In the Beginning - Vengeance is Mine

And now for part 14.





“I wasn’t planning on this.” Templeton croaked through a throat as dry and cracked as a Mississippi mud field in August. He did not know how long he would be alone in the room.

“Falling in love with you was the last thing I wanted.” Already on his knees he leaned over his family bible and kissed it, leaving bloody lip prints like the mark of a mistress. His body wracked at the motion, the pain from the constant beatings his dedicated companion in the dark.

“I knew our time together would end, and end bloody.” He ran his fingers over leather, tracing crimson across gilt lettering. He fell to his side and let the repressed tears of three decades fall, dampening the pages. His daughter would never receive this book, unfortunately. Thankfully his work on the prophecy was kept elsewhere.

“I am ready for this to be over, and yet, here I am, begging you not to turn the page.” His voice cracked at the end. His hand slid off the bible only to have it spring open. He sighed and shook his head. He wanted to close his eyes and refuse to see. He looked though, such was his curse and calling. His eyes landed on the random page and he shook his head again. Of course in a situation like this the book would speak of eternal life and resurrection.

“I know, it is your will. I have served the prophecy for years. I was tired before, when you forced me back into the body of my brother. I stayed the course, always knowing I walked a path that ends in the painful death of a martyr. Now I suffer for the cause. Let it end.” He sighed, and the uninitiated would believe his breath stirred and turned the pages. Templeton knew better though. The hands of angels moved the paper. His eyes landed on the word redemption. He shook his head.

“Who’s life would I steal now? I fight for a bloody cause already. Would you have me steal my grandson’s body? If so, for what? Oh, I know the answer. To watch the terrible war from the losing side, to see the punishment of man. I would rather not, if it is all the same to you. Let me come home or let me burn, leave the world in younger hands.” He closed his eyes and lay his head on the floor next to his book. Closing it he pulled it against his chest like a teddybear. His smile was beatific as he started drifting off.

A slow creak and the smell of rage announced Jack as he entered behind the preacher.

“They chose wrong.” Jack growled.

“No they didn’t. The prophecy continues, and you get revenge for your… wife.”

The shot rang out. Jack wanted to feel bad about it, but the emptiness inside of him left no room for empathy. Thankfully disappearing a body was easier for a cop.

#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing

Mandy's Mission

This is very different for me. I'm not entirely happy with it but the children's story jumped into my head. Wish I was a little better at the younger voice.





Mandy squinted at the face on the phone, lifting the handset to stop the annoying ringing. She squeaked out her annoyance at anyone calling at the terrible hour of eight thirty.

“Sleepun’!”

The smiling face on the phone was fun during the day but it upset her in the middle of the night. The phone made its rickety warble as it rolled towards her on plastic wheels. The voice that came through was distorted but she knew who it was. Only Tommy would call so late.

“Car’s waiting outside. Get in it. Don’t ignore me.”

Mandy rolled over, looking into the warm, loving, glass eyes staring back at her.

“Everythin’s fine, Teddy. Don’t hog the blankets. Be back soon.”

Mandy saw Tommy’s “car” outside. He was nine, spoke in proper sentences and had the plastic toy jeep. He was a dreamboat, as her mama would say. Mandy didn’t like that he made her help Flinstone it from place to place but livery was dead, as her mama also said.

“Mission?” Mandy mumbled as she rubbed sleep from her eyes.

“A money man. He needs help. Pops says the monster is riding him.”

Mandy didn’t need any more explanation. The monsters lived in closets. Kids saw them for what they were. When kids became grownups they usually stopped believing and left the monsters behind. Sometimes though, if the adult was very sad and lonely, the monster jumped out of the closet and into their body. When that happened…

“It’s po…ssess…ive him.” She sounded out the word, proud of herself for using a big’un in front of Tommy. Mandy knew bankers and lawyers were easiest for the monsters to get into. When the monster rode a person they hurt other people.

“Yep.”

“Wassa plan?”

It was the normal plan. It was Mandy’s first time carrying the weapon though. Tommy boosted her up through the money man’s window. She was very quiet as she reached out to receive the box. She heard the quiet shushing of the weapon’s workings sliding against each other. This would work.

She tiptoed to the edge of the bed. Small fingers pried open the box. Holding it high she whispered loudly.

“Wake up!”

Back in the car, mission completed, Tommy asked her how it went. Mandy smiled bashfully. Her voice soft but at least she wasn’t sleepy anymore. She looked at Tommy. He was no Teddy, but she might think about dating him when he grew up. Mama said most boys did that when they turned forty.

“No callin’ so late no more. You might wake mama and papa. They’ud worry if they knew our job.” Mandy scolded him, ignoring the question.

“Kay, but tell me. It worked?”

“Success. I released the weapon.”

“What happened?”

“Same as usual. He laughed the monster out of him.”

“I knew it! Grats on you first solo mission.”

“No monster can stand up to a box of puppies!”

#shortstory #author #experimentation #monster #socialcommentary #writer #writing

In the Beginning - Stigmata

Part 13, as always, previous parts are below.






Chester reached out, laying his hand on Nicole’s stomach. Their son was approaching two. With a second child on the way that touch normally soothed her. She stayed still. He realized the phone and not one of her late night cravings woke him. Plucking the cell from beside the bed, Chester mumbled a hello.

The voice that greeted him was familiar but strange. Like an old friend speaking around the barrel of a gun. The words were off too, like the man read from a script.

“There’s a car outside. Get in it. You don’t want to ignore this.”

The connection terminated. Chester blinked sleep from his eyes as Nicole rolled towards him.

“Everything okay?”

“I think your father’s in trouble. Give me two minutes then put everything in lock down. I’ll be back when I can.”

Two minutes later Chester walked towards the black sedan he first spotted from his bedroom window. Sliding into the passenger seat he was not surprised to find a priest behind the wheel. Who else drove a black sedan with the vanity plates mycross?

“What am I doing here?”

Chester asked the question as the priest pulled away from the curb. Chester looked the man over. He did not know this servant of false idols. He gripped the gun in coat pocket. Father O’Reilly spoke in a soothing voice.

“We need to talk.” He watched the road.

At least Chester knew he wasn’t going to die in a car crash.

“Spill it. If this is about what I think it is I’m not the man you want.”

“The man we want is the one who can end it. Your father in law is unmoving on that front. My partner, the one holding the gun on the preacher, uncovered some evidence indicating you might help. You’re the only one who seems to harbor doubts about this prophecy.”

“Faith requires doubt, or it wouldn’t be faith.” Chester’s voice rang false in his own ears but three years was a long time for ideas to take hold. “Let’s say you’re right and I do want to stop this though. What would you have me do?”

“Take the kids and run.”

“And, if I don’t?”

“I’m not a violent man but my partner is a bit unstable. He’s patient but he’s losing that. So the old man might die if you refuse.”

“He’s ready to die for the cause.”

As the priest opened his mouth, Chester took a calculated risk. Bringing the gun around, still in his pocket, he shot the priest in the thigh. The man’s scream overshadowed the squeal of tires when the brakes tried to lock, just barely.

The car stopped. The smell of blood mingling with leather nauseated both passengers. When he quit cursing the priest looked at Chester. The pleading wonder in his eyes looked almost like betrayal but it could not be. These men did not know each other, though they now shared a war story. Stepping from the vehicle Chester issued his second retort.

“If your partner is who I think he is tell him I’m sorry about his lover. I had nothing to do with that. I don’t like killing but if you come after my family again I might change my mind. Goodnight, father.”

Walking back towards his home, Chester had a moment of doubt. What if the priest called the cops? It didn’t seem likely though. By morning the man would probably have blood on his own hands.

#shortstory #novel #author #writer #wriging

In the Beginning – Strange Bedfellows

Part 12, as always the parts before it are down below.



Everybody’s anatomical unconscious is doing more or less the same thing, unless they are deficient or mutated.

Father O’Reilly recoiled in horror from the words on the screen. This was how the preacher defended hate mongering and engineering the end of the world? This was how the old viper responded to an archbishop questioning his doomsday prophecy? Everybody is doing it and we’re all jerks so why not ride the wave? It sickened the young priest enough to make him question every man of faith, back to the one he served.

That doubt did not keep him from hesitating. The delay was short however. Dialing the number made him almost as nervous as teaching preschool did these days. When Jack answered on the fourth ring his speech was slurred and mushy, but who would expect any less.

“Jack, I am sorry for your loss.”

He listened and offered a heavy sigh before responding.

“I understand why you would say that. I have no love for your lifestyle but I still hate to see someone in pain.”

The alcohol on the detective’s breath was so strong the father could smell it through the phone. O’Reilly had a flash of that day in the confessional that started it all, at least for him. His doubt in the machine was not a test of faith so he silently prayed that a repeat performance not come to pass.

“You have me all wrong. I know you need your time to grieve.”

O’Reilly pulled the phone from his ear to avoid irreparable damage to the drum. When the slurring returned to a normal volume he pulled the handset back to his head.

“I’m not asking you to do anything. We both know who killed your… lover though. You’ve got a pretty personal stake in this game now.”

The sobs on the other end of the phone made the response almost indecipherable. Thankfully a priest gets used to hearing whispers through a grate that warps words and meanings.

“I’m not trying to get you back on the case. I’m calling to tell you that when you do get back to it I’m here to help you now. Just let me know what I can do.”

The shock and sudden sobering brought a smile to the young priest’s lips. It was nice to surprise people in a good way. His nod went unseen as he thought carefully about his response. Why was he getting involved? Why risk his standing in the community and his place in the church? These were what O’Reilly thought of as German questions and he would not repeat the church’s mistakes from back then.

“It’s simple, when you get a mentally unstable preacher yapping menopausally at some poor hamstrung old archbishop, while we dismantle our environment, our world and our faith due to the materialistic, pessimistic principles that the atheistic tyranny of the day is strictly sponsoring,.. it is time to look for a new story.”

#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing

In the Beginning - The Dogma Gap

And now for part 11. As always, previous parts can be found below.





The new partner stirred. Glancing at green numbers on the bedside clock he noted it was two, must be AM as it was still full dark. The other side of the bed was empty. That brush on his forehead must have been Jack’s kiss before leaving. The partner brushed fingers over the sheets, not cool but cooling, on the other side of the bed. He hated waking up alone at such an hour after a wonderful week but private detectives, soon to again be cops worked when the cases did. He snuggled back down into the bed with a smile on his face, thinking of forever was a dream. He was obviously returning to those as clocks did not run backward.

“Get up!” The voice of the zealot was rough, like the kick he delivered to the partner’s ribs. “Yeah, you with the queer face. GET UP!”

The partner roused himself groggily, fighting against the ropes binding his wrists and ankles behind his back. Trying to look at the clock he realized from the rough carpet under his bare belly that it was on the other side. His eyes landed first on the zealot in his pristine church clothes. The knife made the partner wonder if this man was a jealous ex-lover, but he was too clean cut for that. When the partner saw the green numbers, now at 0:05 he realized the clock was a bomb.

The partner should do something about that but couldn’t. Instead he wept. Not due to impending death, and not over the hatred he saw in the zealot’s face. He wept for a lifetime with the man he loved lost so soon. In a small part his tears came from knowing he would die with the smell of a bigot’s gas station cologne stinging his nose.

“Why?”

“Your lifestyle is enough.” The zealot smiled with the cruel vengeance supposedly reserved for God alone. “In this case? A message must be sent.”

The partner struggled. The zealot laughed at the thought of the sodomite before him dying with rug burns on his stomach and junk. Didn’t they all go out that way though? The partner realized his only hope. He was unlikely to diffuse a bomb, but if he could free himself after the zealot left he could at least try.

“Four minutes is cutting it close for your escape don’t you think? The junior fascist league would be lost without a man of your moral caliber.”

“Shut it cock smoker. Something your kind will never understand is there are some causes worth dying for, and some things you don’t leave to chance.”

The zealot fell into hate filled silence. The partner let his tears flow again, looking the man in the eye. Men like him could never understand those tears were not shame or regret. The partner could be proud of his tears, but he would not beg or revile the man more. Let him die better than his oppressor would. Both waited for rewards they were unsure of.
____________________________________________________________________

Jack sat at the desk in his now defunct office with a bottle or what could be paint thinner and his revolver in front of him. He swallowed his pain with chasers of dime store Scotch. It was the gun he spoke to.

“I’m sorry loving me caused this. I know the message the preacher meant to send. I promise you though, I won’t forget or fail you. His tactics won’t work this time. His God has hardened my heart.” Jack refused to cry as he followed this toast to his lost with another shot.

#shortstory #novel #author #dark #writer #writing