“Absolutely not, Herbert! I won’t have our house sullied with the heads of those poor beasts!”
After twelve years of (not much) connubial bliss, his bride put her foot down when he brought his latest trophy home. This one had been less expensive to hunt down, mainly because it was a young Koala bear. (His first shot missed the feral pig he’d aimed at.) Sheila all but fainted upon seeing the adorable animal – albeit only the stuffed head. “That sweet little face! How could you?” she wailed. From then on, he was incessantly nagged about “that horrid hobby” and orders to remove the trophy heads of moose, elk, zebra, and the tiger skin that adorned the living room, “or else!”. Herb knew she couldn’t complain about the cost, thanks to his generous inheritance. Still, when ultimatums didn’t work, she moved her bed into another room, ending all connubial visits. The situation displeased him, but the idea of changing his interests to save their marriage was out of the question.
He was considering an affair with a baron’s (rather homely) wife when he heard of the Reserve. It was located on a small island with a backward culture. The prize was not another trophy for his walls. On the contrary, it would be a young native virgin. All was totally legal according to the brochure. Of course, Sheila didn’t know that part. He had a hazy idea of keeping the wild bitch in his bedroom, tied or in a cage, depending on which worked best. After all, he planned to bring her back alive. Whether Sheila liked it or not, a man has needs. Bottom line, yessir.
When a friend mentioned the area he would be hunting in was rather weak on details, he’d laughed. “But why are there no reports or mention of this place by any hunters you know?” Herb was quick to explain that such brochures probably were only sent to the most reputable hunters, like himself.
***
She must be nineteen by now, all ripe for the taking. The brochure claimed that many a rich hunter had tried to capture her and failed. He’d paid well for the hunt in this Reserve. It was huge, only parts were open for free range hunting. From what the brochure said, it was a big game hunter’s paradise. There was something in the description of the Reserve about birds of carrion to watch out for, but his guide, Yobi, assured him they wouldn’t a problem.
As promised, the blind was well stocked with cold ale and sandwiches, essential to a pleasurable hunt. He smiled and nodded a thank-you, making a mental note to give Yobi a generous tip. Three hours later, he’d eaten all the sandwiches and drained his last bottle of ale. The afternoon dragged on. Insects swarmed around him, some leaving nasty welts, despite Yobi’s repellent. His mood soured and he began to question why he was here – was it going to be worth it? He hadn’t really thought seriously about how Sheila would take this. She might even divorce – his thoughts were interrupted by a glimpse of tawny skin weaving through the leaves. Time for the pursuit!
Herb licked his lips, catching a flash of supple legs and bouncing breasts disappearing and reappearing. The air was still except for an occasional flapping of wings. He barely noticed the strange birds with hooked beaks alighting in nearby trees. And then, there she was, just ahead in the glade! Bushes rustled, parted. She crossed before him in bright sunlight, dark curls cascading past her shoulders. Suddenly, she stopped to look his way, her insolent brown eyes staring straight at him – the perfect moment! Anticipating his next move, Yobi handed him the stun gun. He fired, congratulating himself when she dropped out of sight.
“Now! The net!” he yelled, but Yobi wasn’t where he was supposed to be. The net suddenly dropped over Herbert and tightened.
The girl rose unscathed from the foliage to join her father. Together, they dragged him to the center of the glade. Yobi watched with pride as his daughter deftly slit Herbert’s throat. He helped her remove the head. After it was treated, they would hang it in their trophy room. They left the American’s remains in the glen. Their feathered sentinels would do the rest.
She had told them something was wrong. Time and again she had said that she wasn’t quite herself, that things were getting worse, that something needed to be done. First they said it was her weight, and told her to come back after a diet. Then they said it was her cycles, as though discomfort was the price of femininity. As her cycles ebbed, they said it was merely old age, as if the concerns hadn’t gone back to her youth. When at long last they opened her up, they were surprised to see what was left of her. Rust and dust and cobwebs filled the space where her heart and hopes should be. It was too late, they said, shaking their heads as if she were the one who let the clock run dry. Wheezing, creaking, rattling, she laughed as she left them. After an invisible lifetime, it was a relief to be seen.
The Operator Lee Andrew Forman
With blackened hands, The Operator approached the ancient mechanism; a rusty toolbox hung from one arm. After placing it on the cold floor he rubbed his palms together. He opened the top of his rectangular companion with care, splaying the trays apart on squeaky hinges. From within he retrieved an iron handwheel. With careful eyes he inspected its every surface. He blew the dust from its threaded center, then raised it above his bowed head. A symphony of desperate cheers resounded behind him.
The crowd quieted while he aligned the wheel with its intended place, and carefully screwed it tight. Silence made the room itself sweat. Then, a low hum came from deep within the machine. Its dormant innards turned and life surged through its pipes. The room creaked and shuttered as the bygone contraption was reanimated from its slumber.
The vents in the ceiling opened, and in flowed exactly what they wished and waited so long for.
The Eliminominator Marge Simon
It was a rusty old useless piece of machinery, that was obvious. Why we had to keep it in our one spare room was a mystery, but since it belonged to Grandpa, nobody dared suggest we get rid of it.
I grew up despising the thing. I wanted my own room and it wasn’t fair that this thing of Grandpa’s had priority. We weren’t even supposed to touch it. I waited years for the opportunity to destroy it. One summer, I had just turned twelve and everyone was gone on a picnic. I said I would be swimming with friends, and nobody questioned it. When they’d departed, I took a sledge hammer to it, whacked it up and down hard as I could. Nothing happened. I may as well have been using a feather.
After that, it had my full attention for other reasons. In fact, I actually tried to get Grandpa to tell me what it was for. To my surprise, he grinned really big like he was tickled I asked. Since he’d not spoken or smiled – or even moved from his bed since before I was born, that was a surprise. He motioned me close and whispered how it was a Eliminominator. Said it was his first and only invention and what it could do. He told me how to start it up, but he made me promise never to turn it on.
Okay, you probably think I didn’t keep my promise to Grandpa. You think I maybe tried it out on my stupid kid brother Bobby, the one I had to share a room with, right? You think I made Bobby lie down at the juncture where the knives popped up on the wheels after I’d placed a bucket for the blood in the space provided, don’t you? Well? Don’t you?
Programmed RJ Meldrum
Long after the end, the machines kept moving. The factory was fully automated and the machines, only artificially intelligent, had no sense their creators were gone. The factory was hermetically sealed so it took years for rust and decay to have an impact. Eventually it did and most machines ground to a halt, parts seized by rust or lack of lubrication. One machine kept running, mechanically building cardboard boxes for the product and after the supplies dwindled to nothing, simply going through the motions. Its arms mimicked the action of folding and sealing.
The human burst through the door onto the factory floor. The disease had destroyed humanity, but some had remained alive. They were here to loot. There was metal here, aluminum and other rare metals to trade. Electronic eyes followed them as the human moved down the manufacturing line, gathering precious material. The human stood in front of the only functioning machine, its arms blindly moving in obedience to its programming. The human craned over to get a better look and in doing so, stepped over a red line on the floor. The human, born after the disaster, had no sense of impending doom. The machine, similarly unaware, simply picked up the new raw material and did as it was programmed to do. It folded.
The Drip Kathleen McCluskey
The pipes hadn’t been touched in decades. Hidden deep within the crumbing asylum, they snaked through the walls like veins of a corpse, rusted and forgotten. The maintenance crew avoided the lower levels, muttering about sounds, the whispers and the dripping that nobody dared investigate.
Until tonight.
Evan, desperate for overtime pay, descended into the dark. His weak flashlight barely cut through the heavy air. It smelled like old blood and wet iron.
The pipes groaned, too, an organic sound. Evan told himself that it was just stress, fear. Nothing more. He found the main valve, rusted and covered in cobwebs, and reached for it. The metal was slick, greasy, almost sticky.
Drip.
Drip.
The noise was coming from behind him. He turned, shaking. Nothing but the endless pipes. He yanked on the valve, it didn’t budge.
Drip.
Drip.
It was coming from the pipes, like something trapped inside bleeding out. Evan leaned closer. In the cone of his flashlight, he saw that it wasn’t water.
It was red. Thick and warm.
The valve shuddered violently in his hand, the pipe screamed. A wet, gurgling shriek echoed from the metal. A skeletal hand clawed free, its fingers wrapping around Evan’s throat before he could scream. Rust covered nails punctured his skin, dragging him down against the pipe. As Evan thrashed, more arms slithered out, pulling him inside.
His last breath was a bubbling choke, swallowed by the twisted mass of metal and bone.
Above the asylum’s walls trembled as more pipes burst.
Deep below, something ancient laughed, and was still hungry.
Torn Asunder Elaine Pascale
More than anything, Clara wanted to discard the old relic that was rusting away in her attic. She thought she had discarded her family years prior, but her recently deceased Aunt Sophie’s lawyer had found her and bestowed the industrial fossil on her.
There was a belief, set forth by great-great grandfather Silas, that the iron shafts and gears preserved from the family’s first factory was what bound them together. “Anything happens to it, and the family is torn asunder,” Cara had been told many times when she was young.
“It didn’t bind me to anyone,” she muttered, frowning at the rusted albatross. It had come with a note, but the note was far too faded to read. She could make out the words “torn asunder” and she assumed the note contained more warnings about keeping the object.
At least I can clean it up a bit, she thought, get rid of some of the dust and cobwebs. She grabbed a towel and proceeded to rub the gears.
A puff of smoke emanated from the relic and a large shadow darkened her attic.
“Who dares to wake me?” A djinn asked, his voice ominous.
Cara was too frightened to speak.
The djinn eyed her. “You didn’t read the note?”
“N-no. I couldn’t.”
“I warned Silas that a note was not the best way to prevent disaster.” The djinn glared at her. “He promised me eternal rest in that.” He pointed to the factory piece. “And I would grant your family wealth.” He scowled, “But you defied the conditions and woke me.”
“It doesn’t matter, the family is already torn apart,” she insisted.
The djinn’s scowl transformed into a smile. “You misunderstood. You get wealth, which will bind the family financially. Whoever wakes me, will be torn asunder…literally.”
Just Like Her Father A.F. Stewart
Daddy lived and died in the company of machines.
It was what he loved, the purr of a good engine, the turn of a crankshaft. He was a first-rate mechanic, working shifts at different jobs over the years from garages to factories. He always called it his passion.
It wasn’t his only passion, though. Drinking ranked just as high.
He never took a sip on the job, he saved it all for home. A mean drunk too, swinging his fists, slamming me and mom against the wall, the floor, splitting our lips, giving us black eyes. Mom had enough when I was ten and walked out, leaving me alone with his rages.
At least that’s what I thought. Until the news showed the recovery of a buried skeleton wearing a gold necklace. Mom’s necklace. Then I knew what he had done…and what still needed doing.
Have you ever wondered what a running engine does to a face?
Daddy found out the day he died.
All it took was one quick shove and slamming the hood down with my body weight. Then it was over except the screaming.
A Wheel A Rollin’ Harrison Kim
Ezekial saw a wheel a rollin’ way in the middle of the air. This one’s stopped except for a single fresh screw with a shining thread. All out there alone in the Universe rusty and dead on the outside. That single oily protuberance pokes out, that last forlorn hope. Curiosity as Ezekial the space walker bobs near, a tiny, suited soul examining this humungous rusty thing…. attached cameras beaming back to earth what is discovered. He’s a fly on the rust, a piece of white dust against the brown, as he uses X rays and close microscopic focus, as he burns and parts the surface with his blowtorch. We must find out what’s inside everything, it is like that with all of us humans always looking for more, thinks Ezekial, he was a suicide case after the death of his wife that’s why they sent him up there, a disposable volunteer for this risky job, and he wanted it! The change in his life a miracle, and now to go out doing something interesting, his brain implanted with new attitude changing electrodes, he’s life loving now but it’s for the whole planet not just himself. He will go out doing something important for everyone. His welding torch opens the pipe, funny the hole widens so easily, becoming the face of his now-dead wife. How miraculous! He peers closer and inside the face he sees his whole existence inside that eye everything from his birth to his death…as that eye blinks and covers him. His space suited body and soul absorbed by that shape shifting mass blinking just under the rust on the wheel. After Ezekial disappears the screw extends out further and becomes slightly shinier. It’s found one more drop of oil and Ezekial has joined his loving wife.
The Pipe Charles Gramlich
“See that rusty pipe?” I asked my victim.
“What? Why are you showing me that?” he asked in his irritating whine.
“Because I’m going to chain you to it and leave you there.”
“No! Why…would you do that?”
“Too many reasons to name,” I said.
“Please, you can’t. I’ll starve to death.”
My chuckle echoed. “Oh, you won’t have time to starve.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t see them but that pipe is full of microfractures. Should have been replaced years ago but it’s still in use. And every day…. Several times a day, they pump boiling water through it. Those fractures are going to give way any time now.”
“That’ll cook me! Burn me alive!”
“Preach it, brother.”
“I didn’t know you hated me so much.”
“Hate isn’t a strong enough word. I can’t take another day trapped inside your sad, putrid, useless form.”
“Please!”
“Shut it,” I said.
I looped the chains I’d brought around the pipe, then fitted the manacles on my wrists and snapped them closed. A few jerks against the constraints showed that I—that we—were solidly bound. And already the sound of boiling water gushed through the pipe toward me. Would this be the moment when the pipe ruptured? Or next time? Or the one after? The sooner the better.
I should never have possessed this disgusting sack of human flesh. I’d never imagined how clingy a desperate mortal could be. But once the flesh and muscle boil away, the bones won’t be able to hold me. This devil will go back to Hell. It hadn’t been that bad a place. This time, I’ll appreciate it more.”
A hairline crack starts along the side—one of many. It branches out in fractal patterns; the shell begins to split. Where fractures spread, a layer of mucus thins as it’s pulled apart by the breach. Tiny claws puncture the soft membrane and its mewling escapes into the air for the first time.
This newborn pulls itself out of the egg from which it hatched and looks upon the unborn. Its head pivots left and right, pointedly observing the rest of the clutch. It then feels something new, a deep wanting within its belly.
Predatory eyes see heat radiating from thin shells. Its mouth waters with instinctual preparedness. One hesitant step forward leads to the increasing urge to feed, which it follows without restraint. It sniffs its brethren as its eyes widen with elation. One by one, it tears each spawn open and feasts upon their new, unrisen flesh.
It was a lonely little spot, deep in the heart of the downtown sprawl. A small green space, neglected and forgotten. Developers had enthusiastically thrown up towering office and condo buildings all around, but for some reason this one spot had been saved. There was no particular reason for its existence. The towers surrounding it meant the space got very little sunlight and the grass and shrubs were anemic and wilted. It was rarely visited.
I was new to the city and frankly, unhappy. I hated my new workplace and I hated the people. It was all so…corporate, with ‘colleagues’ scrambling over each other to smarm their way to higher positions. Networking. Circling back. Thinking outside the box. Faking it until making it. Meanwhile, the companies my corporation owned continued to pump pollutants into the environment and pay huge dividends to the shareholders. After six months in the place, I was finding myself becoming a socialist. I decided to stick at it, but desperately needed a safe space during the day, to rid myself of the toxins generated by my colleagues. It was completely by accident that I wandered down a neglected alleyway between two buildings, a lane no more than six feet wide. There, I found the tiny, overlooked patch of faded green which seemed to be the perfect place for me, an oasis of calm for my lunchtimes.
The first time I entered the park I quickly realized that I wasn’t alone, something which initially disappointed me.
The small grey man sat quietly on the single park bench. He didn’t appear to notice me, despite my smile and muttered greeting. He simply stared ahead, ignoring me completely.
When I tell this story to others, the first question I always get is ‘what do you mean by grey?’. That’s probably in your mind too. That was just the impression he gave off. His fair, his clothes, his face. They all seemed drained of color. Grey.
Over the next few weeks, whenever I had time to take a lunch break I made a point of going to the park. Every time I went, the small grey man was there. Every time he ignored me, much to my annoyance. I was by this time aware of the legendary rudeness of city dwellers, but this was too much. I didn’t necessarily expect a conversation or even a greeting, but to completely ignore me after all this time was just beyond the pale. There wasn’t even eye contact, the most basic of human responses.
I decided to do something about it. Rather than settling on a bench as far as possible from him, I stood directly in front of the grey man. He still failed to acknowledge my existence. Feeling slightly enraged, I bent to touch him on his shoulder in an attempt to, at the very least, move his gaze from the middle distance towards me, his constant companion. To my amazement, my hand passed through his shoulder and, unchecked, bumped into the wood of the bench. I have very little recollection of my actions after that, but I came back to reality to find myself standing in the street, surrounded by people, cars and noise. I almost blessed the concrete jungle I had previously disdained. I glanced back at the narrow alleyway leading back to the park and shuddered at my recent experience, realizing the grey man was a permanent inhabitant of the park. No wonder it was always empty.
The first thirty days after the world ended were the worst, as those days were filled with blame.
Lynette had asked Robbie to help with stockpiling. Just as with the blizzards, as with the hurricanes, and with the tornadoes, he had waited too long and shown little to no effort in trying to accumulate food or water. That had left them to the rations that Lynette had been able to scrounge which had been pitiful at best. Prior to the virus, the stores were veritable wastelands due to trucks being stuck on the wrong side of the bombed bridges. Then, the virus had struck and the peninsula was quarantined.
Lynette had just declared Robbie “the death of them both” when he showed her the vomit gun.
“We will get what we want and it won’t cost us a thing or put us in any danger.” He grinned around yellowing teeth.
“Where did you even get that?”
“Dark web.”
She scowled, partly because his breath was bad and partly because she could not believe that she was stranded with this idiot. “When I asked you to prepare…to get us ready for quarantine…you went to the dark web and got some…gun?”
“Not just a gun, a vomit gun.”
“I heard that the first time.” She eyed the remaining products in her kitchen and estimated that they had five days of food remaining if they consumed only a few crackers and pretzels each day. The fruit and vegetables had gone quickly. They had gobbled all produce before it could spoil. They had no meat, not even canned fish, as domesticated and game animals had shown the effects of the virus first. “And how will a vomit gun help us, exactly?”
“I’ve been thinking…,” he began and Lynette hated that he started most conversations that way. Mainly because she knew that any type of thought was a struggle for him. “We shoot people with it.” He was more excited about this prospect than he should be. “They weaken, like they have the virus, or worse, and we steal their stuff. They are so busy yacking their brains out, that they can’t fight us.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s that simple.”
***
They invaded the community three blocks away from them first. The residents lived behind a gate; the gate was to keep people like Lynette and Robbie out. Even without a vomit gun, their type was not welcome in the high income community.
Robbie had not practiced with the gun. His ineptitude was evident when the gun jammed and they were chased to the other side of the gates, prodded by pitchforks like the monsters they appeared to be.
“The death of us both,” Linette reminded him as they ran back to their home, where Linette was forced to further divide the remaining crackers and pretzels.
***
The following day, Robbie set up target practice in their yard. He aimed for the unstable bullseyehe had constructed from an old sheet and Linette’s lipstick.
“I don’t understand it,” he called to Linette, “there’s no vomit.”
She leaned out the window and pointed to the sheet. “There is no mouth or esophagus or stomach on that sheet, either. Where would the vomit come from?”
Robbie considered this for a moment and then a sparkle reached his eyes. He crouched low to the ground and waited. Lynette went back to fussing over rations and contemplating ways to stretch them further when her tactics were interrupted by a bellow from Robbie.
“Well I’ll be!” he shouted. “It works, Lynette! Our problems are solved!”
She peered out the window to see a rabbit on its side. “What did you do?” she asked with alarm.
Robbie looked at the creature with a combination of regret and relief. “I guess it was too strong for him. It’s meant for people. But we know it works.”
He thought he would cheer her up by adding, “I’ve been thinking…we go back out tonight. In the meantime, we can clean and eat this, right?”
***
Lynette begrudgingly put on black clothes, a black knit hat, and a mask to return to the gated community with Robbie. The prior failed invasion informed this attack: they knew to have the gun ready.
They entered a lavish home by having Robbie wiggle through the dog door. He had lost enough weight that he had room to spare. Once inside, he unlocked the door for Lynette.
He started to explain something, but Lynette put a finger to her lips. She hoped they would be able to steal some supplies without notifying the homeowners. She had a bad feeling about the gun.
Robbie nodded and they headed to the kitchen. Lynette found boxes of pasta and bags of beans that she quickly slipped into the pillowcase she had brought. She was so engrossed in pillaging that she failed to notice Robbie stiffen beside her.
“What are you doing?” a man’s voice yelled. Lynette turned to see an older couple standing at the entrance of the kitchen. The man held a baseball bat and the woman cowered behind him.
“I’m hungry,” Robbie responded, as if this were a suitable answer to the question. He aimed at the man and pulled the trigger of the vomit gun. Within moments, the gun’s moniker rang true and the man bent over, clutching his abdomen and splattering vomit on the linoleum floor.
His wife shrieked and Robbie shot her, too. Lynette could not believe that two normal sized humans could produce so much vomit.
“Help.” The woman struggled to get the words out. She and her husband were obviously weakened and any type of ailment could prove deadly in this new world.
“Robbie, we gotta go,” Lynette said, finding it difficult to take her eyes off the failing couple.
“I’ve been thinking…. “ Robbie turned to Lynette, pointing the gun at her. “There isn’t enough here for me and you. I mean for long-term survival.”
Lynette had time to register that the couple had fallen to the floor and seemed eerily still when Robbie pulled the trigger. She realized she had been wrong; he wasn’t the death of them both.
Under a bright blue summer sky, I lie back in the grass and smile up at the sun. I feel the warmth of its kiss upon my cheeks and imagine it smiling back at me. I close my eyes, let my head drift to the side while feathery pieces of hair tickle my face, and I listen.
I hear life’s heartbeat. I hear the birds calling out to one another in their sublime chitter-chatter. I hear leaves dancing upon the breeze as each bow sways. I eavesdrop as the grass whispers its subtle secrets, feel the vibrancy nurturing each blade. I sense the fluttering of a dragonfly as it zips to and fro. Dragonflies always find me; they come to murmur their hello. I smell earthy soil, the heat only a summer’s day can bring, I smell happiness. The scent of youth and joy, love found and lost, only to be found yet again. I remember days gone by, ones in which I would run freely through a field and laugh, only to be captured, held, kissed, cherished. I lie upon the warm blanket of green and experience so much.
Some may say this is a waste of time, so call me a fool, but know – this is time. Life offers her abundance to us all; we’ve only to open our eyes, our ears, our hearts, and our souls to absorb it. I choose to cherish life and offer my abundance in return.
When the two teenage hot dog vendors laughed at Brandon Viktor, they stuck their tongues out. The thin, stoop shouldered 21-year-old Viktor took his wiener from its bun and bit a huge piece off. Everyone in Princetown thought they could make fun of him, but he still had a powerful chomp.
He arrived in town two months ago, after his mom kicked him out of the house. She gave him a thousand bucks, told him to adventure somewhere far away and find some meaning to his life.
Brandon walked into his tiny apartment. He got down on his hands and knees and inspected the couch. It looked pretty much the same. But the lamp. A chip out of the side. That wasn’t there yesterday. Brandon punched the side of the couch with his fist. “They won’t stop. They just won’t stop,” he muttered, holding his aching hand. Every day after returning home, something valuable replaced with a cheap replica. That, and the tongue teasing, and the surreptitious giggling. He’d already changed the locks three times.
Brandon went to the police station. The two female officers laughed, just like the hot dog vendors. He saw their protruding tongues. “Are you on any medication?” said one.
“No,” Brandon whispered. It seemed that the officer wanted him drugged up and compliant. Brandon wasn’t going down without a fight. He left the police station grinding his teeth and muttering “evil Princetown bastards.”
He opened his bedroom closet and inspected his collection of whips. He liked how the whips snapped. He often practiced flicking them, imagining his enemies flayed and under his power. Now, even here, replica whips found. Cheap imitations. A normal sheeple wouldn’t notice, Brandon mused, “they’re talking advantage of my sensitivity.”
He didn’t know why everyone wanted him out of Princetown. Possibly jealousy. People walked by him on the street, showing their tongues. Trying to make him think his member didn’t measure up. He sometimes stuck his own tongue out at them. Yet the more he fought, the more the persecutions escalated.
One day he lost his keys. He searched all around the neighbourhood, on the lawn, behind the toilet. He bought a carton of milk at the store, opened it for morning cereal. In the pouring white gush he felt something heavy. He upended the container and discovered his lost keys. Someone had broken into his apartment, grabbed the keys, then placed them in the very milk carton he chose at the supermarket. Brandon threw his cereal against the wall. The plate shattered. His favourite plate, the one with Darth Vader on it.
Brandon decided to change tactics. He’d throw a party. If he did something nice, something generous, maybe everyone would like him. After all, he’d been very insular. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but the police for many days.
Brandon took all his social assistance money and went into the liquor store. He bought a few hundred dollars’ worth of wine and spirits and beer. Then he made colourful posters advertising his free party. “Citizens of Princetown, come to Brandon Viktor’s apartment at 21-329 Gorgon Street 9 pm Friday til ? for a welcome bash. Free alcohol!”
People began arriving an hour early. Some folks seemed normal; some resembled the indigents living in the park across the street. They all acted happy. Brandon bought out his CD’s and played them on his little portable stereo. He poured drinks, served chips and popcorn. Everyone laughed, people exclaimed “Thank you.” “This is a great party, Brandon. It is Brandon, isn’t it?”
Brandon drank til the room swirled. Might as well celebrate the housewarming. He didn’t know when he got to sleep. Upon awakening, he staggered into the bathroom, peered into the toilet at a pile of wet paper. He peed and flushed, and the water swirled up over the edge. Plugged! Brandon quickly turned the water off, lurched out of the room and frantically inspected his apartment. What a mess! Empty or broken wine glasses everywhere. The flat screen TV gone, along with his toaster. The music player vanished. And those fabulous speakers! Brandon ran to check his whip closet. All the whips intact, but perhaps more were replicas? He sorted furiously through the collection.
“Someone will pay for this!” he muttered. “Princetown will not escape my wrath. Someone will be sacrificed as a message for these bastards!” Brandon stood on his patio, flicking his whips over the street.
He phoned his mother, spoke one sentence on her answering machine. “You can auction off my comic book collection, I won’t be needing it anymore. Love you, Mom.”
The next morning he bought a razor sharp carving knife with the last of his money. He stuffed the knife under his jacket, swallowed a number of pills to stop his terrible headache, and headed for the town park.
He hid in a bathroom stall at public toilets in a little used section of green space, and waited, crouched on the seat, the knife clasped in his hand. After a while, footsteps. Brandon listened and watched, peeping out from a crack at one side of the stall door. A six-foot tall, hefty shouldered young man entered. Brandon stood five foot five, weighed in at 136 pounds. He decided to let this guy go.
Ten minutes later he watched an older fellow, maybe in his seventies, fumbling to open his fly. Brandon quietly stood up, pulled back the stall door. The white-haired fellow started his business. Brandon leaped forward with the knife and plunged it into the old man’s side. A scream, and then the struggle. It was very, very hard to kill this guy. The old geezer wriggled like a worm. His attacker stabbed again and again. The man raised his arms then began to gargle and fall. Brandon left the knife sticking from the victim’s side and ran out, passing two small children at a nearby picnic table.
He started washing himself off at the nearby brook. Then he stopped, overcome by echoing voices telling him “The Victor, you are the Victor!” Like his last name. He sat back against a tree, laughing. He had taken revenge by killing a community citizen. He showed them who was boss. Princetown couldn’t fool with him. The police discovered Brandon there by the brook, giggling, waggling his tongue in their direction.
It wasn’t until a month later, while being interviewed in his cell for fitness to stand trial, that Brandon heard the details about his victim. The grandfather he murdered, Peter Van Sickle, had popped into the washroom after taking his two grandchildren to the park, allowing their mother a morning break. He’d driven in the day before from Oregon, to visit his daughter and spend a few days.
“He wasn’t even a citizen of Princetown?” said Brandon.
“Nope.” The interviewing psychiatrist shook his head. “Does that matter?”
Brandon gripped his head in his hands. “I killed an innocent man. I should have asked where he was coming from.”
The psychiatrist scribbled some quick notes. “Looks like you’re very upset.”
Brandon looked at the doctor through his tears. “I made a terrible mistake.”
At Brandon’s court fitness hearing, citizens of Princetown protested outside the courthouse yelling “Justice for Peter Van Sickle,” and “Put the monster away for life!” The hearing and the protests made national headlines.
“I can’t figure it out,” Brandon said to his lawyer. “They’re so angry at me, and the old guy wasn’t even from their town.”
“They say this crime took their innocence,” the lawyer said. “They say they’ve never experienced such a brutal, barbaric event in Princetown before.”
A frown played across Brandon’s face. He clenched his fists. “They made me do it. It was an act of self-defence. They should be charged with murder, not me. When we drove up in the sheriff’s car today, I saw their tongues sticking out.”
“We’re going to plead insanity,” said the lawyer.
However, to Brandon, it all made perfect sense, except for his one major error in judgement.
Born poor, I had no choice. My father sent me to be a homesteader’s wife. Each night, I was duty bound to lie with him, a business I truly loathed. He beat me after, as if I somehow failed him in the act. Six years, I survived in this miserable place. I bore his children, two girls of one torso, linked by bone and hip with arms apiece. When he saw them, he cursed and spat upon their little faces, forcing me to hide them from his sight.
They proved quick learners as they grew, I taught them how to hunt and how to kill, survival in this land of discontent. They shared two legs, yet possessed a willing heart.
Another night he dragged me to his bed, but I wailed and called out to my babes. Up did Mary rise to poke him in the eye, then smoothly did her sister Susie slit his bearded throat.
Mater has me cloistered in her potting shed. I’ve screamed until my throat is raw, but no one comes. Christ, she’s a bitch supreme. Tis true, I fed her stupid prize rose to the goat. The thing appeared to be a cross between a mushroom and an avocado, truly revolting to behold. Anyway, it was only for a lark, but the old bat took it seriously. Starlight sifts through the cracks between the boards. If I crane my neck, I can see the moon. That sluggish golem servant she’s made is a mess, with sand for brains. He brings me a crust of bread, a lump of stinky cheese. Now off he goes to gather kindling for our hearth. But wait, he’s not going to the house. Instead, he’s piling it high around my shed. I hear the scratching of a match …
The Eye Charles Gramlich
An eye opened in the forest, a red fleshy eye. Then another. And another. No one realized what they were, or what they promised. Just nature’s oddities, humans thought. People went about their business, using the world as they saw fit. But now the world was watching. It had been asleep for a few billion years but that long nap was over. How long before it opened its mouth too—and began to feed?
My Little Flower Lee Andrew Forman
Homemade medicine drops between your lips at my discretion. You are ill, that I know. No doctor need visit. One drop, two drops, don’t cry. Your beauty shines too brightly, attracts too many flies. Your protector I was, still am. I’ll make sure they can’t get to you, my dear.
The concoction, a recipe not my own. I paid in a back-alley shop, only known by rumor. Bones dangled from the ceiling and candles moved shadows.
I visit daily since you passed, watch this strange flower grow. I wonder if you hear me there, praying to your ghost. I stroke the petals and think of you—my little flower, how I loved you then, now, and forever.
The Blooming Kathleen McCluskey
The jungle swallowed him whole, the dense foliage closing in like living walls. Sweat clung to his skin as he pushed deeper, following the rancid stench that thickened with every step. Then, he saw it. A monstrous bloom, red and fleshy. It was huge, sprawled against the base of a gnarled tree. Its petals, speckled like diseased flesh, pulsed so slightly as if breathing. The center gaped open, a cavernous maw lined with slick, ridged folds. The air soured farther, thick with decay. Flies buzzed around something lodged within the gaping cavity. A bone, yellowed and splintered, jutted from the depths.
His stomach clenched. The camera in his hands trembled, the lens trained on the grotesque marvel. He had found it! His colleagues had mocked him, now here he stood in front of it. He raised his camera, sweat rolling down his fingers. The moment the shutter clicked, the petals twitched. A wet, sucking noise oozed from within.
A spray of warm, gooey fluid hit his arm and face. Searing pain flared across his skin, burning, eating through his flesh like acid. He staggered back, his vision tunneling as his nerves ignited in agony.
The petals unfurled and surged forward, grabbing him, pulling his collapsing body closer. Enveloped in the wet, pulsating petals, he writhed while needle-like spikes protruded from the fleshy walls. They pierced his skin and anchored him in place while the flower’s insides began to constrict. His scream barely escaped before the flower slammed shut. Muffled sounds of feasting echoed through the jungle.
By morning, the jungle was silent. The flower sat motionless, its petals gleaming. The only sign of what had transpired was the faintest smear of red on the tree roots.
The Flower Ear Harrison Kim
My flappy flower ear can hear everything, the tiny tendrils quivering, taking in all you say. There are millions of my listeners everywhere, as everyone knows by now. My spotted flesh and eardrum ring sit planted at the side of every dwelling and business, subway entrance and even on the trees in the park. All whispers caught. All words taken in and all discussions acquired. You might think you are saying nothing wrong, but fear not, I will decide for you. As my flaps flap and my circle thickens and thins over all my millions of ears, I ponder the value of your existence. Shall I approve of all the things you said and did? No, that is impossible. But there are minor sins and venial sins. Sure, if you embezzled a few dollars, ate all the red smarties, or cheated on your wife, more power to you. You’re a person after my own heart. But If you talked against me personally there can be no forgiveness. I have to say “that’s not very nice,” and show you the consequences.
If you see my flappy ear shimmering over your bed at night, you know it’s judgement time. Rise and clasp the blossom to your heart before it strikes. That way, things will go easier for you. Then the flower will either penetrate, gentle but keen as a razor blade, and become part of you as well as me, or it will suck its ring around your red centre and pull the organ out, chewing and absorbing your treacherous fleshy soul.
Red Spores A.F. Stewart
A starless night, black as pitch, so the red streak lit up the sky in brilliance and when it landed, the fireball exploded and engulfed half the woods in flames. Sirens screamed as fire trucks and police swarmed the scene, people yelling and pushing everyone back to clear the area.
In the morning, the black SUVs came with the scientists and the quarantine.
Then people started dying.
It happened swiftly, before anyone understood. The cough came first, lungs filling with blood, choking folks on their own fluid. Then the skin shrivelled, dehydration creating a thirst no amount of water could quench. The last stage was the bloating, where the abdomen swelled to twice its size before bursting, spewing putrid guts and crimson spores into the world.
But that wasn’t the worst.
Where the spores landed, plants grew within hours. Giant pulsing leathery flowers, spotted red, emitting a hypnotic hum, enticing people with their siren call. No one resisted, no one protested; we were willing prey. Yet, everyone watched in horror as it happened. The crunch of bone, the blood, their screams, your eyes fixed on your neighbours being eaten alive, knowing your turn was coming. I watched my mama die and it’ll be me soon enough.
I want to run away, to shriek, but I can’t. I stay in line waiting to be devoured.
The best I can do is record our story and hope someone finds it…
Once in a Lifetime Richard Meldrum
It was an invitation-only event. The rich, the well-connected and a rabble of assorted ‘influencers’ were asked to attend the blooming of the century plant. No riff-raff were allowed.
It was held at the Botanic Gardens, an elegant Victorian glass and steel structure housed in one of the city parks.
The invitees flocked to the event, despite the lack of canapés and champagne. This really was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The clue was in the name, the plant produced a single flower every eighty to a hundred years.
The cream of local society crowded round the huge plant, cell phones in hand, waiting expectantly for the glistening bulb atop the massive leaves to burst open in a cacophony of color and spectacle. The staff discreetly left the area and made sure the doors were closed.
Standing outside, they listened with muted glee to the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ from within. Then there was silence. After a judicious period, they opened the doors to see the pile of bodies. It was a well-preserved secret that the bulb released an air-borne toxin on opening.
The Bloom Miriam H. Harrison
She had first encountered it in her dreams. On those nights, the bloom spread wide and waiting like a lover. She was no stranger to the pleasures of the forest, of course. She knew the cold, slick touch of the naiads, the rough, knotty embrace of the dryads, the sensuous whispers of wisps beyond her touch. But this beckoning bloom was different, promising a singular experience, and she was woken each morning by goosebumps and anticipation.
So began her days scouring through the forest, sure that the bloom itself was more than mere dream. Journeying in and out of the forest soon seemed inefficient, so she gave up on returning home, sleeping amid the trees and stars, hoping that her dreams might draw her closer. And in those dreams the bloom waited, hinting at mystery and possibility.
Her life was lived between dreaming and searching. It was a strange sort of half life. But she did not fear death—she only feared giving up on the search. The search for something more. Something beyond the limits of her life as she had known it.
And so when she finally found it, it only seemed fitting that the bloom would smell of death. Not a threat, but a promise. As she gave her tired self over to its embrace, she felt the singular relief of yielding to the timeless unknown.
Le Fleur Elaine Pascale
One day, when the Little Prince was tending to his rose, he noticed another plant sprouting. “This is no baobab,” he confirmed, “it’s a seed from who knows where.”
The plant asked for a moment to ready itself, and the Little Prince dutifully turned his back. When the plant announced that it was ready, the Little Prince turned to see the most startling and strange blossom. Its petals resembled tentacles and its core looked like a widely opened eye.
The Little Prince could not help but fall in love.
The Little Prince said, “You should be careful, there’s a war on my planet between sheep and flowers.” The Little Prince examined the plant carefully. “And you don’t have thorns.”
“I don’t need thorns,” the plant sniffed, “I have teeth.”
“And what is the purpose of teeth?”
“It’s not a matter of importance,” the plant replied.
The Little Prince was confounded. For a flower, there was nothing more important than its thorns. Certainly teeth, being so rare, ranked even higher.
“My rose is not going to like this.”
The plant craned its petals to get a better look at the rose.
“She seems mean.”
“Flowers can’t be mean, they’re vulnerable. For instance, while I am talking to you, she could be eaten by a sheep.” The Little Prince wanted to look away from the new plant, but he was captivated.
“Or by me.”
The Little Prince found he had no choice. He was compromised by his affection for both of his plants. He began traveling the galaxy, bringing visitors back with him, to satiate the new plant and keep his rose safe.
Travelers beware: if you find yourself in a desert landscape and meet a child with golden hair and laughter like bells, run as fast and far as you can!
Initially, my journey had gone to plan. It wasn’t until I was instructed by the GPS to turn off the highway onto a narrow country road that the problems started. Just as my tires crunched onto the dirt road, the clouds, threatening all day, finally released their snow. I checked the GPS and saw I had about fifty miles to go. I decided I could make it, as long as the snow didn’t get worse.
It got worse.
I found myself crawling along at about ten miles an hour. The snow was settling and the going was slippery. I had neglected to put on my winter tires and could feel the car losing traction and sliding dangerously towards the ditch. I slowed to a crawl, worried I might lose control. The wind buffeted my car, making the going even more unsteady. It didn’t take me long to notice my GPS had malfunctioned, it was showing I was still on the highway. My cell phone had no bars. I realized I had no idea where I was going. The road was too narrow to turn round. I decided to keep going, to try to find a house where I could ask for directions.
“Why the hell didn’t he just agree to meet me at the office?”
I already knew the answer; rich clients expected their architects to come to them, not the other way round. I had to drive out of the city to meet my newest potential customer at his country estate. He didn’t care if it was February or if snow was forecast; the planning meeting was scheduled for today. If I refused to attend; well, there were plenty of other eager, young architects happy to step into my shoes.
The road started to incline. I floored the accelerator to keep my momentum up. My car wasn’t four-wheel drive. I reached the top, just.
As I crested the hill, there was a four-way stop. There was a police cruiser parked up and a cop standing beside it, wearing a high visibility jacket. I lowered my window, feeling the biting cold of the wind for the first time.
“Is there a problem?”
“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”
His voice was strangely flat. I guessed he was bored.
“Thank you!”
There was no response.
I turned left and headed down the hill. A sign told me a place called the Witch’s Gorge was two miles away. As I drove, an idea dawned on me. I nearly slapped myself. I should have asked the cop where I was and how to get to my destination. Luckily, this road was a bit wider, so I could turn the car round, albeit with some difficulty, and head back up the hill. As I arrived at the top, I saw him still standing by the police cruiser.
“Do you know how to get to the Croxley house from here?”
“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”
“I know, you just told me. I just want some directions. I’m lost.’
“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”
“You just said that. Are you okay?”
I got out my car, thinking he was suffering from hypothermia or something. As I got closer I realized something was definitely wrong. The figure was lumpy and misshapen. Instinctively, I put my hand out. My hand encountered something that felt like straw. I used my cell phone to illuminate the face. A pair of very human eyes stared out at me from a mass of dried grass, topped by a police officer’s cap. The eyes were alive, full of pain and despair.
“The road is closed. Please turn left and follow the diversion.”
There was no mouth.
The next few moments were a blur. I vaguely remember running through the snow, jumping into my car and hitting the accelerator. The next memory was reaching the highway. I made it home in record time. I never did get to meet my rich client.
No-one believed me. I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. It took a few days for the news to emerge, but then it hit all the main outlets. Five abandoned cars, including a police cruiser, had been found near the Witch’s Gorge, stuck in deep snow. There was no sign of the occupants. The assumption was they’d left their vehicles and wandered off into the snowy wilderness. The authorities termed the search a ‘recovery operation’, meaning they were looking for bodies. I suspected they wouldn’t be found and I was right.
The road hadn’t really been closed. Something had set up the terrifying straw effigy, something that was smart enough to understand the prey it sought. Something had taken the eyes and the vocal cords from one of the victims and crafted a facsimile; something that was close enough to pass for a cop. Something that could fool us. The victims were sent down towards the gorge, and God alone what happened to them then.
I was grateful I’d escaped, but it was pure, unadulterated luck. What still keeps me from sleeping is the sure and certain knowledge that whatever killed those folks is, without a doubt, still out there.
Pen of the Damned 