Fantasy, General Fiction, Romance, Short shorts

Albert

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Albert

Once upon a time there lived a frog named Albert. Albert was quite content as a frog. He had his lily pad, his friends and a wonderful voice. Everybody knows that frogs are great singers, but Albert’s voice was something special. Whenever he sang the whole pond would stop and listen to him sing. Albert sang about the moon shining on the pond at night, about sleeping warm in the mud through the winter and about bathing in the warm light of the sun. It was in fact, Albert`s voice that got him into trouble.

In a castle up on a hill, overlooking Albert’s pond, lived a King and his family. The royal family lived content, with the exception of the youngest daughter whose name was Sue. Where princesses were supposed to be graceful and composed, Sue was somewhat ungainly and terribly shy. Somehow she never acted quite like a princess should. Her brothers and sisters taunted her unmercifully. Even the servants in the castle teased her

One spring evening when the air was especially still she stood on the balcony of her room listening to the sounds of the spring night. Since her room overlooked the pond, she of course heard Albert singing.

     “Even a frog has something special that makes him sing so beautifully.” She sighed and leaned her head against the cool glass. “I wish I knew what that frog is singing about so wonderfully. She shook her head. “What nonsense I am thinking tonight to envy a frog his voice.” She turned to go into her room. Just as she was closing the doors behind her she heard a beautiful bass voice singing of the joy of spring under the first star of the night. Transfixed the princess stood and listened to the velvety voice.

“O dear me, you will catch your death of cold.”

Sue jumped and turned to her nurse.

 “You startled me.” She closed the doors and came into the room. she stretched and gave a tremendous yawn. “I’m so tired.”

 “Such a yawn for a princess.” Her nurse clucked and helped her change for sleep. “It isn’t at all becoming.”

Sue blushed and climbed into her bed. When the light was out and she was alone, Sue lay awake and stared at the ceiling.

 “Why do I need a nurse anyway? I’ve grown far beyond the age I need a nurse.” Still grumbling she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning did not begin well. First, Sue was late for breakfast. her mother glared as Sue hurriedly slid into her seat and sent the juice glasses to slopping over onto the white tablecloth.

 “Oh, I am sorry, I slept late.” Sue mopped at the juice with her napkin..

 “My dear, you are a princess,” the Queen said, “you must be punctual. If you cannot be on time, don’t make excuses, and certainly don’t rush about out of breath.”

 After breakfast the princesses gathered to work on their needle point. Sue stabbed herself, and bled so badly that she ruined three months of painstaking work. Her finger bandaged, she was sent outside to amuse herself until lunch, with the order to stay out of the mud, and her sisters’ demure titters ringing in her ears.

What use is it to be a princess if I can’t be a happy princess?  Gradually the warm sun began to cheer her up. Then she heard the wonderful voice from the night singing. Following the voice until she reached the pond Sue saw a large green frog sitting on a stump. She squealed and jumped back. The frog jumped into the pond. The ball which the princess dropped, rolled into the pond.

“How am I going to get my ball back without getting covered with mud?” the princess wailed. “0h, why can’t I do anything right?”

***

 Albert looked carefully out from under the water. The girl sat on the grass crying bitterly. He had often seen the princesses playing near his pond and felt sorry for the youngest princess. He liked her best because she was the only one who ever seemed to appreciate his pond. On an impulse he dived down into the water and with a great effort pushed the ball to the surface and rolled it to the princess. Sue looked at him in astonishment.

“Thank you, 0h, thank you.” She grabbed the ball and laughed. “They will never believe this in the castle.” Albert was so pleased with himself that he swelled up with song. Sue’s eyes bulged and she almost dropped her ball again.

“It was you singing last night” She gasped in astonishment. “You must be a prince under enchantment. no frog could sing so beautifully.” The princess looked around. “I will take you home and break your enchantment. Then we can be friends.” She quickly caught Albert and ran home to hide him in her room.

 Albert was devastated. This place was cold and hard, and worst of all it was dry. There not a decent bit of water or mud to be found. He missed the sun and the well known murk of his pond. As the day turned into evening his loneliness became so great that he began to sing. It was a terribly mournful song, and as Sue came into her room and heard it, it caught at her heart.

“It must be terrible to be a prince, and have to live as a frog.” She picked Albert up and hugged him. Albert was so sad that he kept singing his unhappy song. “Frog.” Sue said between her sobs, “You are so unhappy. I wish I could make you a prince.” And she kissed him.

“Who is that man?” the King thundered from the doorway. Sue didn’t answer, for she was staring at Albert in amazement. Albert had turned from a frog into a man.

“Why are you in my daughter’s bedroom?” The King roared at Albert, but Albert didn’t answer either he was looking at himself in amazement.

“Why frog, you are a prince.” Sue squeaked.

“Hardly a prince if he appears like that in a princess’s bedroom.” the King bellowed, since, being a frog, Albert had no clothes.

The King and Queen were up all night discussing what they were going to do. They finally decided that the only way to avoid a scandal was for Albert and Sue to get married, immediately. So they planned the wedding for the next week.

 Albert found the change to palace life very difficult. He wasn’t sure how to eat with knife and fork. Clothes were strange and uncomfortable. But most of all he missed being a frog and singing in his beloved pond all day. The only thing that made it at all bearable was the princess. She taught him how to eat with utensils and helped him choose the most comfortable clothes. She even stood up for him when he chose his entire wardrobe in green. But each evening Albert would slip out of the castle and go down to the pond. There he would sit in the light of the moon and sing. They were sad songs, and Sue listening on her balcony would determine to try even harder to make her prince happy.

One day while Albert and Sue sat in the sunny courtyard escaping from the wedding plans for a brief time Sue’s nurse came out to bustle Sue back into the castle.

“I’m about to be married. I don’t need a nurse.” Sue yelled in rebellion. “Go away, and don’t bother me anymore.” The old woman looked at Sue then slowly and silently left.

“Why did you yell at her so?” Albert asked. “Surely she is only trying to help.”

“She’s been my nurse longer than I can remember. But I don’t need a nurse anymore, and I don’t like being fussed over.”

“If you don’t need a nurse, maybe she needs you.” Sue looked at him quizzically.

“Why should she need me. I’d think that she would be glad to do something else for a change.”

 “What?” Albert asked reasonably. “She has always been Nurse.”

“I don’t know. That’s her problem anyway.” Sue grumped.

“You are her princess. I think that makes it your problem.” Albert pointed out. “You should give her something else to do if you want her to stop bothering you.”

Sue looked at him for a moment.

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She jumped up. “I’m going to go and talk to her.”

“What are you going to ask her to do.” Asked the frog prince.

“To be the nurse for our children!” Sue laughed, and ran off to find Nurse. Albert sighed and wandered down to the pond. He thought wistfully of his old uncomplicated life as a frog.

Yet as the days before the wedding shortened, Albert’s common sense made itself felt. Even the King found himself discussing difficult problems with his guest. The Queen went so far as to admit one night while she and the King worked over the proclamation for the wedding that Albert might make quite a suitable match.

“By the way dear, have you found out exactly who Albert is?” She asked. “We really can’ t have a proclamation reading ‘Today the Princess Susan Aurelia Constance Esther marries Albert.’ We need to know a little more about his background.”

 “Quite right, You should ask Sue in the morning.”

The next morning, the day before the wedding, Sue walked down the stairs to breakfast.

“Good morning.” She smiled, and glided into her place.

“Good morning Sue.” The Queen nodded. “Your father found a minor detail that needs to be cleared up. We need to know Albert’s full name and a little more about him for the proclamation.”

“I have been so busy that I never thought to ask him.” Sue said. ” I will ask him today.”

Out in the courtyard, which had become their favourite place, Sue found Albert. He was staring moodily through the gate down toward his old pond .

“Albert, my mother asked me what your other names are.”

“Other names? I only have one name.”

“But Princes always have lots of names. Like me, I have four.”

“I like Sue best,” Albert said with a smile.

“But you are a Prince, you must have other names.”

“No.” Albert sighed “I have no other names. I am not a Prince.” Susan stared at him, then laughed.

“You must be a Prince. Why would anyone enchant somebody who wasn’t a Prince?”

 “You did, Sue.” Albert said looking at her with an expression she couldn’t quite fathom.

“Oh Albert.” Sue blushed.

“But you did Sue. You turned me into a Prince.”

“And if I turned you into a Prince, what were you before?” She demanded.

“A frog. I’m a frog Sue. I was never a prince until I met you.”

“You are not an enchanted Prince?” Sue’s face turned red. “You let me think you were a Prince all this time, and all the time you were just a frog? What am I going to tell my father? That I’m marrying a frog?” Sue stood now, screeching at him.

Albert flinched with each question.

“You creature. You abominable creature. I hate you.” The princess turned and fled from the courtyard.

Albert sat for along while, then slowly he stood and walked down to the pond, a sad, shrinking figure in green.

•••

The Princess locked herself in her bedroom. She refused to talk to anyone. Other than to tell her father through the door that the wedding was off; that everything had been a terrible mistake. She closed the window then wept on her bed for three days.

Finally, she got up and washed her face. Squaring her shoulders, she unlocked the door and went down to breakfast. Her family greeted her with a wary silence. The Queen gave her an approving nod.

Things returned almost to normal. As the weeks passed, Sue floated quietly through life, her face cold and pale. She rapidly lost weight. One morning she no longer had the strength to get up.

The King and Queen worried about her. They begged their daughter to tell them what was making her so unhappy. But Sue simply stared out the window and said nothing. The old nurse came to the princess’s room to be by her side. She bustled about cleaning and tidying, opening the window to let the fresh summer air in. The day passed and as the evening came Sue heard a voice singing outside her window. It sang of the summer night, and the sorrow of a love lost. It sang of the moon shining on the pond and of a beautiful princess named Sue. It sang of enchantment and a broken heart.

“Albert,” the princess whispered. She stood and staggered to the window. “Albert.” His deep, sad voice soared through the night, telling of the joy and sorrow of his love.

Sue sat on the balcony and listened to the song through the night. In the grey of the early morning she slipped out of the castle. Walking slowly but with iron determination she made her way down to the pond.

“Albert.” She called into the silver mists. “Albert, I’m sorry. I love you.” The effort of walking overcame the weakened princess and she fainted beside the pond. There Albert, once again a frog, found her.

My poor Sue.” Albert said as he kissed her. “I wish I could make you happy.”

The rising sun shone gold on two happy frogs as, hand in hand, they hopped into the pond.

Horror, Short shorts

The Sturgeon Tree

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Larry Wentzel
https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

The young man walked the path through the woods, jumping at every frog’s call or owl’s hoot. The warm, dank air reeked of the swamp that came to the very edge of the narrow track. The only the intermittent glow of the full moon as it passed in and out of the clouds lit his way. The phosphorescent glow of decay shone without illuminating its surrounding. Occasionally the frogs and the owls would fall silent, and the boy would strain his ears to hear something in the deafening silence. With extreme care he placed each foot on the path, making no noise himself

John would have preferred a clearer night, but this was the first full moon after midsummer, called the Sturgeon Moon. His only chance to become a member of the Sturgeons; the group which ruled the little community that surrounded John. This night’s ritual was his final test.

Once a year, a single person had the chance to visit the tree in the light of the Sturgeon’s moon. The Sturgeon’s tree was unique, and ancient beyond imagination. Its tortured trunk twisted and bent almost to the ground. Deep cracks in the wood reached in farther than the length of John’s arm. He had seen the tree during the brighter light of the day. It was scary enough then. Now, John’s knees were already shaking, and he had only made half the trek to the tree.

A frog jumped into the slime of the swamp, releasing stinking bubbles. John started and almost missed his footing. The bog had no bottom here that anyone had discovered. A fall could mean he would join those who never returned from this quest. He took a brief moment to breathe deeply of the rank air before moving on.

As he penetrated deeper into the woods, the light became worse. While the sky had cleared the trees had thickened, hogging more of the light for themselves. Now vines hung like gargantuan spider webs, and moss dripped fetid liquid on his head. Just as the moon reached its zenith, John arrived at the clearing where the Sturgeon Tree stood. It shivered and contorted in a wind that blew in some other universe. Branches scraped at the mucky soil, and roots lifted and quested like snakes. Cold phosphors gleamed from deep with the tree. It creaked and groaned with an animal agony.

Now was the true test. He untied a ribbon from his wrist. It looked black in the moonlight, but John knew that it was scarlet, with darker red from his own blood smeared upon it. This ribbon was his offering to the tree. He watched the writhing limbs until one errant branch came close to his feet. He darted in and looped the ribbon around the wood. It slashed at him and scraped his arm from elbow to wrist, but John scrambled back out of reach. The tree paused for a second, then leaned and grasped with its whole twisted length at the boy. He squeaked and rolled back out of reach, not caring what black water was darkening his clothes. He caught a vine and used it to pull himself to his feet.

He had been told to offer the ribbon, then leave, but John was mesmerized by the awful movement. Creaks and snaps sounded loud as thunder while the tree seemed to tear itself apart. Then it did tear, decaying light poured from its centre as a hand thrust itself through the bark. Sap, black as blood in the moonlight dripped from fingers that grasped at the blooded ribbon. A face followed the hands and John looked at his own face, fanged and evil. He whimpered and the tree-John looked at him and smiled.

John screamed and ran crashing, uncaring back along the path. Yet even in the tumult, he heard the sound of footsteps gaining on him.

Fantasy, General Fiction, Short shorts

Old Superheroes Never Die

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“Superman has Clark Kent when he wants to kick back and just not go out to fight the bad guys. I’ve wearing this costume for so long I can’t remember what name my mother called me. It gets tiring sometimes. There are days I could use an extra hand, but who offers to carry groceries for a guy in a superhero costume? Even if the guy qualifies for his old age security.”

The old man sat in the chair in my office and glowered at me. The blue spandex might have been a good choice when he was younger and in better shape, but now it showed off the softness of his old body. Not that he was soft, that gun was real enough, and his eyes held the same steel as the gun.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked and looked at the blank page where I would normally have reams of notes.

“I need a retirement home,” the old man said, “somewhere where the bad guys can’t find me and where everyone else will leave me alone.”

“I need a name, a social security number, an address,” I said, “I understand you wanting a rest, but I can’t place a nameless stranger in a home. You have to give me something.”

He pushed himself to his feet. The sound of joints popping and cracking made me wince. His fingers were swollen, super-arthritis? Was surgery even possible on him?

“Come with me,” he said, “see for yourself. Don’t get too close and don’t get in my way.” I followed him out of my office and watched him walk along the street. Nobody paid the slightest attention to him. A flock of pigeons flew over him and left their mark on his blue costume. His shoulders sagged a little as he kept walking, though I noticed his hand brush against that gun at his side. I don’t know if he walked slowly so I could keep up, but if so he over did it. Several times I had to stop to tie my shoe or look in a window to give him the space he needed.

We turned down a ramp into a parking garage. Shouts echoed through the empty space as men in black ninja costumes jumped out to surround him. None of them saw me as I ducked between two cars and pulled out my cell phone. No signal.

My debate as to whether I should go out on the street to call for help ended when the ninjas leaped to the attack. In the movies, they’d charge one by one and allow him to defeat one before the next moved in.. This wasn’t the movies. They moved as a coordinated team to pummel the old man.

Only he didn’t move like an old man now. One opponent moved a little too fast. The man in spandex grabbed him by the throat and tossed him at those attacking from the rear. The smack of a fist hitting flesh reached my hiding place, but the hero used the arm to pull the ninja off balance and drop him with a quick jab. He spun out of the attempted headlock by another opponent and threw that man on top of the first hard enough to bounce.

One by one then ninjas joined the pile of unconscious thugs until it was taller than the old man. The last one he dispatched with a jump kick I couldn’t imagine trying, though I was sure he had thirty years on me. As I came out of my hiding place the energy left him and he puffed like I did if I walked up a hill too fast. He waved at me and I waited for him to catch his breath.

“Why didn’t you use that?” I pointed at the gun at his side.

“Do you know… how much… ammunition costs?” he said between wheezes. “Nobody pays me for this.”  He walked to the back of the garage and pulled the cover off a classic muscle car. Well, it would have been a classic if it weren’t for the fifty caliber machine guns mounted on each door.

“You may as well get in.” He waved me over to the passenger side and climbed into his seat.

“Where are the seatbelts?”

“Never needed them.” He pushed a button and the engine roared to life. Tires squealed as smoke filled the garage, then he popped the brake and we took off. He weaved through the garage slowing only slightly to bump a reviving ninja back onto the pile with a rear fender. We erupted out of the garage and onto the street, where he had to slam on the brakes to fit into the bumper to bumper traffic.

“We’d be faster walking,” I said.

“Tell me about it,” the old man thumped the steering wheel and glared up at the flock of pigeons that left white gooey marks across the windshield. “Flying’s better, but everyone’s so uptight now I’m afraid they’d try to shoot me down. Got some nice pictures the first time they scrambled on me, but now it’s just a nuisance.”

He pulled off the road and sped away through an alley making one turn after another into spaces I was sure we’d never fit. Even with the extra width of the guns we didn’t leave a scratch on the wall.

“Here we are,” he said and whipped the car through an open loading door. The car rocked and creaked as the elevator lifted us up to the top floor.

We stopped and he climbed out of the car. I had to climb across the car to get out.

“Don’t hit any buttons,” he said.

The words rocket launcher peeked out from beneath my hand. I moved it away and made sure to watch what I did until I stood safe outside the car.

The penthouse was sparsely furnished, almost barren. I shivered, it might be a great hero’s lair, but I wouldn’t want to live here.

“Tea, coffee?” the old man said, “I’d offer you biscuits and jam, but jam jars are my one weakness.”

“How can a jam jar be your weakness?”

“Can’t open them,” he said, “never could.” He poured boiling water into a pot and swirled it. Then made tea.

“Was a time I didn’t mind it up here,” he said, “I needed a quiet place to get away from the rush; being a super hero is addictive. Then like any addiction it takes over and you lose yourself. Those guys with their secret identities had it right. You’ve got to step back and let it go once in a while.”

“So why not take off the mask and retire?” I watched him make tea in the window’s reflection.

“I’m not sure who’s under there any more.” He came over and handed me a cup. I sipped at it. I hate tea, but its bitterness seemed appropriate. He stared through the window at the city. From up here it looked quiet and peaceful.

“They’d find you anywhere I placed you,” I said, “Unless you take off the mask and become just another old man.”

He sipped his tea and I waited.  When I finished my tea, I left him there, still looking out the window. I saw him wave once before I closed the door behind me.

Inspired by this guy’s page. https://andreasenglund.com/

General Fiction, Young Adult

Dating the It Guy by Krysten Lindsay Hager

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Welcome to Kristen who has released a new book; Dating the It Guy.

 

Blurb: Emme is a sophomore in high school who starts dating, Brendon Agretti, the popular senior who happens to be a senator’s son and well-known for his good looks. Emme feels out of her comfort zone in Brendon’s world and it doesn’t help that his picture perfect ex, Lauren seems determined to get back into his life along with every other girl who wants to be the future Mrs. Agretti. Emme is already conflicted due to the fact her last boyfriend cheated on her and her whole world is off kilter with her family issues. Life suddenly seems easier keeping Brendon away and relying on her crystals and horoscopes to guide her. Emme soon starts to realize she needs to focus less on the stars and more on her senses. Can Emme get over her insecurities and make her relationship work? Life sure is complicated when you’re dating the it guy.

Interview with author Krysten Lindsay Hager

Congratulations on your book, tell us a little more about the book. What inspired you to write it?

I was watching a biography on TV about John F. Kennedy Jr. and started wondering what it’d be like to date someone like him back in high school with all the pressures and scrutiny around him. I created Emme, a normal high school girl who begins dating Brendon Agretti, the son of a well-known senator (and the grandson of another senator), who is popular and seems like he leads a charmed life. Brendon begins opening up to her about the pressures that surround him. Meanwhile, Emme begins to feel out of place in his world.

Tell us more about yourself. What else have you published?

I write for teens and preteens and have a large adult following as well. I write the Landry’s True Colors Series, which is a funny series about an eighth grader named Landry who deals with modeling, self-esteem issues, and  middle school. I also write the Star Series which is set in a beautiful beach town where the main character, Hadley Daniels, lives next door to a former teen TV star who seems to bring drama wherever she goes. Dating the It Guy is my first book with Emme Trybus and I’m working on a sequel.

 What are your favorite kinds of stories to read and write?

I like to read funny books that are uplifting where the characters go on a journey and wind up learning about themselves. Those are the same stories I enjoy writing. I like seeing Emme, Landry, and Hadley deal with their feelings of insecurity and learning to accept themselves as they are instead of trying to be something or someone they’re not.

  What is your writing space like?

I just moved a few months ago and I finally have my own office! I just bought bookcases and there’s something about being able to take your books out of storage and display them. I have a lot of cute little toys and stuffed animals that have been given to me that make me smile. I also keep inspirational quotes on my desk.

What projects are you currently working on?

I’m working on another young adult project as well as the sequel to Dating the It Guy. I’m also working on some women’s fiction.

What question would you ask yourself? Answer that question.

I would ask myself which character I see myself in most.

I guess I would say Landry is somewhat like me back when I was in grade school. Hadley was never based on me, but rather inspired by a girl I only knew from a distance. I do see myself a bit in the character Pilar Ito from the Star Series though. I would say Emme Trybus has my sense of humor.

Bio: Besides mining her teen years and humiliating moments for her novels, Krysten is also a book addict who has never met a bookstore she didn’t like. Krysten writes about friendship, self-esteem, fitting in, frenemies, crushes, fame, first loves, and values. She is the author of True Colors, Best Friends…Forever?, Next Door to a Star,  Landry in Like, Competing with the Star (The Star Series: Book 2), and Dating the It Guy. Her debut novel, True Colors, won the Readers Favorite award for best preteen book. Krysten’s work has been featured in USA Today, The Flint Journal, the Grand Haven Tribune, the Beavercreek Current, the Bellbrook Times and on Living Dayton.

Follow Krysten on her website: http://www.krystenlindsay.com/

Amazon author page: http://amzn.to/2fiuY2L

Published Books, Science Fiction

Generation Gap is out

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My YA dystopian book Generation Gap is now out.

When age rules the country, it’s hard being young.

Trey runs away from the youth reserve sure he’s no more than spare parts for a father he barely remembers. The Council of Elders has its own questions about him. When Trey finds the Underground and joins the fight to give rights back to the Youngers, he starts a chain of events beyond anyone’s control.

 

 

Available from my bookstore on this site

[ebook_store ebook_id=”1221″]

or from all major ebook retailers.

As always hard copies can be purchased from Lulu.com

Short shorts

Flies

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John vacuumed the flies from the windowsills. Janet called them cluster flies. John didn’t care what they were. Their incessant buzzing was driving him crazy and they ruined the view. If they were going to sell the house, he didn’t want myriad black flies blocking the view. They bought the house because of the view. It was in the fall. He and Janet fell in love with the flaming colours of the trees in the ravine.

That was back when they were the perfect loving couple. They met in night school. John was taking accounting, Janet studied dance. The magnitude of their differences just added to their love. They would talk for hours, and when they ran out of words, just sit and stare into each other’s eyes.

“The eyes are the windows of the soul.” She would say as she rapped on his head. “Anyone home?”

“Accounting is my job.” He would say. “But you are my life.”

They got married and bought the house. Janet made it a home while he worked to pay for it; to make it theirs.

John sucked the last of the flies from the window and dragged the still buzzing vacuum to the next one. No matter how many times he did this. They came back the next day. From this window, he could catch a glimpse of the river. In the winter it was even better. The stark black trunks of the willows were like the tangle truths of their life. They stood between John and the river, and made the view more interesting.

Their life in the house became complicated, but John relished the challenge. He would come home from work and find Janet dancing naked through the rooms. She would laugh and pull him into the dance. They would shed his clothes throughout the house until he was as naked as the willows by the river. Then they would fall laughing in whatever room they were in and make love.

“I love your eyes.” He would say. “They remind me why I am alive.”

“The eyes are the windows of the soul.” Janet would say.

John moved to yet another window the vacuum roaring its death sentence for the flies tapping against the glass. They tried to flee, but John caught them all. There was no escape. Spring came, and the flies came too. They appeared in the windows as if by spontaneous generation. The leaves burst bright green down by the river. The water became a secret guarded by the fecundity of the trees.

Janet became pregnant. It was a difficult pregnancy and Janet became fractious. John tried to come home early. The constant irritation of the flies made her cranky. John tried all kinds of remedies; anything except poison. He finally settled on this daily trek past each of the windows that faced the river. The flies not only filled the windows of the house, but seemed to fill up the window of their souls. Their love was being strangled.

“Anyone home?” He would say, but Janet’s eyes were filled with anxieties like flies that he could not vacuum away. Her soul was hidden.

The last window was the hardest. The flies rattled into the vacuum. It had been Janet’s favourite. Summer had seared the greenery. Life in the ravine was dry and dusty. Even the water had retreated from the heat. The flowers and Janet wilted.

She lost the baby the day after there were no more flies. John came home to find her keening in the upstairs room. They went to the hospital, but there was nothing to be done. John tried, but he couldn’t see in through Janet’s eyes. They were closed to him, and he was lost.

“Look at me.” He would plead. “We need to talk.”

“Go away.” She would whisper. “There is nothing to say.”

Fall was brown and dull. Winter was gray and wet. John left the curtains closed. He started coming home later. She never danced. They never laughed. Then the flies came back and Janet found that she hated the house.

“We can sell the house.” He had said. “Start over somewhere else.”

“It doesn’t matter..” She had said. “It is over.”

John switched off the vacuum, and looked out the window at the tangled weeds, and he began to weep. The harder he tried to stop the louder it came. All his grief, all his pain, all his love came out in a siren wail. Janet came and knelt beside him. They held each other and wept, and the tears washed the flies from their eyes.

“Our eyes are the windows to our soul.” John said looking into her eyes.

“I am glad you are home.” She said kissing his salty lips.

Humour, Macabre

Jack’s Apocalypse

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“Say something, blast you!” Jack yelled at the mannequin. He knew he was losing it, but why should he always be the one to carry the conversation? “You cheap bit of plastic. We’re through.” He pushed her over onto the pile of clothes and walked away.

It hadn’t taken long after the apocalypse had been inconsiderate enough to leave him behind for him to start losing what used to be referred to as sanity. Now that he was the only one left the whole question of what was and wasn’t sane was up for grabs. Jack peeked back at the mannequin but she had her hand up in what clearly meant to be a rude gesture. Let her stew for a while.

Yap trotted after him growling at his ankles. In all the movies he’d watched the lone survivors were accompanied by loyal and intelligent dogs, big ones. Yap was an irascible little mutt who would have a hard time protecting him from a squirrel. The dog stopped and lifted his leg.

“Yap,” Jack said, “how many times have I told you. Don’t pee on the canned goods?” He walked over to the telephone. “Clean up on aisle four. Clean up on aisle four.” He waited but nobody came, so he went to the back of the store for the mop and bucket. He put on the blue vest and mopped up the puddle. Then he carefully hung up the vest and went back to his shopping.

“We don’t have much of a choice today, boy.” Jack pulled his can opener from its leash and opened a couple of tins. He put one on the floor for the dog and spooned the cold beans into his mouth. He hated beans, especially cold, but he hated moving even more. But the shelves were dangerously empty.

“Well, Yap,” he said, “It’s time we found another place to hang out.” The dog barked then trotted over to a shelf and lifted his leg. “OK, OK, I’ll pack the cart.”

Jack put the last of the tins of food in the shopping cart along with a tent and sleeping bag from camping supplies. The final item was the shotgun and box of shells. There were predators out there. This was going to be a big move. He’d cleaned out all the stores in this town. The next town was at least a week’s walk to the south. There would be stores there with shelves full of food. His mouth watered at the thought of eating something other than beans.

They started out in the early morning. Yap trotting along attached to a leash tied to the cart. The dog hated the leash, but it was safer to keep him close. Jack pushed the cart along the road and basked in the warmth of the sun. He let Yap ride in the cart when he got tired.

“Leave the leash alone,” Jack said tapping the dog on the nose. “I don’t want you chewing at it.”

They made good time and he found himself enjoying the walk. Other than the faint squeak of the wheels the only sounds he could hear were the birds and the squirrels.

Then Yap took off after a squirrel that crossed right in front of him and the leash broke.

“Come here you stupid dog! That squirrel will eat you alive.” The dog ignored him and ran around the base of the tree barking. Jack didn’t see the eagle until it swooped down and snatched Yap from the ground. Picking up the shotgun he shot at the eagle but it was long gone.

Jack wiped at the tears that poured down his face. Here he was Jack, Survivor of the Apocalypse, crying over a stupid little dog. He looked at the shotgun in his hand. Maybe it was time to just end it. He was no heroic survivor; he was just a freak. There was no reason he could think of why he was left behind.

He put the gun back in the cart.

“Sorry, Yap, but I’m just not ready to let go.” He untied the end of the leash from the cart; dropped it to the asphalt then started pushing the cart down the road.

Horror, Humour

The Drive Past Devil’s Butte

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Little Joe squinted against the dust laden wind and counted cows, again. Dang, he hated counting past twenty. He could never keep track of whether it was the first or second time he was working through his fingers and toes.

“C’mon, get y’er butt in gear,” Hank yelled and galloped off on his horse; raising a new cloud of dust and making Little Joe lose count, again. He gave up and kicked his horse into a rough gallop. It felt like three legs were galloping and one was trotting. He clenched his teeth and held on. He could only imagine the reaction of the others if he fell off his horse.

Hank pulled up by a big man on a big horse – the Boss. Mex and Hezekiah were already there with their bandanas pulled up over their faces. Little Joe yanked his horse to a stop and tried to fix the rag that was supposed to keep the dust out of his lungs. He coughed and spat before he recalled that his bandana was over his mouth. Hank rolled his eyes.

“You must treat your horse better,” the Boss said. He frowned at Little Joe. “That horse may save your life someday, but only if it likes you.”

“Yes’r” Little Joe said. He figured if it came to him or the horse, the horse would let him die in an instant. He didn’t say anything. Hank said the Boss didn’t like back-chat and this was Little Joe’s first cattle drive.

“We’re late starting this year,” the Boss said, “So you’ll be taking the herd through the Gulch by Devil’s Butte. That will cut at least two days off the drive. With this drought, there isn’t much water for the herd in any case. Make sure you let them drink at any chance you get.”

“Devil’s Butte?” Mex said, “but what about…”

“I don’t want to hear any superstitious talk,” the Boss said, “I’m paying your wages and you’ll go where I tell you to go.”

Hank didn’t look happy, but then Little Joe couldn’t remember Hank ever looking happy, ‘cept maybe that one time after he come out of that cat house, though Little Joe didn’t recall seeing any cats.

The Boss rode away and Hank glared at Little Joe.

“Let’s get this drive goin’,” Hank said, “Mex, you’re on lead. Hez, you take the right, I’ll take left and Little Joe will chase stragglers. Make sure your guns are loaded and stay sharp. I heard there’s rustlers about.”

“Hank, you didn’t give me no bullets,” Little Joe said.

“I don’t want you shooting me in the foot agin,” Hank said, “or worse shooting one of the cows. Just wave your gun around and try not to fall off your horse.”

“I don’t like going through the Gulch,” Mex said and crossed himself, “Why can’t we just take our usual route by the Cottonwood?”

“Two reasons,” Hank said, “because the Boss said so, and because I said so.”

“But the Devil…”

“Shut it, Mex,” Hank said, “I don’t want you scaring the kid.”

Mex looked like he was going to argue some more, but he just spat and rode off yelling at the cows. He remembered to pull his bandana down before spitting too.

Hez rode away to go round the herd.

“Where did you get that bandana?” Hank said to Little Joe, “It looks like it come off your sister’s dress.”

“Well, she said she didn’t need it no more,” Little Joe said. Hank looked like he wanted to hit him, so Little Joe turned his horse and headed to the back of the herd. He tried spitting like Mex, but still couldn’t get it right.

They pushed the herd out of the corral and up the hill toward the Gulch. Little Joe didn’t much like the sound of Devil’s Butte, but nobody asked him. The cows stayed pretty close to the herd so the only thing that Little Joe really had to deal with was the dust and the smell.

They stopped the night and blocked the herd into a small canyon beside Devil’s Butte. The setting sun made the shadows sharp and threatening. The path up to the Gulch looked even worse than the one they had just ridden. Little Joe walked around the campfire trying to work the cramps out of his butt.

“Don’t worry,” Mex said, “the beans’ll work that out for you.”

“Jus’ don’ sit upwind of da fire,” Hez said.

“Or downwind of Hez,” Mex said and threw a clump of clay at Hez. The clump disintegrated and at least half went into the beans. Neither of the others noticed. All Little Joe could see was their eyes and teeth. The trail dust made all of them the same almost black colour.

“Sit down and rest,” Hank said as he rode up. “You’ll be taking the first watch tonight.” He spat expertly into the fire.

The beans tasted like clay, but at least they filled his belly. It was full on night and the moon made shadows that were even more threatening than the setting sun. Little Joe sat on his horse and stared at the herd. He tried counting them again, but he kept coming up with different numbers. He was surrounded by the soft breath of sleeping cattle and the loud snores of the three men behind him.

Hank had begrudgingly given him one bullet.

“Don’t be shootin’ any cows,” he said, “You put a bullet in one of the Boss’s cows he’ll string you up as quick as any rustler.”

It watched from the middle of the herd. None of the beasts touched him, but neither did they shy away. It was one of them. They ate grass, but its appetite was different. The men joked and farted until one by one they fell asleep. All but the one on horseback. That one sat playing with his gun and looking back at the fire. It began to move through the herd toward its prey.

Little Joe tried to blink away the spots in his eyes. He counted the cows again. Then he saw the one with the horns. It had a kind of negative glow to it, like a candle that sucked in light instead of spreading it. It had a funny smell too, like the calf they’d found in the spring that was mostly eaten by the vultures.

The horse under him shifted nervously, then shied. Little Joe fell to the ground and his gun went off. The bullet blew through his horse’s head and the animal fell dead on top of him. Hank was going to kill him for sure. Little Joe tried to squirm out from under the dead horse, but he was trapped. He thought maybe his leg was busted. Then he stopped worrying about his leg. That strange cow was standing over him, it leaned its head down and breathed on Little Joe. Instead of the grassy smell of most cows, this one reeked of dead flesh. It opened its mouth and Little Joe saw that it had fangs. He only had time for one last thought before it crushed his skull and sucked his brains out.

He chose to regret that he’d never learn to spit.

The shot woke Hank and he jumped to straight to his feet. Then he had to bend down to pick up his gun that was under the saddle he used as a pillow. So Hank didn’t actually see the Devil Cow eat his cousin’s brain. What he saw was the biggest, nastiest looking cow he ever laid eyes on staring at him over the body of a horse with black liquid drooling from its mouth.

Mex and Hez must have woke as quick as he did because he heard Mex swearing in Mexican and English with some Latin prayers tossed in as garnish. Hank looked over to see Mex trying to load his gun with shaking hands. Hez wasn’t shaking. He pointed his gun at the cow and emptied all six shots into the beast. The cow didn’t bawl in pain though. It roared and bounded away up the rocks to the far end of the canyon.

“That’s the Devil Cow,” Mex said when he stopped swearing. “It’s the Devil’s own beast and it eats the brains of its victims before dragging their souls down to Hell.”

“Why it wan’ to go eatin’ Little Joe’s brains?” Hez said, “It ain’t like there was much there. The beast’ll be starvin’.”

Hank wanted to smack the man for speaking against his dead cousin, but he couldn’t get his hand to put his gun back in his holster, ‘sides he’d been thinking pretty much the same thing. Dang, he was going to have to wear a suit to the kid’s funeral. If the kid wasn’t already dead, Hank would’ve killed him himself.

“If the critter eats,” Hank said, “It can die. Load up your guns and we’ll stand watch. I’ll watch the cattle. Mex you and Hez watch behind us. Keep yer back to the fire so you can see proper.

They loaded up their rifles and filled their pockets with extra bullets. Now that he held a rifle, Hank was able to put his gun in the holster. He pulled the kid’s gun belt off him and put it on too. He felt better with two loaded guns and a loaded rifle. No Devil Cow was going to get the best of him.

The smell was the first thing he noticed. It was as if the kid were already rotting. Hank stole a glance to check on the kid and swore when he noticed the kid was gone. He turned right around to try to see him. The Devil Cow came out of the herd just as Hank spotted his cousin sitting on a rock. The kid looked pretty good for someone missing half his head. Hank heard something and spun in time to shoot the Devil Cow with his rifle. The bullet knocked a fair sized steak off the beast, but it didn’t seem to notice. Hank was about halfway through emptying his revolvers into the Devil Cow when he felt the bullet burn through his back, his heart and out his chest.

He didn’t have any time for final thoughts before the Cow ate his brain.

It revelled in the fear of its prey. The bullets were a minor annoyance. Its flesh was only something it put on to feed.

Mex didn’t know if he filled his pants before or after he shot Hank in the back. The odour floated up from his soggy drawers as he emptied his gun into the Devil Cow. He tried to pray to Mary the Mother of God for help as he fumbled his bullets into his gun, but he couldn’t remember the words. The Ave Maria came out half prayer, half curse. He shouted both at the Devil Cow as it walked through the campfire to bare its fangs and eat his soul.

The last one was gone. The Devil cow didn’t care. Contained in the mind of one of its victims was the vision of a town waiting the arrival of the herd. The mind remembered the smell of the slaughter house and the rumbling fear of the cattle. It sounded like a wonderful place.

The Boss looked at the still twitching body of Hezekiah on the scaffold. He didn’t believe a word of the man’s ravings about Devil Cows and the walking dead. It was obvious he was in league with rustlers and everyone knew the penalty for rustling. As he turned to go talk to the bank about the small matter of the money he owed on his missing cattle he saw Hank, Mex and Little Joe riding in. They looked terrible, but they were pushing his cattle ahead of them. He wouldn’t need to beg at the bank after all.

“You’re late,” he said to his cowboys when they pulled up. “The slaughter is just about finished.”

“No,” Little Joe said, “It’s just beginning.” He leaned over and broke open the Boss’s head with his gun and scooped out the brains. His horse trampled the corpse into the dust as it bared its fangs and trotted eagerly into town.

It led its herd to the slaughter and it was glorious. Such fear, such pain! The Devil Cow drank it all in, but it was all too short. The last human fell beneath the hooves of the cattle. The Devil Cow pulled away from its minions and left them rotting along with its prey.

Clouds covered the sun and rain began to splatter onto red mud as one sleek cow meandered up into the hills. It seemed to absorb what little light there was until it faded and blended with the night.

Humour, Short shorts

A Cure for Writer’s Block

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This is a story I wrote some time back in response to a challenge about – you guessed it – writer’s block. It did middling well, but I like the idea behind it.

A Cure for Writer’s Block:

A sure fire method for getting past writer's block. If it doesn't drive you insane.

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog. Of course, being a lazy dog, it lay there and ignored the whole undignified scenario. The brown fox, really more of a reddish colour, rolled her eyes…

“What a complete waste of time,” Matthew Q. Stanhaus said. (The Q. didn’t stand for anything, but his agent had told Matt that he should have an initial. It added class. What it didn’t add was the ability to come up with a second story to match the first surprise runaway bestseller.)

“This isn’t going to work”

“Sure it will,” Bill said. “Free form writing always gets the juices flowing. All my authors get stuck, and this is how I get them going again. Give it time.”

“I haven’t got time,” Matt rubbed his eyes. “I need to have this first draft in to my editor tomorrow. “

“Then you had better get started.” Bill showed no mercy. He sat back with his coffee and waved at the keyboard. Matt grunted and started banging on the keys again.

“I am the quickest, baddest brown fox ever to run circles around any dog, lazy or no. In my corner of the jungle no one lays a hand on me. I don’t care if you are Cujo or a taco dog; you ain’t comin’ close to this fox….”

“That’s even lamer than the first one. All we need is someone singing about bluebirds to make it complete.” Bill didn’t respond other than by wiggling his fingers in typing motions. Matt howled in frustration and turned back to the keyboard.

These hounds weren’t lazy. They were all bark and growl and teeth. They had my scent and were in full cry. I needed to be better than quick if I wasn’t going to end up as their sacrificial fox. I ran and dodged through the concrete and steel that made up my jungle. I could hear them on my trail. Tires squealed and men shouted at each other. An occasional silenced shot buzzed past my ear. I was getting tired, and these dogs weren’t going to give up. They were getting paid to bring me down, and the people paying them didn’t care whether it was alive or dead….

Matt leaned back and groaned as his vertebrae crackled and popped.

“It’s trite.” He said. “The editor will probably laugh and throw it away.”

“Let me worry about the editor.” Bill made more finger wiggling motions.

Matt muttered an obscenity, not quite under his breath, and returned to the computer.

Renard Brown staggered through the bayou. He could hear the hounds baying in the distance. A helicopter pounded almost overhead. He had no idea why he was here. One minute he was resting in his cell, the next guards were hustling him into a chopper.

“Shot while trying to escape.” The guard they called the Bear had grinned evilly at him.

“I’m not trying to escape,” Renard said, struggling against the guards holding his arms.

“You will.” The Bear laughed as he pushed Renard out of the chopper….”

Matt sat back and stared at the screen.

“That doesn’t make any sense. Why go through all the fuss of the chopper and dogs if they were going to kill him anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Said Bill. “You’re the writer. So write.”

Renard Brown was quick, but he was also smart. Even the fastest fox needed to go to ground once in a while. He needed to wait for that dog to get lazy again. He sat in his prison cell, pretending to read, while the guards walked by looking for some excuse to enforce the rules. There were a lot of rules…

“No, no, no.” Moaned the author. “That won’t work.” He cracked his back again, and looked at his agent. Bill was carefully not looking up.

#@$#@((*%(*@#$ Thought Fox Brown as he looked over his shoulder again. He had worked very hard to get arrested. Right now jail was the safest place for him. It wasn’t that Lupe didn’t have people on the inside, but they were lazy. They were up to a shiv in the lunchroom, or a bit of violence in the showers, but Lupe intended to keep him alive until he led her to what she wanted. So she had her pet D.A. cut him loose. If it was just money, Fox would have given it up a long time ago. He swore again as he spotted a couple of her hounds on his tail. It was time to get the jump on these dogs…

Smiling, Bill fell asleep to the music of rattling keys and the sotto voce muttering of Matthew Q. Stanhaus.