a flash story by David G Shrock (Listen at AudioBoo)

Standing between wagon ruts, Draco Torre considers the sign announcing Hope Hill. Stars meet prairie, flat horizons. Hope without a hill.

Following ruts, Torre scans dark buildings. Nothing stirs. Blasted heat carries the stench of death.

At the far end of Hope Hill, light flows from an open doorway, down three steps splashing the road. The church casts a sullen look. Catcalls of rapists, howls of murderers pour from the doorway. A scream shatters the night.

Not even the hottest summer on record matches the blazing eyes of Draco Torre.
Throwing open duster, Torre grasps guns. Last hope for Hope Hill.

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This is a flash version of the opening to my second novel. Different, but captures the essence.

101 words. A flash contest at not from here, are you? challenges followers to write a story of 101 words containing two key words, summer and heat. I haven’t entered, but I wanted to see what I could do within the constraints. I may give it another try, but writing a complete flash story is hard enough. Check out “Dog Days Summer Flash Contest” hosted by Michael J. Solender at The NOT.

This week I read from my flash story, “Mother Dove” which is part of Shadow Memories. Listen at AudioBoo: http://audioboo.fm/boos/150800-mother-dove

Giving AudioBoo a try for the first #SpokenSunday with my story, “The Only Color” which is part of my Shadow Memories collection.

Visit the AudioBoo page to listen: http://audioboo.fm/boos/148479-the-only-color Click on the Spoken Sunday tags to find more.

To learn more about #SpokenSunday, visit http://spokensunday.wordpress.com/

a flash story by David G Shrock

Alistair Monroe sat on the wood floor, his back leaning against the wall. He watched the flame swirl in the lantern beside him. Every once in a while, blue shot up from the center sending the little flame into a flickering frenzy before settling back into its dance. A revolver sat on the floor between his outstretched legs. Dirt and blood stains covered his boots.

Breathing in the musty air, Alistair smelled rotting flesh. The putrid stench stained the air, the drapes, and even his clothes. He missed the smell of horses. His stomach gurgled, and he belched. Running his hand through his hair, he found it slick with blood. Not his blood, not all of it anyway. Marie Dodson had lost so much blood.

Rolling his head against the wall, Alistair gazed over at the parlor. Flooding through the broken window, moonlight bathed Marie’s corpse laying on the rug. Claw marks covered the back of her dress. A gash on her head spilled blood onto the rug. His bride stared back with her dead eyes. The corpse farted. Until recently, he never realized just how much the dead farted and burped.

It was only minutes away.

First it had happened to Jasper the blacksmith. Jasper had fallen dead just after noon three days prior. Everyone had thought it was the heat. That night, Jasper had risen attacking others on sight. The next day, Jasper’s shy mistress, Beth, had fallen ill and died followed by several others.

Soon, Marie Dodson would join the living dead.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes and listened to the quiet. A normal Saturday night meant dancing and singing in town square led by Lester’s fiddle. The gunfire had ceased hours ago. Even the dogs had fallen silent.

Movement caught his eye. He snatched up the revolver and aimed at the window.

The drapes wiggled in the breeze.

Alistair glanced at the corpse on the rug and looked at the revolver in his hand. There was only one thing for it, he thought. He touched the barrel to the side of his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

A swooshing sound broke the stillness, and a warm breeze tussled his hair. A clomp, and the floor shuddered.

Opening his eyes, Alistair found Marie standing on the rug. Her stance appeared awkward, leaning forward, knees bent, and off to the side. Her head lolled as her dead eyes roved around. Like the others, these eyes never really found their target, but he knew. His undead bride peered at him. He cried out her name emptying his lungs.

The thing howled sounding like a cat hissing and coughing a hairball at the same time.

Pushing the barrel hard against his temple, Alistair screamed. Marie reached out and stomped across the floor.

Turning the gun around, Alistair aimed at her skull and pulled the trigger. The snarling face exploded spraying bits and blood, and the corpse collapsed at his feet. Scrambling up, boots clomping, he stumbled out the door. His legs burned sending him into hobble.

Whispering her name repeatedly, he stumbled onto the dusty road. He opened the revolver. Three bullets remained, two for them and one for him. Clicking the revolver closed, he reached for sky and cried out the name of his bride to the moon.

Waiting for the others, he searched the dark buildings along the road. The one that had attacked Marie was still out here somewhere. It was too quiet. The night bugs had abandoned their song to the prairie. Then he heard the familiar shuffling.

Turning around he found two dark figures on the road coming at him. They moved slower than the others, and the big one limped nearly dragging a foot. Holding him in an arm, the small one, a woman, helped him down the road.

Astonished at the sight of other survivors, his jaw fell open.

As they approached, features climbed out of the darkness revealing torn clothing. Tatters of a dress streamed around the woman’s dirt covered legs, her bare feet stomping over the hard clay. Dried blood covered their pale faces, their eyes were clouded over, but Alistair recognized them, Jasper the blacksmith and his mistress, Beth.

Alistair aimed at the large target and fired. The undead blacksmith fell, flopping over onto his side, and Beth collapsed onto her knees. He marched closer for a better shot.

Beth howled. Leaning over, she touched her crusty lips to the blacksmith’s cheek.

Aiming the gun at their skulls, he watched them embrace and kiss each other. They appeared nothing like their former selves, not just the rot, but their deliberate movements out in the open. Could it all be impulses? Some attacked anything that moved, others ate everything including the dogs, and this pair, uninhibited lovers groping and kissing each other. He shook his head wondering how much the living dead remembered of their former lives.

Beth lurched up. There were no tears, but she appeared to cry. She released a hissing moan, unmistakable anguish. Leaning over, she covered the blacksmith with her body. She protected her lover.

Had Marie Dodson remembered anything? He shook, but he held his aim on the skull of the undead woman. His gut rumbled, and he burped, the nastiness filling his mouth.

The living dead moaned.

Alistair Monroe pulled the trigger.

The gunshot crushed the night air.

_____________________________________________

• The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like.

• Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.

• Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this: Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title

• Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.

a flash story by David G Shrock

The building is alive, music pounding into the stone walls its beating heart, the vibrating steel its rumbling stomach, the buzzing neon sign its voice singing into the night. Doors open swallowing patrons feeding its hunger.

Searching for the music, Mike descends the steel staircase feeling like a feather floating on a current. Lights zip through the haze splashing the sea of dancers. Purple rods lining stone columns, black light, illuminate the waving neon bracelets and flowing white shirts breaking between the storming mass of dark clothing. Stepping onto the dance floor, Mike soaks in the music and begins bouncing to the beat.

Atop the stage, a banshee with blue hair screams into the microphone, her voice switching between demonic thunder and angelic cries. A crash of drums rolls into a new song, the banshee wails about pain and anger.

Goth girls move aside turning their gazes on Mike like predators sizing up their prey. Some of their eyes glow, special lenses catching the black light. Others snarl exposing sharp teeth. They wear costumes celebrating the creatures of the night. The goth girls, even some boys, swarm around Mike, their lulling dance pulling him deeper into the horde.

The pack opens up into a ring, a sinuous wall grooving to the music. Howls and laughter cry out. Electric guitars grind into a chant, the beat met by stomping feet and nodding heads. Fists pump into the air. The banshee screams.

Dispatching from the ring, a woman dances into the center, gyrating hips sending her into a grooving spin. She runs her fingers through her pink hair. Her palms run down her sides hugging herself.

Mike dances close, his steps complimenting hers. Her eyes blaze, a blue simmer in the black light flashing to deep crimson in the shadows. Arms wrapping around each other, hips meeting, they grind to the beat. He breathes in her sweat, tastes her licorice lips. His insides burn like fire. Peering into her intense gaze, he asks for her name, but his voice is lost to the music.

She smiles revealing her fangs. Closing in, her cheek grazes his. Her breath tickles his ear. “Candy,” she says. Squeezing against him, she licks his lips and closes in on his other ear. “Sweet as candy.” She licks his ear.

The sounds of the club fade, the howling voices growing distant. The music is a distant thunder. Mike dances, his cheek against hers, moving in a swirling wave to the music of their own feet tapping the wood floor. They dance into the shadow world.

The club takes a breath, a cool breeze.

Mike finds his arms empty. Glancing around, he finds the dance floor empty. The club is dark. Silence rings shattering thought. Peering down, he finds his shirt covered in blood. No pain. He tastes licorice lipstick on his lips.

Movement catches his eye.

Like moonlight reflecting off the rolling sea, shapes move about the dance floor becoming hazy forms. Apparitions dance in slow motion. As their features become more discernible, their movements increase in speed.

Mike hears the music, slow and quiet at first. Watching the others, noticing their vibrant faces, their sweat, he realizes he is the ghost gazing back at the world. Touching his throat, he finds torn flesh, cold and dry.

The music explodes into Mike’s thoughts, and he dances. The others barely notice him, if at all. This is Club Necropolis where the dead never dance alone.

]]> http://www.dracotorre.com/blog/2010/06/club-necropolis/feed/ 15 http://www.dracotorre.com/blog/2010/05/its-saturn-2/ http://www.dracotorre.com/blog/2010/05/its-saturn-2/#comments Fri, 21 May 2010 08:16:48 +0000 David G Shrock http://www.dracotorre.com/blog/?p=972 Continue reading →]]>

a flash story by David G Shrock

Bobby’s older brother, Daniel, set the telescope on the driveway. Bobby watched him scan the sky looking over the first few stars awakening in the fading light. He knew the major constellations, but not much more. Hunched over, Daniel lifted the tube aiming at the southern sky.

Watching his brother, Bobby waited.

Daniel nudged the scope and turned a knob at the base of the eyepiece.

Looking at the sky, Bobby saw a bright gleam floating in deep azure. He asked Daniel about the star. Head bobbing, Daniel switched between peering down the length of the tube and into the eyepiece. He adjusted a knob. Rising up, he stepped back.

Slinking up to the instrument, Bobby followed directions. He stood as tall as the telescope and had to stand on his toes to peer into the tiny eyepiece. A shining blob caught his eye. It wiggled within the view as he wobbled on his feet.

“It’s Saturn,” said Daniel.

Bobby had seen photographs of Saturn in a magazine. The blob inside the telescope appeared nothing like the planet on the glossy pages. He gazed at something shaped more like a squished ball. Holding breath, keeping still, he gazed into the eyepiece. The slender oval drifted sideways. Then he saw it. The tips on either side of the round center were rings. Details emerged. Nearly lost in a blur, two specks of darkness marked the space between the rings on either side of the planet. Peering up, he looked at the bright gem in the sky.

“Saturn,” said Bobby.

Realizing destinations filled the sky, the world expanded before Bobby’s eyes.

He had to know more. Pouring over books at the library, he absorbed it all. But never too much at a time. After each section, each small bite, he thought it over. The numbers and other data became images in his mind, but everything seemed so big. The schoolyard became a scale model: a basketball at one end and a marble resting on a paper cup at the other. Walking from the basketball to a blue bead planet, he imagined the trip to Earth. Eight minutes for light, a few less for his feet. Looking back at the basketball, he saw the sun. Peering the other way, at the other end of the football field, he spotted the marble on the cup. He saw Saturn. His eyes opened and questions poured in. What kept everything together?

“It’s gravity,” said Daniel. Explaining the force holding feet to the ground, he claimed that the same force kept the planets in orbit. Bobby argued that a force is physical like pulling a wagon. “An invisible force,” said Daniel. It sounded like a magical story.

The force story had never sat well with Newton, according to a book. The mathematics worked out, but what caused the force? Spinning a bucket overhead, Bobby watched the water stay inside. The arm and bucket were real, a physical force. The book pointed out that Mercury did not play by the rules of the invisible force story. Predictions of positions lost accuracy over time. The problem simmered in his head for years while he scoured books and thought about other problems. He took small bites, imagined the meanings, asked questions. His skills improved as each answer revealed tougher questions. Sitting in the car while picturing planetary orbits, the answer leaped into his thoughts.

Daniel listened quietly.

Bobby explained how everything followed natural pathways within the fabric of space warped by massive objects. Newton’s mathematics relating gravity to a force was only an approximation. Gravity was not like twirling a bucket of water.

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read,” said Daniel.

Bobby questioned everything, taking small bites.

A book on Relativity, requiring small doses of reading and long hours of imagining, confirmed his suspicion. This different story and its mathematics predicted Mercury with high accuracy. He never shared this with Daniel. His brother had a new family on his mind. They talked about comet hunting and viewing planets. Problems twirled through Bobby’s head as he worked them out on my his own. Everyone has their own pace, their own hunger.

In a park after sunset, Bobby set up his new telescope. The heavy instrument whirred on its motors tracking the sky, revealing Saturn in clear detail. No longer a squished ball, the object in the eyepiece appeared much like the photographs in the magazine. Within the rings, Cassini’s Division carved a black line. Above the rings, two hazy stripes—cloud belts—crossed the planet. A young couple walked up and asked what he was looking at.

“It’s Saturn,” said Bobby.

Sometimes folks asked more questions, and he answered them. Knowledge was best served a bite at a time. The couple asked few question. Bobby didn’t explain gravity. He instructed on peering into the eyepiece. The couple marveled at the details, their small bite, and went on their way.

Peering into the eyepiece, watching Saturn float in the sky, Bobby recalled his first view, his first bite. He savored the delight.

a flash story by David G Shrock

Music pounds the brick walls working into the sidewalk. Shoes stomp to the beat. The door opens releasing the sound of screaming guitars along with a wave of warm air teasing the line of clubbers waiting in the cold night. Swallowing three people, the nightclub closes its doors, and the city sounds—cars and voices—slink back.

Bouncing and wiggling, Carla dances. She bumps against her best friend, Jennifer. They wiggle close together warming up for the party inside. Shaking her head, Carla says, “I still can’t believe you got passes!”

Bouncing up and down, the young women squeal drawing looks of disgust from others in line.

Jennifer steps back and laughs. “Didn’t I tell you?” Grasping her breasts, she squeezes pushing her cleavage higher in the lacy black push-up bra. “These are going to take me places!”

Crossing her arms, Carla glares at her friend. “What did you do this time?”

Jennifer pokes her tongue out.

“All I know,” says Carla, throwing her arms up, “every time those things come out, we get into trouble.”

The doorman calls out and the line moves forward. Doors open spraying the street with music, swallow a pair of patrons, and close again.

“Look at them,” says Jennifer. “It’s like a goth convention.”

Looking around, Carla notices all the dark clothing. Not everyone in line is goth, but dark is in vogue. She spots another pair of girls in regular club attire: loose tops showing plenty of skin. Realizing how cold the night is, she rubs her bare arms and imagines a warm sandy beach.

“Well,” says Carla, trying to ignore a scowling goth man. “This club is called, Necropolis.”

Jennifer bounces on her toes and claps her hands. “They say actual vampires come here!”

Waving a hand, she bats away childish fantasies. They are twenty-one now, too old to believe in such things. “Movie teeth and special contact lenses. It’s all for show.”

“Whatever,” says Jennifer. “I’ll let a hunky vampire sink his teeth into my neck.”

The doorman calls out. Grasping Jennifer’s hand, Carla bounces to the red velvet rope. She watches her friend hold up the passes and shake her breasts for the tall doorman. Rubbing his bald head, he studies the passes. He glances at the girls and back at the passes.

“Expired.” The doorman tears the passes and tosses them into a steel drum.

“What the?” Jennifer’s jaw unhinges. Recovering, she flashes a smile and leans over giving the doorman a perfect view. “Are you sure?”

“Expired.”

Carla tugs on her friend’s hand pulling her away. They stomp up the sidewalk and stop. Spinning around, they fold their arms and glare at two goth girls entering the club.

“Look at them.” Jennifer tugs at her skirt. “Look at us.”

“I know,” says Carla. “We look like sluts.”

“We could do goth.”

Reaching out, she pulls on Jennifer’s shoulder spinning her around. “No you can’t. Just look at your body.”

Jennifer’s face lights up. “I know. I’m too hot for drab.”

“Excuse me,” says a deep voice.

Spinning around, Carla finds a massive chest filling out a black buttoned shirt. Peering up, she takes in the gorgeous wavy hair framing the perfect smiling face. His dark eyes drink her in, and she feels her knees weaken.

“Looking for the club?” His voice sounds like angels singing.

“Yes,” says Carla. “But.” Her thoughts hit a wall as her eyes lock onto the man’s gaze. It feels like swimming in an ocean, the wave pushing her naked body to shore.

The man shakes his head. “You lovely ladies don’t want to go in there.”

“Oh, yes we do,” says Jennifer.

Carla throws an elbow into her friend’s side. She wants what Mister Dreamy wants.

“No,” says Mister Dreamy. “There’s another entrance around the corner. For elite members.” He winks, and Jennifer stumbles up against him.

Racing for attention, Carla lurches against the big chest. As the muscular arm wraps around her, she feels warmth building inside as she rides her ocean wave. Peering over, she spots her friend riding the same wave. She cannot compete against a body like that, but she is the better dancer. Feeling the beat rising from the sidewalk into her feet, she dances against Mister Dreamy, rocking her hips, the music flowing up into her arms. She spots Jennifer doing the same, but this is her wave. She presses close, wiggling against the hard chest. She spots her beach coming into view, a shore covered in lavender.

Peering up, Carla presses her chin against the chest. “And his guests?”

Mister Dreamy guides them around the corner, and they groove their way up the steps. An elderly man wearing a suit nods to them as he opens the door. Carla finds herself swept into darkness, her wave comes crashing down.

The door closes behind with a loud thud.

a flash story by David G Shrock

Listen to me tell this story: The Only Color MP3

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I accept the uniform, folded neat upon my arms. The soldier tells me blue is my color. Or is it gray? Another war, another battle—it is always the same—another uniform, nothing ever changes. A warrior only knows one color.

Blue or gray, I don my uniform holding me hot and tight. I stand in line with the others, mercenaries carrying scars of battle upon their faces. Some pale, some dark, the warriors hold two traits in common, their color and death in their eyes.

The mercenaries march, boots crushing the ground. The slinking centipede cuts through the army into the front line. Musket in left hand, sword in my right, I stand gazing over rolling green. A mercenary tells us to remember our color. Remember, the man beside me says tugging at his uniform.

Darkness arrives with the thunder of boots. I hold no argument, no ill between warriors. This is our way. The one beside me speaks again. He wishes me luck, find death at last. I thank him and shake my head. Another field, nothing ever changes. Perhaps my time passed me long ago. I wish him a good death and to remember our color.

Cannon fire announces the battle. Blue meets gray. Cries of war twist into howls of dread. I dance to the music of anguish, the beat of torment. I attack blue. Or is it gray? Dropping the musket, I carry my sword, cutting my way up the hill.

The soldiers are farmers and masons, not warriors. Blue and gray are their colors before the reaping. Some turn away in fear, others stand frozen clenching weapons. I clear first the ones with strength in their eyes. Weapons falling, death calling, a warrior only knows one color.

Blue or gray I forget, but their faces burn into memory. Color flees their cheeks, light departs their eyes. They shed crimson tears upon my dress. Even the mercenaries cry for me. I envy them, their freedom.

On the hilltop I stand alone gazing down over the field. Blue or gray matter no more. All of the fallen wear the same color—my color—flowing down the hill. Death and carrion are my companions.

Red is my color, the only color I know.

~Draco Torre

a flash series part 8 of 8 by David G Shrock

See Dunston Monster Contents for series information or back to Part 7.

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The breeze chilled Sebastian. He tried to pull his gaze away. Gunpowder consumed his nostrils, and a ringing swarmed inside his ear. His gaze traced the tufts of fabric. He stared at the stump of a neck sliced clean, blood pooling around shoulders. A crimson trail fled out the door, splotches on the snow.

“All wrong from the start,” said Sebastian. Sweat dripped down his brow. The floor tilting towards him then away. From the shotgun welcome at Dunston, hurrying off in search of Tabitha meeting Father Young, the riddle, Tabitha teasing his gun away. Even the weather had been against him, beyond the turning point forcing him here, Roan, the killer.

“I should have stayed with her.” Glancing back he spotted the innkeeper crouching at the corner of the bar. “I should have asked more questions at Dunston. More insistent. More protective of my gun.”

Running fingers back through his hair, Sebastian gazed down at the headless body. He recalled the hellfire. “But you were right, Tabitha.” He pictured her sharp teeth. Tears flooded his eyes blurring vision. “They would have executed you without a trail.”

“But if I had done better,” said Sebastian. He remembered the moonlight kissing her smiling face. “Same result, only sooner.”

With the killer on the loose, there was still a chance for justice. Leaning down over the body, he snatched the shotgun. “Where’s my hat?” He felt naked without his hat.

Creeping around the bar, Balmer held it up, shaking.

Sebastian snatched the hat, smashed it on his head, and tugged the brim down. His boots thumped across the floor and over the body. Pausing at the door, he glanced back at Balmer. “Fetch the lawman.”

The nearly pristine snow beneath the hanging lanterns made the trail easy to follow. The blood droplets made it obvious. Turning a corner, boots skidding over slick cobblestone, Sebastian found a narrow street between stone buildings. Light spilled a few meters into the street before being swallowed by darkness. At the other end of the chasm, the red horizon outlined the forest, dark spindly fingers reaching for the sky. Before the trees, a white mist, nearly glowing beneath the moonlight, grasped at the air.

Sebastian inspected the shotgun, a double barrel with a single shot remaining. Entering the shadows, Sebastian held his breath. Snow crunched beneath boots. The cold gripped him, icy fingers digging into his back. He searched the white ground. Every shadowy divot leaped out at him, his mind turning them into footprints and blood drops.

Then he saw him, a silhouette of a slender figure surrounded by burning red around the flat brim of the hat, white mist surrounding torso and legs. At his side, something hung from his hand, long threads reaching to the bulbous mass at the man’s knee; the killer held the head by the hair.

Sebastian stepped, one foot in front of the other, and raised the shotgun taking aim. His heart thundered in his chest. Beyond range, he continued. “Conrad,” he said, “show me your hands!”

Conrad released the hair. The head fell and thumped in the snow.

Red pressed through spindly trees turning the mist into a dance of writhing white tendrils, and painted the far end of the street.

Shotgun level, finger over trigger, Sebastian crept placing one foot before the other, heart slamming his chest. Keeping his eye on the shadowy figure, he heard the crunching and clacking of his boots, a morning bird singing to the coming sun, heartbeat in his ears. Ten paces from the corner, he stopped.

A bird tweeted. Another answered. Distant boots clomped over cobblestone.

Conrad stood motionless. Behind him, the horizon brightened.

“Your hands, Conrad!” Sebastian squinted into the light.

Flutter of shadow, and the shotgun slipped from his grasp. Conrad stood before him his parted duster revealing weapons hanging from belt. At the end of an extended arm, slender fingers held the barrel of a revolver, wood handle outward. It appeared very similar to the one lost to the river.

Heart slowing, Sebastian stared at his father’s other revolver held out to him. Confused, he peered at the face. Blood dripped from thin lips onto the pale chin. High cheekbones, slender nose, the face nearly appeared feminine. The narrow eyes, confident cold blue steel gaze pierced into him. A shiver scrambled down his backside. He felt small, naked. He tried to hold the gaze, but his eyes deceived him and he peered down at the revolver in the hand.

“Your father,” said Conrad, whispering through clenched teeth. “A great warrior.”

Sebastian gulped down saliva, and licked his lips. He felt like a child, small and helpless.

“His,” said Conrad, “death.” He peered down at the revolver. “A good death.”

Reaching out, Sebastian grabbed the revolver by the handle and held it against his chest. Peering down at the offering, he understood the words. The two warriors had fought with honor. Conrad respected Rhemus the Giant.

His father felt closer.

Sebastian looked up finding the street empty. Sunlight struck his face, and he held up his hand blocking the light. Glancing back, he searched the empty street. Before him the empty meadow cradled pristine snow. Somehow he knew, no matter how improbable, the creature had departed with the night.

Tabitha’s head rested in the snow, dark hairs fanned over cheek. Dropping to a knee, Sebastian brushed the hair aside revealing the wound. Instead of a clean cut, he found a gash, torn flesh hanging from the back, and within, broken skull fragments slick with blood. It appeared as though Conrad had chewed his way into the back of the skull.

Hearing footsteps, a cane tapping cobblestone, he twirled around finding Father Young.

“No. I’m not following you, boy.” Father Young pointed his cane towards the building on the left. “My church.”

“That’s how you knew how to find Conrad.” Sebastian slipped his father’s revolver—his revolver—into his holster. “What is he? A vampire?” It sounded too much like folklore, but he had no other explanation.

“Nonsense, boy.” Father Young rubbed his balding head and peered down at the head. “Something old. Older than I even.”

Sebastian peered at the dark glasses picturing the strange gold orbs within. Father Young was something not quite human, and he wanted to know more. “Father, I’ve seen evil.”

Father Young peered up and wrinkled his nose. Sunlight glimmered on the dark lenses. “Conrad?”

“Ignorance,” said Sebastian. “We all choose our path, Father Young, and sometimes that path offers very few forks.” He shook his head at the limited choices along the way. “How can I help anyone? With all these secrets! I must learn about your people. Tabitha’s people.”

“You truly are your father’s son.” Father Young shook his head. “A hunter.”

“A defender.” Sebastian held his head high. He felt refreshed knowing his path. “I must return to university.”

Father Young nodded. “I’ll message Father Gustav.”

“But first I must visit Dunston. Let them know their monster is gone.”

“And Conrad?”

“Didn’t you notice? He’s a demon hunter.” Sebastian scowled. “My father’s final assignment. You sent my father after Conrad, didn’t you?”

Father Young cringed.

“I’d sleep with a gold eye open if I were you, Father Young.” Sebastian grinned. “Conrad is still out there.”

Picking up the Dunston Monster’s head, Sebastian held it to his chest. He brushed the dark hair aside finding the serpentine teeth within gaping jaw. Vision blurred. He felt tears streaming down his cheeks. Recalling their talk in the woods, sitting in the trees, his tears became a shower.

“No,” said Sebastian. “You’re not evil, Tabitha.” He took a step, wobbling. He pictured the moonlight splashing off her cheeks, her smile, and peered down at her dead eyes. The hellfire was gone. Clenching teeth, he marched into town.

“No more evil than the rest of us monsters.”

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Dunston Monster ePub (zip)

Thanks for reading “Dunston Monster.” Comments or questions? Please, let me know what you think. Your opinion is valuable and appreciated.

You may download the entire “Dunston Monster” in PDF or ePub (zip.) This includes two previous Sebastian flash stories. Looking for ePub reader? Try Stanza or Adobe Digital Editions.

If you enjoyed this story, you may also enjoy my novel, Raven Memory, a modern science-fantasy in the same world. Coming later this year.

Sebastian is part of Draco Torre’s world. See more of him in future short stories and in my second novel.

-David G Shrock 2010

“Dunston Monster” copyright © 2010 David G Shrock

a flash series part 7 of 8 by David G Shrock

See Dunston Monster Contents for series information or back to Part 6.

Warning: Violence

_________________________________________________

Sebastian left Tabitha in the care of the local lawman, Jasper, until morning when they could sort everything out. No sign of Sheriff Haas.

Roan was not a big town, but the snow covered cobblestone streets snaking on either side of the river made the town seem larger. Nearly empty in the predawn twilight, the streets echoed boots throughout the town. Twice Sebastian stopped at an intersection sniffing the scent of fresh bread, the direction elusive.

Above a door, hanging from a post, a sign boasted hot meals and warm beds, The Roan Inn.

Sebastian opened the door and ducked inside. Standing tall, he peered around the dim room. Four empty tables lined the front, two on each side nearly hidden in shadows. Beside him, a coatrack held a single tan duster. At the back, a lantern on the bar illuminated the side of a man facing him. To the left, the light reached a staircase leading to the floor above. Behind the bar, a doorway released the only other source of light and the scent of fresh baked bread.

Breathing in the aroma, Sebastian smiled recalling a spring day, sneaking into the kitchen for a bite of bread before it had cooled, and his mother appearing to swat his hand. Somehow his mother had always known whenever trouble arrived. He wished for her skill.

Sebastian removed his hat and approached the bar.

A clatter in the back, a man wearing an apron appeared in the doorway. He froze staring at Sebastian. Slowly, his look of surprise turned into a grin. “Rhemus?”

“Yes, Sebastian Rhemus.” He nodded.

“I knew your father,” said the man, his smile growing larger. “I’m Balmer, the keeper of this inn.” He reached over the bar.

Stunned, Sebastian stared at the hand. He knew the day would come, an outside connection to his father. He shook the hand.

“Strong like your father,” said Balmer. Releasing the shake, he raised his hand holding it a little higher than Sebastian’s head. “But not as big.” He clapped his hands. “Your father liked my omelet. I fetch.” Spinning around, he disappeared into the back. Pans clanged.

Sebastian peered over at the man beside him.

A flat brimmed hat worn by weather blocked the man’s eyes. Unkempt dark hair fell to the shoulder. A tin mug spilled its contents between cracked lips. Slender fingers pulled the mug away tapping onto the bar. Tall, the man’s hat came to Sebastian’s shoulder. The buttoned shirt hung loose form his slender frame, sleeves too short, collar too wide making him appear gaunt.

Pivoting on a toe, the man turned like a whisper facing Sebastian. He hooked his thumbs into his belt hanging low, weighted down by weapons. Leather thongs held the holsters against thighs, two knives with white handles surrounded the brass buckle, and a sword rested in dark scabbard hanging on his left side. The man appeared like war waiting to happen.

A chill raced down Sebastian’s backside, and he shook. He did not need a mother’s sense. Trouble stood before him.

Balmer returned with steaming omelet and a warm bread roll. Sebastian wanted to ask about his father, but hunger took over, and he chomped into the meal. The innkeeper filled the gaunt fellow’s mug and returned to his baking in the back.

“Frightful weather,” said Sebastian. He glanced over at the slender man, and took another gulp of eggs. “Nearly froze my fingers out there.”

The man raised his mug to his lips and held it there breathing in the caffeinated fumes.

Balmer’s voice boomed from the back. “Your father was a good man.”

Door creaked, and a cold breeze sent the lantern flame swirling.

Still holding the tin mug high, the man glanced at the door.

Sebastian peered over his shoulder and found a woman in a dress standing in the open door just beyond the reach of the lantern. He spotted the twin hellfire sparks.

Tabitha stepped into the light. Her eyes returned to a normal brown, but they glared with hate. She held a shotgun aimed at the bar. It was the third time in the same number of days Sebastian found himself staring into the barrel of a gun.

“That’s him,” said Tabitha. Her flesh nearly as white as her dress, she stood at the edge of death. “Joseph Conrad. The killer.”

Facing the gun, Sebastian held out his hands. “Please, Tabitha.”

“Step aside, Sebastian!” Her face wrenched with hate. “Shoot you both I will!”

“You’re ill,” said Sebastian. He stepped diagonally away from the line of fire and closer to the gun. Spotting red droplets on the dress, he froze. “Jasper. How is he?”

Snarling, she exposed her serpentine fangs. “I never hurt anyone, Sebastian. You believe me, don’t you?”

Seeing her like this, Sebastian felt uncertain. Two dead and the missing sheriff, the Dunston residents had demanded the return of their monster—Tabitha, a school teacher with terrible teeth.

“That night Joseph Conrad arrived. I saw it!” Her aim swayed, and she squeezed the gun tighter. “I watched him take my brother’s head!”

“We’ll go together,” said Sebastian. He crept closer and stood halfway between Tabitha and the bar. Glancing over, he spotted Conrad standing calm still holding the mug. “Explain everything at a fair trial.”

“No trials for my people,” said Tabitha. “Only the gallows for us.”

Tabitha pulled the trigger, the boom crashed throughout the inn sending Sebastian stumbling back onto a table, crashing of wood lost to the piercing ring in his ears, and the explosion of another gun. Bits of ceiling fell. Conrad held two revolvers shooting repeatedly, and Tabitha stumbled back, blood sloshing out her backside. Shotgun fell to the ground. Speeding across the floor, Conrad fell upon Tabitha like a hawk swooping for the kill, sword slashing.

Sebastian squeezed his eyes shut, but the image burned into him, the head falling one way and the body slumping in the other. Opening his eyes, he found himself sitting on the table wreckage breathing in dust. He gazed at the open door. On the floor, the body lay on its back, the head missing.

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Continue to Part 8, the finale.