The only night

Diana Spelton lives at 1331 Blackburnian Way.  She is a newspaper enthusiast who receives the Journal and the Times in addition to her local edition.  She reads the local rag first over her morning coffee which she most commonly enjoys in her east facing rocking chair.  Then after a brief, 10 to 15 minute, shower Diana savors the Times along with her obligatory toast and jam.  The Journal she saves till last.  Tucked neatly between her elbow and slender waist it makes the 192 steps to her bus stop only to be read and recycled before she switches on the desktop in her cubical.  She eats her lunch beneath a small tree which flowers in the spring and turns orange in the fall.  For dinner Diana keeps the TV company till her seemingly mandatory 10:30pm bedtime.  Then 1331 Blackburnian Way goes dark till Diana opens the green front door to slide her white terry clothed arm out for her papers.  The only variation to this routine is Halloween night.

My name is Dwight Menders.  Diana moved into the neighborhood three years ago, and since that moment I have been drawn to her.  Too shy at first to walk up and start a conversation I positioned myself so we could ‘bump’ into each other multiple times per day.  I hoped that we could start a conversation organically rather than the scripted typical interactions I had with people.  But that never happened, she never even noticed me.  No polite smile, how’s the weather, nothing.  I didn’t exist.  She couldn’t see me, but I saw her.

It’s me who places her papers neatly upon her door step.  Me who jogs ahead pressing the cross walk signals so she never has to wait.  Me who brushes her tiny bench beneath the tree free of trash, debris, and loiterers.  Me who shares her laughter at the nightly scripted comedies.  Me who keeps vigilant watch over her as she sleeps.  And it is me who beneath the Halloween mask buys her drink after drink as she sits in her sexy costume on the bar stool. 

The only night she allows herself to drink too much.  The only night she sees me.  The only night I get to do more than just watch Diana through the invisible glass that separates my world from hers.  The only night she never remembers.

*******Happy Halloween!*******

This is my attempt at a scary story, hope it had at least a little bit of a creep factor 😉  I wanted to write something that if told in the dark around a campfire might make you look over your shoulder, and nothing gives me the heebie-jeebies like a watcher you never know is there ! 

So I ask you what’s your favorite camp fire story or creeps you the heck out?

Schtroumfs

My name is Peter Rassier and I’m writing this in fear that I shall never make it back to my family and home.  While backpacking through Belgium I stumbled upon a small village by the name of Schtroumpf.  It is a curious place.  As I walked through the mostly deserted streets I was, at first, in awe if the old world beauty, but that quaintness has since worn off.  After some digging around I found that all the children were being kept in quarantine at the Azrael center just outside of the village.  As I hid in the tree line the I saw the children out in the yards.  They were…well they were blue.  Bright freaking blue and clad in white hospital gowns.  I tried to just walk away, but I had to know what had happened.  So I ventured closer to the fence where one of the blue children was playing in the dirt.  Such a tiny little thing in a white paper dress with a shock of yellow hair.  At first she was too shy to speak so I plucked a small wildflower and gifted it to her, trying win her over.  Two days later she told me everything.  The Gargamel corporation had spilled something, she wasn’t sure what, but afterwards all the children were moved here for observation and treatment.  Tonight I’m going to attempt to break into the Azrael center and find out what Gragamel is doing.  I want to go home, but the image of that tiny little girl with a wildflower behind her ear haunts me.  I have to try…I have to do what I can to help that Schtroumfette.  If this letter reaches you please send someone, anyone, and quickly because I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into.

‘Betty’

She was a beaut shining like so much chromed silver, sitting there on her four white walled wheels.  Nothing automatic about her, she wasn’t some gussied up remodel, she was a classic.  Handled like a dream on corners too, even named her after the first girl I took for a ride.  God was Betty a scream and a mess, not that you could tell now… that was half the magic of stainless steel.

Antique Gurney

This flash fiction comes from the prompt …silver… from Julia at 100 word challenge for grown ups. You get 100 words plus the prompt, so 101. The link to submit is here and will be open until Monday Oct. 28th.

Unexplainable allergic reactions

I despise being lied to, and for 167 days my roommate did nothing but lie.

“Did you see my leftover Chinese?”

“You finished that on Tuesday, right?”

“How about the better half of my birthday cake?”

“You must have eaten more than you thought.”

I consider myself to be a giving person, but this exceeds my generosity limit.  So, I added colloidal silver to every single leftover.  It’s been 137 days, and my lying roommate has no choice but to go as Papa Smurf this Halloween due to his “unexplainable allergic reaction”.  Turns out revenge is a dish best served blue.

This man's skin has turned blue from using colloidal silver

This flash fiction comes from the prompt …silver… from Julia at 100 word challenge for grown ups. You get 100 words plus the prompt, so 101. The link to submit is here and will be open until Monday Oct. 28th.

The task

An illustration of an undertaker from Mark Twain's Roughing It

“There is only the task, one single directive, sepelio.  And so I do that which I was born to do, I create order. Nameless and unloved, I am the storm crow. The necessity you refuse to acknowledge. Thankless I continue on, taking only that which is mine and only at the appointed time. Not that that ever stops any of you from raging when you find yourself in my presence. Which let me assure you leaves me unaffected, no human furry could ever dissuade me.”

“Now, Mr…,” the good Dr. Lavine says as he stops his rapt staring and consults his notes, “Diggery. When did you first come to believe that you are ‘the’ Grim Reaper?” His sarcastic air quotes are an audible thing.

“I never said I was a Reaper.”

The mater of fact tone in the man’s voice causes the doctor to pause slightly before explaining himself. “Mr. Diggery, sir, have you not just used the phrase to take only what is yours and described your life goal as sepelio or to bury if my Latin is still up to snuff? What else am I to think?”

“Not that, never that! I am something else all together. I’m a Diggery.”

“Yes, Mr. A. Diggery, I have that here in my notes, but let’s focus shall we,” Lavine says as he rubs his eyes beneath his spectacles. “If we have not been discussing your, how shall I put this…your mistaken identity what on earth have we been talking about?”

Opposing looks of anger and disappointment flit through the man’s eyes before he lets his shoulder’s sag and gently rests his head in his large calloused hands. “I knew this was a long shot, but when I saw your name on the list I had to try.”

Dr. Lavine cocks his head to the side as if trying to determine if he heard the man correctly, “List?”

“I mean if I’m ever going to be able to enjoy my work again I have to get past this right? I have to let go of this anger.”

“Excuse me, but what list?”

“So no one knows who I am. Or what I do. Or that without me it would all fall apart. So what,” the man exclaims as his head snaps forward, “I know!” “That’s it isn’t it Doc? I know and that has to be enough.”

“Now, Mr. Diggery I really must insist that you explain yourself immediately,” Lavine says nearly jumping from his chair he put so much force into his words.

The man glances at the door for a second then nods his head. “Yeah, I guess I better since we’re almost out of time. I’ll keep it real simple Doc. Reapers and Diggerys work in this unbalanced partnership. We do all the leg work, logistics really, prepare, sort, and deliver, but they collect. So they get the glory. That’s where I was getting tripped up. All the work, time, and energy I put into this, every time, and you don’t even know my name or why I’m here. Well, I’m good at what I do, I know it, and he couldn’t do his job without me,” he said proudly motioning over the good doctor’s left shoulder.

The shadowy figure was cloaked, its face hidden in the dark recesses of an oversized hood, and stood with hunched shoulders as if the room were to small. Slowly it raised an arm and inclined its head suggesting that Dr. Lavine should join him, but all he did was pale.

“What list Mr. Diggery, what list am I on,” Lavine asked panic rising in his voice.

“The only one that matters Doc, I’ll be in touch. Thanks for listening.”

‘Magic’

This, he thought, shall be my best trick yet, and before his inked name dried upon the dotted line…he disappeared.

The Howling

Andi’s heart was beating out of her chest, her bare feet ragged and torn, and she was nearly choking on the hot liquid copper tang of blood.  She had been racing through the woods since the moon rose luminous and full in the clear night sky, and the night was almost spent. 

In the early pre dawn silence the only sound was her heavy uneven breathing.  Hearing the unsteady sound Andi tried to stifle the ruckus hoping to not draw unwelcome notice to herself.  Not when she was this close.  The road couldn’t be more than a hundred feet away she thought quickly scanning her surroundings for headlights or people.

The hair raising sound of a lone howl rent the night.  Her hand shot to her mouth and her body froze in place, back to the road, something dark and akin to fear coursing through her.  As the adrenaline surged and Andi’s body screamed for her to flee or fight she used the back of her hand to wipe away the worst of the gore, threw back her head, and returned the call. 

As seen on Artflakes

*****

So, I am a major Florence + The Machine fan and after hearing their song Howl this October I couldn’t help myself.  I hope you enjoyed my werewolf  interpretation, they may not be as hot as vampires right now but they deserve some Halloween play time too!   Δ Δ
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A Moment of Clarity

It’s never like how they show it in the movies, when things feel like they are slowing down its rarely so we can gain some clarity usually it’s because the complexity level just ratcheted up a notch.  Too much is happening and the human brain cannot sort it all out so everything slows down, not usually a good thing as it slows reaction time.  For instance, move head to avoid speeding object goes from ‘priority one’ to ‘take a number please’, really really not good, when your mind is also dealing with let’s say a bleeding arm and ringing ears.  However, there are exceptions to the rule though they are far and few between, whatever Hollywood tells you.  This…is mine. 

I am Jamie Sanger.  I grew up in a typical childhood, dad worked too much while mom took care of us kids, you know normal stuff.  I suffered through the usual young adulthood, filled with broken hearts and curfews, and now I am the quintessential 20 something adult.  My parents have divorced, I have lost between one and five friends I graduated high school with, and I work a job that grants me maybe one week’s worth of vacation time, counting sick days.  Since I suffer from that unique brand of guilt only those who have left home to purse a dream can know, I spend my meager vacation time back at my old stomping grounds.  Where I am obliged to see every family member possible while tiptoeing around my past as a form of relaxation.  However, only a small fraction of this information will be useful to you in understanding my moment of clarity A) when I travel I come home and B) I have lost friends.  Moving on.

I am taking a four day weekend to come home and see my newest batch of cousins, a housewarming at my aunt’s new modern home, and see my sister who I have missed the last two times I have visited.  As I close my eyes on my packed bags and list of “do not forgets” which I must remember to do before I leave I feel anxious about all the relaxation I will soon be dealing with, and so I dream. 

I dream of missing friends, deserted cars, and his eyes, his creepy now red now yellow burning eyes.  I wake myself up trying to articulate the words, “I hate you, I fucking hate you,” through my tears.  I thought that I was past Kelly’s murder, turns out I was wrong.  See two years back I came home with one purpose, friend time with Kelly.  However, plans often go awry.  When she neglected to show up at the airport I was pissed, when she refused to answer my calls I got worried.  They found her car, empty and deserted, and her boyfriend Trent, but not even one of Kelly’s hairs.  I can still feel the hate pouring off of Trent and his red eyes as I publicly accused him of hurting Kelly, but with no evidence Trent didn’t even see jail time.  Her murder simply dismissed as a runaway.

I have made it past the obstacle course they call an airport and now reside in seat 23B near the engine. All the loud angry burning of jet fuel creates a form of white noise which lulls me to sleep. Straight into the outstretched arms of my dreams, my twisted poignant dreams. Again I see his eyes, yellow this time, watching me from the dark as I search in vain for any scrap of Kelly in that terribly beat up old Toyota she still drove from high school. The car just sits there useless and empty clean except for the burning yellow eyes I catch marring every inch of reflective surface. I wake up thrashing as a stewardess jumps back from having leaned in to whisper ma’am at me with that itchy feeling that someone is watching. Not to far off the mark apparently as I was mumbling in my fitful sleep and disturbing the other passengers. She just wanted to make sure I was alright I’m sure that and to wake me up so I stopped whatever I was doing.

So I sit blurry eyed and drink my caffeine silently waiting for the tarmac to rush up and meet the plane signaling that I am home.

Tonight is the house warming I am expected to attend. I have slept maybe four restless hours out of the last 24, but still I pile into the car with my sister and mother. We ride in the quiet you would expect of people who knew each other well but don’t want to discuss anything meaningful. Comfortable. We walk in the dark to the door of this new modern house and I think I see a cat’s yellow stare measuring our progress. I shake my head to clear it, after all I’m tired. Through the door we meet a foyer which is unnecessarily walled off with a wall which doesn’t even reach the ceiling. Inside door number two family mingles loud and aimless. I take a seat facing the silly second door and zone out.

I could not tell you how much time passes but suddenly Trent is rushing the second door. He is shouting obscenities and threatening myself and my family. I run for the door begging for help from my nearest cousin. And then it happens. While I’m frantic with fear for my family, am physically trying to force Trent back out the door, and my mind is attempting to make sense of his verbal assault, everything slows down. I am face to face with my nightmare his vermilion eyes locked on to my amber ones, and its like I’m falling through the shards of mirrored glass I call my memory.

“I’ve seen this before.”

“What have you seen Jamie,” a disembodied male voice asks.

“Eyes look like that.”

“When, Jamie? Where have you seen this before?”

“I can’t…”

“Let yourself remember Jamie.”

The lights are the gross brightness of high wattage electric bulbs, the floor is aged broken tile, and walls are some version of faded yellow. All I can hear is the buzz of the bulbs till a faucet opens. Then harsh scrubbing and pouring water fills my ears. I force myself to open my eyes and take in the scene. I see a girl standing at the sink scrubbing her hands so hard they must have started to bleed because red water splashes over the porcelain edge. I look up and into the mirror and see the now red now yellow eyes staring back at me. The color changes keep time with the flickering harsh electric light.

“Its a reflection.”

“What is? Jamie what are you seeing?”

“It must be the blood. The blood reflecting in the eyes.”

“Whose eyes Jamie? Whose eyes do you see?”

“Red blood in amber eyes…dead eyes. Mine…my eyes…my amber eyes.”

“Jamie on the count of three I want you to wake up. Do you here me? One…two…three.”

Jamie Sanger blinked as she sat up from her reclined position on the couch and faced both Detective Halloway and Dr. Bernside. “Did the hypnosis help,” she asked excitedly, “will it be able to help find Kelly?”

As seen on DeviantART Amber Eyes by JuLyFriDay