Fillmore Street Park
He walked to the old bench at the Fillmore Street Park for his evening think. He’d done it for years. He was loving her that night. He’d done that for years as well. With a groan—his old bones protesting, he sat and smiled, wrinkling an old face. Children played while he slumped, his heart seizing. She came soon after, just to check on him. She had stayed behind to clean the dishes. Same thing every night of their marriage. The poisoned glass was something new. She tossed it in the trash and smiled, knowing it was no longer needed.
Name Your Poison
Two measuring beakers wait on the left. The poisons, skull and cross-bones displayed on the bottles, are sitting on the right.
The labels tell a story. Mix them all together and it spells one thing. Doom.
Two parts salt from Sodom, three parts of oil pollution greed, and four parts pain from those persecuted. I mix well and put in a flask.
Pulling my hood down over my face, and grabbing my scythe, I head for the door. The night is Dark; the futures of those I intend to visit is Darker yet.
It is Harvest season. Time to reap…
As the carnival migrated from town to town, so did Marvelous Mel. Riding on their road-dust coattails, he leeched off their attraction—the lights, thrills, and spectacles of Big Top Entertainment. He pedaled his medicinal wares of potions, powders, and poultices in a boisterous bally that fed on the crowd’s fears and doubts. The carnies of Porticelli’s Circus loathed the snake oil salesman and the tarnish his cons inflicted upon their fame. They could not strike a deal to part ways, so, with a simple switch of labels, they turned the barker’s next performance into one their patrons’ll never forget.
The sizzle surrendering to silence, the flare diminishing to nothing more than a ghost upon his eyes, Darius wondered at the concoction brewing this Witch’s eve. An elixir he was charged with dispensing to all sons of Barecrest Village. The cloaked man before him would reveal nothing of its effects, only that he must see it consumed. The apprentice, far too dutiful to question, corked the final vial of odiferous liquor and set about his duty. Task complete, he returned both ashen and quivering to find his Master holding two goblets in hand. “Wizard or Warlock, which shall it be?”
Joseph A. Pinto
We savored our only connection—these sins corked without repentance before us. I remember when you stole stars from my sky, but you laughed: “you’re so over the moon!” The turpentine an easy liquid to digest then; it kept pretenses stripped clean.
One September, you whispered—”how much lovelier we would be if dead.” So I orchestrated a hymn for our funeral; you fashioned wind chimes for our grave.
Now we dance slowly, the carillons a gentle ringing in our ears. This was the way it should have been for us; that amber reflection in your eye never more beautiful.
Drink deep, and with the mellow taste lingering in your mouth open your eyes and see the world for the first time. Regard the narrow alleys down which lovers satisfy themselves inside each other, the offices where machines sing country songs while men and women queue up to step on their whirring blades, the traffic blowing black fumes in the bright sky: our city where we live, love, scream of life and death even as we walk smiling into those mellifluous meat-grinders and know peace. All this revealed in a half-measure from an old bottle, shining darkly on the shelf.
Pain in the Ass
“Shit, did it bite you?” Marlene panted as she fastened the leather straps.
Alice looked down at her hand with frantic eyes.
“No,” she said sighing with relief.
The creature thrashed on the table – a writhing amalgam of fur and teal-tinged flesh, jagged teeth and drying blood, savage lust and certain death.
Alice saw the first drip of blood from her parents’ bodies fall from the basement ceiling.
“Pass me the glasses,” Marlene commanded.
“The amber ones, over there. Oh, and the funnel,too.”
Death by poisonous enema was better than it deserved, but it would have to do.
The Classic Signature
The bartender knew his craft well.
“This will be my classic Mojito, Miss.”
Her eyes twinkled, “You promised gold flecked ice.
“I understand there is an additional cost that I am more than willing to pay.”
“Yes, the gold flecks will match those in your eyes.
“Also for you an old recipe, my signature concoction infused with mint.”
“Specially made in celebration. Here’s to us darling.”
She raised her wine glass.
He smiled as he eyed the gold flecks, savoring the end of his drink.
She eyed him with concern.
Weakly he says, “Love, it seems a bit salty…”
Coffin Hop 2013
The lid cracks open; dust and a foul odor emanate from within. But there is something… something lurking at the bottom. Could it be the Damned prize? Sliding the lid further, dirt rains down upon your unsoiled shoes, you peer deeper into the dim recesses; Damned if you’ll leave here without the treasure, Damned still if you do! The gap opens wider, something from within scuttles across your hand. Is that the echo of menacing laughter you hear?
Comment below ‘tween October 24th and 31st, 2013, and you may be Damned to suffer what the Coffin yields!
…and don’t forget to follow the other Coffin Hoppers here!
Each piece of fiction is the copyright of its respective author
and may not be reproduced without prior consent.
Image © Copyright Dark Angel Photography. All Rights Reserved.