Monthly Archives: November 2009

Alley Shade

Posted on by

a flash story by David G Shrock

Sketchpad under arm, Julie marches on the sidewalk. Cold breeze lifts hair off shoulder, and she glances up at the eastern sky expecting the glow of the rising sun. A handful of stars twinkle above city haze.

On the next block over a delivery truck groans, gears crunching into position. The traffic light switches from green to yellow. Julie leaps onto the sidewalk. Black Mary Janes clap cement.

Headlights glare in the far lane of the one-way road, a shadow slides across road, and a car rumbles by.

Eyes adjusting, Julie spots a figure standing in the center of the nearest lane. Watching the form, she slips fingers into the handbag and around a can of pepper spray. She distrusts anyone out at this hour, least of all those standing in the middle of the road. Pace quickening, she marches keeping eyes on the form to the right.

Baseball cap turns in her direction. The figure steps closer.

Finger touches spray nozzle. She watches the man.

Dressed in a puffy coat, hands in pockets, he steps into the glow of the streetlight. A shadow falls over the face beneath the brim of the cap. Untied laces flop around the left shoe.

The man pulls hand from pocket. “You see them?” The voice, hushed as if whispering, bellows sending her skin crawling.

Slowing pace, she glances in the direction of the pointed finger finding an entrance to an alley. Stopping in the glare beneath the lamppost, she looks around.

Home resides four blocks away, and her aching feet beg for rest.

The man shuffles closer, left foot dragging.

Peering at the alley corner, she sees wood pallets stacked against the wall and other shapes hidden in the dark behind them. Brow rising, she shakes her head. “Who?”

“Them.” Although an attempt at whispering, the hoarse voice is loud enough for them to hear in the alley, if anyone is there to hear at all.

“I don’t see anyone.”

“Call the cops.” Facing the alley, the man stands up on his toes, wobbling. He appears drunk or disoriented, but otherwise normal in clothes too nice for a homeless man. “Hey you little monsters! We’re calling the cops!”

Mind jumping to full alert, eyes growing big, Julie searches the shadows within the alley. The cold air wrapping around her legs sends shivers rising up her body, mouth shuddering.

A clap explodes from the alley.

She leaps onto toes, eyes growing wider.

“Do you see them,” says the man, nearly shouting his hoarse whisper. Standing, he shifts from foot to foot and points into the alley.

Wishing for something stronger than pepper spray—a gun or a grenade even—she bounces up on her toes, pivoting around and searches for an escape.

Just beyond the street on the previous block, a dark figure marches on the sidewalk blocking retreat.

“There,” he says. “Right there they are!”

Twirling around, Julie sees the man stumble onto the sidewalk, coming at her, hands flying out. His eyes are huge, full of fear. She leaps back from the waving hands, watching the man tipping towards her. The cap flies free, and the man falls, palms clapping on the sidewalk. Metal skitters across the rough surface, a dark object slides up clanging against the base of the lamppost.

Gaze falling on the pistol, Julie snatches it up. Hugging the sketchpad with her left arm, her right hand rises pointing the gun at the alley, finger falling on the trigger. Her first time, but the gun feels comfortable in her hand as if it belongs there.

“No good,” says the man, climbing to his feet. “Can’t kill them.”

The entrance to the alley is as before, pallets stacked against the far wall near the corner.

Arms out, he shuffles closer.

Pointing the gun at the man, Julie scurries back three steps. “Stay away!”

“Please, lady.” He clasps his hands together, wild eyes darting about. “Make them go away.”

“Who’s in the alley?”

He bites down on fingers. “They stay in the shadows. Watching. Always watching.”

She sees something besides fear in those eyes: the glassy orbs of confusion. With all the shouting, anyone hiding is gone by now. There might be someone in there, she thinks, shot earlier by the crazy man. She glances over her shoulder.

The figure stands at the street corner, beside the walk sign, hands in his pocket, a silhouette hiding in the shadows. Watching.

One eye on the crazy man, gun pointed at the ground, foot stepping in front of the other, Julie slinks closer to the alley. Heart pounding, she holds her breath peering into the darkness. Her flesh crawls. Face turns to ice.

Behind the pallets, a shape leans against the wall. Six feet tall, it stands, unmoving. Growing from the darkness, shape and texture build, a wrinkled surface appears, a tarp wrapped around a cylindrical object.

Julie releases her breath.

Standing at the entrance to the alley, she peers at the street on the far side. Beyond the pallets and the tarp, trash cans stand along the both walls, paper cups litter the ground, a tire sits in a puddle at the center.

“No one is there,” says Julie, turning back to the man.

Headlights flood the road, an engine roars.

She stuffs the pistol into her handbag. Glancing down the road, she looks at the corner now lit by the passing car. Seeing no one there, she sighs. Heart slows to a normal beat.

Feet stomping the sidewalk, the man in the puffy coat storms away crushing cap underfoot.

Watching the man, Julie considers of all the animals in the world only humans scare the crap out of themselves.

Thanks

Posted on by

As a hobby writer and a computer programmer, I find this last year interesting. The recession, unavoidable and necessary, looms over us. Traditional publishing finds itself in an awkward position due to changing technology clashing with culture mixed with new expectations. Fighting for survival, the newspaper and magazine industries look at new technology in search of a revenue stream in the midst of consumers expecting freely available stream of information over the web. This is an exciting time watching change.

I am thankful for my job. It is more than employment. I enjoy it. My brain is wired for computer program design, and I take full advantage of it. My employment puts me in a position to lend a helping hand, a very small hand, but even the smallest aid greatly improves the potential of another.

I thank the strangers that read my first (unpublished) novel, Raven Memory, I finished two years ago. And those that read my recent short story, “Memor Mora.” They encourage me to seek publishing. At first I looked into traditional publishing, and two years ago the common feeling among publishers was that self-publishing put authors in a bad place. Not so much now. Publishers consider authors using digital publishing to build a platform first. It sounds good to me as I have my eye on new exciting ideas.

Thanks to Mom for reading everything I write, including the crap. And telling me it’s crap. I, of course, thank my parents for their support in my struggle to reach this point in life.

I thank the #FridayFlash group of writers. For those looking for good short fiction, please take a look at these talented writers offering new short stories every week organized on Mad Utopia. I enjoy reading their stories, and sharing thoughts. As of October, I participate posting my stories. Thanks for all the comments.

Agree or disagree, I appreciate all comments especially tips from other views I may never have considered. Feedback improves my writing and thinking. There’s no concern over hurting my feelings. I approve all civil comments, but readers may flag offensive language.

Thanks for reading.

Clarabelle

Posted on by

a #fridayflash excerpt from “Suffocation Bell” by David G Shrock

The smell of lilac and pine consumed the heavy air. Silence wrapped around becoming a constant chime. A softness cradled around nestled from head to toe. Time was lost, recent memories untouchable. Day or night, winter or summer, nothing was certain. The endless note increased in volume threatening to crack the darkness. Lilac overpowered pine turning sour. The heavy air wrung moisture. An invisible grip squeezed.

Clarabelle lurched up. Forehead struck—sparkles—and she flopped back down on the pillow puffing around each side of her head.

Hand rising, knuckles scraped a cold surface.

She rubbed her throbbing head.

Her hands slid down her front. Fingers caressed lace running over breasts, soft fabric snug around her belly, smooth loose folds swelled over her hips.

She wore her best Sunday dress.

Reaching into her memory, she searched for recent events. Images flashed: dancing in the garden, enjoying tea in the veranda. She watched the scenes, as a child running across the cotton field then as an adult sitting beside the fire, as a child again. No order, only the apparent age fitting each scene into place.

Hands rising, Clarabelle touched the cool wood above her face. Faint red with hazy edges, shapes followed her hand movement sliding outward along the smooth wood grain. She saw her hands.

Hearing a faint crunching sound, she dropped her hands on her chest and listened.

Insides gurgled. The invisible grip tightened. She breathed, gulping air in fits, lip quivering.

A swift crunch crackled from everywhere and nowhere.

Lifting her hand, elbow struck against a wall on the right, thud booming. Swinging hands out, she felt the narrow walls. Fists and feet hit the wood above, knocking, increasing into a fury, deep thuds beating against her ears. Flailing at the sides, her knuckles scratched against the wood biting into flesh.

Jaw stretching wide, searing heat bellowing up her throat, she released a shrill scream as she banged hands against the walls. Hot air rushed out, sticky phlegm splattering around her mouth. Abdomen caving in, the grip squeezed the air out of her turning the cry into a broken gurgle.

She sucked in air, head spinning. Tired feet fell silent, heavy hands collapsed upon her chest. Lungs pressing against the tight embrace, refused the air as if poison.

Throat burned. Tongue hanging out, she coughed fits.

Holding her hands before her face, she gazed at faint dark red splotches. Looking at the hazy spots, she relaxed. The pain withdrew, but the squeezing increased. Watching her hands, she realized there was light, an opening to freedom.

A gnash, vibrations raced underneath.

Turning head in each direction, she searched for the source of light, a hole or a crack. Lifting and twisting her head pressed against the wood, she peered around. Gazing down the length of her body, she saw her legs, a dim red haze within the dress.

A crunch and pop boomed.

She drew in a deep breath, stinging her throat. “Is somebody there?” Her own voice boomed in her ears.

Placing her hands against the roof, she pushed. Teeth clenched, she grunted and pushed. The right side gave a fraction and fell, hands tumbling onto her chest.

Crunch and snap. Everything shook. Metal scraped wood.

Scooting right, she pressed against the wall and raised both hands to the lid. Taking in a deep searing breath, she drew her knees up jamming between her abdomen and the enclosure. Releasing breath, she pushed with her hands and knees.

The lid bounced up, dirt and grit sprinkled over her arms and face. She spat acrid soil, the smell of the earth crawled into her nostrils. Feeling bugs scurrying, she scrambled, swiping at her face and arms, knuckles scraping wood.

She wheezed. Tugging at collar, buttons popped and fabric ripped. No help. Dress squeezed, suffocating.

Mouth wrenching open, she released a scream and pushed, arms molten hot, knees popping.

The top swung up, dirt pouring in as she lurched up, pushing and screaming, sounds shifting from the deep groan to an open echo. Light poured in. Her scream died, grit sticking inside her mouth.

“God save me,” a voice said.

Through the rising dust, Clarabelle saw a man stumbling back against a sloping dirt wall, his eyes bulbous and full of fear. A shovel fell from his grasp. Glancing up, she gazed out of a hole at a purple sky full of stars, bright wispy clouds of stars. Below, she saw her dress covered in dirt. Feet buried, she stood inside a casket, a slanted wall of dirt piled against the side.

The gravedigger crawled up the slope, pushing streams of dirt sliding into the hole. He cried out to God.

Even outside the coffin, the invisible grip tightened around threatening suffocation. Looking down at the Sunday dress covered in dirt, she scowled at the garment. Reaching between her breasts, she gripped her dress. She pulled tearing fabric. Her fingers dug into the white laces running the length of the corset, and ripped them free.

Wearing only her loose silk undergarment, breeze caressing skin, she tossed the corset aside. Her body expanded, and the burning within faded. Running fingers through her midnight hair, she combed dirt showering behind. Raising hands overhead, twirling in a circle, she breathed in the cool air of freedom.

She spotted another man above standing at the edge of the hole peering down. A hat with a wide brim rested atop his head. His face appeared ashen, ill, but his eyes captured her attention. The orbs were luminous, irises gleaming red. Although she failed finding the man in her memories, she recognized him at once as if whispered into her thoughts.

Demetri knelt and extended his arm. “I apologize,” he said. “Your illness took a turn for the worse. They believed you dead.”

“I have missed the sunset.” She gazed up at stars, jewels in the purple sea. “Was it beautiful?”

“Never as beautiful as the night.” The voice was a deep chorus, tranquil and soothing. “Or your dark hair glistening beneath the stars.”

Clarabelle accepted his hand.

_________________________________________________

This excerpt is a flashback from “Suffocation Bell,” an urban dark fantasy short story of 8,000 words available for download in PDF and ePub at Suffocation Bell blog entry.

Warton Haunt

Posted on by

a flash story by David G Shrock

The crank turned, ratchet clanking into place releasing an explosion of metal crashing throughout the cavern. Grinding over a massive wheel, chain rattled down the stone pit disappearing into darkness. The machine seemed better suited for an ancient torture device than a well. And whatever the chain held was heavy, far too heavy for a bucket of water.

Lifting the lantern, Sebastian held the light over the hole. The flame cast a shadow swirling against rectangular stone walls. Time had ripped at the mortar loosening stones, some sunken and others missing. Sebastian imagined at the bottom another wheel, wrecked by corrosion, held onto the chain. And no water. He suspected an old mine lay at the bottom.

Skewered through a big gear, the crank held opposing handles. The device required two average sized men turning the crank lifting whatever riches the ground once held. It was certainly not a well as Donner had called it.

Setting the lantern down, Sebastian gripped the handle with both hands. He stood hunched over, hat grazing the ceiling. His massive arms turned the crank, ratchet clanking, rumbling into his shoulders. A shape lumbered to the top, pungent odor wafting over the stone. Coal.

Sebastian glanced at the dark material piled inside a large metal bin hanging from the chain, and sat down. He wanted to please Donner and the kind citizens of Warton, but he felt as if he tip-toed at the edge of his knowledge. One misstep and he might plummet into rumor and superstition. And he did not want to let Father Gustav down. This was his first assignment, but he knew nothing of ghosts.

Was this how his father had spent his life? Chasing ghosts? He doubted it. Every job came with baggage. Somehow he had to find a way to put the people of Warton at ease.

Opening his satchel, Sebastian pulled out the book Father Gustav had given him without much explanation. Leafing through the pages touched by fine handwriting, he found sections on superstition and local folklore. Witchcraft seemed to be the most prevalent topic. And vampires. Finding nothing about ghosts, he flipped back to the page outlining general superstitions. Near the bottom of the page, he found a brief mention about lost souls.

The author advised reminding commoners that a lingering soul was complete rubbish. All spirits went to heaven or hell. And apparently those believing in silly superstitions were all destined for hell.

Putting the book away, Sebastian returned to the bucket of coal. Almost anything might explain strange sounds: a wind shooting up the shaft or scavenging critters. He needed proof. He tugged on the chain. It felt too strong to rattle for anything less than a storm. He listened. Peering around, he searched for tracks or droppings. Only his boot prints marked the sandy ground. He smashed his hand into the coal, digging.

His fingers touched something cold, narrow with a gritty texture. He snatched the object spilling coal onto the ground. Holding the slender thing before the light, he gazed at a brown bone covered in black specks and fibrous leather forming the unmistakable shape of a human hand.

The dead never made noise.

Without an explanation for the strange sounds, Sebastian hung his head in defeat and climbed the wood steps. Each groan, every creak beneath his great weight, echoed his failure. Reaching the top, he climbed into the storage shed, and headed for the open door. Ducking through the opening, he greeted the warm sunshine with a welcoming grin.

People clamored around the shed, their hopeful eyes peering up at the giant. Standing in front, Donner frowned at the bone in the big hand.

“Not a well,” said Sebastian. “An old coal mine is buried beneath.”

Glancing at each other, people nodded realizing this made more sense. A voice in the back shouted asking about the ghost. Nods turned to shakes, and all eyes peered up again.

Sebastian felt his grin fade. The air grew cold. He thought about warning against silly superstitions like the book advised, but without proof he had nothing to offer. He had no explanation, nothing at all, but an old arm from a forgotten miner.

“Here,” said Donner. The wrinkled face smoothed into a smile. Snatching the dead arm away, he faced the crowd and held the bone up like a trophy. “Here is the source of our troubles. Our haunt!”

The people of Warton gasped.

“We must put the remains at rest.” Lowering the bone, Donner held it to his chest and bowed his head. “Only then will the lost soul move on to the heavens.”

Looking around, Sebastian saw all the pleading eyes peering up at him, waiting for his approval. Even Donner looked up and waited. Although his book advised against it, and with nothing better to offer, he nodded.

The Warton residents seemed happy breaking into conversation. Donner smiled his approval. And Sebastian returned the smile feeling better if only by a little. With luck, moving the old crank might have killed the spooky sounds.

Let them have their ghost tale, Sebastian thought. Heaven had room for the superstitious.

Spotting a pair of men handling a broken wheel, the back of the wagon wobbling on its perch, he smiled at the job for a giant and marched across the road. “Allow me to hold that wagon.”

__________________________________

To find all #FridayFlash stories about this character see tag: Sebastian Rhemus

A Grave Giant

Posted on by

a flash story by David G Shrock

Arranged in rows by color, gold up front and red by the picket fence, chrysanthemums lined the left side of the stone path. The rows of perfect bundles curved with the path around a big oak. Shivering in the breeze, green and yellow leaves sent wiggling shadows over the path and flowers. Brown leaves tumbled catching in the chrysanthemums.

Sebastian Rhemus stood on the path staring at a leaf caught within white bulbs, serenity dancing within green defiled by decay.  Another crisp leaf blew over the gold row and into the white. Somehow it appeared as though the dead leaves swarmed onto the white chrysanthemums ignoring the others.

Footsteps tapped stone. The cadence told Sebastian the feet belonged to his sister, Mary, the eldest child of the Rhemus family. He listened to the clicks, a shuffle, another click of her toe over the other foot, the way she always stood whenever she had something important to say.

Another brown leaf fluttered around the flowers and landed in the same white chrysanthemum bundle. The dead had a way of clinging onto the living.

Mary exhaled loudly.

Squatting, Sebastian reached out and plucked the dead leaves. Closing his hand, he felt the crisp edges breaking into smaller pieces. His opening palm released pieces fluttering onto dirt.

“Mum loved her mums,” said Mary. Hugging herself, she twisted at her hips sending her black dress swishing about her feet.

Looking over, Sebastian found his sister staring at the flowers. Even squatting, he still stood taller if only by a hair. At her height the world appeared different. Others hid their emotions by gazing down so that he only saw the tops of their heads often obstructed by hats. From down low he watched the long stare peering beyond the flowers into another world.

There was no need for an announcement, Sebastian read it on her face. Mary planned on taking their little brother to stay with their uncle. A smart idea while his studies kept him away.

Hearing the clomping of boots and jingle of spurs, Sebastian stood turning around. He found a face sagging with leathery folds and held out a hand. “Marshal Williams.”

The marshal’s hand felt frail in Sebastian’s massive grip.

Glancing towards the end of the path where the guests picked at a table full of snacks, the marshal nodded. “I thought the funeral was last month.”

Sebastian folded his arms and bowed his head. “Our mother.”

“Grief took her,” said Mary.

“My pardon.” Removing his hat, Marshal Williams placed it over his chest. “I didn’t know.”

Mary excused herself and rejoined the others. The marshal started to speak, but coughed into his fist instead. The wind gusted sending the oak limbs waving into a song, several yellow leaves flew over the chrysanthemums and through the fence.

The marshal coughed. The wind settled to a breeze.

“You found the rest,” said Sebastian referring to his father’s remains.

His mother had spent all her time thinking about her loss, more than her share it seemed. Everyone knew, his mother most of all, Rhemus the Giant had a dangerous job protecting the wilds between towns. His mother had always appeared strong, but it seemed she had hid her pain within a tough shell. Maybe she had placed her strength in the hands of her giant husband.

“Vermin did nasty damage,” Marshal Williams said, “but no mistaking that big skull of his.”

Now Sebastian was the giant. His siblings depended on him.

The marshal slapped Sebastian on the back. “Come,” he said. “This day is for your mother. Other business will wait.”

Walking through the open gate, Sebastian watched all eyes pulling away from the snacks turning his way. They looked up to him. He was the size of a giant, but he felt small, helpless. Even giants fell. They all depended on him.

Holding head high, Sebastian marched over to the far end of the table to a large ceramic pot. Taking a white chrysanthemum, he walked to the pair of graves where the casket held by ropes floated over the pit. On the left, his father rested beneath the pile of dirt. Mary took a flower and joined him. The others brought flowers forming a circle.

The priest gave a short eulogy. Tears flowed, but not on the giant’s face. Four men turned cranks lowering the casket.

Sebastian tossed the first chrysanthemum, and the others dropped theirs, white chrysanthemums swirling into the darkness.

Grabbing a shovel, Sebastian filled the pit while the others watched. Strength was the trait of a giant, and he shoveled dirt in great heaps, his face remaining somber. He knew that Mary wept on his behalf, and gained strength from this. Grave filled, he speared the shovel into the ground and stood tall.

The others crept back to the table of snacks. Only Mary remained at his side.

Sebastian gazed at the two graves, at his parents resting beneath the fading sky. He felt better knowing they were together. “They both loved her mums.”