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| SOME SHORT STORY"S ============================================================ FICTION ============================================================ DARKNESS by Chris Jones ------------------------------------------------------------ Dark; it was as black as midnight inside the students mouth. The relentless grinding reshaped my form. He was a foulmouth this James. His swearing had started to aggravate me. Then without warning he pulled me from his mouth, and stuck me beneath a library table. I was not yet dead, as I still had plenty of flavour left. Over the weeks I had started to grow and was even able to move. The question: how does bubblegum move? Like a snail of course leaving a trail of slime in it's path. Sneaking above the library table a canvas of graffitti revealed itself to me. Tried students? Obviously, an escape for an overly educated mind. Fate seems to have granted me the ususual gift of life. Although the students that sat on the table above, also aggravated me. Being one of a kind can get lonely. Jealousy was the spark that ignited the fire upon that fatal day. The day I watched two students kissing, if only I could be inside her mouth. The seeds of vengence had been planted, I must rid the world of these demonic creatures. The first murder was a piece of cake, one of the students had drifted off to sleep while studying. Act soon, act now before his body and soul became one again. Creeping across the desk I made it to his mouth and crawled inside. With fear I blocked his windpipe. He choked and fell into a permanent sleep. The escape into some sacred place within the library went without a hitch. Days passed as I found another gift had crowned me, I was able to read my treasure chest, a shelf full of horror novels. The dark plots focused on my pain, often explaining my feelings of rejection. Fate had turned me into Mr Frost the heartless librarian. Students rarly visited the horror section of the library, for their lives I waited. Then without motive I was plucked from the table, and placed in the dustbin by a cleaner, at last darkness was with me. ============================================================ HORROR ============================================================ HAPPENINGS OF THE NIGHT by Spud ------------------------------------------------------------ Sleep crept in quickly for Boab, and knocked him out in a matter of minutes. Blackness was all he saw in his dreams, very uneventful. Until, that is, he began to feel a presence in the room. Evil and omniscient, it clung in the air. It tortured him but never did touch him in his dream. He writhed and wriggled because maybe, just maybe, he could get away from this presence. But as he rolled all he felt was a sticky substance grabbing tight onto his face. He fretted only a moment over this then remembered the peanut butter and jelly sandwich he had eaten as a midnight snack. "Must not have cleaned it all off," he thought to himself. He made a lunge with his tongue, living his dream like he did so often, to reach the jelly, but his tongue refused to slip past his lips. Soon it, too, was sticky but only at his lips. Within his mouth it was as it always was. He snapped his eyes open. He knew he did, but all he could see was blackness. The same blackness of the dream, but he assured himself it was reality. And moments later he wished he hadn't been so sure. Pain shot through his head as something squarely clamped itself onto his skull down to his eyes. He heard a click, then static, and it began to suck madly, drooling over Boab's face, sending saliva dripping into his eyes, and turning his head into a wet mop. As it sucked, its neck pulsated, throbbed against Boab's own neck, driving him ever more insane. Metal slid sharply somewhere in the blackness, and Boab felt a sharp pain, first in one wrist, then the other. He tried to open his mouth to scream, but something prevented it from opening, if it was there at all anymore. Boab wasn't sure now. Blood now gushed from both wrists. Boab could feel it sliding torturously down both arms. Two things began to lick from his forearms to his wrists, taking the blood with them as they went. They stopped at his wrists, and they like whatever was on his head, began to suck the memories, and life, from Boab. The thing on his head sucked harder and harder, greedily taking away Boab. Boab then felt a blindfold slip from his eyes, and light infiltrated them to where he couldn't see momentarily. When he finally focused, he was looking across to an apartment complex. People lay in their beds, smiles on their faces, nude, knives by their sides, duct tape on their mouths, and they, too, were being sucked dry. A thin tube protruded from each of their televisions, and attached to these tubes was a creature with teeth an inch long, all in a circle around its mouth. It fit its victims like a helmet and sucked on their brain and stole their person. It stole them. Boab shuttered at the sight, and realized that everyone of the people seemed to be looking at him, with blindfolds around their necks, with blank stares on their faces. Other small white creatures, so innocent, ate hungrily from their wrists. Who awake couldn't trust those adorable things, so small and cuddly. As time wore on he couldn't focus on the people anymore. He couldn't focus on anything anymore. Boab was no more, his house was no more, and everything he knew was no more. He sat like the rest staring at them while they stared equally back at him. In all of their visions that night was a television left on, static their sitcom. What did that matter though, they couldn't tell the difference anymore. ============================================================ NON-FICTION ============================================================ BLUEBERRY PIE by Billy Morgan ------------------------------------------------------------ Growing up with six sisters wasn't easy. We had our share of differences of opinions over the years. My parents never had much money and food was sometimes scarce. We were lucky to get our stomachs full. If there was dessert at night it was surely a treat. I will never forget that summer back in 1969. Funds were very tight because my parents were building a new home. We had outgrown the old house and every penny my father earned was going into the new one. The last few days before payday were the worst. There just wasn't enough food to go around. I can remember how we waited for payday as if it were a holiday. My father would stop at the bank on the way home from work so my mother could go shopping when he got home. We all enjoyed going to the grocery store with her. We would walk down the aisles and dream about bringing the whole store home, much like children would walk through a toy store. When we returned home with the groceries, my sisters and I were like a pack of wolves tearing through the bags. On payday we would eat until we were ready to bust, knowing that as the week progressed food would become less available. Going to school also wasn't very easy. We never had any lunch money. My parents were too proud to sign us up for free lunch. If we were lucky we would be able to brown bag something a few days a week. We never had the proper school supplies or nice clothes to wear. This was probably the hardest thing my sisters and I had to go through. The other children were relentless in teasing us. Then, one summer our lawn mower broke and we had no money to fix it. Our lawn grew15 inches tall. The other children on the school bus tortured us. I was so embarrassed. It was beyond my control, and there was nothing I could do about it. One day my father came home and told us he knew where there were some wild blueberries growing. We had permission to go pick them, so my father asked if we wanted to go. We were so excited. Not very often did we get to go anywhere, and to go pick blueberries was a real treat. I can remember being out there in the hot sun all day picking blueberries. I think we ate more than we brought home. When we got home, my mother decided to make a blueberry pie. She made the pie from scratch and spent half the day working on it. We couldn't wait. The smell of it baking in the oven was driving us crazy. We were all starting to hover around in the kitchen and my mother was getting annoyed. She put the pie on the top shelf to cool while we ate our dinner. Dinner was hard to get down that night, knowing that the pie was in the kitchen waiting for us. We were having stuffed peppers that night and nobody wanted to eat them. But my mother wouldn't let anyone leave the table until everyone was finished. When my mother told us we had eaten enough, it sounded like a stampede of cattle as we raced for the kitchen. I was the first in line at the counter top. Before my mother could get there, I had already jumped on the counter top and was up on the top shelf of the cabinet. I reached for the pie and started climbing down. Then it happened! I slipped on the wet counter top and let go of the pie. I can close my eyes today and still see the vivid image of that pie flipping though the air in slow motion and landing upside down on the floor, then looking up and seeing the look of disbelief on my sister's faces. All I could think of was all the hard work we had done that day and how fast it had been destroyed. My mother made me clean up the mess. This was one of the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life. Looking back I'll never forget that night. My family always brings it up on the holidays. Life was tough back then and it taught us to appreciate what we have today even more. ============================================================ FANTASY ============================================================ INSIDE THE SOAP BUBBLE by Paul Satori ------------------------------------------------------------ The time is 10 minutes past five. I can see the clock quite clearly as I swim toward the underwater church. I want to find my way out of this dream but the water is full of weeds, it's hard to move. There is a bright spot up there where the light bends, at least I know the right direction. If I just could reach the surface where dreams touch reality, I would awaken. I am working my way up to the top where there is a layer of iridescent slime. The iridescence tells me that reality, outside the water is gently trapped in a giant soap bubble. Half awake, I sense the molecules of a headache. The headache is sinister, ready to attack tender arteries and delicate cells in the brain. I kick myself away from awakening. I fear headaches, even though I am perfectly familiar with their strategy. I know the signs, the drugs, the frustrations, the causes. I know the agonies of the common migraine. What a degrading term for such an extraordinary phenomenon. My migraine is a virtuoso of torture, a personality, sly and cunning, and knows very well the art of subversion. It attacks in the small hours of the night, usually when the brain is groggy from dreams... and bang. Right there between the forehead and the temple, above the eyebrow, behind the eyeball. Mostly on the left side in my case. But no, sir, not this time. Staying away from the soap bubble, I'll outmaneuver every attack even if I have to drown in this nightmare. I keep swimming and drift swiftly between gray and white boulders. I see cadavers chained to rocks. It must be an underwater cemetery. I know it's a nightmare. And now this schizophrenic vision: swimming beside my own dead body. The recognition of my own face, green, withered and distorted, makes me turn quickly. In a second I am back in the viridescent slime at the underwater church. I love the word viridescent. It is a complex notion: cent, scent, descent, iridescent, viridescent. A V for victory for five different meanings in one word! How is it then that the clock on the steeple still shows ten past five, the small hand (a dagger) on the Roman V, the large hand (a sword) on Roman II? Ominous perceptions! I look back, my dead half still follows me. Treading water, I float up and not giving a damn about headache, I dive from the water up into the soap bubble. The luminous numbers on my digital clock confirm the time in my dream, it's 5:10 A.M. The whole situation, minutes compressed into a fraction of a second is very familiar. This queer sense of being alive and dying all at once, an extreme sense of deja-vu is my usual aura before the onset of a real classic migraine attack. So, there is a classic migraine in the soap bubble. I knew it and should have stayed a little longer behind the underwater church. This running from myself is a dreadful weakness but it is too late now to join a character building fraternity. The thing now is crawling up gently. First on the left forehead and the temple. Christ. The thing now explodes like an atomic bomb. The devastation is incredible. This cannot be a migraine. More like a ruptured blister on a week artery. My wife should be told, - but when? I don't want to make a fool of myself in case it turns out to be a migraine. Common or classic are equally shameful compared to a ruptured aneurysm I have to groan now, with every expiration. Soon, nausea will come because the pain is working presently inside the skull, behind the left eyeball. Very good! If it was a hemorrhage, there would be pain in the nape and fast drift into coma. But I am alert and suffering. Oh, precious suffering behind the left eyeball, welcome dear migraine, common or classic, who cares. I shouldn't be overconfident though. Remember Mrs. Berry who used to play the organ in the church. One day she walked to the Emergency with her usual headache and she was dead in an hour. This is the way hemorrhage works and I should consider this distinct possibility. Yes... of course. What happened to the usual nausea? No nausea, no classic migraine. I am covered now with perspiration and supposed to be nauseous, but I am not, not the slightest, although my headache is quite unbearable. Never had this sense of being paralyzed either. It sounds more like a hemorrhage, should have kept paper and pencil on the night table to write instructions to my wife, How graceful would it have been to record the last minutes and let her know that I loved her very much in spite of the murderous pace of my life. It's a ruptured aneurysm, no doubt. I must have blown it on the left middle cerebral artery. This would be my working diagnosis on somebody else. I am 56, healthy and a good surgical risk, surgery is the way to go. I had heard about a surgeon who took out his own appendix using local anesthetic and a mirror. Too bad, it can't be done on the brain, at least not yet. But who should do the surgery? I should decide it myself then I wake Margaret, my wife. The only choice, technically speaking is Norman Hash, but he is crazy. He hates me because I see through him. I know his thoughts, his motivations and ulterior motives. He is false and he knows that I know. We hardly talk to each other anymore. An extremely dangerous situation. He would perform a brilliant procedure, no doubt, gentle handling of the brain, impeccable dealing with the aneurysm, neat suturing, uneventful, perfect recovery. Afterwards he would work only on my pride. Patronizing, promoting, patting on the shoulder. "Hi, Paul." He would roar making the hospital echo from it, "you look really terrific, in spite of everything." That's typical Norman Hash. And I would have to say "I feel fine Norman, thanks to you, fit as fiddle..." and all that. I can't, unfortunately, take this sort of crap. Nooo... no. Not me. The headache is so overwhelming that I don't care anymore whether I live or die. I am cold like a fish, covered with beads of sweat, my pillow is soaked, my hair sticks to my forehead. After opening my eyes and turning gingerly to have a glance at the clock gives me shivers. The clock still shows 10 past five. What on earth is happening here. Is it the clock or the time that has stopped? I creep to the bathroom and take three aspirins, four 222 tablets, one Cafergot suppository and ten milligrams of Valium to cover everything. My thirst, like the desert's sand, would soak up a gallon of ice water, but I feel nauseated now - finally. Coming slowly back to my bed, I pick up my prescription pad and write a note to Margaret: "Darling, in case of coma, don't call Norman Hash, love Paul." I feel it was very important to scribble this note. Writing things down always makes me calm. And now I am calm and will try to keep my eyes open, like a condemned who refuses the blind fold, I want to see the coma coming. The dawn shows objects in the room and I realize now that I can't see a thing on my right side. The carotid artery must be blocked and if so I wouldn't be able to move the right hand either. How is it then that I could write a minute ago - or was it yesterday? I am not sure, there is some confusion spreading here. Testing my right hand proves that I can't move my right side at all. I want to talk to Margaret and I can't say a word, can't even make a sound. The term aphasia is quite clear in my head and this, I know, is the dismal end of my brain. The line of communication is dead and I'll never be able to talk again. Who can go through with this? Not me, of course. I have been much too active all my life, my pride wouldn't take it. The solution is built in, so to say, we live 20 stories high in the penthouse. It's in my own apartment complex. A whole block of the city is mine, the result of hard work and good thinking. I am rich, inventive, problem solving is a cinch for me. The remaining half of my brain will deal with this whole situation the most appropriate way. The right side of my body is useless, it lies beside me like a dead stranger, I will have to drag the bloody thing with me, it will be a great nuisance but my left side is very strong. I manage to crawl to the balcony, pull myself up and mount the concrete railing like one sits on horseback. After a final look, I lean out hanging on with my good arm for a second, my paralyzed arm flops down, and... I let go and we begin to fall. A beautiful slow fall, a mixture of fear and joy, almost to the point of ecstacy. It's a pity that life is limited to seconds. It was an idiotic race: ambitions, anxieties, nastiness, all in vain. Too late, of course, for wisdom, but not late to forgive. "I forgive you Norman," I shout and watch the cracks on the concrete rushing towards me (shouldn't have sued the contractor for the cracks)... A thud... something is torn in my chest, my body jerks, the soap bubble explodes. "You kicked me," I hear Margaret saying, than I feel her good smelling hair brushing my face as she turns. "Sorry, darling," I mumble, giving a gentle pat on her shoulder. She acknowledges my touch with a smiling little moan. "Your hand is cold," she whispers and falls asleep again. I look at the clock. It's 10 minutes past five. Time has not moved outside the soap bubble. I feel good and relaxed watching with sleepy eyes the numbers on my digital clock changing. It's 11 past five... the clock is working, it was time that stopped. A queer sense of being alive and dead floating gently in a giant soap bubble, my usual aura tells me that I probably will wake up with a migraine. ============================================================ POEM OF THE MONTH ============================================================ Blood & Tears by Wing Tang Wong I taste salt, In your blood, I think, they are tears. Please, I don't know But I care, For you In this darkness I can only reach for And feel. Your soft skin Your silken hair Your wet cheeks I pull you close Hold you tight In my arms Please, I don't know But I feel Your Pain Embracing you I can feel your trembling And your tears Fall |
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