Neighbors - Part 2

THE DARKNESS AROUND me is suffocating. I lie on my back, the soft blankets beneath me, the room around me almost dead silent. I can heard the light “whoosh” of the ceiling fan above me, and the telltale ticking of a clock that hangs in the hallway outside of my bedroom.

I do not hear my dog, and I do not hear any cars rolling down the street, but I just heard something that woke me.

The silence around me is crushing, save for the fan I hear nothing but the dull rumble of my own heard shooting blood through my veins. My eyes still cast dim reflections, spots from the back of my mind, from the nightmare that I just woke from.

I was there again. I could smell the terrible odor of burnt rubber, stale in my nostrils, the moist, sweet scent from the rain that had fallen only an hour ago, puddle around my feet, my hands, the figure in front of me. Red pooled, mingled into pink in the puddle to my left.

The window of my bedroom still glowed with the Christmas lights from across the street. I see spots of blue and white most distinctly, they stand out among the others, staring in on my blinds, sliding slyly through the slits and raking across my ceiling, just beyond the reaches of the swishing ceiling fan blades. For a long moment I sit there and stare, wondering why they were so distinct, and what I had just heard.

I listen for a long time, if nothing else, then just to get that picture out of my mind. I have to get it out.
My shoulder is shaken, I can feel a hand there, I can hear someone talking to me, but it seems like it’s from a long tunnel, so far away. There’s a mutter of conversation behind it, but farther away, quieter, spoken by a crowd that sees what I’m seeing, but doesn’t feel the same way I do. They can’t. They won’t.

I unclench my fist; I did not realize I was clutching it so tightly. My hand is on the verge of cramping I was clutching it so tightly. My fingers feel like they had just been rolled over by something quite heavy. There’s a scent in my nostrils, it’s salty—I think it’s sweat, but I’m not sure…I can only hope.

The blinking outside my window, leaking in slowly, flickering back and forth, these not like the sunset but like the cold light from my dreams. From the ones I try to hide from, the one I just left, the one that I hate.
My eyes are adjusting to the darkness, they are gradually becoming more accustomed to it, I can make out in utter vagueness the features of my bookshelf off in the corner, lined with close to two hundred books, somewhere around that. I had about as many on my Kindle, maybe more, I can’t remember.

I see the dull reflection off of my Maglite—the big one—on my nightstand. It sits like a silent guardian where it usually does, waiting for the moment it’s needed. As an LED flashlight, it certainly puts out more than enough light, though I’ve hardly ever used it.

A picture sits on my nightstand, right next to the Maglite—one I’ve looked at every night for two years, one I can’t stop looking at—one I can’t stop loving. I could probably put the picture back together from memory if I had to, but I stare at if for I don’t know how long every day anyway. I guess I’m afraid that if I don’t I might somehow forget.

I can’t forget.

I turn my gaze back at the lights, lost in the intricate dance they are performing, the popcorn ceiling curves and bends in the shifting illumination, as if it were alive, and carefully following the rhythm of the decorations.
I feel like my heart is following that same rhythm. Fast and irregular, weighted down…tired.

I see it again, but I don’t want to. I push it away. I hope it will fade into the blackness like all of the rest, I hope it will just go away. I don’t want to look. I don’t want to see.

The picture. I think of the picture.

Still that burning on the back of my eyeballs, still that stunned vision of shock, of anger, of sorrow and of pain. I see it. I feel it. I live it all again.

White line, thick and proud, stained by red, dotted by pink, splashed by a clear white, contrasted by gray, colorless to me. Everything, except for that blue and white, swimming in pink, dull and hot, a former red, but thriving death—I know what it means, but I don’t want to believe, I don’t want to see, I don’t want to understand.

Why do I still dream? Hasn’t it been long enough yet? Haven’t I dreamt enough dreams? To tell you the truth I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I try to think of somethin else. The service at church from the previous day comes to mind. They were talking about how they had seen a lot of Blake and Mikayla, a brother and sister who had been coming to the services a lot lately. They had quite a past apparently, but they seemed to have been doing very well in the Bible study groups and in regular attendance.

Blake seems like a really cool guy, he works as a mechanic, and he’s got the handshake that would make a wrestler wince. Mikayla seems to be quieter than Blake, softer spoken, I guess. She is almost always right beside him, and he seems to watch out for her a lot, I kind of wonder how long they’ve been like that. In truth I admire that, and I wonder what made them turn out that way? Was it their raising? Something they just naturally picked up? I wish I knew.

 I’m happy that they’re coming, I really am, but I don’t know them. I kind of wish I did know them better, especially since I’m up in the middle of the night thinking about them.

Blood. The white line reflects, the puddles soak my knees, my feet—the smell of the moist concrete is more than I can bear. The sight in front of me more than I wish to think about.

Make it stop.

But I can’t. I stare at the lights, the blue and the white, that glow that seems to illuminate my dreamscape, covering everything—infecting everything.

I don’t think I’m going to get to sleep for a while. It’s three in the morning, I’ve only been asleep for a few hours, and I don’t think I will see more sleep this night.

I wish the dreams would stop.

End of Part 2

Neighbors - Part 1

Well, in response to Joel's challenge to me to write a story of at least 15,000 words I have come up with a small idea and began writing it today. In the tradition of Dickens and the classic "serial novel" I have decided I will share this as it is written. Here are the first 2,000+ words.

IN THE DIM lighting of the room, I can see the colors bounce along the walls, flickering off and on again, like dancing stars in the distant sky. There are vague shadows, both the monstrous and the whimsical, silhouettes appearing again and again, then fading again into the darkness.

Off in the corner a man stands, leaning on his staff, below him a woman is kneeling, she’s staring down, her hooded head bowed slightly, eyes casting a benevolent gaze downward. Around them three more come, one is holding an animal on his shoulder, the others carry staves, they look as if they have traveled a long way.

I sit in my chair, surveying the scene, knowing that they will not move, the only movement in the room is from the dancing lights on the large tree that sits to my left.

Well, I guess large would be an overstatement, it was a good size tree, I’ll tell you that much. The lights had taken forever to string onto it, and still, deep inside I was wondering why I had taken all of the time to string lights that only I would see.

The somewhat to scale Nativity set was on a table that I never used over in the corner. Well, okay, I sometimes throw my keys onto it, but aside from that it never gets used. I wasn’t the one who had picked it out in the first place…but that’s a different story.

“Collin?” It was Connie speaking, my sister who was on the phone I was holding to my ear.

“Yeah, I’m here.” I answer.

Yes, my parents named us Collin and Connie Doyle. I guess they thought it was cute or something, truth is I never really asked them. I really wish I had when I still could, I couldn’t get an answer anymore.

“Okay, just checking, you get awful quiet sometimes.” She chuckled a little, but I knew that she didn’t really think it was funny. I think she knew what I was thinking about. “Just so you know, Amy is kind of sad you couldn’t come visit us this year—she really has a thing for you, uncle.”

I smiled. I had to. “Amy is also five years old, of course she loves visitors.”

“Especially the kind that will play with her for hours on end, including things that you know I don’t like.”

There was that. I didn’t see what was the matter with swinging her around by her arms, slinging her over my shoulder and endless piggyback rides, but Connie didn’t’ approve of such things in the house.

“Well…I guess so.” I can hear Amy in the background over the phone, she’s talking to her Dad about something, and I can hear Frank responding to her. I try to put the picture in my mind, I think Connie is sitting at the kitchen table, behind her is the kitchen, and off to the side is the living room. Connie, almost my twin, with her light brown hair pulled back into a careless ponytail, and her thumb and index finger rubbing her brow right above her crystal sea blue eyes. I like to think that she’s in her Christmas robe, the one she wears when she doesn’t care who’s around, the one with snowmen and snowflakes scattered randomly across the soft fabric. In front of her is the ceremonial evening hot chocolate, a dollop of melted whipped cream plopped on top of it, gradually sinking into the warm beverage. Her cell phone, an iPhone or a Droid—I can’t remember which one she got. She told me about it when she had purchased it.

“You doing okay, Collin?”

Ah, the question. The one I was waiting for ever since she called.

“Better than the last couple of years. Okay, I guess.” I respond. I really didn’t feel like getting into this again—I was about as over it as I was going to get, but I still didn’t see the need in dredging it up again. I know how they say that he best therapy you can get is talking to other people about what happened, and that kind of releases everything. It does help, I won’t lie—but that doesn’t mean that it still won’t hurt.

“You want to talk about it?”

I rub the back of my neck, “Nah, not right now. If I’m not mistaken, it’s well past Amy’s bed time.”

To tell you the truth I can’t always remember the exact time difference between Tennessee where I live, and Wisconsin, where she lives. All I know is that I need a good excuse. I just hope she doesn’t see it for what it is.

She sighs, and I can picture her looking at the large clock that hangs in the kitchen, one of those cat clocks that seem to be a horror movie fixture, the kind where the eyes move back and forth and the tail swings like a pendulum. Freaky thing, I know, but that’s Connie’s sense of humor. She’s probably the only person who finds stuff like that amusing.

“Yeah, but that’s fine. It’s almost Christmas, I’m not quite as strict this time of year.” He heard he take a sip of a something; what he imagined was hot chocolate.

“What? The bedtime Nazi is letting up?”

“Yes. She also sleeps a lot longer in the day when I let her exhaust herself. She still has a bedtime, don’t worry about that, but I occasionally allow her to indulge. I’ll blame it on Frank, if nothing else.”

“Sounds good to me.” I smile. Connie had loosened up since the previous years, she used to be a real “rules and regulations or die” kind of person. I had always teased her about it, but hadn’t done it in a long time. I think she was really starting to let go in a lot of areas. “But what would Dad ever say?”

“That I shouldn’t be so loose.” She chuckled again, “He would probably say: ‘rules are very important! It’s all about the rules.’ Something like that.”

I nod, he would. That he would.

“You miss them?” I ask.

A pause. “Yeah. A lot.”

“Me too.”

The Christmas lights twinkle in my tree, reminding me more of a lake at sunset, shimmering orange and blue and red and purple—such a beautiful mix. How long ago had it been I sat on a dock and watched a sunset over a lake? How long had it been since I sat there with somebody beside me, watching it in awe, captivated, and ecstatic to paint it sometime.

For a moment, I can still see her, but then the thought vanishes, like an echo falling into blackness.

“What do you think they would do?” I ask. “Would they want me to still decorate and everything, or would they tell me not to worry about it?”

Connie shifted the phone, I can hear it, “What do you mean?”

“I decorated again this year. Nothing fancy, just a tree and a Nativity scene—you know, the one that we always used to put up.”

“Yes,” she replies.

“I put it up because of them…and because of Lisa. Even though I really don’t feel like it.”

“What do you mean?”

I sigh. “It really just doesn’t feel like Christmas, you know? I see the lights on houses—speaking of which, you should see the elaborate job that the folks across the street did—and I hear the Christmas music in the store. Bing Crosby, Sinatra, Andy Williams, couple other people I could care less about—but it’s just not connecting.”

She sighs, but in understanding.

“I’m not even listening to Christmas music. I just don’t feel like it. I haven’t watched a Christmas movie all season—but I still have the tree and the lights up. Call me a Grinch, I don’t know, it just doesn’t seem to be that time of year yet. It hasn’t for a while.”

“You think it’s because of Lisa?”

I see blood on my hands, and concrete below me, a white hand with blackened fingertips lying deathly still on the dark stain that runs across the painted line. Then it’s gone.

“I don’t know.” I say. I think she’s right but I don’t say. I look at the Christmas lights dancing on the wall, their shine bouncing back and forth, and I think of that dock again, the earthy smell around me, and the faint whisper of fruit, shampoo washed hair.

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” She asks now, with more concern in her voice. That was Connie though; she knew exactly what I was thinking. She always did.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I will say that I could use some prayer, y’know? It…uh…it still hurts a lot. Might be the tree, might be the wreath for all I know—it all brings it back. Some of it anyway.”

“I will.” She says. “We will, Frank and I.”

“How’s he doing anyway?” I ask, not just to change the subject—which believe me I want to do—but because I am interested, and I’m tired of focusing on my problems. Heaven knows I got plenty of them.
“He’s doing good, the new church is really liking him, he’s only been here a year but they have really taken to his style of preaching. I think they know that he really cares, too. He’s just started going through the Gospel of Mark.”

I knew he would do well, Frank was a good expositor, he knew how to break down the Bible into sections and feed it to the people, and he had a style that made everything interesting. I was happy for them when they took their new church, and I’m glad they are doing well. I just wish I could make it up there to see them.

“That’s good. I’m glad for you guys.” I say, and I mean it.

I look out the window that stares into the street from my living room. I see the house across the street—of course it’s hard not to—decked out with all manner of lights. They have lights going on the walls and the roof, which I can honestly say I haven’t seen anywhere except for television. Their front yard houses a herd of deer and a menagerie of snowmen inflatable decorations, all lead by a huge plastic rendition of the classic Frosty the Snowman, the bane of all Scrooges. On their roof was a Santa that could stand to lose a few, with four emaciated reindeer pulling a wooden sleigh that they had somehow mounted. How long it took to put up the grand display was beyond me, and I dare not ask what the electric bill is for it.

“Well, I gotta go. I think it’s almost bedtime for me.” I say.

I hear Connie begin to laugh into a sip of hot chocolate (or whatever it is) and quickly gulp it back down. “I guess so. Remember, if you want to talk, just gimme a call.”

“Of course.” I tell her. “Give my love to Amy and tell Frank to keep going. He needs to put more sermons on the Internet.”

“Will do. Love you, and merry Christmas, Collin.”

“Love you too, sis. Have a good week.”

We hang up and I set the phone down on my coffee table, inhabited by a cup of the good old black stuff, and a bottle of ibuprofen sits off to the side, closed up tight. Something about this time of year always gives me some off the wall headaches.

Her hair cascades around her head, like she’s floating in water, a speck of red dots her eye; those beautiful eyes stare up at me, not exactly blank, but so very unrecognizing, so very vague. It fades out.

I pick up the cup of coffee, held by a battered old mug with none other than Donald Duck staring back at me. He looks somewhat exasperated, and I try to remember where in the wide world I picked up this cup. I have no idea.

I sip from it, tasting the cold bitterness of the brew sluice down my near-parched throat. It’s not the best pot I’ve ever made, that much is for sure.

“Merry Christmas, Lisa.” I say to the tree, with the lights twinkling like the sunset. “Merry Christmas, dear.”

End of Part 1

Premonition - A Short Story

Harry entered the waking world with a start, head swimming, muscles tense. For a second, he didn't know where he was. Then, as his eyes took in the familiar surroundings, he relaxed. He was in his living room. He must've fallen asleep on the couch again.

The book he'd been reading lay on the cushion next to him - a crime thriller he'd picked up at the bookstore the other day. The title stared up at him with eyes of fancy, gothic lettering: Death Comes As A Friend. He regarded it coldly, unimpressed. A story which put the reader to sleep could hardly be deemed a "thriller".

He sat up from his reclined position and massaged away the cric in his neck with one hand. He got to his feet. He was already dressed, but one look at his exceptionally wrinkled shirt convinced him he needed to change.

In the bathroom, he turned the faucet all the way on and let the water run. He cradled some in his palm and splashed it over his face. The chilly wetness was refreshing, chasing any vestiges of sleep from his cobwebbed brain. He closed his eyes contentedly for a minute and relished the feeling. Then he turned the faucet off and dried his face with a towel.

He changed into a fresh pair of clothes, then proceeded to the kitchen. He turned the dial on the coffee maker to “On”, and grabbed a skillet from the cupboard and began warming it on the stovetop. Two eggs were fried and on a plate and on the table within minutes, accompanied by a cup of coffee. Harry sat down and took a sip. The dark liquid scalded his tongue and throat, but he didn't mind. He liked it that way.

One, two, three raps sounded sharply on the front door. Harry looked up, surprised. “Hey,” called a voice, “you in there, Harry? It's Aaron. Let me in, will you? It's soaking wet out here.”

Harry set his cup down hastily and went to the door and opened it. He motioned his friend inside. “Sorry 'bout that,” he muttered apologetically, closing the door. “Didn't even notice the rain.”

“Well, I noticed it,” said Aaron, grinning. “Doesn't look like it's gonna stop anytime soon, either.” He looked up. “You just get up?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “I was just eating breakfast. Care for some coffee?”

Aaron shrugged. “Sure.” He stripped off his sopping rain coat and deposited it on the coat rack behind the door, then sat down at the table. “Thanks.”

Harry turned and reached into the cupboard and took down another cup. "So," he said, conversationally, "what's up? Need to borrow somethin'?" He began filling Aaron's cup. The coffee swirled and steamed. "By the way," he added, turning around, "d'you want cream?"

He stopped and his jaw fell and his face turned a pasty white. "Aaron?"

Aaron was standing again. A revolver was in his right hand, his finger curling round the trigger, the bluish barrel pointing straight at Harry's chest.

"Aaron?"

"Bye, Harry."

There was a small thunderclap. Harry dropped and lay shivering in the floor, a blossom of red spreading slowly across the front of his shirt. His glazing eyes focused one last time on Aaron, who knelt beside him, gun in hand.

"Aaron." Harry's lips moved in a low, reproachful whisper.

Aaron watched, listened.

"Wh-why?"

Aaron bent his head down to the dying man's ear and whispered back: "Because, Harry. Because I can."

***

Harry woke with a start. His head was swimming and sticky rivulets of sweat ran down his face and his heart was beating in a fast, panicky tempo. He rose from the couch and stumbled hastily into the kitchen. He snatched a glass from the cupboard and filled it from the tap and drank. Calm yourself, Harry. It was just a dream. Just a bad, bad dream and nothing more.

One, two, three raps sounded sharply on the front door. Harry dropped the glass, shattering it into a million winking shards. “Hey,” called a voice, “you in there, Harry? It's Aaron. Let me in, will you? It's soaking wet out here.”


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

Apprehended - A Short Story

Saturday night. Wilson sat hunched at his kitchen table, arms resting on the tabletop. Beside him, a shortwave radio spilled classical music into the air. Bach, he thought it was. He wasn't sure which piece, but he didn't care. To listen, to drink in the richness of the music – that was all he wanted. He relaxed and closed his eyes and buried his head in his arms.

A crackle of static sizzled through the speakers and made Wilson jump. He eyed the radio with annoyance and reached out to mess with the dial. Suddenly a man's voice cut into the air, crisp and authoritative and demanding to be heard. Wilson pulled his hand away and listened, curious.

“We interrupt this program,” said the voice, “to bring you this important news bulletin. One hour ago, convicted murderer James Laarson escaped from police custody and is now at large in the city. Laarson is five-foot three, black-haired, clean shaven, and carries a scar above his left eye. He is armed and extremely dangerous. The police advise -”

Wilson flicked the radio switch off – silence. He sat back in his chair and ran one hand through his hair thoughtfully. An escaped convict was roaming the streets of his home city: that didn't happen very often. Not that he needed to be alarmed. He had no reason to think the killer was strolling up and down this particular street in this particular neighborhood. There were hundreds of streets and hundreds of neighborhoods. Why should he choose this one?

Why not? The counter-question buzzed insistently at the back of Wilson's brain. He tried to ignore it: it wouldn't be ignored. He sighed and pushed back his chair and got to his feet. It couldn't hurt to be cautious.

He inspected all the downstairs windows and made sure each one was closed and locked. Then he checked the front and back doors, both of which featured two bolts. Wilson generally used only one; tonight he used both. Having satisfied himself on all accounts, he turned off the lights and went upstairs. The radio sat on the kitchen table, cold and quiet and in the dark.

Upstairs there were two bedrooms – Wilson's own and one intended for guests. The latter was seldom used, but Wilson checked it anyway. The window on the far side of the room was open, ushering in a cool night draft. He slid it shut, then tried the locks. They were stuck fast. He swore. They'd been that way for months, and he hadn't bothered to get them replaced. He drew the curtains closed. Nothing he could do about it now.

Wilson entered his own room, locking the door behind him. He locked the window, too. Then he undressed and pulled on his pajamas. Before crawling into bed, he opened the drawer of his nightstand and took out the revolver he'd stashed there. He had bought it years ago at a local gun show, never used it except on the shooting range. He held it in his hands for a minute, then slipped it under his pillow. Just in case.

Darkness. Silence.

Noise.

Wilson's eyes shot open. He blinked, getting accustomed to the blackness, and then looked around the room. The bright red digits on the clock face showed two forty-one am – five hours since he'd retired to sleep. Something had woken him – he wasn't sure what, but something had. He listened, straining to catch the slightest sound.

Noise.

His heart beat quickened. He felt under his pillow and grasped the gun.

Noise.

It was right outside his bedroom door now. The tread of feet trying not to be heard. Impossible, he thought. The noise ceased. He listened. He could hear heavy breathing. The door knob clicked as an unseen hand tried to turn it.

Wilson pointed the revolver at the door and fired. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Click.

The air trembled as the reports gave way to screaming silence. Wilson sat frozen, hardly daring to move, the gun smoking and empty in his trembling hands. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he stirred himself and threw off the covers and switched on the lamp beside his bed. He reloaded his gun, then stood up and edged cautiously toward the door. Six holes riddled the thin plywood frame. He shuddered. There was a click as he drew back the hammer on his gun.

He listened for a full minute without hearing a thing. Slowly, he opened the door and stepped out, gun held at arm's length. All was quiet. Nothing stirred in the darkened hallway. He flipped the light switch, flooding the place with an intense yellowy whiteness. He looked.

Blood spatters decorated the wall and carpet with lurid crimson brilliance. Less than five feet away, at the head of the stairs, lay the body of the intruder. His expressionless face stared up at the ceiling and one hand clutched a small semi-automatic. His chest was a mess. And above his left eye was a scar.

Wilson sank to the floor in relief, only to be hit by a wave of nausea. He vomited all over the red-stained carpet, vomited until he had nothing left, until his stomach was empty. He dry-heaved for a full-minute. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and got up and staggered back into his bedroom. He picked up the phone and began punching the numbers with his forefinger.

“Hello, operator?” he rasped. “Get me the police.”

There was a pause, then a voice: “Officer Harrison speaking. What -”

“Officer,” Wilson said, weeping his words into the receiver, “this is Wilson Donaghue, one thirty-six South, Chancery Street. I've just shot James Laarson.”

No response.

“Don't you hear me?” Wilson was almost hysterical by now. “I've just shot James Laarson! I've killed him, dead, on the floor, do you hear?”

“Sir,” Harrison cut in sharply, “that's not possible.”

“What? What d'you mean 'not possible'!”

“Sir, we apprehended James Laarson over two hours ago. He's in custody now.”


ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Corey Poff is first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone. He's sixteen, an avid writer, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

Guest Post: Wolf - A Short Story by Corey Poff

-Wolf-

Texas prairie, 1889. The wolf came in the darkness.

Henry Hanson woke at an unholy hour to an unholy din in the yard outside. He sat up, blearily wiping the sleep from his eyes with one hand. There was creak as he shifted in the bed, a thud as his feet hit the floor. Barefoot, he shuffled over the wood boards, muttering imprecations under his breath. He groped blindly along the wall until his fingers closed around the stock of the 30/30 Winchester that hung there. Then he opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.

The full moon cast a sheeny whiteness on three shapes furiously intertwined with one another. Teeth flashed, throats snarled, tongues lolled. Animal cries of anger and of pain rose from the chaotic struggle. Henry recognized his two hounds, fighting side by side against a third, larger creature. A second later he realized what that creature was.

He whipped the gun to his shoulder, pointing it at the sky. The barrel spat orange and blue fire. An explosion ripped a jagged hole in the night air and the fight in the yard ended abruptly as it began, the combatants scattering in different directions.

Henry pumped the lever of the Winchester and raised the gun again. This time, he levelled the barrel at a streak of gray running away through the fields on his left. He fired. The wolf swerved in its path, seemed to stagger. Then it was gone, melting away into the surrounding darkness. Henry lowered his weapon and stared after it. "Blasted animal," he muttered. One of the hounds whimpered. He stooped to scratch its ears. Then he turned and reentered the house and closed the door and replaced the gun in its bracket on the wall and crawled back into bed.

The following morning, Henry rose and got dressed and ate breakfast and saddled his horse. He slid the Winchester into the saddle holster, donned his hat, and set off through the eastern fields of his property, leaving the hounds tethered to the front porch. They whined as they watched him go. In the far east, the sun peered over the horizon, its blazing razor edge casting a pale hue over the land.

Less than a quarter mile from the house, Henry spotted crimson among the golden prairie grass. Blood. The wolf's blood, no doubt. Henry's shot had been true. He rode on, pleased with himself.

The blood trail continued for several miles, winding this way and that but always eastward. Henry followed it patiently, even though it was slow going. Sometimes the trail would veer sharply off in an unexpected direction or disappear altogether for a short distance, and he would have to dismount and look around until he found it again.

Over an hour and half had passed now. The sun was fully risen, bright and yellow, in the first stages of its trek through the heavens. Henry kept riding, both eyes fixed intently on the red trail that snaked on and on through the grass. Then, as his horse topped a small rise in the terrain, he came to abrupt stop. Icy needles pricked up and down his spine.

There, not five feet away, and partially concealed by the grass, lay a man. He was naked - not a stitch of clothing on him - and he didn't move. Just lay there, facedown in the dust. He was dead. Henry was sure of it. He slid out of the saddle and walked toward the body, all other thoughts driven from his mind. He crouched, pushing his hat farther back on his head, his eyes taking in the scene.

There was blood, lots of it, all around where the man lay. The strong coppery scent filled Henry's nostrils. He stifled a gag. Gingerly, he gripped the man's arm and turned him over. His heartbeat quickened.

Just under the lower left rib was a hole about the size of a dime. It was bloody and black and clotted with dirt and bits of grass, but the nature of it was plain enough. It was a gunshot wound – the type of wound that a round from a 30/30 Winchester rifle might make.

And the sun watched...

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (IN HIS OWN WORDS)

 

I am first and foremost a sinner saved by grace alone, and my chief aim in all of life is to bring honor and glory to my God, working to extend His Kingdom here on earth with every fiber of my being. I’m sixteen, and a lover of books, movies, music, logic, Reformed theology, history, guns, and the great outdoors. And Italian food.

New Collection: After Hours - 13 Strange Stories published on Smashwords

This is a new collection I published today on Smashwords. Here is the info:

A collection of really short stories that are a little less than normal. Ranging from horror, suspense and the somewhat humorous.

Written with the tradition of H. P. Lovecraft, Edgar Allan Poe and Richard Matheson in mind.

The contents include

1: Waking
2: The Cat
3: Birthday Party
4: Infested
5: Lawn Care
6: Closing Time
7: The Lair
8: The Pet
9: The Library
10: The Plant
11: Trophy Room
12: In The Closet
13: The Reaper

Normally this is .99 cents but I generated a coupon for you guys to use so you can get it for free. Just enter this code where indicated and you will receive this as a free download in any format. If there are any problems just leave me a comment and I will get back to you as soon as I possibly can. 

Here's the coupon code:  TD28R This is good until October 1st 2011

Click here to get the book.


Thank you for your wonderful support.

The Pet (A Flash Fiction Piece)

I WATCH him walking around. Sometimes he just cracks me up; by the way he just paces around, looking for whatever he may have lost. Pets are so funny that way. They just move about from place to place, running their little errands that they deem so important. I wonder sometimes why he spends so much time in the kitchen, but as long as he’s happy I’m happy I guess.

I turn back to the TV for a moment, watching the commercial for the dish detergent that is supposed to clean the dishes so much better than whatever brand you’re already using. I can’t help but to be completely bored by the lousily made commercial.

I look back to my pet, just to see what he was doing.

From where I sit I can see him heading for his beloved water bowl. Sometimes I wonder why he goes for it so often and empties it all the way every time, only to need a refill later. Good thing it was kept up with or he would be getting very thirsty and would have quite the problem. 

It’s the same way with his food, he’s always going to get something to eat, it’s like he’s a bottomless pit or something. I used to wonder why he ate so much, in fact I was beginning to wonder if something was wrong with him, but then I saw how big he was and figured he needed that much. Apparently that’s perfectly normal. He does have a very nice coat of brown fur; I can definitely say that. Whether or not that has to do with his diet is a mystery to me.

After he eats a lot and takes care of all the after effects he’s usually pretty tired and parks it on the couch while I watch TV. He’s kind of funny when he sleeps, listening to the noises he makes when he sleeps always amuses me. I just take a look at him when a commercial is on; he’s far more entertaining than the commercials are.

But that’s not all really. I must admit I also like it when he’s feeling cuddly. I’m not the snuggly type, but if he needs me that’s fine. I’m perfectly fine with a bit of snuggle when it’s needed. For me, if it’s important to him, it’s important to me. I’ll scoot over a little bit. No big deal, just a bit of couch, he can share it with me if he really needs me.

We get along fine, my pet and I. It does kind of bother me when he does some things, like get up in the middle of the night and rock the bed, or when he starts fussing when he has to go outside. Sometimes it’s just like: for real, man. Get over it. We all have things we must do after all; sometimes he just needs to chill. It’s amazing how he can get so worked up over nothing at all. But then again, we all get like that sometimes, I guess. It’s just the way we all are, getting excited over stupid things all the time.

It’s not just him getting upset about things though, he has his happy moments, like when I’m watching football on TV, he gets worked up with the crowd, that’s always really interesting, as you well know if you’ve ever watched one of yours do this. Just watch how excited he gets as if he actually understands what’s going on.
Ah, funny stuff.

He walks towards me, carrying the leash. He nudges me with it, asking me to take him for a walk. He loves his walks.

Being as wonderful as I am, I get off the couch and head to the door. He carries the leash with him as he follows me to the door. He knows what time it is.

I sit as he hooks the leash to my collar and slips on his shoes to protect his feet.

He opens the door and I step out first, just about as ready for our walk was he is. “Hold up, buddy.” He says.

I slow down to let him catch up.

From the forthcoming collection: "After Hours: 13 Strange Stories"

The Grave Digger Published on Smashwords

Well, this story doesn't have as much meaning as the other ones I've published, but The Grave Digger is a short story I wrote off of an idea I had and it turned out to be the story featured here. It is a terror/suspense type story and I would advise discretion as to who reads it due to violence. The subject is that the past will always catch up to you, you can't hide from what you've done. "Be sure your sin will find you out."

Find it here.

Following Him,
Michael Wright
Rom 1:16; Phil 1:21

Short Story Collection Published on Smashwords

Dear friends and readers,

A new flash fiction collection has been published on Smashwords. What it illustrates are the doctrines of grace through fantasy short stories. It took me all week to write, so go check it out if you want. Here's the link.

Following Him,
Michael Wright
Rom 1:16; Phil 1:21

Inside (A Short Story)

 This is a short story I wrote last week, and it has been published on Smashwords, and you can download it there for free. I would issue an advisory for reader discretion due to violence.

INSIDE
By Mike Wright


Gregory Chandler always kept the door locked. Period. On the hulking solid-wood door was a vast array of assorted locks and mechanisms. Three different deadbolts were safely secured, and were followed by three bolt and chain locks, a couple of padlocks and a crossbar for some occasions.

He looked over his beautiful locked door while sipping on a glass of water. The water was out of a bottle, but he ran it through his Brita just to be sure that it was really pure. The cool, crisp, clean water ran through his teeth as he savored the feeling on the liquid pouring down his throat.

Fresh.

He moved away from his door, the padded slippers on his feet shielded between him and the sterile tile floor, and he looked at his windows in the living room. Barred on the inside and the outside. The shining padlocks that he changed every three months were tightly secured. Nothing was getting in that way.

He had run a similar inspection on the entire lower floor, and he was about to retire to bed. After the exhausting day he had, bed sounded like pure bliss. That and the novel he had purchased that afternoon, perhaps he would read a few pages of that before he shut down for the night.

With a quick glance at his kitchen window, just being sure that it was still locked; he clicked off the light and began to walk toward the stairs.


The watch on his arm said it was about ten-thirty. He supposed he was retiring kind of early, but it didn’t matter. Gregory needed to sleep.

He counted the stairs as he went up, stopping at seventeen before he reached the top floor. A quick look around told him that he was safe inside. That was of the utmost importance. He was perfectly safe.

His mother had told him that he was a little strange, being so secure all of the time, but he saw nothing strange about it at all. Anyone who just walked around with his or her doors partially locked—or not locked at all—had to be insane. Didn’t they see all of the dangerous people out there? Have they any idea? Goodness, it was a dangerous world, and Gregory intended to be perfectly safe in it, thank you very much.

When he was a child his mother hadn’t been so safe, and it had cost them dearly. Very dearly, he didn’t intend to let that happen ever again.

He checked the window in the upstairs bathroom just to be certain it was locked.

Gregory walked back out of the bathroom and moved for his bedroom at the end of the hall. The lamp he had left on a few moments ago before making his final rounds still shone brightly through, welcoming him to the paradise of sleep. How he desperately needed it.

He had also left the television on before he left, and it was playing on one of the religious networks. He had left it on there because it was talking, but he could really care less. Religion was stupid in his opinion. He was perfectly fine just as he was, he didn’t need some “inner cleansing” all he needed to do was protect his outside. Forget being born-again, all he needed was to keep all of the pollutants and poisons out of his body and he would be perfectly fine. He planned to live forever. His mother may have needed that stuff but he didn’t. It was all a crock for a bunch of fat guys to make more money anyway.

With a click of the remote the screen went black and Gregory downed the rest of his water. The glass was set neatly on the table by the door so it would be available to him if he needed it in the night.

He set the remote on another table that was on the other end of a comfortable reading chair and moved for his bed, taking the small paperback with him. He had only made it a chapter or two in and was considering moving forward in it by just a few more pages.
He set the novel down on the pillow next to his on the queen-sized bed and kicked his slippers off in front of him on the floor. The padded soles landed solidly and he used his toes to guide them so they were perfectly in line.

Gregory peeled back the comforter and then pulled back the sheets, they parted for him just perfectly and he smoothed the lines together and began to climb in….

…and heard a crash in the house.

His heart stopped.

Someone was inside?

He looked around him for a moment, desperate for a weapon, but stopped. What was he thinking?

“Something must have just fallen over.” He said to nobody but himself. “That stupid lamp that’s always wobbling.”

That had to be all it was. That had to be.

Gregory moved for the door to check it out, surely it was that stupid lamp. He just had to stand it back up and go back to bed. The light switch by the wall met his fingertips and the bright light filled the hallway.

He moved for the stairs and looked down, sure enough there was the pesky lamp tipped over and on the floor, the light bulb was a pile of glass splinters.

“Great.”

He started down the stairs when a shadow shot down the hallway on the lower floor.

His heart skipped.

Oh, boy, he thought, someone is in the house.

He carefully backed up the stairs, trying to avoid the slight squeak of the step behind him. The last thing he wanted was for the guy to know where he was. That would prove disastrous.

Okay, okay. Think.

He moved back another step and went for the closet in the hallway, there had to be something in there. He should get to a phone, but he didn’t keep those on the second floor, they were too noisy.

Stupid, stupid! I’m such an idiot!

It had made sense at the time. Nobody ever got inside. He was safe inside, what did he need a phone upstairs for?

How did this guy get inside? The doors were all locked; there was no way that he could have gotten in. He had just checked the locks; there was no way for that man to get inside!

Gregory opened the closet and grabbed the hammer out of the toolbox that sat on the shelf, lying open. Primitive, but it would do the job. If this ended out to be a fight, then at least Gregory wasn’t completely unarmed.

He moved back for the stairs, cursing himself for not having a phone on the second floor, and hoping desperately that the man was not armed. Thought he doubted it.

He stepped down a couple steps and stopped, listening, watching the light of the hallway reflect on the stack of shards that used to be a light bulb. Nothing.

Gregory shifted the hammer in his grasp and slipped down three more steps, only twelve left, and listened again. Nothing.

The last twelve steps he downed in a blur and swung around as soon as his soles hit the tile, raising the hammer high, ready to strike…

…. but there was nothing there.

Great.

He looked around, glanced in the living room. Still didn’t see him.

There was a quick flash in the hallway and he knew that he saw something move in there. He barreled after it, his heart beating at warp speed. He skidded to a stop and swung around, just as before, ready to take out whatever would be waiting for him to discover that yet again there was nobody there to unleash the blows of his hammer onto. Where the devil was he?

Gregory slowly crept into the kitchen, his hammer raised again, the wooden handle was warm and slippery with his sweat.

The kitchen was dark, just as he’d left it, the coffee maker blinking, the timer on it set for the next morning. The pans were hung on their rack; the counters were spotless as usual. The man had not snuck around him into the kitchen.

He glanced behind him and moved forward into the kitchen a little, trying to see if the man had crouched behind the island counter. Nothing. Again.

Gregory moved slowly around the island and exited the kitchen carefully, looking in all directions for the intruder, still baffled that the man had somehow made it inside. Nobody made it inside.

He looked at the lamp again, and noticed that the pile of shards was no longer as organized as it had been; it was shifted off to one side…moved.

Gotcha.

He bolted for the stairs and swung around to see the shadow disappear around the wall. Gregory ran up the stairs after him.

How did the man move so quietly? It was impossible that he had not heard him!
He tightened his grip on the hammer.

Nobody gets inside.

He the seventeen stairs were behind him in an instant and he turned to the hallway. “Get out here!” Why was he yelling?

The hallway was empty. There was nobody there.

“Get out here!”

The bathroom door moved slightly.

Bingo.

Gregory burst into the bathroom with his shoulder, sending the door flying into the wall, the doorknob making a fresh hole in the drywall. He felt the throb begin in his shoulder, but he ignored it and instead was fixed on taking down his intruder.

But the bathroom was empty.

What?

He turned to the shower and opened the curtain, greeted by only half-filled shampoo bottles. Nothing more.

Gregory lowered the hammer to his side and slowly turned around, not before glancing at the bathroom window, making sure that it was locked.
He came nose to nose with the shadow.

“Ahh!” He swung the hammer and the sink shattered, sending bits all over the place. He had missed. How had he missed?

The shadow stared at him, and smiled. Gregory watched it reach out to him, and he cowered from its grasp, and the shadow grinned wider. It then used its other hand to reach for it’s hood that stayed firm over its eyes and nose, and it slowly began to draw back its cowl.

Gregory watching in horror, and the hand reached out farther and grabbed him by the neck, pulling him closer, the clawed hand dug into his jugular, he found it hard to breath and impossible to scream.

The cowl was pulled back, the grinning face plainly visible, looking at him. Gregory lost the ability to think when he saw the face. He felt his hand swing the hammer again into the mirror, and the mirror smash into hundreds of pieces, but it didn’t’ stop the shadow, it only kept pulling him closer—closer to it’s face.

He stared at the face and in unbelief, watched as the shadow raised a hand with a shard of the mirror grasped tightly. Then he felt the shard become lodged in his chest, embedded quickly and violently.

Air began to leave him, his lungs were filling with blood, and he knew that. He was dying quickly, his heart was beating harder and harder, he was sweating profusely. It was all over. In all of that he remained in stunned silence.

The last thoughts he had were of the face, and how the face of the shadow—of his murderer—was his own.

“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” – Jeremiah 17:9 (King James Version of the Bible)

“For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts, adulteries, fornications, murders,” – Mark 7:21 (King James Version of the Bible)

Two More Stories Published on Smashwords

Here are the two stories published on Smashwords. "Inside" will be published here sometime this coming week. If you would like to go ahead and read them here are the links. Again, I would advise care in who reads due to violence.

Click here for "Inside"


Click here for "Do Something"

Also, check out my author page.

Thanks for your awesome support of the blog so far guys (and gals)! Truly.






Following Him,
Michael Wright
Rom 1:16; Phil 1:21

Indifferent Published on Smashwords

Dear readers,

I have now published the short story "Indifferent" on Smashwords. It is available there for free in any format that you please. If you enjoyed the story, go ahead and download it. The story had been previously published on this blog, and you can get it in any format by clicking here.

Thanks!

Following Him,
Michael Wright
Rom 1:16; Phil 1:21

Indifferent (A Short Story)

First, let me apologize for my inactivity here lately. I have really let the blog go down in content production, and that is without excuse. I'm in a bit of a stage of what I call "writers blech" not to be confused with writer's block. "Writers blech" is when you have plenty to write but you really don't feel like writing it. While I am without excuse for not producing content, seeing as I have plenty of ideas, I simply have not felt like it. Maybe it will go away, maybe not.


This is a new short story I wrote about the subject of indifference, as the title explains. I would like to issue a word of warning this does contain mature thematic elements and some violence.

Indifferent
By Mike Wright


AS JEFFERY looked out the front window he found that what he was looking at wasn’t all that surprising. It was the usual kid out playing in the yard and the dog running up and down the sidewalk deal that he always saw.
      The coffee in his hand was hot and burned him somewhat when he sipped it, but it was a pleasant burn so he kept drinking it. Something about the way coffee tasted when that hot made him enjoy the burn.
      He watched the dog running on the sidewalk, probably with nothing better to do in his miniscule canine brain, chasing a small lizard that kept escaping his mouth. The bright eyes of the dog were clearly narrowed, and it began to move to the underside of a car. Jeffery wondered if it would get stuck under there.
      The girl playing outside was Lola, the six year old that lived across the street from him. She had an assortment of chalk laid out before her, and had sat with her legs making a giant V, drawing a large—quite pink—picture in the frame of her legs. The simple flip-flops she wore dangled from her toes as she swayed her feet from side to side, and her face was set, partially covered by thick brown streams of hair.
      She and her parents had moved into the house about a month and a half ago, Jeffery and his wife had sent them a bag of some goods, welcoming them to the neighborhood, even though he really could care less.
      He watched her drawing a moment. He had to admit the kid was cute, but she could certainly be loud as well. How many times did he try to sleep in on a Saturday morning only to be disrupted? Her parents weren’t the best at teaching their kid to be mindful of other people. Didn’t they care about people who labored all week and wanted at least one morning of deep sleep?
       He looked off to the side and saw a large, black SUV coasting down the street; it’s mighty tires rolling slowly along. He hadn’t seen it before, and wondered which one of the neighbors had gotten a new vehicle. It was probably the Jennings across the street; they got a new vehicle almost every year. It was decidedly different than their usual choice, but people were entitled to a bit of variety.
     The SUV moved slowly along, it’s hulking form sliding easily across the winding street, going around the car parked on the street.
     He watched as a man climbed out, the man was tall, dressed pretty nicely in a button-down and slacks. The sunglasses on the man’s head were larger than what was normal, but some people liked them big, when the man pulled out a skullcap and slipped it on, Jeffery was slightly confused.
     The man went straight to Lola and offered her something; she seemed very hesitant until he took off the skullcap. What was he doing?
     Jeffery became very interested in this man.
     When Lola stood up and took it, the man’s arm shot out and grabbed her wrist, spinning her around and pulling her close to him and clamping his hand over her mouth. He grabbed her around the middle and lifted her up off of the ground. Her legs began to kick.
     Jeffery began to realize what was going on.
     She managed to get one arm free and started to swing it along with her legs, the thin limbs flailed hard, fighting against the man’s strong grip. The car door was open, and all he had to do was get her in there.
     The door to the house burst open, and the mother stood there in horror, her mouth dropped open and Jeffery heard her piercing scream break the air, even through his closed windows and doors.
      He thought about grabbing his gun that was in the cabinet by the door, but he didn’t want to get involved. Just don’t get involved.
      The mother bolted down the yard, her cup of orange juice flew from her hand, and her face was wild and angry. The man managed to pull Lola into the car, and shut the door tightly. The car peeled off as soon as he shut the door and the mother chased after it beating on the back window with her fists until it finally outran her and she fell down headfirst into the street—still screaming.
      Jeffery watched it all in stunned silence. He wasn’t sure what he had just seen even though he knew that he had seen it. It was like his brain was processing the data, trying to put it all together, even though he knew what it all meant. Odds are they would never see Lola again. A brief thought about Saturday mornings popped in his mind but he shoved it away in disgust.
     He watched the mother remain on the street, her hands bloodied from the contact with the windshield and asphalt, her eyes were streaming, and her face was wet, the blood was smeared where she had covered her face, and the cuts bled profusely. Neighbors began to come out and take interest, curious as to what had just happened.
     Jeffery only watched. He took another sip of his hot coffee.
     There was a small, purple flip-flop lying in the middle of the road.

One month later…

JEFFERY WALKED up to his car, his keys dangling from his hands, the wind tearing at his coat, and his mind on the afternoon ahead of him.
     He looked on the other side of the street and saw the sign that had been there for several weeks, advertising the missing child Lola, which had only appeared as a blip on the local news. The family had been looking for her ever since, organizing search parties, putting up flyers, a website—the works. They still hadn’t found her though.
     Jeffery and the wife had sent over a casserole. She had told him it’s the least they could do. He supposed she might be right.
      There hadn’t been much success in the case, they had found her other flip-flop, dress and underwear in a dumpster miles away, which meant that they were probably done with her and her body was hid somewhere in the woods, but the family kept up hope she was alive.
     Jeffery didn’t.
     The things people did these days. It was hard to fathom, impossible to fathom, what made people want to do that kind of thing, but Jeffery supposed that it was just how it was going to be. Wasn’t much that could be done about it, there would always be scum, and they would always do what they want.
      He searched his key ring for the key to his car; the different metal surfaces cool on his warm fingertips.
      There was a sound behind him, but he never got the chance to turn around. A cold piece of dangerous metal was jabbed on his neck and a harsh whisper snapped at him. “Don’t make one move.”
     He put his hands up. “I don’t have much on me. My wallet is in my left back pocket…”
      “Shut up, man. I’ll figure it out, don’t you make one noise.” The man’s voice was laced with the harsh smell of cigarette smoke. Jeffery didn’t turn around, he didn’t do anything—the man’s gun was trained on him. He felt a hand pat his back pockets and the man withdrew his wallet and started to rifle around in it. The man swore, “This all you got?”
     “I said I didn’t have much.” Jeffery wondered why nobody else saw what was going on. Did nobody care?
      “All right, whatever. How about that watch?”
      Jeffery glanced at his watch, and slowly slid it off of his wrist, and held it behind him for the man to grab. It was snatched almost painfully out of his hands.
     “Now them sunglasses…they look expensive.” The man demanded.
     Jeffery was surprised, the man was right; he knew just what they were worth. He forgot how much he had paid for them but it was a good amount.
     When he handed them to him, he glanced over his shoulder just a little, trying to get a look at his face so he could pass the information along to the cops. Apparently the man saw what he was doing.
     “You lookin’ at me?”
     Jeffery wanted to swear.
     “Lookin’ at me? You keep your eyes where they belong, hear?” The man jammed the gun harder against his skull. The man cursed again, very loudly.
      Did nobody see this? Did anybody call the police or something? Didn’t anybody care? For crying out loud did anybody see what was going on?
      “You think it’s a good idea to take a peek? Get down.” The man demanded. Jeffery didn’t move fast enough for him, however. The butt of the gun slammed into his head, and Jeffery fell to his knees.
     The man gave a firm kick, and Jeffery felt the wind go out of him, as he was still trying to see pas the white stars that were in his vision and the searing nuclear explosion of pain in the back of his skull.
     “You got a problem with orders?” The man slammed his face into the car, the impact took him to new levels of pain, he felt his nose crush under the impact and felt the wet agony of his nose breaking.
     Blood streamed down his face into his mouth, distorting his words and punctuating them with gore. “Just take the money, man, just take the money…”
      “You got a problem listening to me?” The man slammed him against the car again and whipped the pistol across the back of his head, sending Jeffery on the verge of unconsciousness.
      Was nobody seeing this? Jeffery wondered. Did nobody see what was going on?
      “You won’t have a problem now.” The man put the gun against his head and Jeffery felt the hammer being pulled back.
     “Oh, please no!” Gore leaked out of his mouth and nose, the beating had busted his gums as well. The blood poured forth like a dragon’s fire, spilling onto the clean concrete.
      “Goodnight.” The man said with a chuckle.
      There was a loud thunder blast and the world went black.
     
 EVENTUALLY THE police came, they found a dead body lying by his car, blood seeping out of an explosion in the face where the bullet had exited, and the crimson river rolling into the storm drain. His personal belongings were gone, stolen, no doubt. And his face—what was left of it—was frozen in horror. They found by his fingers a note written in his own blood, something before he had died. Three letters: WHY

     Jeffery was guilty of and victim to his own crime. Lola was just a victim— but they were both victims of one of the most common of crimes in the human race. No, the crime is not robbery, rape, or murder. The crime is far more insidious than even these and we might be guilty of it.
      The crime is indifference. It is committed every time when we can do something and instead, do not care and do nothing, we pass it by and move on without getting involved and doing something. The result is our world today, filled with robbery, rape, and murder.