The serial continues at the new site: www.KandyFangs.com

I’m not a fan of serializing short fiction. Longer stories make more sense. Even then, many readers prefer reading at once and even better if it is in a completed ebook. The problem with hosting a long serial on a blog is navigation made even more problematic if shared with other posts. For Kandy Fangs, I solved the problem by moving her to her own place and setting up an episode index always visible on the side.

Setting up a WordPress site is so easy there is no excuse for creating a separate space for the serial. WordPress 3 even allows managing multiple blogs on one installation. Writers with technical skills can setup a better book-like experience by removing the blog completely, but let’s keep it simple. Besides, the blog features allow for bonus content. Decorate the site for the story.

Open up www.KandyFangs.com in a window to see how it works.

Instead of opening to blog posts, the site starts at the Welcome page. This gives the new reader a synopsis and information on what to expect. Once the serial is over, new readers may read all the episodes and returning readers may read new stories about Kandy. A link on the welcome page takes the new reader to the first episode.

Under the menu, you’ll find “Novella” and “Kandy” selections. Clicking one of these shows the categories in the normal reverse blog post order. This is nice for returning visitors, but not new visitors. Another option is to change the post order to start with the first. See Crooked Fang for an example.

I gave Kandy’s home a look consistent with this blog. If Kandy likes it, then my job is done.

a flash story by David G Shrock

This marks 1 year since my first Friday Flash post, “Young Secret,” my 100th post on this blog, and my 25th flash story.

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The thunderous beat, stomping feet, wiggle the wood floor rattling lights. The blue-haired vocalist screams about love and pain while the band thrashes about working their instruments into furious fits. Before the stage, the human sea writhes into a torrent, arms waving glowing bracelets, bodies splashing together, bounding and swaying in currents. Piercing through the heavy fog, red spotlights splash the crowd like blood raining inside Club Necropolis.

On the pedestal beside the band stage, Kandy grooves to the music. She snuggles close to the backside of the lovely Zypher. Arms in the air, hips swirling, they move as one. The waving currents flow around their feet, a cloud of orange-red body heat, except for a nearby bouncer dressed black, a dim red simmer, the only other Itoril in the club. Seeing all the pairs of beady orbs, it seems nearly half the guests wear special lenses glowing in the black light. The wannabes gather around the pedestal, and Kandy snarls showing them true fangs.

Someone watches her. Glancing over, she spots a pale form slinking into the dark sea. Turning with her partner, Kandy loses sight of him behind a fan of blonde hair. Cold rushes down her backside. She steps into shadowy folds of time.

Music fades into the background. The fan of hair slows into wispy haze, nearly transparent. The crowd dissolves, apparitions dancing in slow motion within the silence.

Stepping around a nearly frozen Zypher, Kandy gazes over the sea of ghosts. The pull of time draws her back, and the world becomes more tangible. Searching the still faces caught within the constant beat, she finds nothing unusual. Facing her partner, she falls back into the dance of life. Sounds explode, stomping feet, music, working into the pedestal, into her legs.

Eyes popping wide, Zypher stumbles and regains her groove again moving closer, arms wrapping around. “Stop showing off. They’re watching us.”

Kandy dances into a storm, and Zypher presses in tight, their black lace waving about them. They move together, wriggling like dark fire. Slipping from hard cries into angelic hymn, the vocalist tells her tale about dancing with the dead.

Falling into a gentle swirl, she latches onto Zypher, cheeks pressed together. “I’ll go easy on you, sweetie. I promise.” Hands sliding down over her partner’s hips, she grasps the bottom of the skirt and lifts. Hearing the roar of delight from the men gathered around the pedestal, she laughs.

She slithers down into a squat grasping Zypher’s warm thighs. She spots the nude-colored tape hiding the blood pack. Baring her teeth for the audience, she glances around finding ecstatic faces. Cold sparks rush up her spine. Something is out there. Not human. Not Itoril. Something cold watches her. She dives in biting the pack squirting red syrup running in rivers down creamy legs.

Zypher shrieks for the performance.

Unsatisfied, Kandy lifts the blonde up and slams her down onto the pedestal. Crouched over, she bites into thigh, tasting blood slithering about her tongue. The scream is a treat to her ears. Peering up over the trembling leg, she spots a familiar buzz of hair and chiseled chin, a face from the dead.

Dressed in a light-colored shirt, the man glows like a beacon in the dark sea. Reaching out, he claws at the pedestal, pulling himself to shore. Leaking from his cruel eyes, violet smoking wisps curl up over his buzzed hair.

Waves of cold splash inside, and she shudders. A single thought rises from the abyss: run.

Lunging into the folds of time, Kandy leaps over the nearly frozen apparition of Zypher and onto the dance floor. Hands latch onto hers, pulling her into a spin, twirling through insubstantial dancers, warm waves splashing against her. Never having gone this far, she cringes at each ghost passing through her leaving a wake of hot prickles on her flesh.

Spinning and gliding through the hazy cloud of ghosts, they dance to the frozen silence. Gazing at the cold expressionless face, the violet smoke pouring from dark eye sockets, is like looking at Death. As he turns, he leaves a trail of smoking bits. He tugs her deeper into the fold, and time pulls at her sending them into a lumbering dance.

Watching creeping shadows eat at the floor, she claws at the arms holding her trying to break free. As the abyss closes in, she reverses her fight.

Meeting the rhythm, Kandy dances with the dead. Turning with her lead, she adds her own groove complimenting his steps. Time rips at her, but she dances through the shadows between worlds beneath a storm of lavender and azure clouds. As her insides begin to tear apart, she breaks the beat rushing into time.

Music slams into her, perspiration and leather attack her nose, and a person knocks her spinning sideways. Pushing against bodies, she stumbles through the crowd. She punches a man square in the face and escapes the dance floor. Spinning around, back against stone wall, she scans the club.

Glowing bracelets wave above the waving currents of the human sea, but nothing unusual stirs within. She imagines the wraith lurks deep within the folds of time or somewhere between this world and another.

Finding the rhythm, Kandy walks to the beat of life, up the steel stairs and out the door into the crisp night air leaving Club Necropolis behind.

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Kandy is part of the Draco Torre world (see tag.) This stand-alone story is not included in the novella or serial. Kandy Fangs serial continues Tuesday with episode 6 followed by the All Hallows Eve episode on, crazy enough, Hallowe’en.

]]> http://www.dracotorre.com/blog/2010/10/dance-with-the-dead/feed/ 16 http://www.dracotorre.com/blog/2010/10/kandy-fangs-5/ http://www.dracotorre.com/blog/2010/10/kandy-fangs-5/#comments Sat, 16 Oct 2010 14:00:32 +0000 David G Shrock http://www.dracotorre.com/blog/?p=1426 Continue reading →]]>

fiction by David G Shrock

[Update: Kandy has moved! www.KandyFangs.com]

This is episode 5. Start at the beginning, return to episode 4. Find more serials at TuesdaySerial.com.

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Steve marches on the sidewalk leaving the sanctuary behind. He sees Kandy in his mind, a memory consuming his thoughts. Her grin reveals her serpentine fangs. Can a forgotten memory come back into reality, experienced for the first time like the Sanctuary of Sin?

The gun barrel, his first memory if there is any order, tells him that Kandy is a professional killer. She takes good care of her gun. Kandy is Itoril, a descendant of Ithuriel. And she knows him.

His name, Steve Reynolds, feels as strange as the interior of the sanctuary—ghostly. It is the name Kandy mentioned, as did the young naked man, Torx, from the apartment. What brought him to the apartment? Who was the rock star leaning against the door? There is no memory between the nightclub and the police station.

Bright yellow catches his attention, and he finds police ribbon taped over dark double doors set in a brick building. Peering up, he sees a sign extending out from the building displaying a skull beside the name of the establishment, Necropolis. Inside is Detective Silver’s crime scene where someone found an unconscious Steve Reynolds after the forensics team finished their job.

Glass shatters against the doors, fragments from the bottle fly in different directions. Laughter explodes, an engine roars, and a car speeds off down the road. Steve watches the tail lights of the car disappear around a corner. The scent of alcohol rises, a cheap national brand.

Nothing about the building stirs his memory. Made of gray stone around brick, it appears much like the other buildings in the neighborhood. The bottom two floors are windowless, and the windows in the upper six floors are all dark. Or blackened. The lowest windows reflect the city glow like dark mirrors.

Continuing around the corner, he notices the streetlights dim. Like walking into a black fog, the world darkens. Stone steps lead up to glass doors with brass handles. The same skull-with-fangs design hangs above the door. Light beyond the glass reveals red stairs climbing up to black curtains.

Glancing around, Steve finds an empty street. The silence is unnatural, but not disturbing. It feels like the quiet after a heavy snow storm, peaceful. He claps his hands. Hearing nothing, he claps again noticing not even the air moves through his fingers. The cold is gone as well. Watching cracks of darkness chomping away the cement, he recognizes the pattern. Like at the sanctuary, he steps out of time. His beating heart reminds him he is alive. He listens to his heart thumping in his chest, the sound traveling up into his head where the double-patter finds his inner ear. The thump followed by the patter is familiar music—comforting. His heart slows as he watches the darkness creep beneath his feet. Peering up, he finds a sky filled with raging purple clouds, the deepest violet crashing with the lightest amethyst. The buildings still stand around him, but they appear nearly transparent.

Climbing the steps, he watches the building fade out and back in like a passing shadow. He reaches for the brass handle, and his fingers pass through. Shadows eat the door, the brass frame crumbling into a dust before disappearing. After a day, this ghostly shadow world feels natural. He enters Necropolis.

The red carpet on the stairs intensifies, vivid red, the shag standing up removing imprints from passing feet. Cracks in the black painted walls smooth over sealing themselves. The room at the top of the stairs is nearly empty. An aluminum ladder leans against the wall on the left, and a pile of plastic gathers at its feet. In the far corner, a light hangs from a hook in the ceiling. Half the room is black. Streaks of black paint extend into the dingy yellow half on the far side.

A doorway catches his attention, the one between two others within the black wall. Masking tape splattered by black paint runs around the doorframe. The light reveals the shape of door hinges within the varnished wood. None of this is familiar, but the darkness within the room calls to him.

Light cuts across the room to a pile of tarp in the corner. The entire back wall is dark glass reflecting the doorway. Shadows creep up from the floor, hazy blobs taking shape. An etherial sofa rests before the glass and another on the left against the wall. Between them, the shadow-shapes become a round table and two ghost-like wine glasses sitting on top.

This is where it happens. This is the place Kandy points the gun at him. He imagines her standing back towards the glass wall. But Kandy is not here, not even her ghost, only the memory of her consuming his thoughts. He looks at the ghost-table and the ghost-goblets. Are these memories? They seem to be, but these ghosts belong to the room. Even rooms have memories.

Approaching the glass, Steve stops short afraid that touching the ghost sofa might extinguish it. He steps around the end. Peering through the window, he finds a large room illuminated by a purple bar running from the ceiling down to the floor nearly a dozen meters below. Eyes adjusting, he realizes it is a strip of black light connecting to a stone column. Other columns appear within the shadows. At the bottom, the wood floor stretches out to a stage. Gazing at the dance floor, he searches for crime scene tape or anything that might mark the investigation. Nothing but dust lit by a single strand of purple.

Movement catches his eye. At first it appears like a reflection on the glass, an illuminated fog. Individual shapes rise up out of the haze. Ghosts, over a hundred of them, move about on the floor below. A collective mass, they writhe near the stage where speakers surround a band of specters. The ghosts dance in slow motion. Their hands wave above their heads as they twist at their hips. Heads bounce sending hair into a blurred fibrous etherial fans. Movement draws his gaze up to his reflection the glass and another figure behind him.

Spinning around, Steve finds a woman standing in the center of the room. She wears a short dress made of steel rings, like armor but with rings far too big for protection. Her smile is menacing. The slender fangs barely extend beyond the row of teeth, but there is no mistaking them. Her blue eyes light up with recognition. Looking over her long blonde hair and pale face, he tries to place her. The woman is as unfamiliar as the surroundings.

Gliding up beside the leather sofa, the woman purrs. Placing a hand on the backrest, she gazes through the glass at the dance floor below. No longer ghosts, people dance at normal speed to the music pulsing through the glass, the walls, and the floor. The woman taps her fingers to the beat. A red ember burns within her iris, the unmistakable characteristic of an Itoril.

“I bought this club recently,” says the Itoril woman. “I renamed it Necropolis.”

“The city of the dead.” He tries to pull his gaze from her, but her near perfect breasts peeking through the steel rings prove too much for his willpower.

“Can I get you anything?” She speaks with a purring whisper. “A drink? A dancing girl?”

“No.” He realizes he stares at her nude body within the shimmering rings, but what else is he supposed to look at? The woman dresses for attention, and she has it. “Thank you.”

“We recently added the special lenses.” Lifting her hand from the sofa, she motions out the window. “Most of my employees are human. The black light on lenses causes their eyes to glow.”

Tearing his gaze from sin, Steve peers down. Some of the dancers wear glowing bands around their wrists. White shirts glow near the slender purple rods. He spots a pair of glistening green eyes on a man in black. A woman carrying a tray holding drinks has red eyes.

“It’s all part of promoting vampires. Books. Movies.”

“You’re trying to become accepted.” Unusual eyes and sharp teeth tend to encourage violence.

Spinning around, she leans against the glass. “When it’s cool to be a vampire, we will be the rock stars.” Her grin appears cruel, the sort of smile a child makes after getting away with something sinful.

“Careful you don’t become lost within your own fantasy.” Steve watches a woman dancing within a big birdcage hanging from the ceiling. Her hands grip the bars, and her hips throw her skirt around. The city of the dead appears more like the city of sex appeal.

“You don’t remember me.” She turns to the window and places a hand on the glass. “I was just a girl. A teen with attitude. You wore a dark suit with a blue necktie.”

Steve looks at the side of her face, at the strands of hair pulled back over her ear. He has no memory of her. Nothing. Instead of feeling lost, like a part of him is missing, he feels normal. So what if his childhood is nonexistent? Yesterday is there as it always has been.

“Yasmine,” says the woman. She touches her head to the glass, and peers down. “My birth name was Jasmine, but Auntie pronounced it like Yasmine.”

Leaning closer to the glass, Steve peers down. He sees the top of a woman’s head bobbing as she dances, her arms swinging. She stands on a black pedestal above the dance floor. Even from this angle, he recognizes Kandy. The woman is everywhere.

Steve steps back. “Excuse me. I need to meet someone.”

“Decided to enjoy a dancing girl, after all?” Yasmine remains at the window watching her guests.

The back staircase twists within a narrow shaft, a door blocking the floors above. This is not Torx’s building. The steel groans under his weight as he spirals down.

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Continue reading episode 6 at www.kandyfangs.com/?p=29, or try a special single-shot story where Kandy has a “Dance With the Dead.”

fiction by David G Shrock

This is episode 4. Start at the beginning, return to episode 3, or find your place in the menu, Short Fiction-Kandy Fangs.

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The directions are easy to follow, and Steve finds a brick building with large black letters spelling out the name, Roseland Sisters of Sorrows Sanctuary. Roseland is a city resting in a valley between two mountain ranges. The area is known for its microbrews. Why recall such a thing? He knows the city like he knows the value of a dollar and the basics of a combustible engine propelling the cars on the street. The real mystery: who is Steve Reynolds?

As he opens the door, Steve imagines a number of possibilities waiting on the other side: standing in line for evening soup, waking up from a dream and telling his wife about his strange adventure, a woman at the front desk recognizing him, or angels descending the staircase to guide him home. Even a Sister smacking him across the head with the bible shaking his memories back in place seems more likely than what he finds. Somewhere in his groggy state standing before the arched doorway, stumbling into the shadows between the cool outside and the warm indoors, the world swirls around him sending his head sloshing. Then everything orients within his thoughts, and he finds the unexpected.

Three apparitions occupy the room. In the back, lounging on a sofa, a ghost smokes a cigarette held between her fingers. She wears a white top and matching short skirt. She sits at an angle, legs crossed, foot kicking the air. White boots hug her legs all the way up to her thigh. On the right, a bartender wears a white vest barely hiding her breasts, and white bow tie around her bare neck. Hand held out, she serves a martini to an apparition dressed all in black. Like the first, the third ghost wears boots that are too long and a skirt too short.

High on the wall, the lamps within red glass cylinders cast an eerie glow within a haze of smoke. In the back corner, a curtain of beads hangs in the doorway. Sparkles dance down the beads catching light and movement beyond the curtain. The black-and-white tiled floor reminds Steve of a chess board. The two women, one in all black and the other all white, are chess pieces. Two queens command the battlefield in dark smoky ruins, a sanctuary of sin.

The apparitions move in slow motion. The black queen takes her martini glass, and the bright red lips on the bartender’s face curling into a smile. Even the smoke spewing from the white queen’s sparkling pink lips moves against time.

Steve steps inside, his shoes silently gliding across the tile. Taking in a deep breath, he notices the lack of a cigarette scent. Stopping in the center of the room, he spins around. The hands on the clock above the bar indicate three minutes before ten. His watch shows nine minutes after nine. The second hand on the sanctuary’s clock turns at a constant rate, nearly half too slow. Not constant, he realizes watching the slender second hand pass the twelve. Movements increasing in speed, the pair of ghosts at the bar come alive, less transparent. The black queen’s hips rock to each side as she lifts the martini glass to her lips.

The floor shudders, and shakes again. It is a beat increasing in speed, and he realizes it is a drum, music from the room beyond the beads. The black queen’s hips move with the beat as she dances in a circle, holding her glass up, spinning around, appearing less like a ghost.

Sound crashes the room, music pounding into his head. He breathes in the heavy cigarette smoke and coughs. Watching the black queen dancing in a circle facing him, he meets her cruel gaze.

The black queen looks like Kandy.

Her face darkens. It is the look of a predator spotting easy prey. The sinful smile reveals terrible teeth, two fangs on top and a smaller pair on the bottom. Her eyes appear iridescent, red burning through hazel.

The music fades into the distance, and the room grows darker. Kandy becomes transparent as her movements slow. The bartender and the white queen are ghosts again. Darkness creeps over the room eating the furniture and the walls. The shadows eat away at the floor, a storm of dark purple clouds erupting in its place. Retreating from the disappearing floor, Steve races for the fading exit. Without reaching for the knob, he runs through the insubstantial door.

Sounds attack his ears, a nearby car engine and the background roar of the city. A chill settles upon him, and he shivers feeling streams of sweat slide down his face. Headlights glare then fade, a car passing on the street.

Looking back, he finds the building as before. Hanging on the bricks the sign reads, Roseland Sisters of Sorrows Sanctuary. He touches the door feeling the rough wood. Kandy knows him. He wants to go back inside and demand answers, but his stomach churns from the disorientation of time in slow motion. Is amnesia playing with the senses stirring up memories? Opening the notepad Detective Silver gave him, he reads the directions verifying this is the correct address.

“No way in hell I’m staying here.”

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Continue reading.

fiction by David G Shrock

This is episode 3. Start form the beginning, go back to episode 2, or find all in Short Stories – Kandy Fangs.

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Like I told you.” Leaning back in the chair, Steve Reynolds folds his arms. “I don’t remember.”

Sitting behind the wood desk, the detective looks up from his notes. His bushy eyebrows scrunch down. He appears to fall into deep concentration, his head bouncing as if considering different options.

Growing tired of the scrutinizing gaze, Steve looks through the window behind the detective. Police officers sit at desks, some of them writing and others talking on phones. From somewhere at the far end, a radio squelches and a scratchy voice mumbles an announcement about an incident on Tenth Street. Whatever it is, nobody responds.

Eyebrows bouncing up, the detective nods. He swipes a hand through his dark wavy hair ruffling the silver flecks matching his name. “Amnesia, then.”

“Yes, Detective Silver.”

“I’m very sorry.” Silver leans back, and the chair groans. “For someone at your age.” He shakes his head. “I mean, you’re at the prime of your life. You might have a family. Someone worrying about our absence.” His eyebrows clamp down as he leans closer. “You don’t remember anything at all?”

“Not my childhood.” He feels as if he has been over it a thousand times, at least five with the detective after hours of pouring through his thoughts back in the waiting room. “Not last week. Nothing until that apartment.”

Silver waves a hand motioning his acceptance. “I’ll do everything I can to help you find your identity, but I need you to think.”

“No.” Steve stands sending the chair smashing against a cabinet. “I don’t know anything about that street.”

“Washington.”

“The last thing I remember is a club. A dance club.”

“Necropolis.”

“City of the Dead?” Dropping into the chair, Steve slumps over and buries his face in his hands. His memories are not here. They are out there somewhere. Maybe with Kandy.

“The nightclub,” says Detective Silver. “My crime scene.”

Rubbing his face, Steve takes in a deep breath. He sits up, and continues in a calm voice. “I’m uncertain how I even arrived at that club.” Falling. Dropping through purple clouds into a room of ghosts. “I was helping a young woman. Sabrina. I helped her out to the stairs and I lost her.”

Silver glances at his notes. “From the mystery apartment. An old building you don’t recall the location of.”

“That’s correct.”

“Help me understand, Mister Reynolds. Minutes after forensics packs up.” Silver grabs his pen and taps the end on the table. “Among a dozen officers. You somehow lose consciousness between the officers and the exit.”

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “Like I told you before, people were dancing. There were no officers. I never heard any gunshots.” Folding his arms, Steve meets the scrutinizing gaze. He has had enough. He wants to go home, but home resides beyond his memory. Anywhere is better than the police station.

Breaking the gaze, Silver lowers his head. He scribbles something on his paper. “Fair enough, Mister Reynolds. Without an address of this apartment, we don’t have much to work with. My team is going back over the crime scene. Something will turn up.”

Detective Silver opens a desk drawer and tosses a small notepad on his desk. He opens it and writes on the first page. “Directions to a shelter. I’ll contact you there.”

Steve takes the pocket-sized notepad and reads the directions. None of the names mean anything to him.

“And here’s a pen in case something comes back. About the apartment or about Necropolis. Anything at all.”

Taking the pen, Steve slides it into his shirt pocket along with the notepad. He promises to stay in contact and exits the office. The radio squelches, and this time two officers respond climbing to their feet. Finding the main entrance, he pushes on the glass door.

The cool night air reminds him he has no jacket. He wonders how many hours have passed inside the station. He supposes without any memories, a day is forever like a child with nothing behind him and a lifetime to imagine.

He listens the sound of his shoes clicking down the steps onto the sidewalk and the cars rumbling on the street, all familiar as if he knows them without really remembering the sounds from anywhere in particular. Even the dampness in the air seems familiar. He recognizes a coffee shop as a coffee shop, but the name on the glass door means nothing. He considers going inside. Hunger should have taken him by now, but he feels fine. Of course, he has no money to pay for food.

Spotting a woman on the others side of the glass, Steve grabs the handle and opens the door releasing warm air and the scent of coffee. He stands to the side and flashes a smile. The woman returns the smile and strides away, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. Steve breathes in the coffee aroma and releases the door listening to the squeak of the hinge and the smack of the frame. Scents and sounds are all recognizable and familiar. If only his home address would materialize with the same familiarity.

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Continue reading.

fiction by David G Shrock

This is episode 2. Start from the beginning.

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Opening the door reveals a dim hall lit by a buzzing light, the blinking sends their shadows dancing across the worn carpet and onto the wall. Steve supports the young woman as she stumbles down the hall passing closed doors marked by brass numbers. The naked man shouts from the doorway. Finding stairs at the end of the hall, Steve heads down the creaking steps.

Folding her arms over bare breasts, Sabrina shivers. “Where are we?”

Nothing is familiar. The acrid odor, the peeling paint, the blinking lights tug at his senses. “How about we find somewhere warm and safe?”

At the landing, he grabs the banister and swings Sabrina around the corner. Within his grasp, he feels the banister give, wood splinters, and the handrail breaks free. He falls, darkness swallowing him.

Instead of tumbling down stairs, he feels as if he plummets, his gut rising into his throat. Finding his arms empty, he reaches out. Sabrina is gone. Rising from the darkness below, churning purple and black clouds curl around him. Gut falls, feet touch down, soft silent steps carry him through the deep purple fog.

Dark shapes appear within the haze. Swooning and swaying, the hazy shapes surround him. They appear like smoke, their swooning motions leave trails, and he realizes they dance in slow motion. He finds more of them, a mass of smoky forms in every direction. They dance, waving arms building smoky clouds above their heads.

Purple haze lifting, dancers increasing in speed, the smoke trails fade leaving solid forms, clothing rippling out of the blackness. The ghosts dance, their pale forms turning and moving on a wood floor. Dark columns holding purple rods rise up into a white fog where lights spin splashing red like blood dripping from the mist.

Thunder erupts, pounding into the floor. Another dull boom, and another, the increasing beat becoming alive, sharpening. The dancers stomp to the beat, their movements increasing in speed. A chorus of guitars join in, and music explodes.

Standing at the center of the dance floor, Steve glances around at the crowd. White shirts and waving colored bracelets glow in the black light. Some of the eyes glow as well like phosphorous disc floating on white orbs. The discs bounce and weave. The floor shakes to the beat of the drums and dancing feet.

Standing on a stage, a woman with deep crimson hair screams into a microphone. Her voice, harsh and demonic, shouts about blood and death. Behind her, the band shakes their heads and stomp. A bald man pounds drums splashing sweat glistening into the spotlight flooding his bare chest decorated with a dark dragon.

Feeling a gaze piercing into him, Steve turns around finding a woman staring at him. Her hips throw her long black skirt swaying and shifting about her leather boots tapping the floor in time with the beat. Her body flows, twisting and swaying, her arms climbing up over her head like snakes swooning about each other. Her dark hair bounces on her shoulders. He recognizes her pale face, her cute dimples, her slender nose. Her strong gaze pulls him in. This is the face of the killer.

She smiles, her glossy red lips curl deepening her dimples. “Nice to meet you, Steve Reynolds.”

A wave of nausea rushes over, and he concentrates on the woman before him, focusing on her glossy lips. He watches her tongue lick her upper lip. Smile growing, her mouth opens wider exposing glistening teeth. A red spotlight splashes over her fangs.

“I’m sweet like candy,” she says. Spinning around, she gazes over her shoulder. Her thin eyebrows bounce. “With a k.”

Watching her smile, her pointed teeth, he realizes her name. “Kandy.”

Nausea slams down, the world darkens, and sounds fade. The music whispers, Kandy Fangs.

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Continue reading.

fiction by David G Shrock

[Update: Kandy moved to: www.KandyFangs.com.] If you prefer reading at your pace, look for Kandy Fangs ebook next year. This story is recommended for mature readers. Find more serials at Tuesday Serial.

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The barrel is a black square around a circle of darkness. Gun oil tickles the nose. A good killer always keeps her tools clean, and this gun looks and smells like a very clean tool.

The trigger moves back in slow motion. Behind the gun, the killer glares back. There is no anger on her face. No hatred. Determination fills her smoldering eyes, and red breaks through the hazel iris like cracks of molten lava breaking through rock. Her eyes nearly glow in the dim light. And behind the gunpowder, beyond the oil, beneath her minty mouthwash, her scent gives her away. She is a rare creature, a descendant of Ithuriel.

Someone once said that right before death a man sees his life flash before his eyes. The statement is almost true. There is no time. Life is a memory. Quicker than the flash of gunpowder, a lifetime of experiences explodes imprinting memories onto the fabric of the cosmos.

The hammer pops, thunder growing quiet, swallowed by silence. Darkness wraps around swallowing the killer, the gun. This is home. The silent timeless darkness.
Home must wait.

~~~~

Empty beer bottles, fifteen of them including the bottle on its side, rest on the black table. Shards of clear glass litter the center. It looks like the aftermath of a gang fight between bottles, the victim smashed to death. Probably some national light beer trying to dance with the tough local microbrews. Roseland is home to some of the toughest ale in the country.

On a sofa, a clothing pile shifts. Beside the sofa, a sweatshirt covers the lamp shading the room except for the far corner where cobwebs darken the wall. More clothes form a pile between the lamp and sofa. A trail of clothing—enough for three people—leads from the sofa across the carpet onto the tile of the kitchen area. A lacy black bra hangs from the handle of the refrigerator. Back against the stove, a woman wearing only lacy black bottoms rests in a fetal position, arm over knees and face pressed into a puddle of vomit.
The apartment unit smells like alcohol, sex, and an overused toilet after weeks of neglect.

“Hey, man.” Clothing flops off the sofa, and a shirtless young man sits up. His blond hair stands up, spikes pointed in every direction. He glances around, his pupils growing large and shrinking again. He grimaces at the shaded lamp. “Some party, eh?”

This is the aftermath of a brutal orgy of overindulgence.

“What’s your name?” The shirtless man holds his hand up. “No, don’t tell me. I’ve got it.” He snaps his finger. “Roger. No wait. Steve.”

“Yes.” Steve sounds right. A hand on the table edge, he shifts around looking the kitchen over. Pizza boxes cover the stove. He looks down at the woman on the floor growing concerned about her health. “Okay. I’m Steve. Who the hell are you?”

The shirtless man makes a popping noise that sounds almost like a laugh. Flopping back, he lays on the sofa and rubs his face. “Torx.”

Standing, Steve pushes the chair under the table. Looking down, he finds black slacks and a white buttoned shirt. His clothes are spotless and free of wrinkles. Even the creases in his slacks appear sharp. His shiny leather shoe steps on a sliver of pizza crust.

Torx releases more popping sounds. “You know it was a great party when most of it is a haze.”

Steve glances over at the woman on the floor. She appears no older than nineteen. Her shifting body tells him she is alive. “I don’t remember anything.”

“Good stuff, eh?” Torx sits up and shakes his head. He laughs, popping like firecrackers.

“I feel fine.” No headache. No grogginess. He feels like a bear after a winter nap, or a newborn baby with enough energy to cry for days. There is no memory of a party or anything else. “I just don’t remember anything at all.”

Torx bats a hand at the air.

Steve looks at the beer bottle gang fight on the table. He scans the kitchen, the floor finding more beer bottles, and the coffee table covered with more pizza boxes. No drug paraphernalia. No needles, no bongs, not even a cigarette occupies the flat. Kneeling, he lifts the young woman up into a seated position.

Dark mascara drains from her closed eyes. She groans and waves her hands at the air. Her breath smells like beer and vomit. Dried pizza sauce speckles her breasts. Steve turns her arms around searching for needle marks. Patches of freckles on her upper arms disturb the serenity of her pale flesh. Her nose appears clean.

“No drugs here.” Spotting a red dot on her neck, he pulls her hair aside and turns her head the other way. The puncture wound is under her chin in the soft place beside the throat. The wound appears too large for a needle.

“Come on,” says Torx. He slaps his arm. “I’ve got a big fresh mark on my arm. Julio delivered.”

“Where’s the needle?” Steve looks around finding the room darkening. The rumbling fridge falls silent. Toilet smells fade. The air is not fresh. It is as if his nose stopped working along with his ears.

Ghostly forms appear, people moving about the apartment. Fully clothed and holding a beer bottle, the young woman dances in the kitchen. She is an apparition moving her hips in circles. The ghost takes a gulp from the bottle. Two ghosts—men—sit at the table. One watches the young woman, nodding his head and grinning in the lustful way young men do. The other ghost opens a beer bottle, the pale cap bouncing silently onto the floor. Two other ghosts are in the living area. A female dances on the coffee table, lifting her shirt up, exposing her breasts. She throws her shirt down, and the other ghost, Torx, laughs silently.

Another ghost leans against the door. He watches the others, head rolling against the door as his gaze moves from one ghost to another. He appears like a leather-clad rockstar with long dark hair and pale skin. His gaze pauses on Steve, makes eye contact, and drops to the table. Between two brown beer bottles, six capped vials stand within a wire tray. A white cloud floats in the clear liquid.

Sounds come crashing back, and a wave of pungent odors attacks.

The ghosts are gone leaving Steve holding the young woman in his arms.

A voice booms within the apartment. “What are you? A cop?”

Lifting the young woman, Steve climbs to his feet. His gaze sweeps the table. There appears to be too much broken glass for six vials.

“Look at you with your spiffy clothes.” Torx rises from the pile of clothes standing naked. “And your buzzed cop hair. Who the hell let your old ass in her anyway?” He swipes at the air. “Was it Sabrina? Get out of here and take that slut with you!”

Hand around Sabrina’s waist, Steve holds her limp body against him. Her feet slip and stumble, nearly walking, around the table. Torx shouts terrible words as he marches around the other side of the table. Shoving the chair aside, Steve pulls Sabrina towards the exit.

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Continue reading at www.kandyfangs.com/?p=20.

a flash story by David G Shrock

Rising above the rolling hills, Nulan smiles upon the dark land. Her kisses turn the waving wheat into a shimmering sea. A shadow wriggles from my feet. Wind and wheat sing to her, swaying and encircling me.

I feel her touch, her paleness fills my eyes. Her smile, wicked, freezes my brood.

Nulan aka Moon photographed using a telescope as a 2024mm lens

Nulan laughs. The wheat, the swaying grasses, the night bugs join the song. My shadow dances with them, mocking me. And Nulan howls an address. At my misfortune, at my prison, she laughs at me. She rarely misses.

The night is my shroud hiding my pale face from warm kisses. Nulan’s laughter, her pallid light, is a feeble mirror of warmth, of home. I wish she’d leave me with my stars glittering in my dark sea.

Nulan laughs. Always laughing, her bloodless light touches me,
those grim kisses.

~Draco Torre

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This piece is now up on Audioboo which I had arranged it for.

Every once in a while, a person catches a glimpse. Out of the corner of an eye, or a fleeting glimmer, a person sees them. Not spirits, but what I call memory ghosts. From there when they pass through into our here and now.

Memory burns into the cosmos. Gazing at the stars is looking at memory. The light traveling across the galaxy spanning years transfers information reaching the observer forming new memories. From a painting of an artist, bits of information travel to the eyes speaking to the viewer. The dead continue their ghosts caught within the information. Everything passes through the fabric of the cosmos. Like fingerprints in the information, memories leave their mark.

I see her still, my little girl. In the passenger seat on the way to school, or sitting at her desk, studying, she fills my life with joy as I view the world through her eyes. Many memories cling like the beaming smile of a child opening her birthday present finding all her wishes, charms in life worth remembering. Even if the world forgets my little pumpkin, I see her memory ghost.

They say I never had a daughter. The world forgets. Her fingerprint is there, like everything else, caught within the information. But sometimes, memory changes.

From the moment a memory blossoms in the mind, the brain works connecting the patterns. Information not immediately connected to any known pattern dives into the abyss. Other details fade as more information flows linking related patterns together. Connections build a network of memories, blurring some details while reinforcing others. Memories change. Blue becomes gray, tall becomes average. And sometimes something out of the ordinary blazes like the sun floating above the other memories, an interpretation hiding other details, always there.

Does the tapestry of reality mutate altering memory?

Even if the tapestry changes, and only I see her, my girl is here. The information holds all the ghosts. One only needs to look, and interpret.

They never leave, these cosmic fingerprints.

~Steve Reynolds

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To learn more about Steve Reynolds and his memory ghosts, sample my novel, Raven Memory. Join me August 31 for the book release, a cosmic fingerprint.

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.