The back door

Just wrote this one this morning. Back when I was growing up in New Jersey, one of the sweetest elderly women I’ve ever known lived next to my family. It was neighborhood custom to knock on her back door and she would answer with cookies. Most of the kids within a few houses range took her up on it daily, myself included. Of course, I’ve managed to take one of my most cherished childhood memories and twist it. If my Mom reads this, I’ll be answering for it.

* * * * *

Timmy stood outside Millie’s back door, not daring to knock.  The patio was littered with yard debris from last week’s thunderstorms and the grass was higher than Millie usually allowed.  It looked like she had gone away.

An odor, nothing like the usual scents of cinnamon and ginger, wafted down from the open screen above the door.  It was a foul, sweet smell, and to Timmy’s young nose it reminded him of rotten eggs and syrup.  He held up his fist again, poised to knock on the painted wood.  A rustling came from inside.  Timmy lowered his hand and pressed his ear to the wood.  A weak shuffle, like that of slippered feet.  He also heard a metallic creak and the rattling of pans.  Kitchen sounds.  Maybe she was there.

Timmy gave the door a tentative rap.  Nothing.

He knocked again. “Millie?” Still no answer.

The shuffling continued, thumping now and then.  Shadows moved behind the curtains of the side window.  She was definitely in the kitchen.  Usually, when he knocked she would pass by the window, sometimes parting the curtain to see who it was, and he would hear the familiar click of the latch, followed by the sweetest aroma found only in the homes of the world’s most fabled grandmothers.  This time, however, the shadows only gave a hint of themselves; never getting closer.

He decided to give it one more try.  If she didn’t answer, Timmy would simply give up and go back home.  No cookies today, that’s all.  He opened the screen door and gave a rather firm knock on the thick wood. It was much louder than he intended and Timmy expected to hear her drop whatever she was holding, startling the poor woman.

No answer.  The shadows continued in their monotony.  He put his ear to the door.  There was a dry chattering sound coming from the kitchen.  It was an uneven, random noise with the irregularity of a twitch, or muscle spasm.   Timmy quietly closed the door and tried to peek through the window.  He was provided a narrow view of a short hallway, walls lined with photos, that led into the kitchen and continued down into the living room.  His view into the kitchen was limited to a strip of floor and the side of a cabinet and counter top.  The linoleum floor that led into the kitchen became increasingly gobbed with greasy clumps of cookie dough, both smeared and rolled into the other clutter that littered the kitchen.  Movement by the cabinet revealed a brief view of Millie’s nightgown, followed by her feet.  One foot wore a blue stained slipper, and the other was bare.  Her small toe, clearly broken, pointed out in a different direction from the rest.  Her foot, caked with dried blood and sugar, stepped into a clump of dough, squishing out from between her white, pasty toes.  She moved out of view and the noise of the pans and the strange chattering continued without pause.

Crap, he thought, it’s happened to Millie, now. Timmy turned and ran to tell his parents.

∞

Face to the glass

Here’s another Sci-fi themed scene. It occurred to me as a cool concept. I’m not as well read on my Sci-fi as I am my Horror, so I don’t know how original a concept this is. Anyway, if it hasn’t been done before, here it is:

* * * * *

The apartment door closed. The sharp click of the latch pierced an uncomfortable silence.

“What were you thinking, PJ?” Leo looked down at his son. Both anger and concern fought for control of his tone.

“I said I was sorry, Dad.”

“I know you’re sorry. That don’t answer my question. What were you thinking, going out that far?”

“I –”

“The Border Ring is there for a reason. Things aren’t stable between there and the edge.”

“I just wanted to see it for myself. Not vids, but for real.”

Concern was beginning to win out. What kid didn’t want to press his face up against the glass? To see the outside as it truly is?

“Well, you didn’t get hurt, that’s good,” he looked his son up and down. Tall and thin, like himself at that age. It was hard on kids these days, Leo thought. But that was probably true no matter the generation. Kids seemed so much more curious. They starved for life’s experiences; forever sheltered in the tera-domes, with their artificial gravity and filtered sunlight. Remnants of the way life used to be, slowly floating by on the wind currents outside of the massive domes. Still, what could be gained by seeing such things?

“You’ll have to stay in the apartment for a while. You know that, don’t you?”

“How long?” PJ spoke softer, resignation in his voice.

“Well, because of your little adventure, the whole building will be paying double taxes for at least nine months–”

“Nine months?” He yelled. “I’ll go nuts in here, Dad! It’s bad enough–”

“Don’t worry, after about two months things will cool down. They’ll be a lot less likely to bite your head off.”

“Even two months…”

“Face it, you’re not very popular right now. Give people a little time to get over it.”

PJ’s head slowly sank. “You’re right.” He really didn’t want to show his face out there. Not right now, anyway.

“Look, PJ, in the fall when the grav-quakes are gone, I’ll take you out on the Tetherails. You’ll get to see what it’s like for yourself then. I’ve been saving up.”

“Even now, with the taxes?”

“We can still manage it. You not going anywhere is going to save us money.”

There was a long silence, each one lost in thought.

“Dad?” PJ said, finally. The gleam in his eye, though somewhat doused, still managed to flicker.

“Yes?”

A small smile crept up one side of his face. “I think I saw a truck, at least half of one. It was cool.”

Leo felt his own grin begin to bloom, “I bet it was.”

∞

Laughlin, again

Here’s the other scene I had.  Again, it kind of ties into the Layers thing.

* * * * *

For Charles Wiggins, two houses down, point of view is somewhat different.  He keeps his windows up and the blinds down.  The morning news is low, filling his kitchen shadows with a dull monotone.  Charles isn’t listening to the news.  Drifting in through the windows is the sounds of the children from across the river.  It’s morning recess and the schoolyard is buzzing with activity.  Dozens of little minds and bodies racing and darting like small birds.  Each with a voice that wants to be heard above the rest.

To Charles, the sudden shrieks of delight reach his ears not as the morning release of pent up energy at grade school recess, but as something else.

On this morning, he pictures them burning.  The soft sand and smooth blacktop doused in gasoline while the the gate is locked.  The ground is lit afire in his mind and the screams drifting into his window is that of children without a hope or future.  To Charles, they are shrieking each other’s names as they claw at the chain link fence, trying to climb over best friends and fellow classmates;  the flames licking their soft skin.  Eventually, the screaming stops.

Charles finishes his coffee and puts the cup in the sink.  His collie, old Pearl, lies still in the corner of the kitchen.  Her only movement is her eyes as they follow him across the room.

“Lazy dog.  Why you keep living is beyond me,” he tells her.  Then Charles grabs both his car keys and the school bus’s keys.  Recess was nearly over.  In a half hour the AM kids will start loading up.

∞

Another Layer

Ok, the bathroom is pretty much done. Just a few pictures to hang and all will be well. Most importantly, my wife is happy. Today’s post may seem a bit more cutesy compared to my previous stuff, but stay with me here.  This loosely ties in with my Layers post.  I jotted this one down and have another coming tomorrow to give it contrast.

* * * * *

Across the small town of Laughlin, point of view shows itself in many ways.

For Sandra Getch, it’s her Pollyanna view of how life should be at her age.  She walks out to water her flowers, hanging still and perfect over her front porch railing.  Her husband is at work and her kids are off to school.  Life is good.  Maggie, the family cat, meows lazily in a ray of morning sun as water begins to trickle from the bottom of the plant hanger and patters onto the porch rail.  Small droplets of water land on her soft fur in small beads.  She doesn’t bother to get up.  As Maggie settles her head back down, the sun already drying her warm fur, she drifts off to sleep.  For Maggie, life is good too.

∞

Another kind of horror…

I didn’t post today, and I won’t be able to for at least 2 more days.  I’m working on a real horror story….We’re remodeling our bathroom.  Actually I’ve been working on it all week, but it’s crunch time and I have to finish up before company comes.  I won’t have time to write much.  I’ll use the time to think up some more ideas and just jot them down when I can.  To keep honest to my pledge, I may try to make a couple double posts to make up for it.  I just don’t know what I’m going to write yet….ahh, the pressure.  It’s exhilarating!

Trek for Amberly

Today’s second post. There, I’m caught up now.

You know, I’ve been thinking about my avatar… I took it using Photo Booth on the MacBook and thought it was cool –you know, “dark” and “mysterious”. Looking at it now, I wonder if it may be a bit too creepy. Is that just me? Any comments would be appreciated.

Anyway, here’s today’s second post. A rather open ended entry to what could be an interesting Fantasy story. My idea was to have the “holiday” something only the kids of this family knew of. Sort of the parent’s way of explaining whatever it was that the father must do each year.

* * * * *

For the sixteenth year, Vogel would make the trek for Amberly.  He nearly talked himself out of it this time, but Mael convinced him that it would be unwise.  What had happened up there was his fault and going was his responsibility alone.  Though now she said nothing, Mael helped him load the packhorse.

Ebon and Jon watched from the window.  Soon father would disappear down the path.  Before he was gone he would turn and wink, he always did that, and the children would get to work with the decorations of pine and birch.  Then, they would hide their gifts for father to search for when he returned.

Ten-year-old Ebon, the older of the two, clutched a round coinpurse in his left hand and kept it below the window pane, out of his father’s view.  He had fashioned it out of linen and beads with a leather strap and a hammered copper emblem.  It was a rough rendition of the Gates of Amberly as seen though the eyes and hands of Vogel’s eldest son.

“Is Ma going to cry?” Jon asked, his chin fixed on the bottom pane.  The tip of his nose traced lines on the fogged glass.

“Of course not,” Ebon told him.  He looked down at Jon.  “This is the happiest time of the year, sprout.  Pa’s going off to Amberly.  The decorations and presents…” The cool copper and soft leather in his hand gave Ebon a warm glow in his stomach.  “Why would Ma cry about a thing like that?”

Jon’s eyes, wide and unfocused, looked dreamily through he window at his parents.  “She looks like she’s going to,” he said.

∞

Chamber Six

This is the second of two posts for yesterday, even though it’s today, but….ah, hell. I’ll put up another later.

Chamber Six. Here’s an idea who’s time has come. Remember when life was simple and we thought self-serve gasoline was a hassle?

* * * * *

“My God,” Glenn said, “this has got to be the most amazing thing I have ever seen.”

“Little creepy, though,” Rhonda commented.

“Yeah, a little creepy.”

Glenn and Rhonda stood outside Chamber Six of the Nanosurgery Unit, Bronson Medical Center.  Their seven-year-old son, Daniel, lay within the glass enclosure.  His eyes were closed, and appeared to be dreaming peacefully.  The chamber was full of light and the low humming of equipment.  In there, he was alone.

After a beep, the display notified them that Stage Two of the procedure was beginning.  Do not interfere with patient at this time, it read.  With a subtle whirr, a stainless steel tray containing a laserpen, scalpel, thermo-sutures, and other tools moved within his arm’s reach.  The right arm of the sleeping boy reached up and nimbly grasped a chemically treated swab.

“Glenn-”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be fine.”

“But, his hands are so small, he’s only seven for God’s sake,” she squeezed Glenn’s elbow tighter.

“Rhonda,” he pulled away his elbow, rubbing it, “the doctor told me that even infants can perform light surgeries.  The Nanites compensate for it, he said.”

“What if he wakes up? If he twitches or something?”

“The Nanites, honey,” he put his arm around her shoulder, giving a reassuring hug, “the Nanites compensate for everything.“

Daniel’s hand swabbed an exposed four-inch square area of his lower abdomen, staining it yellow.  A waste drawer slid out from under the tray.  The boy’s hand dropped the swab into it.

Rhonda looked around.  Chambers One and Two were empty and dark.  Outside of Chamber 5 was a woman, mid-thirties maybe, who sat on the chair beside it doing a crossword puzzle.  Inside was her husband, giving himself what appeared to be a vasectomy.  He too was unconscious, his mouth agape with a stream of drool tracing down the side of his face; the injected nanocomputers kept him sedated and were controlling his motor functions.

“Damn insurance company.”

“What?” Glenn was watching his son.

“Your insurance. We should have a live doctor working on Daniel.”

“This again?” He gave her a weary look.  “They ain’t gonna pay for a live doctor.  I told you before, it’s too expensive, that’s that.”

Rhonda watched grimly as her son picked up the scalpel, his tiny hand holding the blade in a steady, expert grip.  Anger still bubbled low in her voice.  “He’s just a little boy, it isn’t fair.  What about the insurance people?  I wonder who operates on them?”

∞

Ed by firelight

I’ll do two posts today. I did the writing part; just not the posting end. I’ve had a lot of luck lately just scribbling the scenes down on a notepad and transcribing them later onto the pc. I’ve always been reluctant to do that, but I realize now that relegating my writing to just when I’m at the computer is very restrictive. I know….duh, right? Well, having learned that for myself is just another reason why I’m glad I’ve started this experiment.

Here’s the first of two scenes I’ll post today. It’s short, but I think it’s fairly economical. The other needs to be transcribed still.

* * * * *

The thick green of the bushes began to part, less that two feet from behind Ed’s head. Blunt and weathered fingertips began to appear, followed by pale, swollen knuckles that turned inward as the cleft of foliage widened. Deeper within the dark opening, a twin glimmer of reflected firelight blinked hungrily.

∞

Jameson gets lippy

Ok, it looks like posting on Sundays doesn’t work out for me. If I get one done on Sundays, great. If not, well…

As for today’s post, it’s another one of those things that just hits me. I think I was doing something as mundane as washing my hair when the image of Jameson and his lippy malady struck me. I wrote it yesterday (again, at work–at which I actually do some work by the way), and tweaked it a little earlier.

* * * * *

The spell didn’t work.
Jameson looked at himself in the clouded mirror hanging askew in the corner.  Same hair.  Same nose.  Same ears.  But his mouth…

“Thith Thucks!” Spittle flew out from between his lips –all three of them.  Some of the potion still ran down his chin, green and pearly droplets dangling in strands.  They danced elastically as his lower jaw moved.  He looked away, unable to believe what he had just seen.  The glass that he drank the concoction from lay on the plank wood floor, rocking slightly back and forth.  It was a McDonald’s collector glass, Looney Tunes edition.  “Sylthwesther! Oh, real thwuckin’ thunny–” He bit his lip, the middle one.  “Thit!”

Jameson looked back into the mirror.  He couldn’t believe his eyes.  I actually have three lips!  His upper and lower were separated by a middle one that ran across his mouth.  It was a loose strip of tissue; pale on the back and pink on the front.  He closed and opened his mouth a couple times.  When closed it looked like he had a thick slice of ham hanging out.  He wiped off his chin, picked up the glass, and put it on the desk.  This was supposed to be a cure for his ears, which were still loose and floppy, and now he had to find a cure for his cure.  Jameson fought back panic, tears not far behind.  He was making quite a mess of himself.  And quickly.

He grabbed his laptop which, with a bit of geekery and a spell or two he aquired from his uncle, was now able to log onto and access the Naethernet.  He scribed a sign on the touchpad, brought up Alakazam, and typed his query: CURE + EXTRA LIP.

“Ektha lipf?” No, he thought, this is the Naethernet. How many lips would it take to be considered extra?  He tapped the delete key back to CURE and typed in + THREE LIPS.

“Here goeths.”  Jameson hit enter.  The screen went blank, as it does, and the search results faded onto the screen, magic eightball style.  The third result down was the one he needed: Potion, Cure, Many Lips Into Two.  He clicked on it and an image of parchment faded in.  The preparation was standard, like the others.  The ingredients were not a problem either, except for the last item which he did not have on hand.

“Ain’t that a bith,” he groaned.

It was, of course, a petal of Tulip.

Squeezo

Today’s scene is something that’s been peculating in my head for some time now. If I actually start writing that first novel, it may be with this idea. I haven’t cheated though, I wrote this scene yesterday. Of course, there are some supernatural elements, just not readily apparent in this scene.

* * * * *

Squeezo sat down in the last stall of the bathroom, put down the roll of magazines he had in his pocket, and closed his eyes.  He listened.  The cacophony of crickets, snoring and farting were the normal nightsounds of the Camp Marydale Minimum Security Prison.  Of the two Officers on post, he could hear the steady breathing of one and an occasional turned page from the other.  Satisfied that nobody had followed him in, he relaxed a little and opened his eyes.  Squeezo unrolled the magazines (some short eyes books he had traded two jars of peanut butter for) and pulled out a greasy napkin upon which 6 names were written.  Four of them were crossed out.

Of the remaining two names, he knew one.  C.O. Dietz.  The other was a female named Emily.  That might be the name of Dietz’s wife, or maybe his daughter, Squeezo didn’t know.  What he did know was that though he had traded the peanut butter with Flocco, that Flocco was as dumb as a box of hammers.  There was no way that he had made up the list.

He also knew that Natural had these books before Flocco, and that unlike Flocco, Natural was smart.  He had a way of finding things out.

Squeezo needed some time to think.