fair play, and well because I'm in her spotlight this week I will share the link.

Hit the site up, buy one of her books. Go back every Friday and learn about a new author in a broad range of writing styles.

http://www.nattiekai.com/

#aboutme #authors #novel #shamelessselfpromotion #thoughts #writers