A hint of a grin showed on Cheryl’s bitter face. Gnarled by a lifetime of repressed pain and unrestrained anger, she was incapable of a real smile. The closest she ever came to feeling good was through minimizing the bad and that was only achieved with the help of Captain Morgan (the only name brand item in the house). It washed through her like a cleansing fire, burning away pain and misery. This moment, right now, was her heaven. Her bliss. Her freedom from agony. And as her body became light and her lips started to feel numb, she knew everything would be fine. And then she’d float up, away from the horrors, free of the reigns that bound and cut her flesh.

Her body stayed behind; sprawled in a chair stained by two generations of drool, liquor, and sometimes urine. With shut eyes and arms hanging awkwardly, it sat motionless while a cigarette dangled precariously from two fingers, sending a smooth column of white up into the cloud that hovered on the ceiling. Her chest rose and fell, peacefully, for the entire afternoon, long after the spent cigarette butt had fallen to join two friends on the hardwood floor.

Cheryl didn’t hear the screech of the bus as it braked in front of the house. She didn’t hear the front door creek open, the small footsteps, or the two attempts to push the door shut. But she did hear the little voice that ended the silence.

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Yesterday Henry was sick. Yesterday was also the midterm exam. And yes, he was really sick. And although this wasn’t the first time he’d been home sick on the day of an exam, it was the first time he had missed an exam because he was actually sick. And that pissed him off because unlike the other sick days, yesterday he could have aced the test.

He punched in several numbers into his calculator and scrawled another answer: “hydrophobic: the chemical was less soluble in water than in an organic solvent.” He looked at Mr. Jones, everyone called him Doc, sitting like a hunched statue behind his desk, glasses hanging from his nose like a rock climber seconds away from a fall. They were the only two left in the room, maybe even the school. Doc was probably thinking about how much he’d rather be flying down the sunny road in his vintage 68 Mustang.

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I wrote this short story for the annual Blizzard writing contest. It didn’t win, which is too bad because the grand prize was a sword and my friend and fellow author, Tracy Green, said I could chop off his arm with it if I won (we were both really looking forward to it…we were going to broadcast it live over the internet and everything).

The story is fantasy, somewhat dark, and set in the original Diablo world (although knowledge of that game isn’t necessary). The blood, shadows, murder, and evil dripping from it’s pages make it a decent Halloween story. (The picture is stolen from the movie “Hostel,” which I haven’t seen and has no relation to the story other than the image kinda fits.)

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“Optimism.”

The old priest hesitated. Optimism? He drew back his hood and adjusted his round, thin wired spectacles. The small boy’s eyes were white against his dirty face, looking up and waiting like a starving buzzard for nourishment. The priest leaned against his staff and bent down, his knees cracked and popped. The child, face void of emotion, just watched, and the crowd murmured. Surely the Sage was offended.

Wisdom and innocence locked eyes, and the Priest spoke. “What did you say was your desire?”

“Optimism,” the boy said, the word fell from his lips like a heavy yoke, burdening all whose ears it touched. It caused the priest to wobble and he gripped his staff.

Now he understood. Despite his protests, they had continually begged him to see the child. He is possessed by demons, they cried. You must bless him. He’d refused many times because no child needed his blessing. Now, unfortunately, he understood. He sighed but did not avert his gaze, even as the eyes of the child drained happiness from him like smoke drifting from the alter. So this was the one that would destroy their world. This was the one that would expose the lies.

“I’m sorry,” he said to the child. “But I cannot help you.”

The child blinked, but showed no emotion. No disappointment, no sadness, no longing. “Then I will leave our village forever.”

The Priest slumped against his staff. He old eyes sagged and his warm smile vanished into lethargy. “No, it won’t help. The prophecy is upon us,” he said.

The child turned his head, his eyes begged for tears but instead remained dry and hollow. He looked back to the Priest. “I am sorry,” he said.

The weary priest reached out and embraced him and the boy’s head rested on his shoulder.

“We created you boy, do not be sorry. Your burden is greater than they can ever know,” he whispered.

The boy straightened, knowing the old man was near his limit. Several others nearby had already fallen to their knees. He pointed to them. “That is my burden.”

The boy departed and the Priest fell to the ground breathing heavily, pained in his heart yet thankful for respite. The crowd pointed in condemnation at the departing child, certain now of their erroneous conclusions. “It is our burden,” he tried to tell the boy. But it was too late.

When the old lady stopped breathing, so did Blake. Holding his breath, he waited. The corners of his mouth twitched, quivering like a racehorse waiting in the gate as his mouth tried to break a smile. She was finally dead. Dead and surrounded by a small army of crying children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

His hands shot to his face just in time to conceal the wide grin that parted his cheeks. Everything had worked out perfect. Since her fall, two weeks ago, he’d prayed every day that she would hold on long enough. When the phone would ring, his heart would stop. Mom would talk low and quiet and the thought of grandma dying too soon made tears trickle down his cheek. But she hadn’t. His eighth birthday was yesterday and since then, he’d been ready to explode with excitement. Masking it with sadness had been like trying to hide a bucket of exploding firecrackers.

A hand touched his shoulder and he looked up to see his mother and his blood ran cold. He breathed heavy and sweat beads appeared on his forehead as he stared back at her in wide-eyed fear. Could she see the happiness? Would she be angry?

She picked him up and buried his head in her shoulder.

“Poor Blake,” she told somebody. “He has been dreading this day.” Read the rest of this entry »

I finally (after many years of searching) found a copy of one of my favorite short stories; “St. Emmanuel the Good Martyr” by Miguel de Unamuno. To celebrate, I decided to write a short story themed with what my High School AP English teacher once said was ‘My Genre’ (existentialism, I am a skilled pessimist). So here you are; a super short existentialistic science fiction ditty.

* * *

Although the tape around his chest restricted a full breath of air, Charlie inhaled deeper than he had for years. It felt good; he felt good…finally.

But last night hadn’t been good. Although it wasn’t one of his worst nights, it was miserable for him and frustrating for his wife, Judy. His struggle was a two edge sword. Not only did he suffer from his own affliction but he exposed her to the aura of despair created by his agony. That guilt doubled the suffering.

Year after year, she stood by his side. She comforted during his low points. She encouraged during his despair. And, amazingly, she stayed with him. Much to his surprise, and sometimes to his disappointment, she tolerated his constant complaining. Maybe if she yelled at him for being such an idiot he wouldn’t have felt guilty. Maybe if she stormed out the door cussing and cursing the day she agreed to spend her life with an extreme pessimist he would actually feel better. But she never did. He continually complained about work and politics and she continually to console. Read the rest of this entry »

I was innocently searching for a lost credit card when I stumbled upon the letter in her dresser which awakened my slumbering suspicions. The letter was my pass to pursue deeper. Not incriminating evidence on its own, but strong enough that I felt justified to dig.

In retrospect, the software which activated the web camera sitting on the computer monitor whenever movement was detected may have been over the edge. But she was used to the webcam. It had sat innocently on top of the monitor in the bedroom for months. I didn’t even have to hide it. It was a cool idea but turned out to be useless. Even the audio capture which allowed me to hear her end of all telephone calls paled in comparison to the real pay dirt; access to her email account. This is where I learned everything…and the beginning of my downfall.

She’d recently changed her password; something I hadn’t checked for months. I set up the account for her (she’s not computer savvy) but now I was locked out. Getting her password required key logging software on her laptop…a program that sat quietly in the background and recorded every keystroke. Several days passed before I had a chance to copy the text file and remove the program. It was tough to be patient but I knew I had to play it cool. She couldn’t suspect anything.

All her friends knew I was being dumped, but she hadn’t told me. Her secret lover also knew. But, because my key logging software had divulged her password, now I also knew what was around the corner. It gave me a chance time to get some of the tears and anger out beforehand. Read the rest of this entry »

The sleek black train did not thunder down the tracks. It sped silently and secretly as it rushed to an unknown place. It had traveled long and far…and I stood in its path, clueless. Cold metal slammed against my back, flipping me onto my chest and plastering me against the front of the large engine. Through the windshield, I saw the conductor concentrating on the road ahead; trying to see around my body and through the bloody streaks on the glass. I slid up, smearing blood, until I flew into the air. Below, the train continued to rage ahead to an unknown destination.

I don’t know how much time passed. I woke to my body in a mangled contorted heap on hard ground. I didn’t move or open my eyes. I simply acknowledged the strange sensation of my arms and legs twisted into a mess. Cold mud cooled the right side of my face and I wondered if I was dead. I couldn’t imagine surviving such a horrible ordeal. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The light was dim and with my face pressed to the ground, all I saw were blades of grass and mud. I moved my fingers but it hurt. I closed my eyes again, deciding it was better to stay still. Perhaps it was also better not to see the damage to my body. I went back to sleep.

Time passed, although I don’t know how much, and I woke again and opened my eyes. The same blades of grass greeted me. This time I didn’t try to move my fingers. I didn’t move my eyes either. Instead, I stared blankly as I took long and deep breaths. The air was like a drug. With each breath my head felt lighter. My body floated as I continued to inhale deeply…and soon, I fell asleep. Read the rest of this entry »

This is my short story that I’ve tried over the years to get published as a children’s picture book. I imagine the pages the left side of the book are always the first tree and the right side the second. At the end of the story, I have provided information on how this story is a metaphor for self esteem and also includes parenting philosophy.

*** 

As the morning light chased away the darkness, a young Gardner sat on a quiet hillside gazing down into a valley.

Her visit today was special. In a pouch she carried two small seeds. They came from an apple tree that had given fruit and cool shade to her family for many years.

The Gardner searched the hillside and found a safe place for two little trees. She made two shallow holes in the soil. From her canteen, she poured some water into each hole to help the seeds start growing.

She imagined tiny seeds as large apple trees. “My dear little seeds, now is your chance to grow and experience the world,” she told them. Read the rest of this entry »

The corners of Terry’s lips are tight and turned down, but he doesn’t notice. Frozen like the mannequin watching his back, he stares as dancing red taillights inch their way out of the city. Most people crowd under the awning to hide from the rain, but not Terry. He stands near the road to optimize his chance in the upcoming race for a seat on the bus. Three busses, but not the 514, splash past and belch out a moan while stopping at the curb; spraying him with a muddy mist that covers his coat with tiny brown spots. They suck in a load of passengers and moan again while crawling out to join the dance.A sharp pain shoots from the center of his right eye to the middle of his skull. Reflexively, he drops his gaze downward while placing his thumb on one temple and forefinger on the other. He closes his eyes and squeezes until the pain begins to fade. He notices that his jaw is clenched with such force that it could support his weight as he dangled precariously on the end of a rope high above the ground. He attempts to relax his clamped teeth by squeezing tighter with his fist. As the pain continues to subside, his jaw relaxes. He breaths deep and exhales while releasing his grip. Slowly, he lifts his eyelids. The floodgate opens and the world pours back in to his stream of conscious. He preferred the headache.

The 514 belches past, splashing him, and stops a few yards away. For a moment he has a clear path to the rear door. He wants to hurry but doesn’t want to look foolish. His awkward hustled step accomplishes neither. The crowd surges forward and he is lost in a sea of commuters. With his face inches away from the back of a dark blue raincoat, he begins a tiny-two-step shuffle towards the bus door. He’ll make the bus, but will he be sitting or standing for the next eighty-minutes? He dreads standing. A seat on the bus can erase an entire day of telling the mouthpiece of a telephone that it does not have enough insurance. He reaches the doorway, steps up, and looks right; to the front of the bus. No empty seats. Even the aisle is crowded with standing passengers. His eyes widen and his chest pounds. In the back of his head, an image of his boss is laughing. He needed and expected a seat today. He begins walking left while jerking around his head which creates a smeared, blurry image of the bus interior. As the distorted image clears and his focus returns, an empty seat in the back emerges. In a rush of giant stumbling steps, he claims it. Thank God, he’ll be sitting. Read the rest of this entry »