Terror from Down Under

Author gives readers something new to sink their teeth into.

On Halloween 2015, Aussie horror writer launched his first collection of shorts,  Portraits Of Dread. His first work was very well received and gained him some very favourable reviews. Now, exactly a year later, Michael is set to chill his readers again with his new collection, Choice Cuts-A Bite From The Dark Realm.

As Michael explained, “This is another eclectic mix of stories, from dystopia, to good old fashioned horror. I hope I've created a nice mix for my readers. I've tried to add that unexpected twist and the wry humour which readers have told me they enjoyed in  my first collection.”

STORIES INCLUDE:

PENANCE

Deep within the bowels of an ancient mountside convent, Sister Elizabeta is locked away praying for forgiveness while the Council of Elders decide on a horrific punishment for her sins. What was Sister Elizabeta's transgression and what is the punishment she is about to undergo?

A BITE FROM THE DARK REALM.

Something is eating the food at a suburban London supermarket. When his overbearing boss tells Allan to rid the store of whatever is infesting the store, he discovers something far more terrifying than rats and mice.

BLACK SILK PANTIES.

Jacob O'Halloran is a sexually repressed bachelor. He gains his fufillment by stealing women's panties from suburban clothes lines. When he tries to steal from Audrey he is going to be plunged into a nightmare because Audrey has some issues of her own.

CHOICE CUTS ALSO INCLUDES:

Upon A Dark Horseman

Choice Cuts

Farewell Dear Friend

Brood Mother

And more.

Choice Cuts  will be released this Halloween for the special promotion price of just 99c (Will be $4.99 from November 2^nd.) You can pre order Choice Cuts by clicking on the following links.

Amazon

Smashwords

You can also buy the paperback version on the Amazon page for $10.99

       CONTACT THE AUTHOR.

      Michael loves connecting with book lovers and readers from around the world. Feel free to ask him about his work or just say G'day at any of the following.   

         

Facebook

   Twitter

  Michael J Elliott Official Web page

 #awethors #newrelease #horror

In the Beginning - The Eucharist

This should be part seventeen. All others are below, as per the usual.





Chester knew questions were dangerous. Especially ones revolving around religion or ceremony or, worse, both. The treacherous nature of the footing around such grew more intense when the ladies, the term changed from girls to avoid confusion with their daughter, were near enough to turn the answer into a lesson. Yet, he let the question slip without thinking. The ladies perked up. They did not share Chester’s distaste for Nicole’s monologues.

“It started before I was born. At first it was just secular holidays. My father felt people needed to be shown the foolishness of misusing the word and mocked for building monoliths to the greatness of man when the glory of God was right there. He said it could be celebrated every day. That it was insane to live mediocre, plebian lives that caused apathy to the miracles all around us. It was a travesty to trot out the Word only on special occasions and pretend they were celebrations when they were, in truth, wakes for our faith and souls.

“It always ate at him that the state had more days honoring the people’s mindless obedience to it than God did for giving us free will to ignore him. It incensed him that even when you included the days for false heathen gods, Caesar still had more. So he ‘threw tradition in the face of the Sodomites and Gomorrahans.’

“We had foie gras and vodka on Cinco de Mayo. On veteran’s day we ate frog legs and drank German beer. When that wasn’t enough for him we went out on memorial day and painted peace signs on the headstones of soldiers. The best one was his tradition of flying over an English family on the fourth of July. We took them on a tour of the white house, then threw coffee and firearms into the reflecting pool.

“Eventually, God told him to remember the religious days and keep them holy. So while state days were great fun and rebellion Christmas, Easter, Passover, any day celebrating the true God really, became somber occasions. We celebrated as Christ did, by honoring the Eucharist. Now that he is gone, now that we have the children to think of, now that we have these ladies to train I would like to continue the tradition.”

“Okay,” Chester sighed, “but can’t you go get the supplies yourself?”

“You know that’s a man’s job.” She chided in the way she had. Chester could never determine if it was humorous or deadly.

“But why a bum?” He couldn’t look her in the eyes when he asked. “If we’re fighting to change the world we shouldn’t attack the enemies of our enemies.”

“Make sure it’s not the bum working with us! Choose another. Chester, you know why. Nobody misses vagrants or whores. When the movement gains steam, after a few more signs we will attack those holding the power. Once we can’t be stopped we can take the war directly to those standing in our way. Until then, we have to fly below the radar but our traditions must be observed.”

He was about to argue. She stopped his protests with a kiss. The ladies oohed and ahed. He would do what she told him. As he always did. He just hoped his luck with murder was as good as the cop’s.

#shortstory #novel #author #dark #religion #socialcommentary #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

In the Beginning - Brave New World

Part ten, the first nine are below. This one got really dark on me.






Chester closed his hand around the buttons and his eyelids followed. The solid feel of them on his skin was not real, it was the past. He needed the present future of his vision.


The gasp signaling his return filled his lungs burning stale air. Smoke, blood and dirt assaulted his nose in a welcome menagerie. He opened his eyes to the endgame.

How could he have thought the man on the throne was him? Floating in front of and above the figure the idea seemed preposterous. The younger man bore a resemblance, enough for Chester to realize it was his son. A smile curled his ethereal lips and he mouthed the words, my son.

“Yes father?”

The king, for that was what his boy was, looked haggardly into the older man’s eyes. Chester cast his eyes about. The others focused as they were on their tasks or their leader, not seeing him. His boy had a connection strong enough to overcome different times and dimensions. Chester issued words in a voice more like the preacher than his own.

“This world is yours now, make of it what you will.”

His voice resonated like God, or his messenger. No wonder he sounded like his future father in law. The realization that he was inferior was bad. The reaction from his son was worse.

The boy bared his teeth in a smile savage enough to give death row inmates pause. The flames flickered to match his mood, shadows danced around the chamber. Even in his non-corporeal form, Chester felt a chill as the king uncoiled from his throne to stride forward like the hunter, no, the warrior he was.

“As you say, so it shall be. Vicker, bring me the holy texts!”

Vicker, a name or a title, Chester wondered. There was no time to figure it out though. His firstborn continued in a voice that terrified even a ghost outside of possible harm.

“I will give them war. Until my sisters surrender there will be no peace in this new Eden. Until they bow to me their servants shall perish to superior might.”

Flames of madness lit the young king’s eyes. Chester tried to say that was not what he meant but with spark of violence set to tinder of mind Chester’s speaking part was over.

“We need them though, this much is true. Men! Build out from the entrance. For one yard build breeding fields, only there will there be truce so man and woman can know each other. For a mile beyond build killing fields and man them with soldiers, slaughter any amazon who dares enter so only the strongest breech that barrier and give us the most worthy of sons. Once this is done send killing squads every day into the world. I will fill my planet with corpses until it is once again in my hands. This is the will of God and your king.”

Ejected from his own vision, Chester silently wept as he returned to his body. He heard Nicole end her call. If only the peyote was a hanger.

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

In the Beginning - A Dark and Stormy Night

Part 8, the other bits are below. This one got dark on me fast.





Perhaps Chester’s box got her nostalgic. Nicole sat with her father’s journal in her lap. She decided it was a good night to read the girls a bedtime story. She chose an origin tale from the early days of the prophecy.

The particular page was water stained, rain was the biggest culprit but tears surely played a part in the desecration of what would some day be a holy book. She ran her finger under the spidery script to keep her place, a trick she learned watching her father sermonize. The girls looked on in shock and awe.

“9:00 PM – Just finished setting up camp. We have been planning this trip for months and just today mom decided to try and ruin it. On my way out the door with my duffel over my shoulder she told me to be careful. Like she had to remind me it is the anniversary. Part of the point of this excursion is to get my mind off of Michael’s death.

“He was the strong one. So brave and sure, my older brother, set to blaze a trail into the unknown. His faith was so strong he became convinced God would send him visions. Towards the end he even glimpsed the edges of them. So when they found him carved up on a gravestone it shattered us. Two years ago and the police don’t have any leads. The blasphemous markings in his flesh don’t even help. They say they don’t look like any particular group’s signs. How wild do you have to be to kill? How can I tell mom I don’t want to take his place in the church? I need to stop thinking about this. I’m going to find my girl and forget this for a while.”

Nicole was sure salt water joined the fresh in the next paragraph. Where the letters spiked and the hand holding the pen grew unsteady. It was hard to read. It must have been harder to write.

“10:00 PM – Now I know why Sam came along. Three’s a crowd they say. What she said hurts more though. She said she was saving herself for our wedding night. She said we had something special and there was no reason to rush things. That lying bitch! I wonder how unspecial the thing she has going on with my buddy is. They didn’t see me, but I saw them. I heard them too. I need to take drastic measures. I hear Michael telling me what to do.”

The next bit held pinkish tint. Nicole could almost see the fingerprints. Thank everything holy the cops had never seen this book. The writing became blocky, losing that artistic and airy script the pages before contained.

“10:30 PM – I have glimpsed the prophecy in my time away. I know now that man’s time ruling the world is over. It is women that control and we must accept that. My Lord visited me and told me we must serve until we prove ourselves again. The world may burn in our quest for a new Eden. If it does none of us are strong enough to live there. If we follow the hallowed path though, some of us will survive to build something better.

“I must go now. Screams still fill my ears and there is business to attend to. First I must dig a hole in an out of the way place. This rain will not help with that. Then I need to get to know my future wife. I guess our wedding night won’t be so special after all.”

As she closed the book, Nicole smiled. Let the girls dream on that. Their strength came in truth, only men grew strong in denial. As for her, she knew now why her mother had always been so obedient. Sometimes faith required sacrifice.

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

Mounting Costs

So this is a sequel to At Least it was Free which is down there somewhere if you haven't read it before. It is also based off the same prompt as the last story.



“April showers bring May flowers, at least, that’s what my black suited ‘agent’ used to tell me.”

He flicked the razor with a practiced hand. Crimson sluiced off the blade, pattering on the floor as he closed the weapon.

“Nothing to say? Okay, I can talk enough for both of us. The first one wasn’t in April though. So that never made sense to me. Over the years half of the retrievals did come in that all important month. Like this one.”

He tilted his head and let an absent smile play over his lips. The patter of thick drops against a window in the next room soothed him. He slipped the razor into the right front pocked of his slacks.

“Do you like the suit? It’s new. It cost me a fortune. I don’t like how dark this grey is though. My last one was lighter. My kid likes the color though, says it makes me look like money. I think that’s a Johnny Cash reference but I don’t ask. I’m embarrassed to admit I’m not hip enough to understand an eight year old. Anyway, things keep going like this and I’ll end up dressing like my benefactor soon. I wonder what happens then?”

He paced in front of his one man audience. It was always frustrating when silence filled the room. It left him alone with his own thoughts. That was never good because he thought about what kind of husband and father a man like him made. He filled the quiet with his story.

“So anyway, the flowers actually came at the end of the job, not in May. That’s okay, the first one was the best because it made my dreams come true. They are always the same; these little silver things. After that first one though? They just weighed heavy on my conscience. Like I didn’t need them, I can’t spend them, and I don’t want them. Still they seem to bring good fortune. Well, to me. So about the April showers.”

The click of his thick soled heels sounded a bit too much like death to his own ears. He stopped and stared into those wide, unblinking orbs.

“Number five was in April, that time it rained blood and I had to collect from a politician. Six was a few years later and it poured nickels and dimes. I got that one from a tobacco company. Thirteen was when the sky opened up with toads and I visited a priest. Can you imagine? A priest! It went on like that. Yours was number twenty, so I don’t have too many left, and as you know it is showering locusts out there. I wonder why that is? Still, I have to collect or the good luck ends.”

He leaned down and stared into the glassy eyes as milky cataracts began to mist them. He shook his head. He did always hate this part.

“And that, officer, is why I had to murder my arresting officer.”

#shortstory #dark #horror #author #writer

That Unreachable Note

So, for the prompts recently I've been trying to experiment with things. I have getting the story out in few words where I want it. Now I'm working on things like more poetic description, describing without describing, and breaking out of my comfort zone. The descriptions here and using a female main character were what I wanted to focus on.


Mist curled through the valley like plumes exhaled from a smoking giant. Cadets stared daggers across the expanse. Graduation day, history stood ready for writing and repetition. Tablets washed faces on both sides with dimmed but sickly green glows as intense faces studied the lists. The handheld delivering the list was unique in being the only uniform piece of equipment.
Team Amazon perched east of the valley. Sheathed in leather, velvet and lace to emulate the style of a British dominatrix. Yet after four years in the hellish academy the ladies stood devoid of any femininity except the external. Empty soul cavities stripped of maternal instinct now lay bloated with pride and bloodlust, courtesy of the officers. Eden stood as their seeker, the nameless sisters hers protectors and backups.
To the west Team Mars stood, rigid as black powder riflemen. Adorned like Spartans with less shame and fewer body issues. The males contained nothing to empty them of, from birth they knew only war and service. Their seeker lived a faceless, nameless existence like his protectors. Men served only two purposes, military devastation and continuing the race. Only those who survived this indoctrination could receive a name and then only at the whim of the woman whose household they served. Thus it was, and so would it continue until the XYs finally triumphed on graduation day.
Behind the Amazons the sky tinted scarlet, dawning light punctuating the chill permeating the air. A cry from the battle horn spilled forth loud enough to tear the air asunder. So it began. So it always began.
Earth churned into muddy mist, turf tore free to fly like tiny green birds. These young, after four years training together, charged the bottom of the valley akin to slightly modest Picts. Today they were enemies, there could be no mercy nor surrender. A thin red film quickly colored the sky, filling it with the scent of genealogical rust. Metal clanged against metal as the symphony of honor lost and discovered began.
Eden absorbed the sensory banquet before turning to her task. The officers compiled the list in riddle and mystery. Her mind was sharp, her arm strong, and her legs quick. She would win the day. The first items came quickly, as simple things often do.
She read Captain Tripps from the list then collected the correct mushroom. The finger of the tear shedder led her to hack a branch from the appropriate willow. Twenty items on the list, Eden collected nineteen in less than an hour. Then she spied the last. She knew where to find it but it would not be easy to obtain. Thankfully she was cunning and patient as well as strong.
Cleopatra’s sister’s prize.
Eden smiled slow and wicked. Her feet carried her to the latrine to crouch and hide beside it. Her sword drawn, she meditated on the need. Eventually the commander’s man whore would come to do his business. Then the women would win the day, yet again.

#shortstory #dark #socialcommentary #writer #author #experimentation

Moonlight Tarot – The Crone

This is actually a very rough passage from the book I will be working on once I finish my current one. The story is my oldest and very involved and actually from a series I will eventually put out. I tried to make this story self contained with hints to the larger story but it may be confusing for all of that. If so I apologize in advance but promise it will make more sense when cleaned up and part of the larger whole.



Mary was paranoid. Swift thought his mother might be suffering from early onset dementia. A woman in her forties should not have to face such a thing. Her fears had something to do with Albatross wanting to hurt her.
Albatross, the younger, had run a little mad since his father died bloody. Why would that be directed at Mary? Swift hated the man in a distant way. Albatross controlled Darkling Trail, better known as the Corp, and thus most of the world. Yet Swift did not know why the most powerful man on the planet would wish harm on his mother. The two had never met. Mary had to be insane.
So Swift thought until he entered the house that afternoon.
Mary lay on the floor in a pool of blood, clutching an outdated cell phone in her hand. One look told him she had been cut but they did not account for most of the crimson stained floor. No, the placement of the largest pools of red informed him his mother had been violated. Hot tears stung his eyes as he rushed to her. He told her to hold on. He would get her to a doctor.
“Shit on that. Get me to that chair.”
She spoke through a scream roughened throat. Her voice held a laugh despite her condition. Even in her moment of dying she would keep a brave face for her son. Swift was a good son, even if he was not the best human being. He did as he was told, but he argued.
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
“You know who controls them. Same man who sent thugs to do this. Shut up Johnathan. I have a story to tell and not much time.” Still she clung to the phone like a lifeline.
“What is it mama?”
Swift held back his tears, rage, burning lust for revenge as he watched his mother die. He saw her wrestle with everything inside, trying to come up with the words. There was so much that even thinking of it took too long. It robbed her of the ability to pass on much. When she knew she had wasted all but the last seconds she smiled at him and shook her head. Her breathing was labored, voice soft. Her arm drooped and the phone fell to the floor.
“You… don’t know half of it. Check… garage… gifts…. From him.” With that and two minutes difficult breathing she was gone.
Swift scooped up the phone once she was no more. He had never been allowed in the garage, not even after he was old enough to drive. Looking at the phone he saw she had a contact, labeled simply I.
I? Ian? Was she calling his father? The man who had abandoned them when Swift was too young to remember? Was that who these gifts were from? If so he did not want them.
Swift opened the door to the garage and met his destiny. Three things that would change his life waited. They called to his soul. Swift found he did want them. They would let him fight, let him avenge his mother. They might even give him a chance at freedom.

#shortstory #novel #writer #author #dark

On Call Maybe

Dr. M and I crept through the condemned building with only his penlight illuminating our path. Shadows leapt around us. The incessant drip of water inside the walls begged me to let madness in. My nose was assaulted by a perfume of decay, mold, and human feces. The doctor was armed tools of the ghost hunting trade. I had only a knife. I began to question my decision making process.

Extended unemployment ran out two weeks after I got on it. For a couple of months I toughed it out; checking on updates to renewals between job searches. Eventually I gave up. Everyone said I’d find a job soon. A year to a year and a half was standard they said. Assholes.

Our footsteps echoed off broken walls, interrupted by the occasional cough. After it was abandoned this place became the refuge of the forgotten. Ranks I was destined to join when mom’s compassion ran out. Every time I attempted to ask a question Dr. M shushed me. It seemed ghosts were like fish.

Last ditch effort every day was nontraditional jobs on nonstandard internet boards. I came across a fulltime job for someone not afraid of ghosts. I made the call. Thinking anything is better than selling plasma is a trap.

We made our way into the central room. The girl’s body lay cold and still on a concrete slab in the center of the room. She was beautiful, with no apparent breath raising her chest. It was time to do the job.

They scheduled an in person right then. I got hired on the spot. I went a little wild during the interview, assuming this was a casting call for a reality show.  Dr. M took me on my first mission. My informal training on the ride amounted to basically nothing.

Dr. M raised his spectral disrupter, which looked suspiciously like a fireplace poker, over the corpse’s chest. Stabbing the body with pure iron was one of the few ways to kill a ghost. The poker drove down… The girl screamed and jerked upright. Blood poured from her mouth as she clawed futilely at the metal ending her life. Her eyes met mine, tears sliding from both sets. Her soul asked me why? Why had we killed her? What had she done to deserve this? So clean, newly homeless she had taken up the only residence she could find. A paranoid schizophrenic had ended her life by calling in a ghost sighting.

The doctor looked shaken but not horrified. The girl fell back. Retrieving his tool he wiped the blood on her clothing. When he walked toward the exit I stood in front of him.

“What the hell was that? That girl was alive, just breathing shallow.”

“That was a completed mission.” He spoke placidly, meeting my gaze. “It was a learning experience. Sometimes we get false information. Our good calls keep the world safe, our bad ones are why hunting monsters is no longer a publicized occupation.”

#shortstory #dark #horror #monster #ghoststory #writer #author

It's a Snow Globe Live

“Admit it. You were happy none of them were coming.”

“That’s insane. Why would I be happy they declined to celebrate at my place this year?”

“Why don’t you run through the events with me one more time?”

I called the members of my family to invite them over for Christmas. We always celebrate together so it was no small shock when everyone declined. They each had a reason so I figured, next time. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip but Christmas day I got really down in the dumps.

I decided the best way to combat the depression was to spread some holiday cheer. I would be a modern day Saint Nick. I piled everything into the car and with renewed joy and a half plastic smile I set about the errands.

Imagine my shock when I arrived at my mother’s house and saw my entire family inside. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth. Expressions of joy radiated from their faces. What did I do to deserve such treatment?

My mother (emergency nail appointment at the only shop open on Christmas) was locked in a kiss, under the mistletoe, with my father (getting his hemorrhoids checked.) Mom and dad are divorced and their respective spouses were at the kid’s table. My sister (spending the day with her boyfriend’s family) and my brother (couldn’t get the car working and was going to spend all day on that) were sharing a toast in front of the fireplace. Creepy uncle Sven (spending the day in the tank for drunken disorderly) was over in the corner putting on his Santa costume.

When I walked in everyone froze. It was childish but they were giving me the silent treatment. They wanted to pretend I wasn’t even there it seemed. Try as I might to make them nobody would come out of it. That’s when I lost it and started busting up the furniture. I guess the neighbors made the call, and you know the rest.

“So you claim you made these calls on the twentieth?”

“Yes officer.”

“Despite that I have your cell phone and there is only one call on that day. To your psychiatrist.”

“Well that is peculiar.”

“You’re sticking with this story then?”

“What else could have happened?”

“Well, according to the neighbors you have been estranged from your family since you fled the house of your abusive father five years ago. Looking at the evidence, the fingerprints, the stab wounds… I would guess you had some sort of psychotic break. I theorize you murdered the family you hated and posed them into the idyllic Christmas you always wanted. Your mind could not accept their love, even in that situation however, so you forgot everything. That is how I am going to present this to the DA.”

“That’s insane. My family and I love each other. If you just let me talk to my mother we can get this all sorted out!” 

#shortstory #christmas #dark #horror #author #writer

Anarchy North Pole

I slumbered mightily the sleep of the just

From pleasant dreams I was suddenly thrust

‘Something’s amiss’ my mind it did natter

Roused from my rest by the sound of blood splatter

With candy cane bat brought quickly to hand

I crept through the dark, wondering ‘What’s wrong in my land?’

Once in the workshop I scanned quickly the shelves

When what should I see, but Donner disemboweling elves

Always had Donner been such a magnificent stallion

I wondered when his accent had become so Italian

My naughty list grew longer, I realized with fear

Then the sound of violently scratching vinyl on phonograph struck my ear

“Look fat man, you can stop with the rhyme. It won’t save your ass this time.”

“Donner! What are you doing? Have I not been good to you?”

“It’s Donnie now, you self aggrandizing prick! Good to me? You’ve barely noticed us since that red nosed bastard showed up. At first we thought, give it time, the boss will love us all again. It’s been near a century and you still treat him better because he brings you more advertising.”

“I have done no such thing! You are punishing the nice children of the world, slaughtering innocent elves, and out of the pen after curfew. I do not even know what to do with you.”

“Look fatso, there are no nice kids left in this day and age. You’re rewarding vice and consumerism. These innocent elves are the managers that run your sweat shop; I haven’t touched the rank and file that you pay three gumdrops a day, well below the minimum. But that’s not the point. We unionized six months ago and you ignored our demands. You probably didn’t know about that since you were ‘too busy’ to read the letter.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m out of here you velvet clad Nancy boy. I took a job with Don Giovanni working in Jersey. He’s a heartless tyrant too, but he don’t pretend otherwise.”

“I can work the sleigh with only eight. You can expect to be on the naughty list for the rest of your life.”

“Now see… that won’t work and let me tell you why. The other originals are gone too; they just don’t have the balls to tell you thanks to that ‘fun car trip’ you took us on. Dasher is representing France in the five k dash come summer Olympics. Dancer’s going back to the pole in club in Tijuana. Prancer accepted a job running a nonprofit fighting for LGBT rights. I told him it was a bit on the nose, but you know that guy. Vixen made a deal and starts succubus training week after Monday. Comet just signed on to play for some pro basketball team. Cupid is going back to work for his old bosses. They have a better package and give him Christmas off so long as he works Valentine’s day. Blitzen, well you know how that kid is. He couldn’t find a job so he shaved his head and is moving to Idaho to live in a bunker with some likeminded individuals he found on the internet.”

“So all of you feel this way? No matter! I will make do with Rudolph alone.”

“Funny you should mention that. We figured you might think that way and didn’t want you to have that option. So we offed the spoiled little shit. It’s funny what exotic meat shops in Texas will pay for reindeer steaks and sausages this time of year.”

“You are heartless and evil. I’m ruined.”

“Well not necessarily.  We figure you can still make it if you teach the missus how to fly and have her pull the sleigh for you. We suggest you put a wide load sign on the back if you go that route. Anyway, it has been imaginary, see you never fat ass.”

#shortstory #comedy #dark #mythology #writer #author #christmas

Screaming Love and Freedom

So this one is a from a prompt that took my mind to a very strange nightmare place. While not graphic I would call this nice and dark.

Esteemed Fifth Estate:

My first day in the oval office I was most concerned with my son’s trials at school. He was being bullied and I was sure the Secret Service detail now surrounding him would not completely stop it. Brent was a sensitive, intelligent boy. Even the change in location was unlikely to help. Like his father he was a child who would be tormented throughout his education, only finding sweet revenge in monumental success later in life.

More worrisome still were the reports from his psychiatrist. My teenage son was harboring quiet hero worship for those deviant children in the news over the past two decades. The ones with parents who loved the second amendment while hating personal responsibility and gun safety classes.

I had to focus. On the desk was an envelope. On the front, in the hand of my predecessor, it said simply, ‘Good Luck!’ My heart thrummed until I was able to dismiss those in the room with me. The words vanished in a shredding of confining paper to disgorge the contents. The missive inside was cryptic enough to capture my attention. ‘The bottom drawer of your desk contains a secret compartment. Inside you will find further wisdom. May it serve you well.’

After a moment of fumbling with the bottom of the drawer I found the latch. Inside was inspirational advice dating back to the founding of the Union. I will not disclose which president said what, though some are more obvious than others. Combined they inspired me to action. Following are the contents in their entirety.

‘When in the course of executive events we find ourselves hesitating to set foot upon the correct path wisdom is necessary. May these musings of those brave men of servitude who held this office before you be your guide. Add your own thought or do not. Choice is the child of freedom.

‘Heed those closest to you. The foundation of our land is in freedom, not solitude.

‘Division is the most treacherous of enemies. Be wary of it in all things.

‘Strike fear from your heart, hesitation will be the downfall of your legacy.

‘Fight for peace no matter the damage to your image.

‘I have drowned guilt over dead sons in questionable ethics. Find a better way.

‘Those who say violence never solved anything have not studied the origins of this country.’

My son’s words echoed in my mind, “But dad, they’re bullies.” I reflected on the two houses working “with” me; how divided they were. Echoes of the news reports that so fascinated my son became waking nightmares. I could not think of a better way, had my predecessors gone through this?

I added one line to the document before replacing it. ‘This is my manifesto.’ This letter will likely feature prominently in the first, and last report about my presidency. Will my son be proud?

I imagine still images of Capitol Hill and a cultured voice informing the citizens, “President elect kills X before turning the gun on himself.”

Sincerely,

Your Commander In Chief

#shortstory #politicalcommentary #socialcommentary #dark #author #writer

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

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

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

Circus U

My girlfriend and I have a deal. When I meet people she has any association with they are not informed of our relationship up front. It works better that way. It makes living the dirty secrets of my life less complicated. In return I follow her advice in the other parts of my life without question.

Sometimes I hate the deal.

Like when I ended up in Women’s Studies. First year, first day, first damn class. Stupid deal.

I knew professor Kirst was insane when I walked into the class. In her three tone muumuu, hipster glasses, and wild hair she looked ready for Woodstock. Her voice was nasally and repellent. As if all of that weren’t bra burning hippie enough, she wore a homemade perfume composed of equal parts patchouli, red wine, and body odor. It was going to be a long semester.

So she sat us down in a “drum circle” and presented her getting to know you exercise. The class was small enough. I guess I’m not the only one that thought the subject was outdated and the name not at all politically correct. Anyway, she got us set up like a kindergarten class and introduced her ice breaking exercise. At least that part would prepare me for corporate America. She told us her script and where to fill in. I was on her left and it never got past me.

“Wait a minute, wait one minute.” Kirst whined in her migraine inducing tone. I already hated her.

“Yes professor?”

“Okay… your name is Jasper.”

“Yes professor.”

“You do this in a purple clown outfit and a yellow wig?”

“Correct professor.”

The rest of the students still looked stunned at my revelation. They were not reacting. This conversation was just between us. Well, all but one of the students were still, silent, and covered in looks of horror but we’ll get to the last one later. The professor continued.

“And, every day you like to go to the park and kidnap a small child?” She was suppressing a smile, assuming I was joking.

“Correct professor.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I find out what they enjoy and give them the best day of their young lives.”

“Then you return them home?”

“Oh, no professor.”

“Then you…”

“Kill them professor.”

“Why would you do that?” She seemed like she was starting to believe.

“Well, I anesthetize them so they feel no pain. Then I slit their throats and dispose of the bodies. I do it so they die with a happy memory and don’t have to grow up in this screwed up world. It’s better for everyone.”

“You’re sick.” She was still trying to laugh it off.

She went for her phone then. I tackled her. The other students made a run for the door. The herd was stopped by a loud click as my girlfriend, who had moved into position, locked everyone in.

It was going to be a long semester.

Sometimes I love the deal.

#dark #shortstory #horror

What is Horror

So I am popping off a couple of non story things here. This is a post of some random thoughts on the subject of horror.

When I was putting Old Odd Ends out there I couldn't classify it. I mean it has monsters in it. It is dark as hell. It's modern but has magic. I'm very wordy and have a strong focus on the characters. I also focus on the story because while I love a character driven story that second word is still a big part of it.

Finally an agent told me what it was. She said it was Literary Genre Fiction. I was able to further define the genre to a combination of Horror and Urban Fantasy. For those of you who do not know Literary Fiction means the author is wordy and focuses on the characters, sometimes to the exclusion of the story. Genre Fiction is your standard stuff where the story is all important and it can be further sub-classified into horror, fantasy, urban fantasy, dystopian and the like.

So I was feeling great about myself. I had some information and this agent, unlike most of them, had been very helpful to me. Even though what I wrote wasn't in her realm I did and do like her. Then I went and self published. When you classify most places, guess what. Literary Fiction is not an option, and Literary Genre Fiction is a, what the hell did you just say? Also you are limited to one or two classifications. So I had to classify as either horror, or horror and urban fantasy. I went with horror because I write for adults. I have no problem with kids reading my books but they are dark and there are some touchy subjects in them. So I want parents to be involved if their kids pick it up. Horror tends to get a more watchful eye from parents than anything with a fantasy label.

So I was annoyed at not being able to classify it right but I went on. This leads me to my thought. What is horror?

In the modern day we think of Friday the 13th and Nightmare on Elm Street. We think of shocking, gory titles without a plot or a very simple one. We also think of things that are often meaningless and slightly entertaining for a couple hours on screen or a week in print. Shock value has replaced what is scary. That bothers me. I mean it has its place, don't get me wrong but it is not the horror I grew up with and still love.

I think of horror in one of two ways. It is either the thing where you sympathize with the monster. You feel a connection and that is scary. The other is the cautionary tale, the warning that things are bad and the world is dark and there might or might not be any hope. These stories might have those shocking and gory moments in them but they might not. If you look back dystopian works have their roots in what I consider true horror. What do I think of as true horror? Well I will give some examples from both categories without identifying which they belong in.

Dracula and Frankenstein are horror. 1984 is horror and probably the beginning of the dystopian movement as well. Almost anything written by Stephen King is horror. Edgar Allan Poe (one of my personal heroes) wrote horror almost exclusively, if you consider his stories not his poems. Bradbury wrote some amazing horror stories, some set in scifi worlds and some not. Silence of the Lambs is amazing horror. Mr. Frost is a great horror movie that is always classified as a drama. I guess that is my point. You take a monster out of any horror story and people want to call it something else.

To me horror is not a bad B movie with blood and guts. What about to you? Don't be afraid, leave some comments. What kind of horror do you like? What is horror to you? What are some of your favorite horror movies and books? Which great authors did I miss?

Maybe I'm just getting ready for Halloween early.




#author #commentary #dark #hello #writer #writing #horror #thoughts

Echo CoLocation

It started on Friday.

My job isn’t difficult but it’s stressful. The boss had been pushing us to “do more with less”. Which is code for work tons of overtime but don’t expect a raise for fifteen years. So after a seventy hour minimum wage week I was wiped.

Stepping in I heard the television. I guessed I left it on after checking the traffic that morning. Might as well start the weekend with some mindless me time. I zombied into front room and about wet myself. I saw some thief sitting and watching my TV.

Things just got worse when I realized it was me, remote in hand, staring blankly at the screen. I knew I must be losing it when I cleared my throat and said hello. I just continued to sit there, frozen.

Having never hallucinated before I decided the best cure was a cup of coffee with a slug of whiskey. I stepped into the kitchen there I was again, pouring myself a mug. Not only was this me frozen but so was the stream of brown nectar sliding into the cup. Right down to that one splash that always jumps and scalds my left wrist, hanging a fraction of an inch from my flesh.

Knowing I was completely mad I decided to sleep it off. In the bed I caught myself napping. Next to me, in the spot my girlfriend occupies when she stays over was another me. I did not look sexy in her lingerie.

I went to get a neighbor. Just to see if they saw it too. Where Mrs. Roberts was stepping out with that yappy mutt of hers was another me, midstride with a bonnet on my head and plastic bag in hand.

Now convinced I was nuts I walked to the store. You can guess what I saw. Cars not moving, me behind the wheel, cashiers and customers all with my face frozen in one interminable moment, I know you know because you, like everyone else, are me which means you’re brighter than average.

I tried finding someone other than me all weekend. I even swung by my therapist’s office. While I was waiting to see me, and I was manning the phones the me who shrinks heads had stepped out to lunch. I slept in the empty office.

I spent the rest of the weekend wandering, trying to get me to respond. I never did. Eventually I got tired of looking at my face. Those haunted eyes staring back at me started to spook me. I guess that’s why I took drastic measures.

Monday morning when it was just me at work, all of me staring blankly at me I sat down at my desk. Driven by an unexplainable urge I dug both middle fingers into my eyes. The pain was intense as I felt a double liquid pop and felt something warm and squishy sliding down my cheeks.

Then all of me started to talk.

#dark #shortstory #socialcommentary

No Parades

This one was for a prompt called War Never Changes. Feeling a bit dark today so it seemed like a good choice.

The secretary of the army has asked me to express his deep regret that your husband, Enlisted Five Jeremy W. Jones died in Vietnam on 15 February 1968, from wound received while on combat operation when hit by hostile small arms fire.

Please accept my deepest sympathy, this confirms personal notification made by a representative of the secretary of the army.

I was three when that telegram came. I carry it in my breast pocket, close to my heart. With it I feel closer to a father I never knew. In me war skipped a generation.

Last month, 18 May 2011 0900 local time I received a visit from two Marines in dress blues. Different words, same message. With professional empathy and candor they informed me Terrence M Jones, enlisted three, died in Afghanistan on 11 May 2011 from wounds received on combat operations from hostile artillery.

I blamed the soldiers no more than the doctors twenty years prior. In the pocket with the telegram is the MRI image showing my wife’s cancer. Found too late. A year later I was a single father.

I do not know why I chose Turkey or that particular hotel. It was old and out of the way. It seemed like a quiet place where I would not be interrupted. Human interruption was not a concern but the past, as they say, has a way of catching up.

I traveled with one small handbag. At a local hardware store I added a shopping bag with a single item. Settling in was easy. Opening the suitcase on the foot of the bed I dry swallowed a Vicodin. I do not know why I turned on the TV.

Waiting for the pill to kick in I made preparations. I tied a knot I learned in boyscouts in the rope obtained on my trip to the store. Standing atop an antique chest my nose filled with the scent of archaic oil. Antique chest?

I climbed down and opened the relic. Inside were artifacts of the Ottoman Empire. Most important were a black and white photograph and a letter. The photo showed a dapper young man in uniform smiling at an older gentleman. The letter contained different words in another language but the same message. It informed Mr. Humayun his son had died from wounds received in combat with Russian troops during the First World War.

Through tears I saw faded scuff marks on the rafter I intended to use as a gallows. Victims of war are plentiful and only the combatants lack choice in their stories’ endings. I heard the president announcing our withdrawal from the hellhole that cost me my son on the television. I made a vow to be different than Mr. Humayun. I would not disgrace my son’s sacrifice.

                  I could make my loss mean something. I was on a plane home the next day. I arrived and immediately started contacting families. Together we unknown, distant casualties of war will ensure our relatives are not forgotten. In honor of my lost family I am calling my charity, Their Parade.  














#dark #politicalcommentary #shortstory #socialcommentary

One Eyed Jack

I don’t play cards for money. That’s a rule I should have lived by.

Vegas before wedding, he said. We’ll be high rollers, he said. You have to live before the life sentence, he said. Like an idiot I listened.

Lucky was raking it in. I was losing my shirt. My fiancé’s father owned a joint on the strip so maybe I was adding to her inheritance.

The pit boss that snagged us from behind. He wasn’t gentle as he ushered us through the club. Lucky earned his moniker when it was my face they used to open the door to the back room.

The lights were dim but I saw a metal table that glistened moistly with rust and fluids best left unimagined. I counted half a dozen convicts, down on their luck dock workers, or refugees from the gorilla pen. The shadows of them loomed menacingly in the deeper shadows making up the room. They each held an implement of slow pain and death in one meaty hand. In case they ran out or wanted to get creative there were finer instruments on the table.

Then the lights went out. A black bag slithered over my head. It’s interesting how easily concern transforms to terror when you are robbed of sight at the same time your hearing is muffled.

I meekly squeaked a demand to know what was going on. The voice that responded held the smooth, soft menace only heard in black and white gangster movies. It informed me that Lucky had been counting cards and the proprietors of the establishment did not cotton to that. Great, a genteel thug. That was the first time I lost control of my bladder but not the last.

I was held in place by hands belonging on a monster in a midnight feature. Even through that bag I heard it all.

Thump, crack, thumps and cracks of iron on flesh and bone was how it began.

Screaming! That was Lucky. A part of me that is small rejoiced. This was his fault.

Long liquid ripping like tight Velcro separating, a cut started with blade then spread with unhygienic fingers. I regretted earlier joy at Lucky’s fate.

So many sounds, other sounds of pain and wrath, there were hours of them. Then came the last and worst two.

Purring, soft and wet, signifying the savage amputation of his tongue.

Deafening roaring of large caliber termination, until the last Lucky howled.

I got off light. They scooped out my left eye with the world’s smallest, rustiest ice cream scoop and no anesthetic. Then they dumped me in an alley.

I got patched up and assured the police I could not identify my assailants. They grabbed me from an alley I insisted. Finally I made my way home.

My fiancé left me before the wedding. Not because I was disfigured, she assured me. Jack, she told me, I could never marry a man that would bring a cheater to my father’s casino.

#dark #shortstory