Category Archives: Fiction

Auspicious Pudding, Part II

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This week we’re writing a Round Robin Story. Each of us are shooting from the hip to put a story together for your (and our) enjoyment. If you haven’t already, check out Part I here. Back? Good. And the story continues…

Part II

“The weald,” answered Jasper. He turned to Ty, a little exasperated. “Has the stomach rot gotten to your ears? I just said that.”

Ty’s stomach flipped at the mention of it. The pain didn’t last long as his attention quickly focused on the trees. The trees that shouldn’t be. That couldn’t be there.

They most certainly were there.

A clump of moss gave easily way when Jasper pulled it from the bark of the closest tree. Redwood? Was it even possible for a tree to grow that big?

Ty watched as Jasper sniffed the moss, nodded to himself ,and proceeded to smash the clump in his gnarled hands.

“What are you doing?”

Jasper just hummed to himself. The cuffing of his hands pounding the moss punctuated his song. The tune was only vaguely familiar to Ty. Just when he thought he could place it, Jasper stopped, picked up a sprig of pennyroyal and pressed it between moss-mushed hands. He gave it a good squish and then presented it to Ty.

“Nice. I’m impressed. No, really,” the sarcasm was like a candy coating over each word. “I just feel bad for leaving the Forestry Craft Badge at home. You so earned it.”

Ty went on to say more, but Jasper shoved the sprig in Ty’s mouth. Before he could spit it out, the old man had one hand on the back of Ty’s neck and the other covering his mouth.

“You can thank me later,” offered Jasper.

The grime on Jasper’s hand felt slick and coarse like wet sand paper on the back of his neck. His thoughts whirred from his now grim-streaked neck, to wondering how hands so old and knobby could still be so strong, to the horrible thing in his mouth. To say it tasted like minty dirt would be like calling the moon a rock. It combined the flavor of fresh lawn clippings with the grit of under-stirred hot cocoa. Sure there was an underlying hint of mint, but that silver lining was too thin encompass this gray cloud.

“Now would you stop struggling so I can talk to ya’ proper?”

Ty hadn’t realized he was jerking about, and when he did, he felt wholly justified. He kept it up for just a second longer as to not let Jasper think it was him telling him to that he stopped.

“That should settle your stomach for a bit. Yes, I know. Kinda’ feels like it’s going to do the opposite. It won’t though. Just chew a bit.”

Jasper’s grip loosen, but didn’t let go. He waited to see Ty’s jaw work the mush before going on.

“Good. Good. Now mind you don’t eat it. In small doses it’ll calm the rot. Swallow the whole of it, and we’ll be stopping at every other tree with a soft leaf.”

Ty didn’t want to admit it, but he could feel the knot untie itself in his gut. He didn’t fool himself. It was still there, only loosened.

“I can see it in your eye. It’s working.”

Jasper let go, leaving a mossy hand print in his place. He wiped the remainder on his pants and started rolling his sleeping bag and stowing his gear.

“How… Where did you… I mean,” Ty couldn’t get the words out. He didn’t even know where to begin. The trees? Magpies? The minty grit in his mouth?

“Can your auspex do that, too?” He finally asked.

Ty’s tone said jest, but his eyes begged for something to hold on to.

“Not just any auspex, that’s for sure. Now stop gawpping and roll up your bag. We got things to do and no telling how long to do them in. Move it now. Move.”

Whether by Jasper’s design or not, Ty was grateful for the busy work, moving in the familiar motions of breaking camp, rolling this, packing that. He didn’t know how longer Jasper had been talking before he started listening.

“—to see this. It’s good though. Very good. Maybe lucky even.”

“Jasper?”

“Son, if I told it all now, how am I to enjoy the look on your face when we get there?”

His smile was as much sincere as it was concealing.

Tune in this weekend for the stunning conclusion! (No pressure, Amy.)

Hidden Freak, Part 3

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And now, the conclusion of this week’s story-in-the-round, Hidden Freak. If you missed the previous installments, authored by S.C. Green and Amy K. Nichols, respectively, part one is here, part two here.

Hidden Freak, Part 3

A man lounged at the Gulfstream’s cramped kitchenette, shuffling a pack of cards between webbed fingers. A rainbow clown wig sat askew on his head, a half smoked Marlboro Red smoldered in a tin ashtray at his elbow.“Hello Robert.”

“How do you know my name?” blurted Bobby.

“It’s my business to know.” He flicked a card at Bobby, who caught it on reflex.“Not bad, Robert. You know, you could play basketball, if you really wanted. But you don’t want to.”

Bobby turned the card over.

DR. GIGGLES, ESQUIRE. MD PHD PHARSEE

– was scrawled over the joker’s face.

“My calling card,” said Dr. Giggles. “Ah, Cecil, I see you back there. Don’t be shy.”

Red-faced, Fix shouldered his way past Bobby. “Don’t nobody call me that.”

“Hmm,” said Dr. Giggles, setting aside his pack in favor of the cigarette butt.

“Where’s my card?”

“You don’t get one, Cecil. You’re not a freak. In fact, I’d venture to say you’re perfectly, completely, hideously normal.”

“Who you callin’ hideous, you frog-palmed weirdo?” Fix started forward, raising his fist. Bobby winced, but Dr. Giggles caught the punch in one of his webbed hands.

“And now, for my vanishing trick.”

Fix disappeared.

Dr. Giggles banged on the wall of the Gulfstream. “Send in the clowns!”

The forest outside echoed with laughter. A chainsaw roared to life, and the laughter redoubled.

Dr. Giggles pushed aside a frowsy curtain to peek out the trailer’s window. “What delight. I love a good laugh, don’t you?”

“What did you do with him?”

“Oh Robert, don’t fret over your miscreant friend.” Dr. Giggles snubbed out his butt. “I only gave him what he really wanted.”

“Fix only likes breaking stuff.”

“Precisely. He wants to break. Now, he is breaking.” He picked up his pack of cards and cut. “So, my seven-foot friend, would you like to see the show? More importantly, would you like to be the show? You can join us if you want. The wages are paltry, but I promise you this: No one will ever laugh at you again.” The cards made a ripping sound as he shuffled them. “We don’t tolerate that sort of foolery here.”

“I just want to be smaller,” stuttered Bobby.

“As small as your courage,” murmured Dr. Giggles, his eyes gleaming, “As small as your wit.”

“No,” cried Bobby. His skin crawled, itched, burned as he fumbled for the door handle. The lever would not give.

“Good luck, Robert Thumbkin,” said Dr. Giggles. “Enjoy your adventures, and remember I promise you this: As your soul grows, so shall you. And, to paraphrase a song about a far better man than I, if you ever wish to receive me, only say the word and I shall be there.”

The door swung open and Bobby bounded out of the Gulfstream, no longer needing to crouch, and ran through the forest. His shoes tripped and plopped right off his feet. His pants fell down, catching around his knees. Bobby kicked them off and kept going, his sweatshirt dipping down to cover his nakedness until it too slid off, the neck hole slipping down his belly. Shivering, Bobby looked for a burrow to hide in.

It was twilight, and the owls were waking.

Hidden Freak, Part 2

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This week we’re writing a Round Robin story. S.C. Green posted part 1 on Monday. Amy McLane will post the conclusion on Friday. For now, though, settle in for part 2 in our tale of circus weirdness…

Hidden Freak, Part 2

Fix reached the edge of the woods first. Bobby ducked beneath an elm branch and stopped beside him.

“Whatcha waiting for?” Bobby reached both hands up to grasp the branch and let his tall frame fall forward.

Fix said nothing. Just spit.

“Scared?” Bobby knew which button to push.

“I ain’t scared.” Fix’s bicep swelled as he squeezed his right hand into a fist. He sniffed and curled his lip like a gash. “Just looking for the right way in.”

Bobby kicked away a pine cone. “Uh-huh.” And he strode off toward the big top.

The fence surrounding the carnival was rickety at best. Easy pickings. The hardest part for Bobby would be to slip his height through unnoticed.

Fix followed him out from the cover of the woods, his steps scuffing the dirt faster to keep up. Neither spoke. Bobby kept his hands tucked in his pockets and felt his pulse knocking at his temple. Thinking and doing are two different things. But Bobby was determined in the doing.

The carnival hadn’t officially opened. Come dark, the place would swarm with the townspeople, curious to see anything outside the daily drudge of their dull lives. But now, midday on an otherwise sleepy Thursday, the grounds were all but quiet.

“Going through the front door, dumbass?”

Bobby hated when Fix took that tone. Same one he’d heard his whole life, teased and knocked around. So he didn’t answer. Just kept walking, listening to the wind rustling back in the woods and the occasional sound from the tents and trailers ahead.  When he got close enough, he rounded the chain link and headed toward the back. Later, the action would be inside the big tent, sure. But Bobby knew the trailers were the place to start. Bobby searched beyond the fence for signs they’d been seen or trouble to get into. Fix followed, marking his path with globs of rancid spit.

“There,” Fix said, and Bobby looked to where he pointed. The break in the chain link that would let them slip through. Disappointment twisted Bobby’s stomach. He wished he’d seen it first. He ducked his head beneath the chain and the other six feet of him followed. Fix had more trouble with his bulk. He masked his pain with indifference as the metal scraped his spine; but Bobby saw. Bobby knew.

Inside, they both stood rooted, looking. Listening. A line of road-worn trailers circled the back of the lot. Cheap, splintered siding and windows pocked with rock holes.

“Which one you think’s got the clowns?” Fix whispered. He cracked his knuckles real slow.

Bobby shook his head, his eyes trained toward the end of the line, on the shiny Gulfstream with the plaid curtains flapping out the windows. Clowns or freaks, he didn’t care. That trailer was the one that called him. Three wooden steps led to its metal door. He’d have to bend nearly in half to get through.

“Come on,” he whispered. He had no doubt Fix would follow.

To be continued…

Hidden Freak

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Pine Grove had the unfortunate claim to be one of the most boring towns in Nowhere, America. Sure, if some ambitious soul in town were to write a brochure –and Bobby was positive there wasn’t– it’d have words like “peaceful,” “relaxing” or “pleasant” throughout it’s bland pages. Whatever the spin, it still meant boring.

That was until the carnival came to town.

From what Bobby could tell, it wasn’t really a carnival. He didn’t see any rides being built up other than a Ferris wheel on the far end. It was more like a sideshow gone rogue.

“I tell you, Fix,” Bobby said for the umpteenth time. “It’s better than a proper circus.”

“Would you just listen to yourself.” Fix paused before saying what he’s also now said for the umpteenth time. “There’s no getting better than a proper circus. In fact it cain’t call itself a circus if it ain’t proper.”

Despite Fix’s protestations he followed Bobby to the clearing just outside of town where the not-circus was setting up. By cutting through the woods and hopping the creek bed they were able to get there in half the time as taking the main roads. Not to mention they might be able to get a good look before getting kicked out. That’s when Bobby first realized he planned to do something worth getting kicked out for. No sense getting around it, so he embraced it with both trouble-wielding arms.

“Everyone knows the best part of a circus is the sideshow. The freaks.” Bobby was going to leave it at that, but then felt he needed to clarify. “The freaks that don’t mind being freaks.”

“There you go not making sense again.”

Fix stopped in a bank of pines to dig in his pocket. The light that made it through the boughs wasn’t enough to make the grass grow more than tufts here and there, but the layers of fallen pine needles made up for it, making the ground spongy and easy to walk on. Fix plucked out a pouch of chewing tobacco and pinched a generous lump under his lower lip. After pitting a few stray bits out he continued.

“What kind of freak don’t mind being a freak? As sure as hell would mind if I was a freak.”

This is where Bobby had some experience in. At fifteen he was just shy of seven feet tall. Put like that it ain’t so bad. But when he started school at almost two heads taller than the second tallest kid, he got labeled a freak. And even though by high school some kids started catching up, old labels were near impossible to shake. Maybe if he could’ve land a basket more than two out of ten times, he could’ve traded labels for basketball star. Now he’s just the Tall Guy, though he could still hear the underlying “freak” in its subtext.

“If the bearded lady wasn’t okay with being a freak, she’d shave. Since she’s alright with her freakness, she sits in a booth and makes money off your curiosity. If the fat–”

“I get your point.” Fix cut in and punctuated with a brown glob of spit. “Still no proper circus.”

“I wouldn’t think a sideshow would need clowns.”

This got Fix’s attention. He hated clowns. He was always breaking his little sisters clown dolls. Said they made him angry and couldn’t control smashing them. I think they scared him, but knew better than to ever tell it to his face.

Fix might have been a foot shorter than Bobby, but he made up for it in muscle. See, Fix didn’t get his name because he fixed things. He broke things. It might have started out on accident, but I think somewhere along the way he got used to the attention and kept breaking things. He got to hearing “You gonna fix that” in one form or another so much, the name just made itself.

“It might not be proper, but it sounds like it could be better,” Fix conceded. He got up and started their journey back up.

If Bobby knew it would the last time he saw Fix, he would’ve never mentioned clowns.

To be continued…

The Heist, Part II

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Part I can be found here. And now back to our story…

The smell of decay, feces and gun oil stopped them more effectively than the door with the lock. Slim heaved alongside the rail car, splashing orange against the steel tracks. If Clark hadn’t been too wound up to eat his breakfast, he’d be adding to the mess on the ground. As it was, he gagged and covered his nose and mouth with the crook of his elbow. He tried to use the burlap sack he carried, but it was too thick to catch the smallest of breath through.

Foss cackled and twisted his waxed whiskers.

“Told ya you shoulda’ waxed it. Smells no worse than a night after Cappy’s chili.”

Clark wiped the tears from his eyes. He didn’t have time to get used to the smell. They had a job to do. He stepped into the rail car and assessed what he could carry. Pistols, rifles, and crates filled with who-knows-what lined half the car. The other half was caged off and steeped in shadows. That had to be where stench came from. Clark did his best to avoid that side of the car.

He grabbed a Colt Peacemaker off a shelf and spun the cylinder. Though it was heavier than it looked, the polished wood grip fit nice in his hand. It beat the hell out of scrap he carried now.

“Gimme that.” Foss yanked the colt from Clark’s hand.

“More gun than you can handle, Walker.” His last word spoken like he took a swig from a spittoon. He went on to grab indiscriminately at guns and bullets, shoving them in pockets and belt loops.

A series of gun shots fired. It sounded to Clark to be several cars down. No time to get pissed over a stolen, stolen gun.

Clark opened his bag, and threw gun after gun into it. He came across another Colt Peacemaker with pearl grips. Looking over his shoulder he saw Slim and Foss trying to lift a crate of rifles, and he quick-swapped the rust-pocked revolver in his side holster for the Peacemaker.

A loud crash from behind and Clark nearly jumped his skin. Slim had dropped his end of the crate, smashing it on the floor. It wasn’t filled with rifles.

The crate spilled out small brown jars. Several shattered revealing thick gray sludge. Groans erupted from behind the bars on the other end of the car. Shadows moved behind the bars as shadows moved across his mind. The feeling had him gagging all over again.

The door was between him and the cage. He needed out and took a step toward the door. A gun fired from just outside and McLaren ducked into the car, his shirt sweat-soaked and dark beard covered in dirt.

“And where do you think you’re goin’?” He stared at Clark through squinted eyes. “Your bag’s near empty, Walker.”

“Half,” Clark said more as reflex than defiance.

“You’re still sticking with half are you?”

McLaren kicked open the door all the way, letting light fall into the cage. Fur, feathers, and flesh all trembled at the light. Taloned hands covered human faces, paws and feet paced back and forth. They screamed and growled and pleaded. Clark heard in his ears, and even clearer in his head.

“These are the only Halves I know, Walker.”

Clark counted five… what? People? Animals? Monsters? He wasn’t a monster. They weren’t skinwalkers. The screams in his head said otherwise.

Foss and Slim laughed and scooped up the unbroken jars.

“Break any more and it comes out a your cut. And you, Walker.” McLaren pointed his gun at Clark, a small tendril of smoke escaping the barrel. “You. I’ve got something else for you.”

“Sure, boss. Whatever. You know I’m good.” This wasn’t the time to press his luck with McLaren. Failing this job would leave him in a cell or worse.

“Glad to hear, Walker.” A smile split his beard wide, but he didn’t lower his gun.

Yelling came from outside. Whatever guard was on the train sounded like they were regrouping. Time was up.

“Now tell me again what makes you half a skinwalker? Nevermind, I don’t care. The proofs in the Walkin’, right?”

McLaren pointed to the caged monstrosities with his other hand.

“Start Walkin’.”

See how it all ends on Friday. You won’t want to miss it.

Blueshine, Heartfire Part III

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If you haven’t already, please read the first two installments. Part I written by Amy Nichols and Part II by Amy McLane. Then read on to the conclusion…

Blueshine, Heartfire Part III

Jareb gripped the sewal with both hands, Gershu’s creeda forcing him to clean. No. He’d cleaned enough, but his hands wouldn’t let go of the sewal. One end locked in his grip, the other submerged in the cob.

His foot falls felt like they was missing a step down. A stutter-stop motion that sent ripples through the murky cob water. His eyes focused on the cob water. The interior airlock only half sewaled and the water was a solid grey. Bits of sand swirled in the cob; tangle hairs, rainbow streaks of grease, gelatinous matter that could have been mold or vomit or blackrot for all he knew. All this he could see in the cob, but not one inch of the sewal below the water.

Corded twists of his hair fell from his cap and framed his view of the cob, his stutter-stop swagger now sloshing the contents back onto the floor. The Gershu’s creeda screamed at his being to slop it up.

He stopped and swayed, lifting the sewal from the cob. His pocket burned. The Gershu’s creeda cracked as his hand flew from the sewal to slap at his burning skids. No fire. One hand away and it was easier to pull his eyes from the cob.

He’d seen the Gen Master use his creeda to burn a hole trough a Vind’s boot and commanded him to finish stamping the lavreen plumes flat.

“Don’t fret about getting your blood on the plumes,” the Gen Master told the Vind. “The flesh has been singed shut. You’re welcome.”

No, there was no fire burning his skids. No hole anyway or the charred beginning of one. Just the lump in his pocket.

He reached in. The Gershu’s creeda that had continued to crack shattered as his finger brushed against the gimlet. Shattered as sure as his heart had in a murkier mess than the cob.

He stopped walking. Jareb didn’t remember walking again, but he must have. When he stopped, he looked up to and into the B Drop. Gershu stood with a finger crooked over Effy.

“That was quick,” she said without looking away from the prostrate form of Effy. “Good. Then you can help your slut finish the floors in here. Her tongue doesn’t appear to do as a good a job as your sewal, even though I had her stomach emptied before starting.”

Her finger stiffened with more creeda and twitched in Jareb’s direction.

He clenched his fists waiting for the creeda to grip him as sure as he gripped the sewal. Whether it was his own nails or an edge of gimlet, he never knew. One or the other pierced his palm and he felt it.

The fire.

The fire entered his palm and traveled the veins up his arm. They were blue. It shone through his skin as bright as the inner dome lamps.

Jareb looked at Gershu. Her eyes were wide, but that damned finger still crooked at him. He could see the creeda, too. Never in his life had he even known it possible to view, but there it was jetting from her finger in a black mist. From the position of her finger it should have come straight at him, but it fell at his feet before his blueshine.

Effy retched.

The sight of her sent something roiling through him. He cocked his head to the right, and Gershu’s finger snapped, the flow of creeda ceasing.

“Enough,” Jareb’s voice sounded oddly fuller than it had. “Never again.”

The end of the sewal snapped, leaving the head in the cob. His footing was sure now, and he advanced on Gershu.

“Jareb, wait.”

Effy’s voice rasped like an opening airlock.

“Yes, Jareb. Listen to the slut.”

Gershu brought up both hands, nine of ten fingers writhing with creeda. The tenth dangled uselessly. The creeda didn’t come for Jareb or Effy. It shot down the hall in both directions.

“Just remember you made me do this. I only hope there’ll be enough left of you to clean up once it’s over.”

Gershu smiled and softly shuffled in her slippers. She danced in place as her creeda poured from her. Jareb saw her inner well of creeda start to dry up when he heard movement at the end of the corridor.

Ssshhhh-clump.

Ssshhhh-clump.

Jareb’s stomach dropped.

A hoard of Vindaline moved toward him in a slide-step gate, faster than he felt they should have been able to manage. Hard to manage because they were covered in black welts wherever he could see skin. Blackrot.

Jareb stepped in front of Effy, still on the floor. The handle of the sewal seemed useless against this mob of dead flesh, yet he held tight and ready to strike.

Gershu laughed and shuffled.

“The Vinds lack the ability to learn. There place is so far below, why we even allow them to be seen, I’ll never know.”

The blueshine flickered. He was to die here. This was it. Effy grabbed hold of Jareb’s skids and buried her face in the back of his leg.

The mob would kill them. Kill them, but not kill them dead. The blackrot would take their flesh, and Gershu and her creeda would puppet them like the rest of the mob.

The Vindaline closest to him looked to open his jaw. Looked because it didn’t stop opening. Its jaw unhinged and fell to ground with a rotten smack. Jareb could see the Vind’s eyes. He didn’t know him, but he knew the stare.

He sees the stare in most Vinds he meets, Effy excluded. That stare said, “Please. Please, make them stop.”

He wouldn’t end this way. He wouldn’t let Effy end this way either. His will resolved and the blueshine no longer wavered.

Gershu’s laughing dance didn’t stop. It continued as Jareb threw the sewal handle at the control panel by the airlock. Her slippers shuffled as the handle struck the Emergency Evac. Her fingers tittered even as the doors opened and the air, Vinds, and everything untethered rushed into open space.

Jareb and Effy watched all of this from inside the blueshine. The Emergency Evac counted down from ten and shut the doors once more. Not so much as a single corded twist moved on Jareb’s head.

Something burned in his chest and Jareb knew. A chard of his heart mended in the fire of the blueshine. And if a single chard could be fixed, the whole of his heart could be too. He held his hand out to Effy.

“I believe we’re to see the Gen Master.”

The Night Shift, Part II

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Part I of The Night Shift is here. Part III will be posted on Friday.

The kid jumped at the sound of her voice. He spun, a neat heel-toe that I never would’ve guessed was in him. Then he hissed at the chef. If I’m lyin’ I’m dyin’.  Frickin’ hissed at her. I thought that was super weird.

Things got weirder directly.

“Oh shit,” said the chef.

They ran at each other. At least, that’s what I thought was going on. But the kid, he runs down aisle two at the chef, and the chef runs up and jump-kicks the shelving , like she’s the goddamn Karate Kid. The whole thing tips. The kid skids on a packet of Skittles and bites it just in time for the metal shelving to smash down on top of him in a hail of Snowballs and Corn Nuts.

I thought my brain was going to short-circuit.

“Oh my God!”  I hustled out from the counter. “You all right son?”

“Stay back,” said the chef.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I’m screaming now, and I don’t care. “You think you can just come in here and fuck up my store, kill some kid cause he looked at you funny? You think you’re some kind of fucking gunslinger or something?”

“Nothing is wrong with me, sorry about the mess, he’s not dead-”

“He’s not?”

“-Hell no, and he’s not a kid. And no, I’m not a gunslinger.” She hooked a thumb on the black nylon strap on her shoulder and swung her bag around so I could look at it.

“THE ULTIMATE EDGE,” I read. Okay. She was nuts. As if there was any doubt at this point.  Just gotta keep her calm until the cops get here. “I don’t know that purse brand, but I’m sure it’s a great one.”

“It’s a knife bag.” She squinted. “Ted.”

I rubbed my hand over my name tag. Back and forth.  Back and forth. “Knives, huh? For cooking.  At your job. ‘Cuz you’re a chef.”

The chef turned, set THE ULTIMATE EDGE on the counter.

“You don’t have to show me-” I said as she pulled on the zipper.

“Name’s Teresa. You can call me Reece.”

“Ted.”

“Yeah. I got that.” Reece unpacked THE ULTIMATE EDGE. Knives glittered. Big ones. Small ones. Skinny ones. Mean ones. Reece picked one up.

“Do you mind not doing…that?” I asked. Something rolled against my foot. I looked down at a can of Vienna Sausages. I looked over at the kid, still pinned beneath the metal shelving. His eyes were open. He wiggled. One arm was almost free.

“Hey!” I said. I walked over to the kid on legs shaky with relief. “Anything broken?”

He looked at me, mute.

I bent closer. “I said-“

His hand shot out from under a bag of Fritos and grabbed me by the throat. The pain was instant. I couldn’t breathe. I pulled at his hand with both of mine, but he was strong.  A shadow fell over me.

Reece.

“WHY ARE YOU HERE?” Reece shouted at the kid.

The kid spat at her.

Reece screamed in pain as the kid’s saliva struck her skin.

“You’re 86ed, you dumb mother,” she said, and stabbed the kid in the chest.

Green stuff came out, the exact green of those pine tree shaped car fresheners.

No red. No red at all.

I finally got the kid’s hand off me. “What. The. Hell?” I choked out.

“I told you he wasn’t a kid. They’re Nightwalkers, Ted, and where there’s one, there’s always more.”

I looked at the green puddle spreading across my floor.

“Tina’s gonna kill me.”

“Tina is not who you gotta worry about. Unless-”

“Unless?”

“She the owner?”

“Yup.”

“That would explain it.” Reece sounded almost relieved.

“Explain what?”

Reece looked at me.  “She’s their Queen.”

The Night Shift

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The world doesn’t end once the sun goes down. The last tail light fades to a red pin prick before guttering out, but I’m still here, a creature of the night. Now don’t go yelling vampire or demon spawn or some such crazy nonsense. There’s no such thing. I’m just Ted.

The night clerk.

Once the street lights come on, I clock in and man the bullet-proof cage that hasn’t seen anything stronger than a .22 caliber spit wad in the twenty-some years I’ve worked here. Tina says I can have all the coffee I want while I work. She thinks it’ll help me stay awake through the night, and I’ve been known to go through more than two pots on my shift. Truthfully, I just like the bitter, no cream or sugar taste. I have no problem staying up till sun rise.

I think the common misconception is that nothing happens in the middle of the night when you’re outside city limits. That couldn’t be farther from the truth. I see all sorts.

Just the other night this lady comes in wearing a black shirt with two columns of thick buttons. The cuffs were rolled several times just so her hands wouldn’t get lost in the sleeves.

‘That’s an interesting shirt.’

‘I’m a chef,’ she told me as she reached for a pack of cigarettes on the display case.

‘Let me grab you a fresh pack from here,’ I said. Those packs on display haven’t been rotated out in years. If someone should steal one, I’d hate for them to enjoy it, too.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

As she put the pack back on the shelf, the cuff pulled back just far enough for me to see a light scar across her wrist. She must have seen me looking because she said, ‘Cooking accident. An oven doesn’t care how long you’ve been using it. It’ll bite you just the same.’

Her mouth might have smiled while she said it, but her eyes looked tired from repeating it.

‘Ain’t that the truth. That’ll be three seventy-two.’ I took her money and a couple pennies from the spare change tray and gave her thirty cents back.

Now on a different night, or maybe a different time that same night, I might have chatted a bit more. It’s not often I get to talk to an actual chef. Outside though, another car pulled in the lot, and most people won’t talk to a stranger if they know another stranger will overhear them.

‘Do you mind if I stand outside and smoke?’

‘Sure, sure,’ I said. ‘Just don’t get near the gas pumps. Nothing might happen, but we could get an earful if the wrong person sees you.’

‘Got it.’

The chef lady pounded the pack of cigarettes against the palm of her hand as she walked out the doors, sounding the electric chime as she crossed the threshold.

No one had gotten out of the car yet, but I could see two people talking in the front seat. I’m pretty sure the car was green. It was hard to tell being that it was covered in mud, most of it fresh. Usually I’d wait behind the counter for someone to come in, but instead I waddled out from the bullet-proof cage and headed for the beer coolers. My knee was acting up that week, so it took me a bit to get up to speed. Sometimes I tell people it’s an old football injury acting up, but really I’m just getting old. I also used to tell people to avoid getting old until I thought about the alternative.

So I waddled to the beer coolers and locked them. I still had an hour before last call, but it could save me some grief later. At least so I thought. I poured myself another cup of coffee and headed back to my little cage of glass. It’s more like plastic, but they tell me it’s bullet-proof.

The passenger door opens up and a kid gets out. Maybe he’s not so much a kid, but at my age, if your hair ain’t gray or falling out, you’re still a kid to me. He’s got his hood pulled up, hands in his pockets, and never looks up as he comes in the store. I couldn’t keep from smiling as he headed for the beer. He pulled on the cooler door and nearly lost his balance when the door didn’t open like he expected.

Now I could’ve just asked the kid for his ID. That usually sends them running through the door. But I was enjoying watching him fumble around, staring at a seventy-five cent bag of Doritos as if there was something meaningful to find in its list ingredients.

That’s when the door chime went off again. The chef lady was back.

‘I think I’ll bring home a nightcap, too,’ she said.

As soon as that chime sounded, I knew this would go sour. Well, less amusing anyway.

Foxtrot (Part III of III)

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Here’s the conclusion to this week’s Round Robin story. Make sure you check out Part 1 and Part 2. The Amys are definitely a hard act to follow.

Foxtrot

Shadow detected. Commence crossload.

The Shadow dressed in similar garb, black on black with the hood of her cloak framing her mask. For the briefest of seconds, I thought it identical to my own. No, not identical. Black and mirrored, it reflects mine. The grotesque features further distorting in the curve of her mask.

Another chemical release fires through my synapses. A momentary pause and…

I’m back. No, that’s not entirely true. What was me is shoved collectively to one small corner of what once was my mind. I can see something interacting between the two Masks, like vapors of heat flowing from the Shadow to me and back again.

A chorus of voices sounded in my mind. Integration error. Integration error. Integration error.

No shit, I thought back. A small pang of disappointment fills me. I wanted oblivion. To no longer feel. Instead I’m a passenger in my own body.

Proceed with crossload. Reintegration to follow.

Fine. I might as well enjoy the show.

I couldn’t move my head, but in my peripheral vision I could make out Drones and aliens going on their way. They pay little attention to what is happening. What is happening? I try to find the markings of any Pures. Sure, many of them keep their markings covered, but plenty of fanatics display their circle and cross or circle and arrow on the backs of their hands or sides of their neck.

Not one. Just Drones. Wait. Drones?

At once the word is familiar and alien. Is that how they think of us?

My body, acting without my consent, lowers the bag to the ground. From it the Mask extracts the case. It looks again at the Shadow.

“Hey!”

I try to turn my head. Just an inch so I can see. No luck. I can only guess from the air of authority in his timbre, that it was the military guard addressing us.

“Step away from the case!”

The damn Mask still wouldn’t let me turn my head. A beam of light more intense than a flash light reflects off the Shadow’s Mask. In that moment I could see the girl’s face underneath. Her features are delicate and unwrinkled. A curl of blond hair stuck to one cheek. Not unlike my Serena.

No. It isn’t her. I put her in the ground. Covered her in dirt and tears. This is someone else’s daughter. Some one else’s love and life. Did they know where she was? Did she know where she was?

The entire time the guard is yelling. I don’t bother to listen. I couldn’t move myself to respond if I wanted to.

A burst of bullet fire knocked the Shadow from her iron bench.

No! My cry fell on six deaf ears, but I had stepped one foot toward her.

Another burst of fire sends me sprawling out of reach of the case. I could feel the bullets hit and bounce off my chest plate. No pain. I probably should feel it. Breathing was harder, but no pain.

The Shadow’s Mask pops up a few feet behind the bench. The same shimmering vapor comes from her Mask, but this time directed at the case.

Mission complete. Return home for reintegration. It’s almost a collective sigh.

The case pulses a red light. It intensifies as a cacophony of screams tries to escape. The Shadow’s Mask is cracked. A small trickle of blood running down her cheek. Some one else’s Serena is going to die.

No.

“No,” I yell with my own voice this time.

I scramble forward on my knees. Every movement a slogging disconnect.

Return home. Return home. Integration error. Reintegration commencing.

Muzzle flash blurs my vision. My feet no longer respond. I continue on my knees until they too stop working. The paralysis reaches my shoulders. My fingers touch the case, but can’t pull myself on it. I do my best to shove it underneath me. I think I did it. I think because I can’t feel anything anymore.

My consciousness starts to disassemble once again. Before it’s completely gone, I see myself borne into the air.

The world spins up and then down. Cascades of stone and concrete rubble skitter like roaches from the light. A dark mass obstructs my view and the world stops moving.

I have no idea how long I laid there before the light came back. It dances in the swirling dust motes as a large mass of concrete is lifted from me.

“Here!” cried a voice. “Over here!”

A pair of hands excavate me from my tomb, and quickly it goes dark again. When light comes once more, I find myself indoors with the sounds of central cooling humming from above. A young man lifts me up to look me in the eyes. His eyes are hard and determined. He breathes deep and turns me around. I see myself in a mirror across the room. My face is fixed in a demonic snarl as the young man places me over his own. It doesn’t matter what he calls himself. That would be gone soon. His struggles die and integration complete. This time fully complete.

Foxtrot is live.

The Toll Road (Part 2)

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As this is the second part in a longer piece, I recommend reading Part 1 first if you haven’t already. And now I pick up where Ms. Nichols left off…

Kinder hurried to retrieve the box, but not fast enough. The man already had it in his hand, brushing the flakes of snow from the cover. His finger traced the knotted design carved into the lid and lifted the clasp.

“You know,” he said, returning the clasp without opening it, “there is nothing keeping me in this place after the sun falls below the mountain’s peaks.”

She turned to the west at his words. The sun, now less gold than red, almost touched the top of the peak. She looked back to the man. Poorly dressed, he resembled a man tossed out in the cold. Pants held in place with rope, shirt threadbare and loose on his shoulders, and gloves missing the tips of the fingers.

Kinder wondered if this crossing was a punishment of sorts for him. Who could he have ired to forever collect the toll?

Kinder shook her head. These were the things Remini would have wondered on. Kinder blinked back tears that threatened to freeze to her lashes. She knew she needed to start with his name. In the different tales and songs, they all began with his name.

He held up a hand.

“Before you begin, know that once you speak my name, we cannot stop till the toll is paid and naught of anything else.” He glanced at the falling sun and back. “We still have time for pleasantries.”

The rose in his cheeks and smile on his lips contrasted the dark in her heart. There was nothing pleasant to share. The days were gray as her sister’s skin. But if pleasantries was what he wanted, so be it. Although, she found it hard to keep the sarcasm from bleeding through her words.

“For winter, the weather is quite pleasant today. Don’t you think?”

The man’s smile faltered a bit.

“I actually find it rather gray. Tell me of your sister.”

His words slapped her harder than the cold. Of course this was why she was here, but what did he need to know about her? This was her burden. No one wanted to bear it with her in town. Why should she now share it with him now? What would he care for the way she twirled the same lock of hair until it had its own curl, bouncing against the rest of her straight tawny hair? Remini was so unaware that she did it, Kinder believed she even did it in her sleep.

“She is no longer with me, and I care not talk—”

“Did a day ever go by that she did not twist her hair in that single cute curl?”

She held her breath. Did he know what she was thinking?

“You really left me no choice. If you’re not willing to speak for the heart, I had to listen to it for myself. Now we can continue this way and squander what little time you have left, or we can try this again.”

He paused as she released her breath in a white cloud that drifted and spread to nothing.

“Please,” he insisted, “tell me of your sister.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“I really don’t know. To be honest, she would’ve been the better of us to be here. She’d have a list of question that would only double with ever answer you gave.”

The smile came back to his face.

“Well then, what would she ask of me?”

“She could be quite silly. I’m not sure it would be of much interest to you.”

“No matter how silly. Please ask. For Remini.”

At the sound of her name a tear fell free. She tried to wipe it before it froze. Instead she scratched her cheek as it turned to ice. Regardless she smiled and suppressed a light laugh.

“She’d most definitely go on and on about the songs. She tries to learn them all. From the ones about—”

He raised a finger and cautioned, “No names. Not yet.”

“Right. Well, she would want to know how many song have been sung about you.”

As the words left her, she felt a fluttering. If Remini were here, her hand would be clasped in anticipation for the answer. Maybe even learn a new song to sing while she worked the loom.

The man’s eyes brightened. His hand waxed and waned over the carved myrtle box as if it were a pet he had expected to start purring.

“Truth be told, I don’t know. There are so many with variation forever being added. I believe I’d have better luck counting the fallen snow.”

“Oh.”

She was sure the disappointment in her voice would have matched Remini’s were she here.

“I can tell you this, though,” he quickly added. “I have more songs told of me here than my other incarnations elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?”

“Across the river to the south, the mountains in the west, and the dry lands in east.”

“How do they know of the Toll Road?”

“They don’t.” His smile deepened. “They know about the Cliff’s End, the Gallows Tree, or the Blind Well. There are a few songs that are only known by a single family, passed down from mother to daughter or father to son. I know of one song that will be forgotten to this world once its writer finally passes.”

“The Blind Well? Gallows… I know those songs! But those are about—”

He started to protest.

“I know, I know. No names yet. Some of those songs are awful. My mother smacked Remini for reciting the Gallows Tree song. And the Cliff’s End is sung every spring to rejoice. Those songs are not about the same people.”

“I am who I need to be once my name is called.”

He glanced up and Kinder followed his gaze. The sun burned red as its last remaining rays shone over the mountain top. Her time was almost up.

“It is time to name me, Kinder, sister of Remini.”

He handed back her box of tokens for the Toll. She saw again his fingerless gloves. They weren’t ragged at all. The knot of rope at his waist had the shine of gold to it, and his shirt was not so much threadbare as it was delicate and smooth like virgin silk. This man was not at all what he first appeared to be.

She took ahold of the myrtle box. Did she have to name him as the Man of the Toll? She sure wouldn’t utter the name from the Gallows Tree, nor did she know enough about the other songs to dare invoke them.

Kinder was done dealing with death. She longed for rebirth. She stood up straight and looked the man in the eyes.

“I call upon you, Loomis, Master of the Toll.”

His eyebrows arched.

“Loomis? I’ve never been called such.”

“As I’m living something new, I feel I might be on better ground if you were as well.”

To be continued…