The Friday Flash Stories of Eric J. Krause: Volume 1
Eric J. Krause
Published by Eric J. Krause at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Eric J. Krause
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Introduction
I first heard about Friday Flash at the end of August in 2009. At that point, I had some short stories published in various ezines, and I did my best to put out a blog post on writing every week, but I still felt like I had minimal eyes on my work. When I heard there was a small but growing community of writers putting flash fiction on their blogs every Friday for all the world to see, I was intrigued. I had a couple of "trunk" stories that though I couldn't find homes for, I knew were good enough for an audience. This seemed like the ideal situation to not only see what people thought of these stories, but to dip my toe into the Friday Flash experience to discover if it was right for me.
I was hooked after week one.
Thanks to the comments on my blog, I was receiving confirmation that people were reading my stories, something I never got in the ezines. I also found the other authors who participated were likewise putting out excellent flashes each week. In addition, I also met a great many of these authors via Twitter, where much of the promotion for Friday Flash takes place. These are not only excellent writers, but wonderful people, as well.
Before I go any further, let me explain the nuts and bolts of Friday Flash for those of you who are unfamiliar with it. Every Friday, authors publish an original piece of flash fiction--a story of 1000 words or fewer--on their personal blog. The stories can be of any genre, though excessive sex and/or violence is not allowed. Each story should stand alone on its own. It's perfectly acceptable to publish a piece of a novel or even a multiple part, serialized story, but the story should be accessible to readers who have not read any prior works in the series. The stories should also be polished. They don't have to be perfect, but the author should review and revise the work. We want the readers to read the author at their best, after all.
If this idea of Friday Flash intrigues you, it's simple to find stories each week. On Twitter, type "#fridayflash" into the search function, and you'll have access to a number of great stories. If you have a blog and ideas, you can also participate. All you have to do is publish the story on your blog and publicize it. As I said, Twitter works best. Type up a brief message that includes the link to your story and the hashtag #fridayflash. Just like that, you're a member of the community! Now seek out stories by other Friday Flash authors and start reading.
Which brings me to this collection. These are my first fifty Friday Flash stories. There are tales of horror, fantasy, science fiction, and even some I'd consider mainstream. A few are, as I said, "trunk" stories, but most were written specifically for Friday Flash. I hope some stories will make you laugh, some will make you cry, and some will give you chills. But most importantly, I hope all fifty will bring you enjoyment. Happy reading!
ORDER OF STORIES
1. Jamie's Home
2. When He Comes Calling
3. Uncle Ron
4. One Rainy Day
5. Open the Box
6. The Chosen One
7. Different Perceptions
8. Shadow in the Mirror
9. Pumpkin Patch of the Damned
10. The King and the Spider
11. Just After Dusk
12. The Refrigerator Door
13. The Last Ride
14. Slice of Cake
15. Summer Santa
16. The Antigravity Flymabob
17. The Next Great Adventure
18. Black to Blue
19. Real Monsters Don't Take Time Off
20. The Horizon
21. The Forest Mountain Troll
22. Love's a Myth
23. Little Ghost
24. Writer's Block
25. The Jumper
26. The Stand-Up Act
27. Random Acts
28. Alien Invasion
29. Bonzo Bunny
30. Wedding Night Blues
31. Satan's Smile
32. Mother's Bath
33. Death By Computer
34. The Scarecrow
35. The Raffle
36. The Security Guard
37. The End of it All
38. Liquid Time
39. Waterbed Dreams
40. Final Exit
41. Parchment of Love
42. Chained Love
43. Happy Birthday, Facebook Friend
44. Shadows Ghosts Wraiths
45. The Rattle
46. Princess Jenni, Hero to All
47. The Fog
48. The End of the Day
49. Helmet Travel
50. Flash--A Love Story
JAIME'S HOME
I swore I heard her voice yell to me, "I'm home," as I was in the shower. When I got out, she was nowhere to be seen. Then, ten minutes later, the hospital called and informed me she'd been in an accident. The paramedics had done their best, but she was gone before she reached the emergency room. I didn't bother to tell them that it was impossible; I'd heard her come in a few minutes before, and no, I didn't imagine it. Instead, I hung up the phone and folded into a ball. Jaime, my beautiful Jaime, was gone.
Only a few things caught my attention in those hours I lay there. One, our dog, Bickers, sat shaking uncontrollably at times, his tail between his legs, as he growled at nothing. Two, the kitchen light turned on and off a few times. Later I found the peanut butter jar on the counter, the lid unscrewed. I hadn't put it there, but Jaime loved peanut butter. Three, I heard the toilet flush two different times. Jaime never could go very long without going to the bathroom.
I finally got up and did all the stuff I had to do regarding her death. I don't even know how I made it through the next few weeks. I probably missed a bunch of signs. When my mind stopped spinning a few weeks later, I started to notice Jaime all through the apartment. She had continued her life as if nothing had happened. That's the only way I could think to describe it. Her favorite chair always felt warm and used, though neither I nor anyone else sat there. The TV, whenever I wasn't watching, would turn on and tune to the Travel Channel, her favorite station. Plus a hundred other things I couldn't explain except that she was still there, living in death, just out of my reach.
What did she think? Could she think? Did I abandon her? Was I there in her unlife? I couldn't bear to think about it, and though neither of us was very religious, I called a priest. She needed to move on to wherever the dead went.
I don't really remember talking to anyone at the church. Like so many things after Jaime left, I ran on autopilot. When the priest showed up, I gave him a tour--a Jaime ghost tour, you might say. We watched as she made herself a sandwich, which was just the top twisting loose on the peanut butter jar and the knives vibrating in the silverware drawer. We witnessed the television turning itself on and the channels flipping through until it reached The Travel Channel. We noticed the indentation form in her chair.
I witnessed these things, anyway. The priest, for whatever reason, said none of that happened and refused to free Jaime. I got mad. It had all just happened as he stood there by my side. The only way he could calm me down was with an offer of some other kind of help. I tried to explain that the exorcism would do just that, but he said he had a better idea. He was a man of the cloth, so I believed him.
He went outside for a moment to talk on his cell phone, and when he got back, he was all smiles. In a few minutes, all my problems would be solved. I was so happy that I cried out to Jaime and asked if she had heard. She was going to be okay. Her chair creaked, and I knew she understood. She'd been alive the last time I'd felt this good.
Hours later I sat in a padded cell with a strait jacket wrapped tight around me. Surprisingly, it was rather comfortable. The help the padre had promised came in the form of an ambulance. He told the paramedics that I'd unscrewed a peanut butter cap, rattled the knives in the silverware drawer, turned on the television, flipped through the channels, and sat in a chair, all the while blaming it on her ghost. Ridiculous, of course. I'd been standing next to him the entire time. At least Jaime had come with me, though. Someone had stinky peanut butter breath.
WHEN HE COMES CALLING
Another Day almost done. Reggie sat in front of the TV with his dinner--a microwave burrito and a handful of cheese twists. How had he survived without Margaret? She'd been gone for almost a year now, and though people said he'd adjust, he hadn't. In their forty-six years together, Margaret had been his everything, his entire life. Without her he was just going through the motions, and he wasn't sure he wanted to do that anymore.
As he took a bite of his bean and cheese burrito, the doorbell rang. "Who's that?" he muttered. No one had come to visit since Margaret's funeral. Reggie pushed himself up and shuffled towards the front door.
The bell rang again. "I'm moving as fast as I'm gonna." When he opened the door, a man, probably in his mid-thirties, stood on the porch. He wore a three-piece suit, carried an attaché case, and had salesman written all over him.
"Hello, Reginald," the man said. "How are you feeling today?"
Reggie scrutinized the man a bit more. Nope, didn't recognize him. "Who are you?"
"This visit isn't about me, Reginald," the man said. "How are you today?"
"I'm tired, I hurt, and I miss the hell out of my wife."
"Which is why I'm here." The man walked past Reggie and into the house. Reggie wasn't much for strangers, but he didn't protest.
"Been hard without Margaret, hasn't it?" The man looked over at Reggie's TV tray. "Dinner certainly was better."
"It was, but I like microwave burritos. You still haven't stated your name or your business."
The man sat down on the couch next to Reggie's dinner and helped himself to a cheese twist. As he ate it, he looked like he would choke, but managed to swallow. "Honestly, I don't know how you people survive on this . . . this junk you consider food. Just the thought of eating here makes me glad I can head home for meals."
"You don't need to bad-mouth my supper," Reggie said. "I never did offer you any."
"I apologize, Reginald. I meant no offense."
"It's okay. You ain't told me your name or your business, so I won't bother askin' where you're from."
"You'll find out in due time, Reginald. Just be patient. Why don't you finish your dinner?"
The stranger stood up, walked over to the television, and flipped to an old sitcom. Reggie realized he was famished. He hadn't been this hungry since before Margaret got sick. He took a big bite from his burrito and chewed slowly.
"It may not be Margaret's special meatloaf, but it does have its charm," Reggie said. He placed a cheese twist in his mouth and grimaced. "You're right about these, though. Teach me to save a few cents on a cheap brand."
The stranger chuckled. "Where you're going, they're all name brands."
Reggie sat back in the couch and folded his hands behind his head. "I don't know why you think I'm going with you. I don't understand why I even let you in."
The stranger took a seat in the easy chair next to the couch. "You're lonely."
"And where exactly do you think you're taking me?"
"I can promise you this, Reginald: you'll have so many friends, you'll never be lonely again. And the food." The man licked his lips. "As I've said, it's far better than anything you can get here."
"So, it's your hometown, eh? And when did you think you'd get me to leave?"
The stranger stood up. "Why, Reginald, we've already left."
"What?" Reggie leapt to his feet, far faster than he had in the past fifteen years, and knocked his TV tray over. He didn't watch his dinner splat on the carpet; he'd already turned his attention to the stranger.
"See for yourself." The man made a motion with his arm towards the couch, and when Reggie's eyes followed, he saw himself lying rigid. The TV tray indeed lay toppled over, and his burrito and chips scattered across the rug. Boy, Margaret would've reamed him good for that. He glanced over to the hallway, but couldn't see it. In its place was a wall of bright light.
"Step in, Reginald. They're all there waiting to see you. Especially Margaret. You're all she can talk about."
"Margaret." Reggie didn't look back as he passed through the light. In seconds, the stranger could hear terrified screams, and he chuckled. "They always think I'm offering heaven." With a puff of smoke, he vanished.
UNCLE RON
We arrived in New York Harbor on Mars in 2382 (Western Earth Years). We saw the faux Statue of Liberty in front of the spaceport and joked that we were like the immigrants to America back on Earth hundreds of years ago. After landing, we scoured our map and determined how to get to our housing district.
All except Uncle Ron, who seemed a bit distracted.
Next, we headed over to the transport center. We chatted about whether to take the aero-taxi or the land-roving bus. Both would be fun and give us neat a perspective of our new homeworld. Grandma Dakota, only half-joking, suggested we do one, then come back right away to try the other. If we hadn't been so eager to get settled, we might have done just that. We decided to choose one now. We could come back another day.
I think I was the only one that noticed Uncle Ron, who normally dominated conversations like this, stayed quiet.
The moving hallway took us from the terminal to the Intra-Planetary Transportation Center. I marveled at the vision screens. Instead of windows, the walls were lined with monitors that made it seem as if we were on uncovered walkways on the surface of the planet. With oxygen, of course. There were plans to add atmospheric effects to create illusions of scents, breezes, and other goodies. I looked at Uncle Ron, figuring he'd be thrilled, but he looked lost in thought.
Once at the Intra-Planetary Transportation Center, we decided on the aero-taxi. What better way to get acquainted with our new neighborhood and home than with a birds-eye view? The porter on duty informed us that we'd need to take two cabs. Each taxi had seats enough for only five, and we had six. Uncle Ron spoke up for the first time since landing and told the porter to hail just one. He wanted to look around a bit longer, and he'd catch up with us later. Everyone said that sounded great. No one thought it strange since it was just Ron being Ron.
Except me. Something was up. He hadn't been himself since we landed. No, that wasn't quite true. He hadn't been himself since the bottom of the space elevator in New Vegas. I loved and trusted my Uncle Ron, though, so I didn't say anything.
The aero-taxi would have been a neat ride if I hadn't been so preoccupied. Mom, Dad, Grandma Dakota, and Grandpa Drake all marveled at the sights, but I couldn't. The ride took forever, and I could only hope there was a message from Uncle Ron waiting for us.
Turns out I was right. I listened to his message twice, not bothering to check out my new living space, my new home. Uncle Ron had caught a flight to one of the moons of Saturn, where a new colony had just started up. After that, he'd heard of an experimental hyperspace jump that he'd like to be a part of. He promised to be in touch no matter what, but I knew we'd never hear from him again. I think the rest of the family knew it, too, but no one else seemed upset. They went on unpacking and making this new dwelling home. After all, it was just Ron being Ron.
ONE RAINY DAY
Larry walked through the dark streets of Dillington with a briefcase in his left hand and an umbrella in his right. The rain hadn't started yet, but by the looks of the sky, it wouldn't be long. Besides, ol' Chuck Golightly of the Channel 10 news predicted a doosy of a storm. If Larry could make the bus stop before the downpour, he'd count himself lucky for the first time in a long, long time.
"Hey, buddy, spare a couple of bucks?"
Larry turned and saw a bum in a nearby alleyway. He was the stereotypical homeless guy, complete with a bottle of booze in a paper sack. Larry could smell him from ten feet away.
"A couple of bucks, buddy?" the guy asked again.
"Sorry, that's all I have and I need it for the bus. I'm . . . never mind. Sorry."
"You're what? You were going to say you weren't doing so well, but then you saw me. Am I right?"
Larry gave a sheepish nod. "Yeah, something like that."
The bum smiled. "What would you say if I told you I could fix all your problems?"
"I'd say I don't believe you. No offense."
The bum chuckled. "None taken. I like you. You seem like a decent guy." His face turned serious. "But what if I insisted I have that power?"
Larry had no idea where this was going. He'd seen movies and read books where bums turned out to be billionaires and were just testing people, but this couldn't be that. Could it?
"Follow me. What did you say your name was?"
"Larry. Larry Brantz. What's yours?"
"Call me Mac. Everyone does."
Larry followed Mac into the alley. This wasn't like him, but there was something about Mac. Hell, as bad as his life was, he might as well see where this was going.
Mac stopped at the chain-link fence that ended the alley. He dropped the paper sack to the ground but held on to the bottle. It looked like an ordinary vodka bottle.
"You're going to think I'm crazy," Mac said, "but this is a magic bottle. When I break it open, all your problems will drain away."
"Yeah, that does sound crazy," Larry said.
Mac smiled. "Watch." He held the bottle by its neck and smashed it against a nearby dumpster. It cracked like a gunshot, but neither man jumped. When Mac held up the broken bottle, nothing happened.
"Well?" Larry said.
Mac brought a finger to his lips. "Patience, Larry. The magic takes a few seconds."
A raindrop hit Larry on the top of his head, and he rolled his eyes. Why had he been so gullible? Instead of having his problems solved, he was just going to get soaked. And he'd probably miss his bus to boot. Mary would be pissed when he walked in an hour late. Just what his marriage needed.
"Here it comes," Mac said. "Watch."
Larry did. Mac jammed the jagged bottle into Larry's stomach. Larry gasped and fell to his knees. Pain shot through his entire body. Mac let out a maniacal laugh and jabbed him a second time. So much blood leaked from the wounds that he could hear it dripping on the ground along with the scattered raindrops. Mac walked behind him and shoved him face-first onto the pavement.
As the bum ran off with his briefcase, umbrella, and wallet, Larry smiled. He couldn't call Mac a liar. It might not be a million dollars, but in a minute or two, Larry Brantz would never have another worry.
OPEN THE BOX
Snerdlin snickered. He'd won. He hadn't done much, but he'd won. He picked up the jewel-encrusted metal box and shook it. No sound. That couldn't be right. Shouldn't a box this beautiful be filled with pretty things? It should be clanking with gold sounds.
"Put down the box! Snerdlin, do you hear me?"
Snerdlin clutched his prize to his chest and spun to face James, evil James. "No! Mine! I win fair and square."
"There's nothing in that box for you." James reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bag. A clankity-clank bag. A gold-sounding bag.
"Gold?" Snerdlin asked.
James nodded. "Give me the box and the bag's yours."
Snerdlin almost threw the box down and ran for the gold, but his little brain churned. If James would give him gold for the box now, maybe if he made James wait, he'd get even more gold.
"What are you thinking about? Snerdlin, your brain isn't built for thinking."
Snerdlin clutched the box to his chest. "No! Me want more gold. Another pouch or I keep box."
James closed his eyes and said something Snerdlin couldn't hear. He readied himself to bolt even though he knew James could catch him. But his tiny brain reasoned that James might not because he would be risking hurting the box. No, Snerdlin's brain said, right now you are in charge.
"More gold," Snerdlin said again.
"I'll take it from you."
Snerdlin sneered and lifted the box above his head. "You no take. I break before you take."
James raised his eyebrows. "You want to break it? Fine, go ahead." He put the pouch of gold back in his jacket. "I don't care. In fact, why don't you open it up? I'll even let you have what's inside."
Snerdlin gently placed the box onto the ground. "Me open?"
"Yes, you can open it. But hurry up. We don't have all day."
Snerdlin moved his hand to rip off the latch when he stopped. Why did James want him to have the box if he'd been willing to give him gold? James used trickery. Snerdlin hated trickery.
"You open."
James smiled. "Okay. If you insist."
Wait. More trickery.
"No! Snerdlin open!"
"Would you make up your mind? You found it first, Snerdlin, so it's your box to open. But you need to do something before Trilix gets here. I'll either give you the pouch of gold, or I'll get a safe distance away while you open it."
Safe distance? "Safe distance?"
"Yeah. You don't expect me to be an innocent bystander if that thing is the deathtrap I think it might be?"
Deathtrap? "Why it be deathtrap?"
"It may or may not be. Legends are sketchy. So what are you going to do, Snerdlin?"
"No deathtrap. You open. Me want gold." Snerdlin waited for James to pull out the pouch of gold, and then they made the exchange. Snerdlin scampered away until he felt he'd gone far enough. Then he turned and watched.
James placed the box on the ground and unlatched it. He pulled the lid up and stared inside. At first, Snerdlin couldn't see anything happening, but soon the box came to life. Smoke rose from inside, then a roar erupted from its midst. Snerdlin saw James' mouth move, but no words came out. A bright light shot up. It hurt Snerdlin's eyes, so he turned away until he was sure it had dimmed. When he turned back, the light was off, the lid closed, and James gone.
Snerdlin thought for a moment. James couldn't have gone. He'd have had to run past Snerdlin. James got sucked into the box. Snerdlin knew it to be true. Good thing he didn't open the box himself. And he sure wasn't going to open it now. The box could stay right there forever! He clutched his bag of gold and ran out before Trilix arrived.
THE CHOSEN ONE
No one believed him. No matter what he said, no matter how much he swore he wasn't lying, they just wouldn't listen. And, really, who could blame them? His stories were a bit outlandish for most folks. But if someone had just paid him some mind, he might still be here.
Greg Jordan was your average, middle-class male, with a pretty wife and two point five kids. (Janice, his wife, was four months pregnant at the time.) The Jordans had left their dingy two-bedroom apartment and moved into their very own home. Greg and Janice had fallen in love with the ranch-style home in its nice neighborhood. They tried to mask their interest so the sellers wouldn't peg them as easy marks, a tip Janice's dad had provided, but the owners were eager to sell. The first offer was accepted without negotiation, the deal was sealed, and the house was theirs. The Jordans, including little Timmy and Britney, couldn't have been happier.
Their first month was terrific, even if it did include a ton of hard work. Being pregnant, Janice mostly sat down and gave orders. She could have done more, but she was the boss and everyone knew it. The kids, bless their hearts, tried their best, but being five and three, Timmy and Britney often did more damage than good.
About that time, Greg felt a presence in the house. He claimed he heard footsteps, voices, and other weird sounds. He swore a strange man occasionally walked though their living room, and at times a young man, maybe a teenager, sat in the breakfast nook. Neither the kids nor Janice heard or saw any of these things. Everyone, including friends and relatives who heard the tales, began to wonder about him.
Greg wouldn't be dissuaded. He knew what he heard, saw, and felt. He'd lay awake at night, listening and watching. Whatever was going on, this was his house, and he wanted to know what he shared it with.
That's when the voices started. At first it was just small talk. "How are you, Greg?" "Wife thinks you're nuts, eh?" "Can you buy us some beer?" (Actually, that last one was those teenagers who loitered outside the liquor store. It all blended in.) Then the voices grew more persistent and, Greg wasn't afraid to say, scary. "Join us." "We need you." "Kill the non-believers."
He learned to ignore the voices, but that just pissed them off. They turned from simple murder whisperers to full-blown poltergeists. At first Janice blamed the kids when she found her grandmother's knick-knacks shattered on the floor. Then Greg got the brunt of her fury. It was a dark week in the Jordan household. Mercifully, the poltergeist activity didn't last long. Janice must have scared the hell out of those ghosts because they never touched her stuff again.
The final showdown came one day after work. With Janice and the kids out running errands, Greg had to face the spirits on his own. They materialized on the staircase, and he finally got a good look at all four of them. He still had no idea who they were, but they weren't in a talking mood. Greg tried to run out the front door, but it was stuck. He even tried to jump though the plate glass window, but no matter how hard he threw his body at it, the glass wouldn't shatter. He had only one option; he turned and faced his destiny.
Janice and the kids came home an hour later. Timmy and Britney ran into the house as soon as their mom opened the front door, and when Janice walked in, two little kids rolling on the floor laughing hysterically greeted her. It seemed Daddy had taken off all his clothes right there in the front hall. "Even his nunderwear," little Britney said between howls. Janice didn't find it nearly as amusing. The three of them wandered through the house looking for the "necked daddy." When they couldn't find him, Janice drove around the neighborhood. The search proved futile. Greg had vanished.
Not long after, Greg Junior arrived. Janice had to get a second job, but she managed to keep the house and a relatively good lifestyle. She hated Greg for abandoning the family, but something changed her mind. Actually that something was Greg Junior. Not only were his first words "Daddy," but he had the oddest habit of looking at nothing, holding his arms out for a hug, and giggling wildly.
DIFFERENT PERCEPTIONS
I stared at the baby. "Why am I looking at it?"
The doctor frowned. "I apologize. I thought you'd want to. I should have asked."
I shook my head. "No, no. What I mean is, why am I looking at it instead of me being inside of it looking back at me?"
The doctor frowned again. It seemed to be one of the few expressions he was capable of. "I'm not sure I understand."
"I'm supposed to be in there. In its head. I paid a fortune to live forever, but I'm still me. In this cancer-ridden deathtrap."
He frowned, and oh god I wanted to slap it off his face. I might have done it, too, if I could move my arm that high.
"Mr. Riggs, I assure you all of your memories, your personality, everything is locked within that child. You. It's all in the brochure you've read a hundred times, in the video you watched dozens of times. None of this should be a surprise."
"But I'm still stuck in this." I tried to thump my chest, but my arm only lifted off the side of the wheelchair and plopped into my lap.
"Did you believe your mind would cease to exist in that body? That we'd make you nothing but a vegetable, a shell? I don't know what sort of idea you have about us, Mr. Riggs, but we're in the business of saving and prolonging lives, not taking them."
A tear rolled down my cheek. "But you promised I'd never die. I'm going to die."
The doctor shook his head. "When you die, you, this new you, will be aged to 21 years old. You chose that, I believe?"
I slumped down. "It won't be me. This me. This me is going to be hollowed out by this damn disease, and I'll be in it the whole way."
The doctor put a hand on my shoulder. I didn't look up, but I wondered if he'd managed to put on a different facial expression.
"I apologize if you didn't understand." He gestured to the baby. "He'll, you'll, have all of the memories up until this morning. When the new body is worn out, we'll make another with all the old and new memories. It'll go on and on. Forever. I don't understand why you don't get it."
I sighed and wondered the same thing about him.
SHADOW IN THE MIRROR
Brianna ran her brush through her long blond hair, counting each stroke, a ritual she'd kept up since high school. She sometimes felt silly, but it really did make her hair that much silkier. Since she and Tim had found this old-fashioned vanity, complete with its fancy mirror, at a garage sale, brushing her hair at it felt right. She didn't know if it was real or faux antique, but she could picture an old-timey, high society lady from years past doing the same.
She set down her brush and did a double-take. Her reflection brushed its hair an extra time. They stared at each other, neither moving. Brianna let out her breath and giggled at her overactive imagination. She stood to head for the kitchen when a shadow flashed in the mirror.
"What the hell?" She whirled around but didn't see anything. Tim was working late, so it couldn't have been him. Besides, she'd have heard the bedroom door open. It creaked even if just moved an inch.
She turned back to the mirror and gasped. Not only was her reflection gone, but there were bright crimson splotches all over the surface. She hesitated for a second before running a finger over one of the spots. They came back dry and didn't distort the crimson at all. It was on the other side of the mirror. Impossible. She ran her hand along the braided wood pattern of the frame and felt the back. Just wood-paneled backing, as she expected.
Before she turned her attention to the puzzle of the crimson splotches (blood?) and no reflection, the shadow again crawled across the mirror. It moved slow and seemed to focus on her. It glowed black, as if it not only blocked the light, but ate it as well.
In the mirror, the shadow lightened. Behind Brianna, in her room, in her world, the lights dimmed. The proportion of light lost from the lamps matched the loss of dark in the shadow's mirror world. Whatever it was that murdered her reflection (that's what happened, right?) was coming for her.
Brianna did the only thing she could think of: she picked up her hairbrush and smashed it into the glass. The vanity and mirror, being bolted together, rocked back, but the glass didn't have a mark. The light continued to seep out of her room.
She swung again, this time breaking the impact zone into a spider-webbed crack. The shadow disappeared. Another smack brought a second large crack and got rid of the crimson goop. Her reflection came back--her true reflection from an ordinary mirror.
Brianna took a deep breath and stared at herself through the ruined glass. Whatever magic that had lived in the mirror was gone. Would it come back? She didn't know, but had no interest in keeping the vanity set to find out. She wasn't sure what she'd tell Tim. A lie would have a much clearer ring of truth than this mess.
She stood up and walked out of the room. All of that could wait. Right now she needed a stiff drink.
PUMPKIN PATCH OF THE DAMNED
Why the hell wasn't this ever an easy process? And every year Daisy had to come during the game. Just because there were games morning, noon, and night on Saturdays didn't make it any better. Think of all the great plays he was missing.
"Daddy, can I go in the bouncy house?"
He looked over at the purple balloon structure shaped like a haunted house, complete with a blow-up Frankenstein and a few sheets with eye holes cut in them glued to the side. Those things used to be a huge treat when he was a kid, but nowadays you couldn't go a city block without bouncing into one.
"No, we're going to grab a pumpkin and get out of here."
"Don't listen to your father. Go have fun, baby."
"Yo, Dad, a corn maze. I'm gonna go check it out."
A corn maze? In the suburbs? He'd been in a corn maze once when he was a kid. His parents drove he and his brothers an hour and a half out of town to get to a farm in the country. Now here was one in this empty lot that'd probably be a Denny's or a Walgreens by this time next year.
"No, we're just here for a pumpkin. Go get your sister and pick one out so we can get on home."
"Pish-posh. Go have fun, sweetie. Don't get lost!"
He turned to Daisy, ready to tell her off. She'd promised him fifteen minutes, half-an-hour tops. Now here she was sending the kids off to pointless activities instead of what they were here for: to find a carving pumpkin.
Before he could lay into her, her eyes sparkled. "Ooh, a craft fair. You don't mind, do you honey?"
Holy hell, a craft fair? How could this lot hold so much crap? Were there even any damn pumpkins in this pumpkin patch? None that he'd seen. Next year they'd just get one at the megamart down the street. If they'd done that this time, he'd be on his way home by now to see State versus U.
"No, Daisy. Come on. You promised. Get the kids, let's pick out a pumpkin, and we'll get out of here."
Of course she paid him no mind and wandered over to the half-dozen or so booths, her hand already in her purse to snatch out her wallet.
He found a random bale of hay and took a seat. His eyes scanned all three attractions, but he couldn't spot the kids or his wife. Would he ever see them again, or was he stuck forever here in this pumpkin patch of the damned?
THE KING AND THE SPIDER
He eased himself into the room, mindful of the space above him. It wouldn't do for it to pounce down on his head before the game truly started.
It. The humongous spider terrorizing this room. Striking terror into the hearts of his beautiful queen and their precious princess.
No doubt its plump black form flowed full of deadly poison. Its fangs, the size of small daggers, itched to puncture him so it could feed itself and its unseen clan. As visions of his painful and messy death flashed through his mind, he knew he had to strike first and strike hard.
He spotted the spider as it scurried up the wall, just out of range. It scuttled across the ceiling, and he crouched down, weapon at the ready. Did these leap at their prey? He didn't know, but he wasn't going to court defeat because of carelessness.
Out in the open, he found it much bigger than he first guessed. Maybe the size of a large cat or a small dog. Maybe bigger. The thought of sealing off the room and leaving it for the monster crossed his mind.
Instead, it took that option away. It reached the other side of the room and crawled down towards the door. A room was one thing, but he couldn't sacrifice his queen or princess. Without thought to his own safety, he lunged forward, weapon poised . . .
. . . and scrunched it in his paper towel.
"Did you get it, Jerry?"
"Yeah." He examined the squished form. "Tell Sara she can come back in and finish watching her Happitty-Hoppity cartoon."
JUST AFTER DUSK
Jean Luc stretched his limbs, willing what little blood he had left to course through his veins. Even after all these years, he still couldn't get used to the rigor mortis that set in each day as he slept. A meal would improve everything.
A knock. "Master? May I?"
He nodded but said nothing. Renaldo, his latest minion, read the intention and pushed the door open.
"I have someone for you to, eh, meet, Master."
Perfect. Their code for food. He enjoyed the hunt, but having it delivered was so much easier.
Renaldo led a young girl, she couldn't be more than 18 years old, into his room. She wore a skimpy black dress with fishnet stockings, displayed a dozen or more silver trinkets around her wrists and neck, had black lipstick smeared on her lips, and sported a jet-black bob haircut. He could smell the dye from across the room. Wouldn't do to be a blonde-haired goth girl.
He suppressed a grin. "Good evening. I am Jean Luc. Please to make your acquaintance."
She stared back at him, her eyes intense. Shock waves pulsed through his withered insides. Could she be the one, the bride he'd been searching for? Though he couldn't fathom sex with a mortal, he could see lusting after the undead version of her.
The girl rolled her eyes and turned to Renaldo. "I thought you were going to bring me to a real vampire. He looks ordinary and . . . dull."
Ah well, at least he could still feed. He stepped forward and covered the length of the room in a heartbeat. His fangs sunk into her throat before she could scream, and he lapped up her bloody life force. When she gasped her final breath, he let her fall.
He wiped his chin with a burgundy handkerchief and looked to Renaldo, who shrugged.
"At least they're easy to catch, Master. They all want to meet a real vampire."
"Too bad they expect a teen-age fashion model. Maybe I should wear glitter."
THE REFRIGERATOR DOOR
"Can I see you in the kitchen?"
Bryan jerked awake. He hadn't even realized he'd been asleep. Nadine, his girlfriend, glared at him from the kitchen doorway.
"What?" he said.
She gave an exaggerated sigh. "I said I wanted to see you in the kitchen."
"Why? We're the only ones here."
Nadine rolled her eyes. "Would you just get in here? Please?"
Bryan grunted as he stood up. There would be no arguing with her, but he couldn't think of what he'd done.
"What's the meaning of this?" She pointed at the refrigerator. Both its and the freezer's door were standing wide open.
He shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't do it."
"Well, when I left they were both closed. Now look. The ice cream is melted, the frozen pizza isn't frozen, and I'm sure the sour cream and the milk have spoiled."
Bryan shrugged again.
Nadine threw her hands up. "Do you think they opened themselves?"
As soon as she said that, Bryan saw a little man on the counter behind her. It stood about six inches tall and wore a tiny green suit which made him think of a leprechaun. He wanted to point it out to Nadine, but it jumped out of sight behind the cookie jar.
Nadine slammed both doors shut. "You were in such a rush to grab a soda and put some ice in it so you could get back to the couch that you didn't even check to see if you'd shut the doors. Am I right? Don't even answer. I know I'm right."
She stormed out of the kitchen, and he heard the bedroom door slam shut. He just stood there. He hadn't been in here since breakfast, before she'd left. He was about to go back to the couch when the leprechaun-thing came back onto the counter. It covered its mouth with one hand and pointed at him with the other. Its belly jiggled with laughter.
He took a step towards the little man, expecting it to bolt, but instead it motioned to the freezer. Bryan turned and watched the door pop open. Two more leprechaun-things, which looked identical to the first, jumped out. Once they'd hit the floor, they scurried towards the sink, opened the cabinet underneath, and scampered inside. The refrigerator door opened next, and four more followed. Bryan looked back at the one on the counter. It stuck its tongue out at him, then pointed and laughed. He stepped forward with every intention of smacking it across the room.
"You have neither the guts nor the strength, human," it said in a soft, squeaky voice. The six other leprechaun-things climbed up the drain and walked over to the first.
"While we distracted you in here," one said, "our pets captured your lady-friend."
Nadine. Bryan ran from the kitchen and burst into the bedroom. She lay on the bed wrapped in what he thought was a coil of rope. After a second look, though, he saw it wasn't rope, but a thick strand of spider web. Her lips were also glued shut with webs. Three spiders, each as big as German Shepherds, stood next to the bed. He took a step towards her, but the huge beasts cut him off. He gave her an apologetic look and hurried back to the kitchen. The seven leprechaun-things still stood on the counter.
"What's going on?" Bryan asked.
"Don't take it personally. Look outside. Don't be shy; we'll still be here."
Bryan took a deep breath and went to the window. He opened the curtains, but just as quickly closed them. Flames engulfed the whole neighborhood.
"You humans have ruled this world with an iron fist, leaving nothing for us. But we've been patient. We devised a plan, stored up our resources, and when we deemed ourselves ready, we struck. As you can see, it's going quite well."
The three spiders came into the kitchen carrying Nadine on a web stretcher. They set her down and turned their attention to Bryan. Before he could react, he found himself covered in webs and unable to move. His lips, like Nadine's, were stuck shut.
"They will make fine slaves. Nemby, the stove. The rest of you, the portal."
All of the little creatures except one ran to the refrigerator and jumped inside. Bryan almost choked on his own saliva. A huge tunnel had replaced the inside of his refrigerator. The spiders placed him on a stretcher like Nadine's and followed the leprechaun-thing into the refrigerator. He watched the straggler cast some sort of spell on the stove, causing it to spit fire all over the kitchen. The little man emitted a gleeful laugh and followed the rest down the long tunnel.
Bryan looked back at his now-burning house, and all he could think was that Nadine was going to be pissed. The leprechaun-things hadn't shut the refrigerator door.
THE LAST RIDE
The latest text message pushed him over the edge. "Danny cussed out his teacher. Probably suspended." He wondered if Julia had been chuckling when she'd sent it. No doubt she blamed the teacher. Lord knows Danny never did anything wrong. It seemed the only time the two of them talked anymore was when they argued about their delinquent son.
"Mind if I sit, pal?"
Brad blinked and looked up from his phone. The bus had just picked up a few more passengers and not many seats were left. He slid to the window and smiled at the man in shabby business casual clothes. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. Off in my own little world."
"Thanks." Luckily that appeared to be the end of it. Nothing made a bus ride more intolerable than having to make small-talk with a stranger.
Half-a-dozen more stops. Knowing traffic--and a quick glance around at the gridlock proved he did--it'd be another fifteen to twenty minutes. He turned his attention back to his phone and mulled over his reply. Anything he typed would be wrong. He needed to find something that would lead to quiet hostility rather than an out-and-out fight the second he stepped in the door. Inspiration did not strike.
Brad watched the next stop come and go. His palms broke out in sweat at the thought that there was one less buffer between him and home. He gripped his phone in anticipation of another text, this one wondering why he hadn't responded.
"This is stupid," he said, drawing a look from the big lout next to him. Brad readied an explanation, but the guy turned back to his sports page without a word. Brad looked around, saw no one else was paying him any mind, then shut off his phone, an action Julia deemed sacrilege.
As they made the next three stops, he fingered the power button, but willed himself not to push it. As they neared the stop before his, he almost cheered when someone pulled the cord.
"Why am I doing this to myself?" he said to the guy next to him.
"Don't know, pal," the guy said without looking up.
Brad laughed. It was so clear now. When the bus pulled away from the curb, he didn't reach up and mark the next stop. He used to have a life that didn't involve Julia and Danny, so why couldn't he have that again?
About a block from his stop, Brad sighed and pulled the cord. He couldn't start a new existence out of the blue. He didn't have the connections to disappear. When the bus stopped, he got off and headed for home.
There were other ways to vanish from life.
SLICE OF CAKE
The slice of wedding cake thawed. She watched it. In the freezer for a year, and now out to find its final moments. She laughed at the irony, the similarity. That way she wouldn't cry.
Through this first year, their newlywed year, she smiled each time she popped open the freezer and saw their cake waiting to help them celebrate year one. Rick admitted he did the same. For the first six months, he couldn't have been a more perfect husband.
Then the late nights started. At first she understood. He brought home good money, better than good money. Enough so she could quit her stupid dead end job to focus on being a mommy. Too bad he was shooting blanks.
Strike one.
Not to say she couldn't deal with it. Adoption was an option. Or a sperm bank. But it was still a blow to her happiness. A minor one, it turned out, to what she'd soon learn.
As part of her perfect little housewife routine, she did all the laundry. Rick knew it and should have been more careful. She couldn't decide if she was glad or not that he was too stupid to remember. How could he bring home a tiny leopard-print g-string that smelled of sex?
Strike two.
She didn't confront him. He always said he enjoyed that she didn't bring the drama, so she wouldn't start now. Anyway, it was better to wait until he created more rope to hang himself with. And preferably enough to hang whoever the slutty whore was he was banging.
Not long after that she realized he was too dumb to cover anything up effectively. For the first six months of marriage, not to mention the year they'd dated, he couldn't keep his hands off her. Pretty good, she realized now, for a guy who didn't have enough fish swimming in his pond. About the time she discovered his secret, their loving dropped to once a week, twice if she'd hit the sexual jackpot. Gee, could those damp panties he brought home in his pockets way too often have anything to do with it?
She could live with both of those. Rick still provided her with a nice life. She had options. Adoption, her own affair, plenty of shopping. She could make due. Not just make due, but have a nice life. And since he thought he was hiding it all, he still treated her like a human being when they were together.
But what would she do if that respect dropped out altogether?
Strike three.
He stumbled home at seven AM on the morning of their anniversary at the exact moment she took it from the freezer. Their wedding cake. Their symbol, defrosting on the counter as she'd hoped their love would that night in the bedroom.
But here he was, twelve hours late, hung over with dried blood under his nose, lipstick on his collar, and who knows what kind of fluids in his undershorts. If he even managed to pull them on.
He mumbled something and somehow found his way to the stairs. With no need to have him call in sick to work, a perk to the millions he pulled in for his company each year, she let him go up to grab some sleep. And she turned her attention back to their cake, her cake.
Now, with dinner over, they looked at that slice of cake. Like their marriage, she'd dressed it up with a fancy serving dish and a new heap of frosting. Rick took a bite and wondered what the strange taste was. She could only shrug and suggest that the freezer added some interesting flavors.
She didn't mention that Drano, rat poison, and bug spray probably didn't taste so great, either.
SUMMER SANTA
"Santa left a present, Uncle Jim."
Jim patted Nat, his four-year-old niece, on the head. "No, Natalie. Remember? Santa Claus only comes at Christmas."
"I saw him, Uncle Jim, I saw him. He was even dressed for summer."
Jim would have to ask his sister, wherever she was, if Nat often had imaginary friends. It'd keep him prepared for next time he came over to visit. "What did he look like?"
"He had on shorts and a t-shirt that he painted red. And he took off his beard and his belly. Mommy says summer Santa has a total surfer bod."
Jim struggled to keep a straight face. "I don't know, Nat. That doesn't sound like the Santa I know."
She glanced around and leaned up to give him a conspiratory whisper. "Santa is Daddy."
"Oh yeah?"
She nodded, grabbed his hand, and led him to the living room. "See? There it is. He didn't need to wrap it because it's not Christmastime."
Jim peaked into the room. In the middle of the floor sat a wicker basket with something oozing out. Oh crap, was that blood?
"Nattie, honey, why don't you go up to your room? I'll be there in a couple of minutes."
"But I wanna see what Santa brought me." Her bottom lip quivered. Brent had confided in him once that he was helpless when she pulled off that look. If what was in the dripping basked was what Jim thought, would Brent ever again be around for it to work its magic? Not if Jim could help it.
"It's not for you, sweetie. Santa only brings grown-up gifts in the summer."
She started to protest, but a quick offer of a trip to the toy store and ice cream shop hushed her up. She skipped up the stairs, humming a song as she went.
Jim turned his attention back to the wicker basket. That had to be blood. What else could it be? He hesitated for a second, not wanting to see, but powerless to walk away. He'd never really gotten on with Brent, felt there was something off about the guy, but was he capable of this? More important, was this why Sara wasn't here?
He flung the lid open. Relief and horror mixed, becoming one. It wasn't Sara, but the decapitated head of some shaggy-haired blond guy. The stench of death wafted up at him, and though his stomach turned and clenched, he kept himself from losing his lunch on the already stained carpet. Puke after this is solved, he told himself.
A flash of color on the lid tore his attention from the head. He found a piece of paper taped inside with "You're next, you cheating whore," written in what was probably the blond guy's blood.
He slammed the lid back down. Shit. He needed to warn Sara, needed to get Natalie somewhere safe. When he got here and found Sara gone, he'd guessed she was out running errands. Now he hoped to god that was true. He dug in his pocket for his cell phone, but before he could flip it open, Brent spoke from behind.
"You picked the wrong day to visit, bro."
Jim spun around just in time to see a hatchet screaming for his head.
THE ANTIGRAVITY FLYMABOB
Beezle charged through the workshop, sweat beading on his forehead. What had the elves done with it? The Antigravity Flymabob was the only thing that would get Santa around the world in one night. Sure the reindeer would get him off the ground, and they could even weld a rocket onto the sled, but flying and magically flying were two very different things. Why couldn't the elves be as careful as the gnomes?
He heard all the fanfare that accompanied the take-off, punctuated by Santa's jolly ho-ho-ho's. Wouldn't that end quickly if Beezle couldn't find it. The elves, always looking to get on the gnomes' good side, had promised it'd be on the sleigh, but ten minutes to go and where was it? They might be great at making toys, but when it came to magic you couldn't trust an elf as far as you could throw him.
Beezle grumbled under his breath. No Antigravity Flymabob here. He'd have to go out and tell Santa. He'd just ask the elves, but he doubted they even remembered making the promise, let alone where they had left it. At least no one outside of the North Pole knew gnomes existed. The entire blame for a ruined Christmas could rest on the elves' scrawny shoulders.
Beezle hurried out to the launch pad. Every second counted if they were going to get Santa off with enough time to keep Christmas on schedule. He busted through the door and into the crowd.
"Wait!" Beezle yelled. "Don't go yet!"
With all of the noise, no one heard him. He looked over to the sleigh and saw the Antigravity Flymabob latched snuggly in place. He glanced over to the group who'd promised to put it in. They looked over at Beezle, smiled, and saluted. Before turning back to watch Santa depart, they said something. Though Beezle couldn't hear over the din of the crowd, he could read their lips. "Merry Christmas, Beezle!"
Beezle grunted and allowed himself a small smile. Maybe the elves weren't so bad after all.
THE NEXT GREAT ADVENTURE
Ron watched as Mars shrank from view. He wished he could have said goodbye to everyone in person, but the message was easier on all of them. They wouldn't have tried to stop him, he knew that, but knowing he'd never see them again would've made it hard.
Yeah, this was the right way.
Ever since he saw the space elevator at New Vegas, he knew he had to go. He couldn't stay on Mars. The mining gig at Olympus Mons was there for him, but that wasn't his life. He couldn't waste away the years digging in an armored space suit. That was no way to live. He needed adventure, not suicide, especially a long drawn out one.
He waited through the entire flight from Earth to the Mars Space Port in New New York Harbor. Something would present itself. He just needed to be patient, like he had been in the Old Grand Canyon. He'd be dead already if it hadn't been for that.
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