Emergence Ascended · Emergence Collective · Horror · magic · paranormal · science fiction · writing

Workshoppin a scene

I am at a pivot point in the plot of Emergence Ascended. I thought I would workshop the scene and share it with you. There is no context yet. My goal is to catch the reader off, guard. If I decide not to include it in the novel, I just might keep it in my backpocket of flash fiction ideas. Let me know what you think (as always, my shoot from the hip, flash fiction ideas are NOT polished, so bare that in mind)

Content may be too graphic for sensitive readers (Im not sure anymore, I am so jaded I don’t know what is offensive)

The golf ball-sized chrome sphere appeared in the middle of the pine and seventh avenue intersection. It hovered silently and unwavering as a tractor-green waste management truck collided with it, punching a perfect hole through the length of the truck. Out of control, the dump truck plowed into the traffic ahead, tossing a few small cars aside as it ground to a halt. Another perfectly round hole pierced through the vehicle following the truck, and it, in turn, smashed violently into the garbage truck. In a desperate attempt to avoid the collision in front, the third vehicle braked hard and turned sharply. It slid sideways, the momentum carrying the car into the sphere, forcing the globe through the temple of the driver’s head like a hole punch. The sphere sat steady unmarred, with a mirror finish that made it appear innocent despite the carnage surrounding it.

                Shocked at the scene, the onlookers quickly noticed the strange imperturbable object that had caused so much damage and bloodshed. One of the witnesses sprang into action in the seconds that followed the collisions. He rushed to the man with the perfect circle of gore just beginning to ooze out of his head, deciding in horror that there was no help, and looked into the back seat for any passengers that may need assistance. The body slumped over, its former owner no longer in control, and fell into the sphere still hovering inside the car.

                There was no resistance as the body slid over the spere, causing a surgical swath nearly cutting the man’s head off as it passed. Stunned at the scene, the hero moved his hand to cover his mouth. His fingers were trimmed off neatly and cleanly as they brushed the sphere causing the would-be hero to cry out and vomit on the driver.

Advertisement
Author · Emergence Ascended · Horror · paranormal · science fiction

Keeping the momentum going

In my last post, I talked about how excited I am to finish “Emergence Ascended” and the next few books I want to complete this year. Here is my list of story ideas I am excited about, but I am curious about what you might want to read in the future. Here is my list:  (Some of these are working titles…)

  1. “Field notes”  A park ranger gets abducted by a troop of sasquatch in the pacific northwest.
  2. “The Ghost in yellow”  A paranormal investigation team becomes stranded at a supposedly haunted Lighthouse.
  3. “Will-o-the wisp” A man travels back to his home village in Ireland to investigate the strange disappearances of the townsfolk.
  4. “Phantom black”  A Lovecraft-inspired science fiction. (A quick short version of the story I want to expand on)

There is the list. I would love to hear what floats your boats!  Leave me a comment below about what would be exciting for you to read! Thanks for visiting!

Horror · magic

Happy Halloween

Of Necromancy and love

With iniquity and open grimoire,
summoned from hell, to enslave aberration.
Barter my soul, a dark deed I call for!
Spit from my lips, this ill incantation

Sharpened by sin, my blade let go a flood
upon the alter, gift to the devil,
sacrificial offering of hot blood.
Cadaver imbibe life, I will revel!

Hardened of heart and core it will require
The wickedness of work or my intent
And grim occupation of desire
Unfettered of remorse or to lament

Razor edge of lust and red, sigil signed completes my art
Arise from the dead, lady of my heart

Alone · Horror · writing

“Alone” Part 1 of 4

In the spirit of Spooky season Please enjoy…..

Here ya go! I decided to release the entire short story “Alone”, just for you! This was my first real attempt at writing a complete story. I got the idea from a weird hypnogogic dream. The image of Luis and Randolph kinda popped in my head. I had to write the narrative. The original story is lost to the ether, what is here is a second version of it that I trimmed from the original to meet the requirements of a short story contest. The first version was probably around 10k words, but the requirements were less than 7k (if I recall correct). Anyway I trimmed it down , cutting away some of what, at the time, seemed like fluff., but in retrospect, that “fluff” tightened the narrative. I won first place in the contest, despite the trimming down so I suppose I left enough meat on the bones to make it work.

Caution, graphic violence ahead. if you are squeamish you might want to pass on this one.

Alone part 1 of 4

He stopped working just for a moment, straining to hear the unnatural sound which only offered itself when his pitchfork was doing its duty. Momma?  The sound was familiar. Again the sound pushed forward to the edges of his hearing, “Momma!” The screams sent shocking waves of fire through his veins, forcing adrenaline-laced blood to his legs. His sprint slowed to a jog as blood in the dooryard caught his attention, and the screams grew louder, more frantic. His eyes traced the thick sticky trail of blood from the garden to the front door of the colonial-style farmhouse.  

“Jimmy! Get in here and fetch me some linens! Then go run to the Doc! Hurry!” His father yelled.  

The twelve-year-old boy bolted through the half-open door, sidestepping the pools of blood that were large enough to catch full reflections of his father. He raced to the linen closet; his throat nearly closed as the painful screams echoed through the hall. He grabbed a stack of linens with shaky hands and brought them to his father.   

His father took the linens with confused and frustrated movements. Worry lines etched his pale, nearly white face as the man struggled with his inability to provide the smallest amount of relief for his wife’s agonizing labor. His voice cracked and broken, barked a frantic reminder,  
“Run, boy! Go!”  
  Jimmy sprinted headlong into the cornfield. Flowing tears carved muddy lines across his dusty cheeks. His feet kept the hurried pace long after he was out of earshot of his mother’s screams, those awful heartrending screams.  
  

A shiny new Plymouth coupe barreled up the long drive with Dr. Hathaway at the wheel, Mrs. Ingram, the town’s midwife, next to him and Jimmy in the dickie seat.  Jimmy did not wait for the car to come to a complete stop and jumped out of the dickie. Dr. Hathaway and Mrs. Ingram soon followed him into the house.   

The midwife cleared away the blood-drenched linens while Doc assessed Jimmy’s mother. Dr. Hathaway looked at Jimmy’s father, his face wrinkled with tension and sorrow. “I’m sorry, George, she’s not doing so well. Her breathing is very shallow, and the baby is in distress.”  
 ”Oh, Momma!” Jimmy sobbed.  
 Doc opened his medical bag and began pulling out his tools. He probed the woman’s chest with the stethoscope, then his face went sullen, “You should take Jimmy out. This… this is going to be….” He took a deep breath. “Um, he shouldn’t see this.”   

Dr. Hathaway’s grim face told George the rest of the story. George took Jimmy by the arm and gently led him to the porch. The boy sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve, smearing snot across his face.  
 ”Poppa? Momma’s gonna be okay, ain’t she?” Then another sniffle and wipe before slumping down against the side of the house. He was losing his battle with his own emotions; George’s voice croaked, “I don’t know, son, I just don’t know.” He sat down next to Jimmy, put his arm around him, and they both cried quietly for some time.   

Through the solid door to the farmhouse, they heard Dr. Hathaway urge Mrs. Ingram to help. ”Come here! Give me a hand. I can’t do this alone.” Both of his arms were elbow deep into the cesarean slit that opened a hole in the womb. He gently pulled out most of a tiny little body, but it looked as it was snagged, and he could not finish the extraction. “Reach in, quickly! Get the other one.” He whispered a gruff order of urgency.   

The midwife reached to the gaping split, looking away from the visceral and writhing form. She felt the familiar shape of arms, legs, and a torso, then drew out the other infant. She gasped as they awkwardly dealt with the twins. “Oh my God,” she blurted and then tried to retract her astonishment by turning her head away.  
 Alarmed by the sudden whispering and gasping, George and Jimmy jumped to their feet. George put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder to hold him back. “No! You stay here. I’ll check and see what’s goin’ on!”  
 ”But Poppa!”  
 ”No boy, ain’t no place fer ya. I’ll come and git ya when it’s time. Just sit here fer now.”  
 George took a few steps avoiding the dried brown stains on the porch, and opened the door. Doc and Mrs. Ingram looked surprised when he walked in. They looked guilty as if they were the ones responsible for the state of the twins. His jaw dropped, and he moved a few cautious steps forward. Horrified, he looked at the infants. Confusion chiseled into his features as he shook his head, defiant that this was really happening.  
 The twins writhed and gurgled as they were cleaned. Individually they were normal, though one twin was larger than the other, and both were fine. Fingers and toes in the right places. Arms and legs are suitable sizes. All was correct, except for their heads. Their faces were normal, or at least not deformed. They were attached just above the ears; the skulls collided together in a mishap of nature that marked them permanently as freaks. The shape was all wrong, too, as if their heads were welded together then pulled slightly apart like taffy, each face looking forward.  

  
 They were wrapped now, looking like a mummified wishbone, cooing as infants do, natural, soothing. George now understood the reaction of the midwife. He felt it too but choked down his aversion to not alarm his son standing behind him, despite his father’s stern words. Satisfied with the swaddling, the midwife looked to the father with misty eyes, full of shame and sorrow for the man.  
 ”Do you have names for these the boys?” she asked while adjusting the awkward bundle. George’s eyes widened as if he was reacting to a cruel joke. “No. No names.” He turned to look at his son. Jimmy, so strong and handsome, reliable… normal. His son… His only son. His face hardened as he clenched his fists.  

“Take them. Adoption, whatever.” He glanced at his wife’s lifeless body, covered in a shroud of bloodstained linens. “Take them! Those things, take them away from me!” He turned his back, not wanting to look at the abominations any longer. Jimmy looked on and then took his father’s hand in agreement.  
 ”But George, there is nowhere to take them. They’re alone and helpless. They need you.” Mrs. Ingram pleaded with him.   

“No. They need a mother, who they killed. They need someone that will be able to deal with them.”  
   

In the months following their birth, Mrs. Ingram did what she could for them. Did what she had to do. Kept them alive. She tried to care and feel the maternal impulse that she would have felt for any other child and had felt for others. All she could feel was shameful revulsion. She knew what she should feel; she knew that it was not their fault. That was the root of her shame, and that also brought on its own indignant self-loathing.  
 She noticed the handbills during her daily trip to the market. At first, one or two, here and there, and the closer she got to town, they seemed to be everywhere. Bright red and yellow bill posters of “The Great Cirque De Lune Rouge” plastered on makeshift billboards, announcing its arrival in two weeks. It didn’t take a thought. Her decision was made at the first glimpse of the advertisement. Only two weeks, and she would be rid of them.  

Continue to part 2

Author · Horror · writing

Itch part two.

Part two. Of course this is flash fiction a rough draft, unedited. I wanted to get the meat of it down, and I’ll file it into the category of “Ill work on it more later.”

He felt as if he was aiming for every pothole and bump in the dirt road. Not slowing for corners, he skidded around each one with literal wild abandon while planning his next move. No one knows yet. I have time to make it home and pack up. Just disappear. But to where? Ditch the company truck; yeah, that’s first on the list. Fresh clothes, oh the bank, take out my saving and lose my credit cards, cash from here on out. Lost in thought, his body on autopilot and coursing with adrenaline, the giant pothole in the middle of the road came quick, and he yanked the steering wheel hard to swerve around it as the front left wheel dipped into the ditch. Yanking hard again on the wheel, he tried to pull out of it but overcorrected and careened off the road catching air as he sailed into the swamp.

                The buzzing woke him. A constant, maddening hum. The dim light of the morning showed through the cracked windshield, sending rainbow patterns over the cab of the truck. The tree that had stopped him and cracked his windshield bowed over, pinning the truck to the swampy ground but saving him from plunging deeper into the swamp.

                Bruno tried to open his eyes. They were sticky with sleep and felt like his eyelids were swelling. He managed to pry them open and looked around, disoriented and confused about where he was. The buzzing again was loud in his ear as a massive mosquito flew through his open window. He wave his fat stubby hand to shoe it away, then noticed a series of large swelling bumps. Another huge mosquito takes the place of the one he shoed away fat with fresh blood, so fat it could barely fly, flew past his face. That’s when he remembered, and his panic began to renew. Shit shit shit! I gotta get out of here! He frantically pushed the door, but the mud had worked its way halfway up the door, and it would take a force of nature to move it. It didn’t even budge. The window then. Changing tactics, he climbed onto his knees and stuck his head out the window, but his keg-sized beer belly only threatened to get him stuck in an awkward position. Winded and out of breath, he sat back. The buzzing got louder, and he began to itch.

A shadow formed outside the truck’s window, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. But this cloud hummed with a disturbing resonance. Several mosquitos flew in and began to buzz in his face. He swats at them, irritated at the intrusion. He slapped a courageous one that had swelled to a startling red as it sucked on his leg. He smashed that one out of existence and then rubbed the sting on his leg. Another landed on his hand, and another. The cloud grew and darkened the outside of his window as the buzzing increased. “Fuck you!” he screamed in frustration as he swatted and slapped frantically. He felt as if he needed more hands, as the sheer number of the mosquito grew exponentially. A new panic took hold as the itch began to grow.

                Everywhere now. Every bit of exposed skin had begun to deform with large bulging bites. His hands, face, neck and even the top of his head were now becoming on continuous maddening itch. His swollen eyelids caused his eyes to blur and water, they itched. He rubbed them with the rough edges of his shirtsleeve, but that did little to relieve it. A sudden wave of convulsion overtook him as the primal part of his brain took over, and he began to rub and swat all over his body fending off the constant and incessant attack. Wave after wave of mosquitos flew in the window and mercilessly took full advantage of a captive dinner as they sucked and sucked.

                He must have passed out again. He woke to a blanket of mosquitos covering his entire body, greedily tapping him dry and the burning itch. Everything itched now. He pried an eye open and searched for something, anything to scratch with. He scrubbed at his body, trying to scratch every inch at once. And he cried out in agony, sending a swarm of mosquitos into the air, only to reposition themselves and begin again.”God damn it! I can’t take it anymore!” He shouted in pain and frustration.

                He saw the glint of metal from an old clipboard he didn’t use anymore; the plastic had cracked, and it was hard to write on. He snatched it up and snapped the board in half, exposing a jagged plastic edge. He started on his hand first. Dragging the edge along the top of his hand, leaving red trails as the skin scrapped away. The relief was short-lived, and he continued to rub the shard of plastic back and forth, getting redder with every pass. But it only made it worse and seemed to intensify everywhere else it itched. He dug in deeper, scraping skin away to the fat and meat below, not even feeling the pain of it, but it was the closest thing to the relief he felt.

                All he could hear was a constant buzz and the sound of his heartbeat. He couldn’t feel his hand anymore Thank god. But now he could stop scratching at his face. So swollen it was impossible to open his eyes he began to work the plastic clipboard on his face. He scraped and tore at the skin on his face. He dragged the slick jagged edge peeling of another layer, moaning in despair and feeling his consciousness slip into darkness.

Horror · Uncategorized · writing

Itch

Had to get this out, even though its not my WIP. But after a nice camping trip, this story came to mind.

CAUTION Graphic content ahead, you have been warned

Itch Part 1.

                Bruno drove down the unpaved road probably faster than he should have been. The tires splashed water from deep potholes far off the road into the swamp of the Florida Everglades. The service truck wobbled dangerously close to toppling over after he avoided a particularly treacherous-looking puddle as he careened onto the home’s driveway that was last on his list for the day.

                He skidded to an abrupt stop and shut off the engine. He put on the tattered ball cap with the logo of “Billy Bobs Air conditioning and plumbing”  and picked up a clipboard with the same logo, then climbed out of the truck. A blast of hot sticky, humid air washed over him as he stepped out and walked the twenty or so feet to the front door.

                The door opened before he could reach the entrance to knock, and an even warmer blast of air hit him from inside the house. Yup, definitely the right place, He thought. The door opened wider, and a tall thin woman with long dark hair stepped into view. “Miss, Bradly?” he asked as he looked down at the clipboard to verify her name and address. He could see her bare feet as he looked at the board, and his eyes followed them up her toned legs until his view was cut off by a thin bathrobe.

                “Oh, thank god! I thought you would never get here.” She exclaimed in a way of answering him. “It’s right out back.” She said, pointing to the house.

                She led the way around the side of her house to the broken air conditioner he was there to repair. Her bathrobe clung to her body, accentuating the curve of her hips. Damn, sometimes I really love my job, Bruno thought as he watched her hips sway as she walked.

                “Well, here it is, piece of shit that it is.” She said, motioning to the silent air conditioner.

“Uh huh, yup, these models are finicky; probably why they discontinued them about 5 years ago,” He said knowingly. “she’s not in bad condition overall, just needs a boost of coolant, more than likely.” He went on as he unscrewed a panel from the side.  

                I’ll be inside, sweating my balls off; just holler if ya need anything,” she said as she turned back to go inside. Bruno glanced again at her shapely hips as she walked away. Shook his head from side to side as if he couldn’t; believe his luck with such an attractive client.

                Bruno was feeling pretty good about himself. He managed to keep his eyes off her, for the most part, only a quick glance. He could indulge just a little and still not break his promise to himself.

He had been doing great. He hadn’t missed a single session with his therapist and has kept up on his journal. You know, really putting in the work, and he felt that he was passing this test. He voluntarily started going to a therapist; he knew that his sexual addiction was getting worse and he thought that he would be proactive. Don’t want to be one of those guys that eventually do something stupid and get thrown in prison, was his thought.

                A slight stinging sensation snapped him out of his thoughts as he saw a massive mosquito still swelling with blood as it sucked at his hand. He slapped hard, spurting blood from the engorged bug. God damn, that has to be the biggest damn skeeter I’ve ever seen. He thought, wiping blood onto his coveralls.

                He returned to his truck and brought back a coolant tank to refill the air conditioner and finish off the day. He wrapped up the last of the repairs, thankful it was an easy fix, and went to the front door. It was too hot, too sticky, and a cold beer was calling his name. His last call for the day, She is a beauty almost done; he could just about taste the beer. The door was ajar and he could only see a sliver of light coming from the window as he knocked with the corner of his clipboard. “All finished up,” he shouted through the crack as the sound of the air conditioner hummed to life in the distance.

                “Come on in.”She shouted back from what he assumed was her kitchen. He absentmindedly scratched at the swelling mosquito bite on his hand as he pushed through the door and stepped in. Miss Bradly walked from the kitchen holding 2 glasses of ice cold water, the condensation dripping from the glass in the heat. “You should start to feel it anytime now.” He said, motioning his head toward the air vent in the ceiling. She handed him the glass of water and noticed the mosquito bite on his hand. “Oh, looks like they got ya.” She said as he took a sip.

                 “Uh yeah, biggest bugger I’ve ever seen.”

“Let me get you some hydrocortisone for that. It’s gonna itch like crazy in a few minutes if you don’t get it on quick.” She said helpfully.

                “Oh, why, thank you.” He replied, genuinely grateful, and took another sip of water as she walked down the hallway to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. The bathroom light showed through her thin bathrobe, silhouetting her naked body underneath. He gave in and indulged another avarice look at her body as she walked, feeling himself stiffen and his heart quicken at the sight. He quickly looked away as she turned around and came back with a tube of medication. She handed it to him with a smile and said, “I go through a lot of this stuff around here, but it’s been pretty bad this year with all the heat; I swear, they just keep getting bigger and bigger.”

                He squeezed a dollop of the white paste and rubbed it on the increasingly itchy bite, feeling it quell it almost immediately. “Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.” He said in relief.

“You wouldn’t mind, would you?” She said, motioning to her back; I got a bit right in the middle of my shoulder blades; I swear they know exactly where I can’t reach, don’t ya know?” She turned away from him and let the robe slide off her shoulder to reveal her back. A nasty mosquito bite the size of a silver dollar was dead center of her shoulder blades.

                Bruno was stunned for a moment, not sure what he should do. His first thought was that this was wildly inappropriate, and if HR caught wind of it, he would possibly get fired for the liability alone. His second thought was, almost jokingly as inappropriate,  Dear penthouse forum… I can’t believe it happened to me… He smiled at himself for that.He squeezed a large glob on his hand and gently put it on the bite. She inhaled sharply, and he felt her skin turn gooseflesh for a second.

                “Oh, that’s cold..” she exclaimed through gritted teeth as he rubbed the cream. Bruno reached up with the full intention of grabbing her shoulder to use as leverage to help him rub the cream. As he awkwardly reached, his hand brushed the side of her breast. His heart beat in his chest so hard it almost hurt as his vision blurred and his penis stiffened immediately. Bruno lost himself. All of a sudden, he felt as if in a dream, a haze or fog he could barely see past. As he watched, seemingly from out of body, a fat sweaty man in blue coveralls and a blue ball cap tore away her bathrobe and shoved her to the ground.

                He wasn’t sure how long it had been. He found himself lying on the ground. The room was dark but cool as the air conditioner hummed along. His hands were sticky, and his head hurt from a gash above his thick brow. He put his hands on the ground to heave himself off the ground. A sharp pain shot up through his hand as a shard of something sliced into it as he pushed himself up. “Ahh!” he screamed and sucked air between his teeth as more fresh blood dripped from his palm. Standing now, he looked around see broken ceramic pieced from a destroyed lamp  Must be why my head hurts.

                As he scanned around, he noticed a dark shape in front of the sofa. His heart lurched in his chest as he recognized her body. He felt the thrill, tantalizing and electric as the memory of his fingers brushing her breast, then the urgency. It wasn’t me,  it wasn’t me! I did the work, everything, I worked so hard, so this wouldn’t happen. He looked back at her crumpled body by the sofa. He could see better now; his eyes adjusted to the dark. There was so much blood everywhere. He could see smears of it all over the wood floor, handprints, and footprints. He could almost make out the scene in his mind just by looking at it. The end table by the sofa and its missing lamp, but why was there so much blood? He gingerly touched the gash above his eye; it hurt but was no longer bleeding. He looked closer at her and saw an enormous amount of blood on her back, her buttocks, and legs. He noticed bits and pieces of the ceramic peppered all over her in red splotches. The scene didn’t make sense to him until he saw a heavy glass ashtray cracked in half lying next to her hand.

                Bruno scratched the mosquito bite on his hand, which strangely brought him back to his senses. His eyes darted around the room as panic overtook him. They’re gonna know! Oh god, it’s so obvious! He frantically patted his pockets, searching for his keys; finding them in his front pocket, he bolted for the door and burst out into the night. He ran for his truck and jumped in, starting it before he had even pulled the door closed. He floored the pedal down, sending gravel to shower the house, and drove off in a manic daze.

about me · art · Author · Emergence Ascended · Emergence Collective · Horror · painting · poetry · writing

Don’t follow me I am lost too.

Actually, do follow me, I could use the company. Being an introvert, I don’t have much use for social media. I never got the “thrill” of people “liking” or “Following” my social media profiles. Most of the stuff I post is really for my entertainment and I never really much cared if anyone else is entertained. I hope that they are, just not my priority. Now that I have to have a “presence”  I find that the likes and follows have meaning. But (I imagine) that its different from most peoples experiences.

I do enjoy gaining another follower, and seeing people enjoy my content and throw a like my way. But I get a fair amount of what to me is non-value-added likes and follows. I want people to be moved or entertained genuinely. If you like one of my posts, you actually took the time to read it and digest it find your own meaning in it. That is the thrill I get from it. I get a lo of likes a follows from marketing companies and sales, that are only there to get my attention, maybe use their service. I see no value in padding my numbers with followers and likes, that are not here for my content, just another potential client.

I wanted to take the time to acknowledge those that I see, are “active” on my blog. I see the likes and comments from some of you on a consistent basis. I sincerely appreciate your time, and spending it on my content.

The Worlds Worst Writer (Maybe)

SMVLTRUDEAU

Lifesfinewhine

Edge of Humanity Magazine

Bridgette Tales

ACountryBoy

Hardknocks Hobby & Streetwear

Take the time to check out their blogs! Thank you for visiting!

art · Author · Emergence Ascended · Emergence Collective · Horror · writing

Totes!

Ever have a day where you have too much to hold on to with just your hands? maybe all of those 80’s classic horror VHS tapes and Philosophy books are too much to handle at once. You might need to sort a Tote bag!

this is the first rendition, I am not great at digital art. My photoshop skills were never developed. I tend to use analog media for my art. But I am pretty ok with this design. This will make much more sense (once I finish and publish) when you read the Sequel to “Emergence Collective,” “Emergence, Ascended.” I like “easter eggs” in books and games. shhhh………

Horror · Uncategorized · writing

Happy Monday

Back at it for us working-class people, the weekend is done now back to the grind. I hope Everyone enjoyed the story “Alone.” Let me know what you thought in the comments section!

Here is an idea I am workshopping. Its quick one, sort of flash fiction.. Have fun!


Phantom Black

The beam of light pierced the veil. Like an ugly knife wound tearing a rough, misshapen hole in the darkness. The light touched a tentacle of the creature, a warm tingle drawing its attention. Confused and curious, it extended its tentacles, reaching, feeling the jagged edges of the opening. It wrapped its tentacles around it with more confusion about the nature of this new thing in its world, then examined the edges, feeling its solidity. Reaching in and gaining purchase on the inside surface, it began to pull itself through, marveling at the warm tingly, yet slight stinging sensation on its skin.

                The scientists fiddled with the device with excited banter, enthusiastic about their apparent success. The device looked like an over-engineered paint spray gun. One of the scientists adjusted a setting on the machine, causing a pleasant harmonic tone to emanate from it. The other scientist poured a black viscous liquid into a small vat attached to the instrument with tubes, hoses, and electrical connections. The first scientist starts speaking into a recorder, taking verbal notes with a shaky, excited voice. “four-thirty two hertz to four forty hertz seems to be the correct resonant frequencies to properly align the filaments. We have achieved approximately….” He looks up at the other scientist and nods his head slightly, prompting the missing information.

                “Ninety-nine point nine, nine percent.” The other scientist reads off of a computer monitor in a matter-of-fact tone.

                “Yes, right. Ninety-nine point nine, nine percent of photon absorption.” He continued, “We have found with the increased amplitude and voltage, the harmonic frequencies will correctly align the carbon nanotubes vertically; gave us an additional twenty percent efficiency.” He said, his voice still quivering with obvious exhilaration.

                Tentacles wavered through the opening, touching the air feeling the strange tingle of the light. As it pushed deeper into the new expanse, it could feel a vibration of sound emanating from inside this new space. It waved a tentacle sniffing the air, searching for the source of the vibrations. With so many new sensations, the creature grew eager and more curious. It pulled itself through the hole, sniffing and feeling.

                With their backs turned away from the black painted surface, the scientists quickly prepared their device for the new round of testing; the creature probed a tentacle towards them. The probing tentacle extended toward the sound vibrations and detected a unique sensation that triggered a biological response; Hunger.

Horror · writing

Alone part 4 of 4

The familiar smell of cotton candy and popcorn filled his nose. He stood in the shadows between the sideshow tents, watching the crowds ebb and flow through curtained doors, laughing in nervous excitement at the oddities within.  The smooth handle of his mallet felt good in his hand. His pulse pounded through every vein in his body. He could feel the throb of his heart down to his fingertips. He stayed there, in the darkness, waiting for his chance, waiting for a new Luis to walk by. His patience waned more and more as his excitement grew. This ain’t workin!They never come close enough!  
 He walked around to a small alley that led to the sugar shacks. There was less foot traffic in the dark alley, but he could walk around in the open without drawing attention.  He started to pace up and down the alley when he saw two boys leave a concession, each holding a corn dog and cotton candy. One boy was about five years old, but the other looked like he was fourteen. Their hands were so full of food that they had a hard time managing the load and taking bites simultaneously.  There are two! How do I get them apart? Luis? How?  Then it came to him.   

Randolph started to run toward them, then tripped and fell hard on the hard ground. He let out a yelp of pain that was half acting and half true. He grabbed at his ankle then screamed again.  
” Ouch! I twisted my foot!” he cried, rolling around on the ground. The two boys ran to his aid, the older one reaching him first.  
  ”Hey! Are you all right?” he asked with genuine concern.  
 ”Oh! My ankle! I think I sprained it pretty bad.” Randolph rolled back and forth, hoping he was convincing. The little boy came bounding up, juggling his treats and almost dropping them once or twice. Randolph looked at the younger one. ”Hey, kid!” He winced. “My folks are at the funhouse mirrors. Go get em, will ya?” he pleaded, sounding deeply pained.  
 ”Uh, uh sure thing!” The little boy replied and then scampered off down the alley. Randolph watched him until he rounded a corner.  
 The older boy stood over Randolph holding his hand out, “Can ya stand up?”  
Randolph reached out his left hand and took hold. The boy pulled him to his feet. He caught sight of Randolph’s shriveled arm and yanked his hand away in disgust. That’s okay; he’ll get used to it.  
 Randolph looked at the boy, who was now looking very cautious. The boy stepped back, his eyes adjusting to the dark, started to see details of Randolph’s makeshift bandage. Randolph’s heart quickened as he gripped the mallet. The boy looked down at the mallet with a confused look. Randolph swung out. His hand moved fast, but he controlled it this time, taking care not to hit him too hard. The mallet connected with the side of his face. The confused look on his face twisted into pain, and then his knees crumpled. He started to scream out in pain as Randolph clocked him again, this time on the top of his skull. The boy wobbled but did not make any more noise.   

Randolph looked around to see if anyone saw them. Satisfied they were still alone, he reached down and pulled the boy over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.  The boy groaned, muffled by the awkward position. “Wha-why?” then went silent again. This trip was not as hard as the other time. It was much easier carrying the boy than dragging him, and Randolph was thankful.   See that, Luis! I told ya I’m no half-wit! I’ll show ya!  
The barn came into view, and that seemed to make the boy feel lighter all of a sudden. He could still feel his heart race at the excitement of it all. He almost giggled in delight at the sight of the barn. He slumped the boy down at the entrance then pulled him in. The small area was hard to move around in, now that there were three of them in there. He pulled at Alasdair. His stiff cold body proved much more difficult than he wanted, but he managed to get him out of the barn. He crawled back in, then propped the new boy where Alasdair was. He fumbled in the darkness, wishing he had thought to get a candle or lantern but found the small wooden box. Now we can be together… Now I don’t have to be alone!  
 Randolph unwrapped the burlap, the sticky dried blood pulled at his head and scalp, causing him to cringe.  He leaned back, putting his head next to the boy’s, reveling in the familiar sensation of closeness to another. He opened the wooden box. Silver glinted in the soft moonlight that filtered in through the cracks in the ceiling, the little metal points gleaming with purpose. He picked the largest needle from the box and then felt for the thread. Only short-end pieces, clipped from countless sewing projects, but nothing long enough for his task.  He pulled at the burlap, finding a strand and unraveling it from the weave. It took a few tries; in the dark, threading the large needle was difficult, and more so with his excited fingers shaking in anticipation. He lifted the needle to his head and thrust it in. He expected it would hurt, but he barely noticed the first stitch. The boy groaned when the needle pierced his scalp; the thick burlap fiber sounded like hemp rope sliding through canvas. Randolph kept the mallet at the ready in case the boy was roused. That’s okay… It will all be better very soon.   
 He pushed the needle in again, this one hurt a little, and he felt warm fluid drip down his head. The fluid had a putrid smell and did not feel as thick as blood.  It will be all better. It will heal up nicely, won’t it, Luis?  The dried scabs of blood that caked the burlap strand started to feel like razor blades slicing through his head as he did his work. His arm tired at the awkward position, but he kept at it. Almost done, Luis…Almost together again.  
  

End.