Twisted Tales: The Little Mermaid

Once upon a time, underneath the deep, blue ocean, there lived a sea king who had 7 mermaid daughters, each one more beautiful than other. He had no sons, but loved all his princesses dearly and gave them everything they could ever wish for.

On the 16th birthday of each princess, it was a family tradition that they each get to spend a whole day on the surface to learn about the world above, and they would always have an interesting tale to tell when they return. The youngest of the mermaids, who grew up listening to those tales, longed for the day she would turn 16 so she, too, can see the world above for herself.

Finally, on her 16th birthday, the little mermaid got her long-awaited chance to visit the surface. After having a lavish birthday party the night before, she bid goodbye to her family and eagerly swam away towards the world above.

The surface was everything her sisters told her and more, and it just so happened that the prince of the land she was visiting on was returned from a long sea voyage and there was hustle and bustle about as the people prepared to celebrate and welcome the prince home. Curiosity overtook her as the little mermaid swam her way to where the prince's ship would be coming from and found it just beyond the horizon.

There was many a-merrymaking on the prince's ship as they congratulated him on a voyage well done, and as the little mermaid snuck a peek at the prince, she was heads over heels in love with him, unable to believe such a handsome creature could exist. Her tiny little beating heart wished with all her might that she could be on the ship instead, dancing and laughing along with the prince.

Suddenly a great storm crashed in, taking everyone by surprise. No one was prepared for such an unexpected event as the storm tossed the ship around the waves like a rag doll, destroying every inch of the vessel. They had no choice but to abandon ship, but the prince, after trying to rescue everyone on board, was overcame by the current and knocked unconscious, sending him sinking to the sea. If it weren't for the little mermaid who rescued him in time, he would've drowned and be done for.

The little mermaid swam with the prince in tow and brought him to land where there would be people passing by. She stayed out of sight, watching over the prince until a group of women from a nearby convent walked by and caught sight of the prince on the shore. Making sure that he was tended to, the little mermaid left with a heavy heart, feeling as if she had left a piece of herself behind.

She told everything she had experienced on the surface to her sisters when she returned, but could not bring herself to tell them about her feelings for the prince as she knew they would not understand. She would sneak out every night to where the prince's castle was and stare at him longingly from afar, hoping to get at least a glimpse of her beloved before she had to spend another sleepless night thinking about him.

She became more and more reclusive, beside herself with loneliness and yearning for the prince she fell at first sight for. She lost interest of her world and was obsessed about the human world instead. Her family was worried about her sudden change but did not know what to do to help her.

Finally, the little mermaid could not take it anymore and decided that if the prince could not be with her, she will be with him instead. She snuck out of her castle as usual and made her way to the shadows of the sea, where the devious sea-witch dwelled. The sea-witch, having the power of foresight, had expected the little mermaid's arrival.

"I know what it is you seek, my child," the sea-witch crooned. "And while what you seek is endearing, it is also expensive."

"Name your price, sea-witch," the little mermaid begged. "As long as I am able to be with my beloved prince."

"Drink this potion under the full moon's light," the sea-witch handed her a vial of purple liquid, "and your tail will be transformed in man-limbs. There will be extreme pain during the transformation, and walking on man-made land will feel like fiery needles on your delicate feet. But if you succeed in making the prince fall in love with you, all your pain will be gone and you shall remain human for all time."

"And if I do not succeed?"

"You will die and become the foam of the sea, never to be part of this world or the next ever again."

"And the price for this magic?"

"Your beautiful voice may serve as an equivalent exchange. After all, if the prince truly loves you, he would not mind this small detail."

The little mermaid, after some hesitation, accepted the deal. She took the bottle offered to her and swam to the shores of the prince's castle. She waited for the full moon's light before taking the potion, and within minutes, her tail started to peel and crack, revealing her newly-made human legs underneath. The sea-witch was not lying when she said the transformation hurt, and the slow pace was not helping either as she cried and sobbed till her voice was no more.

The next morning, she was found by the prince and his escorts when he was out riding. Taken by her innocence and the scars on her legs and feet from the transformation, the prince took pity on her and took her in, thinking that she may have been a slave of sorts who got caught in a shipwreck and was washed on shore like he did.

The sea-witch was true to her word; every step the little mermaid took was like walking on broken glass, and shoes felt like hot coals on her skin, but she could not utter a sound even if she tried. The prince took her as one of his escorts and treated her like the sister he never had, and often tell her about the tale where he was shipwrecked and washed to shore and saved by a woman whose face he could not remember. The little mermaid wanted to tell him that it was she who saved him, but she knew neither to read nor write in human language, thus her deeds went unsaid.

Time passed as quick as sand, and before they knew it, 2 years have passed since they first met. One day, on winter's eve, a king from a neighboring land came to visit, bringing along his daughters. The moment the prince laid eyes on the youngest daughter and spoke to her, he knew immediately that she was one of the girls from the convent who found him ashore. The princess admitted to the deed, saying that she was a student at the convent when she met him, and the prince wasted no time in declaring that she was the one he wanted to be his bride.

The little mermaid was devastated to hear the news. She recognized the princess as one of the convent girls, but she knew it was not her who saved the prince. Try as she might, she was unable to convince the prince otherwise, and the prince was too obsessed over the princess to listen anyway.

As their wedding drew near, the little mermaid was getting desperate and was crying to the heavens when suddenly her sisters emerged from the sea bearing a huge silver dagger and their hair cut short.

"We have heard of your plight," the eldest sister said as she handed the dagger to the little mermaid, "and we begged the sea-witch to break the magic that holds you."

"Take this dagger that we've paid with our hair, and kill the prince on his wedding night before the sun rises," the third sister said. "You must consume his heart to regain your voice, and you will return to your true mermaid form and be with us again."

"The prince has forsaken you," the second sister said. "We do not wish for you to die for this human, after all you've done for him. He's no longer worth your love."

The little mermaid took the dagger and watched her sisters return to the sea. Her sisters' words rang true to her heart: she had done so much to get here, sacrificing her voice and her tail and endured so much pain just to be with the prince and make him fall in love with her. She was so close, so close! And yet...

On that wedding night, as the prince slept with his new bride, the little mermaid snuck into their bedroom with the dagger in hand. She watched as his beloved prince slept peacefully and knew that he had found happiness, but was sad as she knew the happiness was not from her.

If I cannot have him, no one will, she thought as she reached forward to slit both the prince's and the princess's throat. Carving both their hearts out, her lips creased into a wicked smile as she devoured them while they were still beating, unaware of the changes going on in her body...

The little mermaid never returned to the sea after that fateful night. She did not die and turn into the foam of the sea, but she did not turn back into a mermaid either. An elaborate funeral was done for the prince and his bride, and the little mermaid's family mourned for the loss of her too.

But during dark, stormy nights, you can hear her maniacal laughter echoing in the dungeons of the prince's castle, the lightning illuminating her fire-red hair and green scaly skin...

Twisted Tales: Hansel and Gretel

Deep in the forests of old, there lived a woodcutter and his wife. They had two children named Hansel and Gretel, and they loved them dearly. Even though they were not very well-off, they were a happy family, and want for nothing.

Sadly, the wife died when the children were 10, but the woodcutter could not take care of two children alone, so he remarried again. His new wife was, unfortunately, very demanding, only caring for herself and had no interest in raising the children. And because the woodcutter was too soft-hearted and too good a Christian to divorce her, she got away with everything.

One day, while Hansel accompanied Gretel to get water, they accidentally eavesdropped on the woodcutter and his wife planning to get rid of them. The wife complained that they did not have enough food to feed one person, let alone four, and the extra mouths had to go. The woodcutter was not too thrilled about the idea, but the wife would not let up, and gave him no quarter until he was forced to agree with her decision.

"What are we to do?" Gretel asked worriedly. "If we are left alone in the woods, we will surely die."

"Don't worry, sis," Hansel assured her. "I will not allow that to happen."

After he tucked Gretel to bed, Hansel snuck out of the house to collect marble pebbles that shone under the moonlight, filling his pouch with them till it was almost near sunrise before he snuck back into bed.

The next day, after packing their breakfast, the woodcutter brought Hansel and Gretel into the woods as a pretense to teach them the trade. While they entered the woods, Hansel lagged behind to drop the pebbles, creating a trail for them to their home. The woodcutter wandered until they were deep enough before he snuck away, leaving the children to their devices.

Come nightfall, the children had really lost their way, but thankfully, because of the pebbles Hansel dropped, they managed to find their way home, much to the chagrin of their stepmother. They used that tactic for the next few nights until finally the stepmother decided to take matters in her own hands.

First, she inspected Hansel's belongings and found the pebbles in his pouch. Then she emptied the pouch of its pebbles and locked the door so that Hansel could not sneak out. The next day, she decided to take the children instead and brought them dangerously deep into the woods and into the territory where she heard legends about a flesh-eating witch lurking about before making a run for it.

Without the pebbles, the children could not find their way back home, and Hansel's alternative option of using a trail of breadcrumbs failed when the birds have picked it off clean. Poor Hansel and Gretel wandered for days, maybe weeks, with no food and only rain as their source of water.

Before they knew it, they have entered into the realm where the flesh-eating witch lived. Lured by the sweet-smelling aroma of candies and pastries, they found the sweet house that the witch built to lure her victims in and started digging into it, gobbling with abandon.

The witch was delighted to have caught them in her trap and lured them into her home with the promise of more candy and treats. Once the children had their fill and fell into a stupor from their hearty meal, the witch locked Hansel up in a cage made of bones and chained Gretel to the floor, giving them a rude awakening of their fate. Gretel was forced under the threat of death to do all the witch's chores, including fattening up Hansel, for the witch had a rather fond taste for boys' flesh.

Gretel watched helplessly as her brother, traumatized by starvation, devoured his meal portions without question. She was only allowed to have whatever scraps was left after Hansel and the witch was done, which was very little, and was beaten black and blue if her chores were not done right. As Hansel grew fatter and fatter, Gretel grew thinner and thinner.

Finally, the witch, after feeling his finger, thought that Hansel was fat enough to be cooked. She ordered Gretel to start up the oven to bake while she prepared to cut Hansel up. That was when Gretel had an epiphany and struggled before the oven.

"Please help me," she begged. "I'm too thin and frail to reach the oven."

"Then go and get the stool for it," the witch barked as she picked up her knives.

"But the oven door is too heavy, and I'm too weak to reach in to start the fire."

"Oh, for goodness sake, child. Do I have to do everything myself?"

Frustrated, the witch made her way to the oven and stuck into it to start the fire. Gretel seized the chance and pushed the witch into the oven, shutting her in and let the oven cook her alive, the witch's cries falling on deaf ears. She quickly hunted for the keys to release Hansel before opening the oven to make sure the witch was really dead.

The moment Gretel opened the oven door, the strong delicious smell of meat permeated the air. Gretel, who had not eaten a decent meal in weeks, couldn't help it as her hunger pangs hit her like a ton of bricks. Without even thinking twice, she dragged the cooked witch out of the oven and started devouring her, clothes, skin, meat and all. Hansel watched with eager eyes at her sister eating like no tomorrow.

"Does it taste good?" Hansel asked with intrigue.

"Very," Gretel replied as she gnawed on a foot. "Would you like to try some?"

Hansel didn't need to be asked twice as he dug in too.

Hansel and Gretel were no longer heard from again, as the woodcutter had been driven to madness with grief over the loss of his children and there was no one to search for them.

But the legend of the flesh-eating witch continued to live on through them, still striking fear in the hearts of many.

Twisted Tales: Snow White and the Seven Dwarves

Long, long ago, in a faraway land, there lived a King and Queen who ruled their kingdom with kindness and just, and were beloved by their subjects. They have everything their hearts' desire, but the one thing they desired the most was a child of their own.

One winter afternoon, as the Queen was tending to her rose garden, she accidentally pricked her finger on a thorn of one of the roses. As 3 drops of blood trickled onto the snow, the Queen made a silent wish.

"I wish to have a child as white as snow, with hair as black as night, and lips as red as blood. How beautiful that child would be."

No sooner she made that wish, than a year later, the Queen was pregnant and soon gave birth to a bouncing baby girl. Sadly, the Queen died soon after giving birth, and the King was beside himself with grief. His only consolation was that his little princess grew to look just like the Queen wished, and thus she was named 'Snow White'.

As much as the King was content to rule his kingdom with his little princess by his side, a king cannot be without his queen, so when a royal diplomat came to visit with his daughter, the King couldn't help but fall for her bewitching looks. He courted her almost immediately and by the next spring, they were wed.

Unbeknownst to the King and Snow White, the new Queen was actually descended from a secret lineage of witches from her mother's side, and was as devious as her predecessors. With her cunning wits and powerful witchcraft, she assassinated the King and took control of the throne, making her the sole ruler of the kingdom.

The Queen was evil as she was vain, and she had a magic mirror she kept in her secret shrine to make sure that her beauty would never be surpassed. Every morning and evening, she would look into the mirror and say the magic words:

"Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

And the mirror would always answer: "Only you, my Queen, are the fairest of them all" and the Queen would be satisfied, for it would always speak the truth.

As the years went by, Snow White grew to be a beautiful young lady, ignorant of the Queen's evil deeds. On Snow's 16th birthday, the Queen approached her mirror as usual and asked, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

"You, my Queen, are fair by far, but Snow White is much fairer than thou are."

The Queen was filled with jealous rage, and decided there and then to kill Snow White. She sent for the best huntsman in the castle to do the deed, instructing him to bring her her heart as proof of her death. She then asked Snow White to go gather flowers for her birthday party. Snow, being innocent as she always was, went without question.

The huntsman waited until Snow White was distracted enough before he made his move. Unlike most of the Queen's subjects, this huntsman was fiercely loyal to her and would want nothing more than to please the evil Queen. Snow never saw it coming. The huntsman was swift and silent, and before she knew it, she was on the grass in her own pool of blood and a gaping hole on her throat and her chest.

The huntsman presented Snow's heart to the Queen, and the Queen served the heart to the guests during the supposed birthday party, and feigned ignorance when they asked of Snow's whereabouts.

As the kingdom searched for Snow White in vain, and mourned her death when they couldn't, they did not know that deep in the woods where Snow gathered her flowers, lived 7 dwarves who mined gems for a living. One of the dwarves witnessed the murder and dragged Snow's body into the mines to show to his brothers.

The eldest and wisest of the dwarves knew this was the work of the Queen, and since dwarves and witches have been mortal enemies since ancient times, they thought Snow would serve as their best medium to eliminate the Queen once and for all.

The dwarves dug deep into the mines for the biggest, reddest ruby they could find, while they kept Snow White's body in a glass coffin within the mines to shield her from the elements. After days of digging, they finally found one that was almost the size of a fresh, ripe apple and inserted it into the gap where her heart was supposed to be.

Within minutes, the ruby attached itself onto the cavity and started beating in its own accord, pumping new, dark blood throughout the fair princess's body. Snow White's eyes fluttered open as she slowly came to life and the dwarves watched with quiet pride as she made her way out of the mines and into the kingdom where the Queen reigned.

Snow White was unstoppable the moment she set foot into the castle. It was like a great power resides within her and nothing stood in her way. Every attack and defense was useless to her, and she stormed through the castle and into the throne room with great ease, her ebony-black hair crackled and flowed like midnight fire. The Queen tried everything, but her magic was no match against the darkness that boiled through Snow's veins...

As Snow White loomed over the shredded body of the once evil Queen, her eyes caught sight of the mirror within the secret shrine. Stepping slowly into the shrine, she stood before the mirror, smiled and whispered:

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?"

And the mirror answered: "Only you, Snow White, are the fairest of them all."

And Snow White was satisfied, for she knew it spoke the truth.

Twisted Tales: Little Red Riding Hood

Once upon a time, in a quaint little village, lived a young girl with her parents. She had a grandmother who lived deep in the woods, and she was very much loved by the old lady. Her grandmother gave her a beautiful red hood and cape on her 1st birthday, and she had been wearing it ever since, and because of that, everyone called her 'Lil Red'.

One day, Lil Red's grandmother got the flu and couldn't take care of herself. So Lil Red's mother gave her some money and a basketful of fresh-bought groceries, packed Lil Red's suitcase and told her to go stay with her grandmother and take care of her until she gets better. Lil Red agreed and bid goodbye to her family before making her way into the woods.

Unbeknownst to her, within the dense woods, there lived a huge man-sized wolf. He had been watching Lil Red for quite some time now since she was little, and today was no different. He almost could not believe his eyes at how much Lil Red has grown since he last saw her, and how beautiful she was. He finally decided to come out of hiding and approached her.

"Hello, Lil Red," the wolf greeted.

"Hello," Lil Red, after getting over her surprise of the wolf's sudden presence, replied. "I'm sorry, how do you know my name? Have we met?"

"No, but I have known you all your life, since you first set foot into these woods. Going to visit your grandmother, I presume?"

"Yes, I am," Lil Red smiled. "She's sick with the flu, so I will be staying with her for a while until she feels better."

"That's very sweet of you," the wolf smiled back. "I hope I'm not being too forward, but I would really like to get acquainted with you. Would you mind terribly if we visit each other sometimes while you're with your grandmother?"

Lil Red was quite taken away by the wolf's boldness, but she could see that the wolf was sincere, so she agreed.

From that day onwards, Lil Red and the wolf met whenever they could. Lil Red was as good as gold, meeting her grandmother's every needs, but once she has completed her chores, she would wait until her grandmother was in bed before going out to a nearby flower field to meet up with the wolf. Sometimes she would have to do the laundry, so the wolf will go to meet her instead at the lake and they spend time together as well.

As the days went by, Lil Red felt more and more drawn towards the wolf, and before she knew it, she had fallen deeply in love with him. She dare not tell her grandmother about it for fear of being reprimanded and separated, so their love affair was kept secret.

Lil Red's grandmother was slowly getting better and Lil Red knew that sooner or later she was going to go back home to her family. She raised her concerns to the wolf, in which the wolf suggested that they run away together. While they secretly discussed their options, they did not realize that Lil Red's grandmother, who decided to take a walk and get some fresh air, had seen and heard everything.

Later that night, Lil Red secretly packed her belongings and, thinking her grandmother was asleep, snuck out of the cottage, making her way to the flower field where she and the wolf promised to meet and to make a run for it. But to her horror, she was met with the local woodsman standing over the mutilated body of her beloved wolf and a bloody axe in his hand. The woodsman told her that he was hired by her grandmother to kill the wolf and to take her back home immediately.

"It's for your own good." That was the only thing he said when she demanded why.

Lil Red was inconsolable. She grieved for her beloved wolf for weeks and her parents, appalled by her love for the wolf, did nothing to help her alleviate her pain. Everyone started to shun her and called her a freak, and her shameful parents took to locking her up in the cellar and soon forgot she existed.

A year later, Lil Red's grandmother was struck with bad news as word went around that a terrible fire consumed Lil Red's home and everyone in it. As the old lady grieved over the loss of the only family she had, a knock was heard at her door.

"Who is it?" the old lady called out.

"It is I, Lil Red," a gentle, wispy voice came from beyond the door.

The grandmother, thrilled to hear her sweet granddaughter's voice and relieved that she must've survived the fire, quickly answered the door, but taken aback at what she saw.

"Oh, Lil Red, what bright eyes you have."

"All the better to see you with, Granny."

"Oh, Lil Red, what a huge grin you have."

"All the better to smile at you with, Granny."

"Oh, Lil Red, what long nails you have..."

"All the better to TEAR YOU UP WITH, GRANNY!!"

Shiny, jagged teeth was the last thing the old lady saw before she was bathed in crimson red, and the woods was never the same again.

Dust

The last storm was already on the horizon when I woke that Sunday morning. It hung in the south, a solid black wall of dust, churning and seemingly motionless. I’d every intention of sleeping late into the morning, as had been my Sunday custom since Adele and the girls had left, but the distant rumbling and crackle of lightning drug me from the bed just after sunrise. I shuffled drowsily around the farm in the early morning, lashing the doors of the barn, rounding up the two stubborn hogs, and shuttering the windows; but soon I found myself rooted in place, captivated by the writhing shape in the sky. It stretched impossibly wide across the open sky, rolling across the border from Nebraska. The air had a dry, electric chill, and already the sickly yellow wheat swayed in anticipation.

I was in a trance, eyes locked on the distance when I saw a small light dust plume to the west, picked out in stark contrast with black beyond. The horse and rider at the base of the little dust devil approached the farm at a sharp trot, and my dust bleary eyes registered the silhouette. Carl Jordan had owned the farm next to mine for as along my family has been in the Dakotas, I grew up with his great booming laughter warming our home nearly every night. His usual broad, yellowing smile was absent beneath recently trimmed mustache and broad rimmed black hat; his dark suit was blotted with fine layer of grit that he brushed absently at.

“Eddie.” His voice was tired and small as he looked down at me. “No church today?”

I hadn’t been in months and he’d once admitted to envying me. I just didn’t see the need any longer, and I’ve relished the extra hours. I ignored the question.

“What’s troubling you, Carl? Mattie all right?” I asked.

He turned towards the south, to the storm and sucked loudly on his lower lip. After a few moments of thought he sighed deeply, with a phlegmy rumble.

“The Hattersons are dead. All of them, ‘cept Saul.” He said evenly, not returning his gaze to mine. I drank this in for a moment, feeling the insides my sinuses beginning to burn in the cold and arid breeze. I briefly dwelt upon the image of the youngest Hatterson, a tow headed toddler with the dim looking smile I’d seen at the general store with Saul and Molly a few days prior.

“How?” I asked finally. He grimaced slightly, still gazing south.

“Saul’s missing. No one seen him since last night. Molly and the kids are dead, and Saul’s gone. It don’t sound good.” Carl slumped forward a little, and I saw, not for the first time how, old he was. “The whole hornet’s nest is stirred up over in Pickton. He was gonna lose the farm they say.”

Fleetingly, it concerned me that I could easily see the connection between these facts.

“Mattie’s fine,” he said after another silent moment. “Just a little ill this morning, thanks for asking.” He broke from the black clouds, and fixed his eyes on me. He offered a pale imitation of his familiar smile, but his eyes remained squinted tight, haunted. He looked as if he had more to say, but at last, he just nodded and gathered the reins.

“Be safe, Eddie,” he said, a phrase worn smooth by repeated use, and turned towards his farm, trotting quickly, head still crooked towards the storm.

By noon, I could only watch as the it reached up and blotted out the sun.

* * *

The dust storm enveloped us, obscuring the sky like the hands of God. I did my best to ration the allotment of bourbon I’d poured off that morning, watching the black wind scour the earth through a broken shutter slat. During the storms of the years before, pale and weak compared to this tempest, Adele would huddle with the girls to read scripture, inevitably ending with the Revelations in hushed reverent tones. I’d tried not to scowl at her fear and awe before, but now I could feel a little tremor of doubt in me, as I looked out at the sackcloth sky.

When the sky darkened a few shades at nightfall, I prepared a small meal of bread and fried eggs, and drained the rest of the bourbon. Later, I laid in the unmade bed with the world spinning, and the sky howling outside and tried not to think.

The storm raged stronger than ever the next morning, the sun winking through the maelstrom, a fat circle of hazy orange like a fading coal. Late in the day, it showed no sign of abating and I resigned to leave the house, if only to feed the animals. I tied my goggles to my head, and a damp bandana around my mouth, but I still gasped at the ragged burn of the dust when I stepped outside into the storm. The lining of my throat seemed to crack and bleed within moments.

I could barely see the barn but I set out instinctually towards it. A tall hillock of fine black dust was pressed to the side, and it took me a few kicks to clear the door. The dust had seeped in everywhere, and the hogs and cows were covered in a layer of grime. They stood still in their pens, eyes red and glassy, shuddering and jerking with each loud creak from the roof beams. They ignored the food.

There was a twisting coil of anxiety in my chest when Carl arrived, leading the terrified horse behind him. His beard was matted with dust, and he had to sweep the lenses of the googles clean at my doorstep, but instead of entering, he only waved me out to join him.

“You need to come with me!” he shouted over the storm. The dust between his teeth had formed a thin black mud that flecked at the corners of his mouth. It was his tone, flat and even, that terrified me. I didn’t argue, but pulled on goggles, and offered him a second bandana.
I followed close behind him, one hand on the horse’s haunch. Carl picked his way down the path, navigating by some uncanny memory of the curves in the little road. We walked cautiously and deliberately west for the better part of half a mile, past Carl’s own farm, towards the leaning shape of the Collins farm. A throbbing dread began to stir in my breast as we approached.

The door was thrown wide open and off one of its hinges, swinging violently in the wind. I could see Roger Collins, slumped in the door frame, the congealing blood on his forehead caked with the fine dirt. His eyes were open, the left eye beneath the bullet hole was flooded red and tilted wildly skyward. Clutched in his curled hands was a rifle with one spent casing.

Abigail Collins and her youngest were inside, curled tightly around each other in the corner of the room. The flowers of blood that bloomed on the fabric of their dresses was bright and vivid.

Slumped upright at the dinner table, as if ready for a meal, was another figure, filthy and caked with black dust. He seemed composed, sitting upright and proud, despite the pinprick bullet hole, clean and bloodless, standing starkly in the center of his throat. His grimy skin was dried and shriveled, his eyes were closed, the lids sunken over the pits. It took a long yawning moment to recognize the desiccated face. Saul Hatterson, hands clasped around a little revolver, looking for all the world like he’d been dead for a week. Saul Hatterson, grinning obscenely wide, showing dried black gums.

Despite the roaring storm, there was a unearthly stillness in the little house, and I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I turned to Carl with pitiful expression, a plea for some sort of understanding.

“I was bringing them some canned food. Roger was worried about being able to last out a long store,” he shouted from the front porch, where he was closing Roger’s eyes and wiping the blood from his hand. He looked up at me and stood. “Jed’s missing.”

I gazed around the room again, before turning to Carl. “You don’t think that Jed…” I began, letting the idea remain unsaid. Jed was a quiet and sickly kid, but something about him had always set my teeth on edge.

“No,” he barked. “I don’t think a 15 year old could be capable of this. But I didn’t think Saul was either. None of this makes any sense” He brushed the lenses of his goggles clean once more.

“No, it does not.” I agreed.

“We should head into Pickton to tell someone, but I- I need you to drive the Collins’ Ford. I can make it between our three farms on foot reliably enough, but I don’t think me or that horse could make it all the way into town.” Carl looked mildly embarrassed, hidden as he was behind dust and beard, and I followed him to barn.

The Model A made a few grinding rasps before dying completely, refusing to respond to anything. When I opened the gas cap, a damp and clumping mixture of dust and gasoline tumbled from the little opening. My breath came in increasingly shallow gasps as we moved to the Collins’ tractor, unscrewing the cap. The same reeking clay was stuffed to the top of the tank.

The walk back towards our farms was silent, my heart pounding as I struggled to keep my breathing steady, as the inside of my sinuses were scoured raw. First Carl’s tractor, then we checked mine, both were useless and clogged with dust. If Carl was as panicked as I was, he refused to show it.

“Eddie, I don’t know what this means,” he yelled to me as we crouched over my tractor, the sky dimming. “But I think I’d appreciate it if you stayed with me and Mattie tonight. The storm has to let up in the morning I’m sure.” I could see at last the spark of fear in his eyes, and it brought me a little solace.

* *

Carl went ahead, panicky with thoughts of Mattie, sick in bed on her own, and I agreed to follow shortly. I entered my house to gather my shotgun and a tin of coffee. I don’t believe I intended to start drinking, but the bloody and crooked eye was shining wetly in my memory, and I drew from the bourbon a few soothing pulls.

I recall being tired and weary from the day’s grim business, but I don’t remember lying down on on the cool wood of the floor. When I woke gripping the gun and empty bottle, the sky was lighter, but the whirling black cloud still surrounded the world on all sides. Tuesday. I thought through a fog of pain. Or is it Wednesday? I groggily allowed the shame to flood in when I realized I’d left Carl and Mattie waiting all night.

After finding all the water drained the night before, I dressed for the storm and headed out to the well. The pump handle strained against me as I pressed downward bringing up the first sounds of water. What came out of the pump was black and viscous, a thin black paste. I dropped the tin bucket in disgust, feeling yesterday’s dread igniting behind the alcohol ache, and I turned quickly towards Carl’s farm.

On the road, with my destination not yet visible, I turned to see behind me. There wasn’t even the faint outline of my barn. In that moment, I was alone, surrounded by a wall of vibrating earth and wind all sides. It could have been all of creation and I would never know. It could be the end of creation, and I would never know. I turned back towards Carl’s farm and began to run in a panic, frantically hoping I had not altered direction.

As the small unpainted house came into view, I saw Carl’s horse, lying motionless on the ground, still tied to the railing on the porch. A small dune of black dust had formed against one side. The door was wide open, slamming into the wall with a sharp crack at each breath from the storm.

My panic spiked like a fever when I stepped inside, and my body began shaking violently.

Mattie lay spilled from her bed, trailing sheets and and a shredded fragment of her nightgown. Her head was twisted, the neck bruised and bent, and bulging glassy eyes seemed to stare directly at me. Her tongue was thick and black between her teeth.

Seated on the bed above her, spindly legs dangling over the edge, was the dried and leathery corpse of Jed Collins, the missing boy. His eye sockets gaped empty and black as he silently grinned out at the world.

Carl was nowhere to be found.

I backed out quietly from the house, at last truly toning out the chaotic roar of the storm. My mind spun trying to make sense of utter madness, and it stoked the fires inside me; panting, desperate dread flooding my limbs until I found myself propelled blind, running through the storm towards my home.

I continued past the hulking silhouette of my barn, legs flooding with fire as I sucked in great lungfuls of choking dust. I thought nothing of destination, I only wanted to get as far away from the storm as possible, far from the empty charnel houses of my neighbors, and from empty eyes and wicked grins.

I made it as far as thin fork of the Missouri that carves the far edge of my land. I saw, through the wall of shifting haze, the black outline of the river from a distance. When I approached, legs slowing and lungs burning, I saw the river more clearly, wide and unearthly still. The water was black and thick, and in mute disbelief I watched it flow, slowly like molasses, under a dark and churning sky. And then, I began to understand.

*

I nailed the shutters closed, driven by an animal urgency of purpose. The door I braced with Adele’s heirloom cabinet, allowing it to crack and splinter on it side as I stacked a steamer chest on top.

I didn’t really believe that this would slow whatever would come tonight, in the howling darkness, but I wanted to have the time to know, to be sure. The last bourbon bottle lay empty on the floor, and I was glad for this, for the chance to be clearheaded at last. I sat, back to the wall, facing the door with the shotgun in my hands and I waited.

The sky darkened and the storm continued to howl; I measured my breaths, trying to hold onto a that moment of calm, to stretch it out until it dried and snapped apart.

It was late at night when it arrived. I could hear the heavy footsteps circling the porch, pulling lightly, testing each shutter. My hands were suddenly slick with sweat on the barrel of the shotgun.

The shuffling footsteps stopped in front of door, and I saw the wood flex ever so slightly as pressure was applied. A scraping sound began to rise, hissing, from the small barricade as it began to slide slowly across the floor. The force on the other side of the door increased slowly, steadily, grinding against the heavy barricade until the door was open to the storm and to the night and beyond.

The figure swept into the room with a silent grace that surprised me, and stood regarding me. Carl’s skin seemed to crackle and go taut like paper as he moved, and in the hollow of his empty eyes were tiny twisting clouds of dust, blue ribbons of electricity arcing across the sockets. He was smiling, a smile I’d never seen from him, a wide obscene grin.

I felt a strange sort of calm then, the surety of knowing, despite the impossible madness of it all. I raised the shotgun.

“Eddie,” the thing inside Carl hissed, in a voice like grinding sand. The corpse took another step towards me, and I saw a black trickle of mud from the edge if its cracked lips. “Go ahead and shoot, Eddie. See what it gets you.”

I smiled back at him, seeing the solution so clearly at last. I took a moment to be thankful that Adele and the girls are gone; thankful, in an awful way, that I’d struck her hard enough for her to finally leave me. This would not be the night that they die.

It had moved halfway across the room now, shuffling towards me, the malevolent sparks of its eyes locked on me. The now-familiar dread reared up to swallow my temporary peace.

I saw, in the black whirlpool of it’s eyes, the great storm, covering the entire earth in a final gloom; I saw trails and chains of endless murder and atrocity crisscrossing the darkened world, into that last eternal night. I saw the end.

All I had left was a little sliver of hope, enough to spur me onward. I swung the shotgun up under my chin, feeling the cool of the barrel on my chin. The thing inside Carl jerked to a halt, and ceased to smile; and I knew I’d gambled right this time.

It needed me. And it can’t have me.

I made sure I was smiling, drinking in the thing’s rage and frustration.

The thing roared and with a leap, burst from Carl’s body, his drying muscles snapping and shredding into long fraying fibers, as it shed him like a coat, thudding to the floor behind. It was a swirling cloud, a flurry of dust, coursing with lightning and pure, elemental hatred that I saw then, surging towards me faster than I would have believed possible. Thin tendrils coiled, and tightened, and wound their way through air, twisting towards my mouth and nose. I could feel them caress the raw passages of my lungs, hot, twisting and unmistakably, horribly, alive as they slid into me.

I pulled the trigger.

Credited to Josef K.

The Lady Or The Tiger?

In the very olden time there lived a semi-barbaric king, whose ideas, though somewhat polished and sharpened by the progressiveness of distant Latin neighbors, were still large, florid, and untrammeled, as became the half of him which was barbaric. He was a man of exuberant fancy, and, withal, of an authority so irresistible that, at his will, he turned his varied fancies into facts. He was greatly given to self-communing, and, when he and himself agreed upon anything, the thing was done. When every member of his domestic and political systems moved smoothly in its appointed course, his nature was bland and genial; but, whenever there was a little hitch, and some of his orbs got out of their orbits, he was blander and more genial still, for nothing pleased him so much as to make the crooked straight and crush down uneven places.

Among the borrowed notions by which his barbarism had become semified was that of the public arena, in which, by exhibitions of manly and beastly valor, the minds of his subjects were refined and cultured.

But even here the exuberant and barbaric fancy asserted itself. The arena of the king was built, not to give the people an opportunity of hearing the rhapsodies of dying gladiators, nor to enable them to view the inevitable conclusion of a conflict between religious opinions and hungry jaws, but for purposes far better adapted to widen and develop the mental energies of the people. This vast amphitheater, with its encircling galleries, its mysterious vaults, and its unseen passages, was an agent of poetic justice, in which crime was punished, or virtue rewarded, by the decrees of an impartial and incorruptible chance.

When a subject was accused of a crime of sufficient importance to interest the king, public notice was given that on an appointed day the fate of the accused person would be decided in the king's arena, a structure which well deserved its name, for, although its form and plan were borrowed from afar, its purpose emanated solely from the brain of this man, who, every barleycorn a king, knew no tradition to which he owed more allegiance than pleased his fancy, and who ingrafted on every adopted form of human thought and action the rich growth of his barbaric idealism.

When all the people had assembled in the galleries, and the king, surrounded by his court, sat high up on his throne of royal state on one side of the arena, he gave a signal, a door beneath him opened, and the accused subject stepped out into the amphitheater. Directly opposite him, on the other side of the enclosed space, were two doors, exactly alike and side by side. It was the duty and the privilege of the person on trial to walk directly to these doors and open one of them. He could open either door he pleased; he was subject to no guidance or influence but that of the aforementioned impartial and incorruptible chance. If he opened the one, there came out of it a hungry tiger, the fiercest and most cruel that could be procured, which immediately sprang upon him and tore him to pieces as a punishment for his guilt. The moment that the case of the criminal was thus decided, doleful iron bells were clanged, great wails went up from the hired mourners posted on the outer rim of the arena, and the vast audience, with bowed heads and downcast hearts, wended slowly their homeward way, mourning greatly that one so young and fair, or so old and respected, should have merited so dire a fate.

But, if the accused person opened the other door, there came forth from it a lady, the most suitable to his years and station that his majesty could select among his fair subjects, and to this lady he was immediately married, as a reward of his innocence. It mattered not that he might already possess a wife and family, or that his affections might be engaged upon an object of his own selection; the king allowed no such subordinate arrangements to interfere with his great scheme of retribution and reward. The exercises, as in the other instance, took place immediately, and in the arena. Another door opened beneath the king, and a priest, followed by a band of choristers, and dancing maidens blowing joyous airs on golden horns and treading an epithalamic measure, advanced to where the pair stood, side by side, and the wedding was promptly and cheerily solemnized. Then the gay brass bells rang forth their merry peals, the people shouted glad hurrahs, and the innocent man, preceded by children strewing flowers on his path, led his bride to his home.

This was the king's semi-barbaric method of administering justice. Its perfect fairness is obvious. The criminal could not know out of which door would come the lady; he opened either he pleased, without having the slightest idea whether, in the next instant, he was to be devoured or married. On some occasions the tiger came out of one door, and on some out of the other. The decisions of this tribunal were not only fair, they were positively determinate: the accused person was instantly punished if he found himself guilty, and, if innocent, he was rewarded on the spot, whether he liked it or not. There was no escape from the judgments of the king's arena.

The institution was a very popular one. When the people gathered together on one of the great trial days, they never knew whether they were to witness a bloody slaughter or a hilarious wedding. This element of uncertainty lent an interest to the occasion which it could not otherwise have attained. Thus, the masses were entertained and pleased, and the thinking part of the community could bring no charge of unfairness against this plan, for did not the accused person have the whole matter in his own hands?

This semi-barbaric king had a daughter as blooming as his most florid fancies, and with a soul as fervent and imperious as his own. As is usual in such cases, she was the apple of his eye, and was loved by him above all humanity. Among his courtiers was a young man of that fineness of blood and lowness of station common to the conventional heroes of romance who love royal maidens. This royal maiden was well satisfied with her lover, for he was handsome and brave to a degree unsurpassed in all this kingdom, and she loved him with an ardor that had enough of barbarism in it to make it exceedingly warm and strong. This love affair moved on happily for many months, until one day the king happened to discover its existence. He did not hesitate nor waver in regard to his duty in the premises. The youth was immediately cast into prison, and a day was appointed for his trial in the king's arena. This, of course, was an especially important occasion, and his majesty, as well as all the people, was greatly interested in the workings and development of this trial. Never before had such a case occurred; never before had a subject dared to love the daughter of the king. In after years such things became commonplace enough, but then they were in no slight degree novel and startling.

The tiger-cages of the kingdom were searched for the most savage and relentless beasts, from which the fiercest monster might be selected for the arena; and the ranks of maiden youth and beauty throughout the land were carefully surveyed by competent judges in order that the young man might have a fitting bride in case fate did not determine for him a different destiny. Of course, everybody knew that the deed with which the accused was charged had been done. He had loved the princess, and neither he, she, nor any one else, thought of denying the fact; but the king would not think of allowing any fact of this kind to interfere with the workings of the tribunal, in which he took such great delight and satisfaction. No matter how the affair turned out, the youth would be disposed of, and the king would take an aesthetic pleasure in watching the course of events, which would determine whether or not the young man had done wrong in allowing himself to love the princess.

The appointed day arrived. From far and near the people gathered, and thronged the great galleries of the arena, and crowds, unable to gain admittance, massed themselves against its outside walls. The king and his court were in their places, opposite the twin doors, those fateful portals, so terrible in their similarity.

All was ready. The signal was given. A door beneath the royal party opened, and the lover of the princess walked into the arena. Tall, beautiful, fair, his appearance was greeted with a low hum of admiration and anxiety. Half the audience had not known so grand a youth had lived among them. No wonder the princess loved him! What a terrible thing for him to be there!

As the youth advanced into the arena he turned, as the custom was, to bow to the king, but he did not think at all of that royal personage. His eyes were fixed upon the princess, who sat to the right of her father. Had it not been for the moiety of barbarism in her nature it is probable that lady would not have been there, but her intense and fervid soul would not allow her to be absent on an occasion in which she was so terribly interested. From the moment that the decree had gone forth that her lover should decide his fate in the king's arena, she had thought of nothing, night or day, but this great event and the various subjects connected with it. Possessed of more power, influence, and force of character than any one who had ever before been interested in such a case, she had done what no other person had done - she had possessed herself of the secret of the doors. She knew in which of the two rooms, that lay behind those doors, stood the cage of the tiger, with its open front, and in which waited the lady. Through these thick doors, heavily curtained with skins on the inside, it was impossible that any noise or suggestion should come from within to the person who should approach to raise the latch of one of them. But gold, and the power of a woman's will, had brought the secret to the princess.

And not only did she know in which room stood the lady ready to emerge, all blushing and radiant, should her door be opened, but she knew who the lady was. It was one of the fairest and loveliest of the damsels of the court who had been selected as the reward of the accused youth, should he be proved innocent of the crime of aspiring to one so far above him; and the princess hated her. Often had she seen, or imagined that she had seen, this fair creature throwing glances of admiration upon the person of her lover, and sometimes she thought these glances were perceived, and even returned. Now and then she had seen them talking together; it was but for a moment or two, but much can be said in a brief space; it may have been on most unimportant topics, but how could she know that? The girl was lovely, but she had dared to raise her eyes to the loved one of the princess; and, with all the intensity of the savage blood transmitted to her through long lines of wholly barbaric ancestors, she hated the woman who blushed and trembled behind that silent door.

When her lover turned and looked at her, and his eye met hers as she sat there, paler and whiter than any one in the vast ocean of anxious faces about her, he saw, by that power of quick perception which is given to those whose souls are one, that she knew behind which door crouched the tiger, and behind which stood the lady. He had expected her to know it. He understood her nature, and his soul was assured that she would never rest until she had made plain to herself this thing, hidden to all other lookers-on, even to the king. The only hope for the youth in which there was any element of certainty was based upon the success of the princess in discovering this mystery; and the moment he looked upon her, he saw she had succeeded, as in his soul he knew she would succeed.

Then it was that his quick and anxious glance asked the question: "Which?" It was as plain to her as if he shouted it from where he stood. There was not an instant to be lost. The question was asked in a flash; it must be answered in another.

Her right arm lay on the cushioned parapet before her. She raised her hand, and made a slight, quick movement toward the right. No one but her lover saw her. Every eye but his was fixed on the man in the arena.

He turned, and with a firm and rapid step he walked across the empty space. Every heart stopped beating, every breath was held, every eye was fixed immovably upon that man. Without the slightest hesitation, he went to the door on the right, and opened it.

Now, the point of the story is this: Did the tiger come out of that door, or did the lady ?

The more we reflect upon this question, the harder it is to answer. It involves a study of the human heart which leads us through devious mazes of passion, out of which it is difficult to find our way. Think of it, fair reader, not as if the decision of the question depended upon yourself, but upon that hot-blooded, semi-barbaric princess, her soul at a white heat beneath the combined fires of despair and jealousy. She had lost him, but who should have him?

How often, in her waking hours and in her dreams, had she started in wild horror, and covered her face with her hands as she thought of her lover opening the door on the other side of which waited the cruel fangs of the tiger!

But how much oftener had she seen him at the other door! How in her grievous reveries had she gnashed her teeth, and torn her hair, when she saw his start of rapturous delight as he opened the door of the lady! How her soul had burned in agony when she had seen him rush to meet that woman, with her flushing cheek and sparkling eye of triumph; when she had seen him lead her forth, his whole frame kindled with the joy of recovered life; when she had heard the glad shouts from the multitude, and the wild ringing of the happy bells; when she had seen the priest, with his joyous followers, advance to the couple, and make them man and wife before her very eyes; and when she had seen them walk away together upon their path of flowers, followed by the tremendous shouts of the hilarious multitude, in which her one despairing shriek was lost and drowned!

Would it not be better for him to die at once, and go to wait for her in the blessed regions of semi-barbaric futurity?

And yet, that awful tiger, those shrieks, that blood!

Her decision had been indicated in an instant, but it had been made after days and nights of anguished deliberation. She had known she would be asked, she had decided what she would answer, and, without the slightest hesitation, she had moved her hand to the right.

The question of her decision is one not to be lightly considered, and it is not for me to presume to set myself up as the one person able to answer it. And so I leave it with all of you: Which came out of the opened door - the lady, or the tiger?

By: Frank Stockton

Can You Relate?

Can you relate?
You sit in your towel after a shower because you’re too lazy to get dressed.
You and your best friend can say one word, and crack up.
You hate when one string of your hoodie is longer than the other.
You hate it when people think you like someone when you clearly don’t.
You hate it when your favorite song comes on, as you pull into the driveway.
You feel like if you turn on the lights, you will be safe from anything.
You push those little buttons on the lids of fast-food drinks.
You laugh until people get hurt, then stop when you realize it’s serious.
You hate it when parents get serious about something funny you tell them.
You hate when you tell a guy to shut up and they copy you in a higher voice.
You pretend to sleep when your parents come in.
You text the person next to you things that you can’t say out loud.
You hate when people in front of you walk really slow and you can’t get past them.
You’re always tired no matter how much sleep you get.
You stop the microwave before it hits 00:00 to avoid hearing the beeps.
You use the “sup” head nod.
You hate when you are mad at someone and they make you laugh.
You check the fridge every ten seconds to see if food magically appeared.
Can you relate?

North

There was a time when I believed running might help; if I could pack up my few belongings and burn the rest under cover of darkness and flee, I could start over somewhere new. But in this bleak frostbitten place, I admit to myself, truly, that I cannot outrun him, that I can never escape him. And should I slip into the warm embrace of doubt after an unnaturally long stretch of peaceful, empty days, he will be only too happy to remind me of this.

There’s almost nothing left he can take from me. The days before him are fading like an aged photograph now, a hazy yellow dream of stability and happiness with a long future of happy possibilities stretched ahead. Today, I am huddled in the eaves of a collapsing barn in the Yukon Territory, desperately trying to start a fire with sodden and rotting hay. The more I burn now, the less I have to use as a blanket. It is a delicate balance that I have not quite mastered.

I hitchhiked across the border two months ago, and have been making my way north steadily. Going any other direction than north is no longer an option. I do not know what I will do when I reach the Artic Ocean. Perhaps continue across the sea ice, if it has not thinned to the point of breaking. What I cannot do, ever, is return to my life, to Seattle. I can never see my son again.

It seems absurd to think that just less than a year ago, my life was unfractured, whole. The pieces of my life were trite and predictable. I was an insomniac, and used to lie awake staring at the ceiling, chewing over my doubts and secret fears: that I may not be able to keep up house payments, that I may not love my wife any longer, that I would repeat my father’s failures with my son. These phantoms of doubt and fear filled my bleeding stomach with ragged holes that I recall now with almost fond nostalgia. How easy it all was, then.

The manila envelope was stuffed in the mail slot when I rose to prepare breakfast for my son. Unlabeled, unaddressed, only my name was written on it in jagged capitals. It contained one black VHS cassette, its label long ago faded and blurred. Over the top of the label was a black ink smiley face, blindly grinning up at me.

It took me a day to find our VCR in the small attic crawlspace, bundled with a few dozen home movies of our son’s soccer games and birthday parties. Late at night, long after my family had drifted off to sleep, I connected it to our television. It whirred to life with a sharp smell of burning dust, and I inserted the tape.

For a few moments, the static leapt and fizzled on the screen, then blackness. The silent image began to brighten to a washed out shot of an elementary school parking lot at the start of day, and the picture zoomed into a small group of children among the chaos, and I recognized my son and a few of his friends. I began to wonder if I had accidentally retrieved one of our old tapes, when, almost as an answer, the camera tilted forward into the inside of a car. The zoom lens racked forward on a crisp copy of the Times and lingered momentarily on the date. Two days prior. My guts curdled with unease as the screen again went dark. A few seconds later, letters appeared, the bright and jagged electronic font of cheap in-camera titles.

YOU CAN’T SAVE HIM.

My insides turned to ice water and I slumped in the couch, my limbs feeling distant and useless. The letters vanished in a gust of static.

I did not tell my wife, and certainly never told my son, but I drove to the police station in the morning. The heavy oppressive dread of the night before had somewhat dissipated as I handed over the tape to the jowly and half asleep officer, and answered a few mumbled questions. He registered my concern with condescending impatience, and I eventually had to clasp my jaw and walk out quietly when I realized he would never view it as anything but a harmless prank.

Two days later, with the unease in my stomach waning little, I received another tape, adorned with the same grinning cartoon. The image that this time resolved out of the static was a hallway, painted in night vision and gloom. The unseen cameraman walked slowly forward towards the last door. A little sigh of relief bubbled up in me when I could not recognize the doors and windowless walls. This was someone else’s house.

The camera tilted down to see a gloved hand twist the doorknob; the only sound in the air was the clacking spin of the VCR heads and the tape’s reels. The door opened to reveal a small and cramped bedroom and a dark, huddled form on the bed. The camera approached the form and a sleeping face soon filled the screen. It teased me with familiarity, tantalizingly close, but I could not yet recognize the face.

Two objects dropped down onto the man’s chest, thudding slightly and rousing him from his sleep. The first, a policeman’s badge, all I need in a flash of recognition to connect this slowly stirring form with the Desk Sergeant. The second sealed his identity: it was the first tape, the crude smiley face pointed perfectly upright. The policeman blinked twice and then squinted into the camera.

In the few frames before blackness, I could see the brief impression of a flash, and a symmetrical flower of blood and bone erupt from his skull, just a brief flicker of streaking colors and light. I moaned pathetically in the darkness, an animal whimper of helplessness. Like a bolt of lightning, the jagged text lit up the screen.

YOUR FAULT.

I did not move until the pale light of morning, first letting the tape play out through a further hour of static, and then later sobbing silently under the cold blue light of the idling VCR. After a few hours of that quiet delirium, doubting what I had just seen, I rewound the tape, and started it again.

It was blank. Finding a set of small screwdrivers, I dismantled the tape and gingerly separated its carapace. Inside, was a small magnet, ingeniously placed on a loose spindle inside the right spool of tape; the tape was erased the moment I watched it.

Taped firmly to the side of the black plastic housing, was a small, folded photograph. It was my wife and son, walking hand and hand out the front door of the house. On the back of the photograph, in the same blocky script as the envelope, were three letters and three sharp periods.

SHH…

————–

There were times in the following year, when I believed that only suicide would save my family. He never told me what, if anything he wanted. He never revealed himself, or his reasons. He seemed only content to watch the engine of my life to shudder to a halt. I descended into a fog of self-pity and utter horror as all my relationships dissolved around me.

At irregular intervals, always just enough time passed to make me believe that it had ended, that I had dreamt it all, I would receive a package. They each contained a half a dozen photographs on glossy paper. My son in school, doodling in his notebooks, shot through an open window. A soccer game, his leg frozen in mid swing. A front yard game with two neighbors, my son suspended in a leap, his tongue out, stuck in a mask of joy.

I received the last package a month after my wife had left me. Unable to cope with my stony, hollow eyed silence and slow motion disintegration, she had returned across the state line, to Idaho, and her mother’s house, where she made unsubtle attempts over nightly phone calls to convince our son to join her. Whatever amicability there was between us was flaking away like old paint, and I knew a court intervention was imminent.

For myself, I did not know if I could keep my son safest close to me, or whether I was dooming him by my presence. He was increasingly distant, angry at my sudden shift in personality, and inability to make his mother happy. His presence, no matter how he pouted and hid, was the one bright and shining point of that time, a silver thread to hold onto in the maelstrom. The week of the last package, he had taken a Greyhound bus to see his mother, already hinting at a desire to stay and live with her; I was in a black and foul mood when I found to the familiar manila envelope in the entryway.

It contained a single photograph, and the first video I had gotten since the policeman’s murder. The photograph was of my son, sleeping, in his bed at home. I held it my hand, clutching tight and staring, not wanting to comprehend what I was seeing and its sickening implications.

On the video, the smiley-face was gone, and its place, was a clock. I slid it into the VCR in a state of cold shock and sat at the edge of the couch, my eyes watering and my jaw hanging slack.

IT IS TIME.

YOU CAN KEEP HIM SAFE.

The jagged letters crashed through the static and captured my gaze. Frozen in place, my lungs would not expand and my vision swam dizzyingly. The letters vanished and there was blackness again, but only momentarily, as a burst of cold light brought a new sentence to the screen:

GO-

The ashtray impacted with the center of the screen, and the television tube made an audible popping sound, as glass and circuitry spilled from the wound. I hadn’t even been aware that I was throwing the heavy pewter dish, but now I felt a hot wash of anger, the helplessness and fear of the last year flared in me.

I would leave, I told myself. I would leave tonight, and tell no one. If one good thing came from my miserable shipwreck of a life, I would keep my son safe, and I couldn’t do that in the sorry state I was in.

It seemed so obvious then, with suddenly clarity: of course he was not interested in my son. It was me he had been torturing all these months. If he hated me this much, enough to slowly break me, utterly and deliberately, then he would follow me, like hunter to prey, wherever I went. So I would go.

I almost made it out that night, but doubt ate away at my resolve as I packed a few bags, and I soon succumbed to a rare desire for sleep. In the warm cocoon of blankets, the idea of recklessly fleeing seemed so rash and foolish, and I knew that a new day would bring clarity and level headedness.

I awoke to the golden light of dawn streaming into my bedroom onto a scene of unfathomable violence.

Blood and drying viscera coated the walls in uneven splatters. The sharp copper tang in the air shook me like smelling salts to damnable clarity. The carpet was soaked and spotted with crimson, thick puddles of blood glistening in the morning sunlight.

In the far corner, where the walls were painted nearly black and the carpet invisible beneath a tiny lake of blood, was the body. The diminutive limbs were dark and smeared, stacked like cordwood; two slender arms and two legs, capped with a pair of small curled hands and two feet, so smeared in gore that I mistook them for shoes. Beside the little pile of spindly limbs was a child’s torso; momentarily I could not comprehend that this was part of the body, so surreal in its isolation and stillness.

In the farthest corner at the apex of the slaughter was the broken television on a small table, the screen fully shattered to reveal a small interior space. Inside this hollow of plastic and metal, was a child’s head, balancing gracefully on its ragged neck, and faced away from me.

It was a long time before I moved, longer still before I ceased sobbing and walked on sodden carpet and wobbling knees towards the television. I prayed that I would not see my son’s birthmark and scars on the limbs and I held my gaze straight ahead as I approached the grotesque altar. Was that my son’s hair? Was it ever so black, or is that just the light?

I reached out, slowly with both hands to gently cup the small head. I was empty now, the morning breeze blowing straight through my shell. All I had to do was turn to see my son’s face, to know that I had failed him utterly, and then I would dry out like a husk and drift away on the wind.

It was light in my hands and still ever so slightly warm. I slowly spun it to face me, angry at myself for not knowing by heart the sight of my sons ears or and jaw line well enough stop now, to prevent the inevitable rotation.

The eyes were mercifully closed, but the cheeks were slit wide and high, in grim mockery of a smile. In his mouth, jammed far back and between the ragged slices of his face, was a video tape.

A wave of pure undiluted relief was followed by a sharp pang of guilt. This was not my son. I recognized the boy behind the curtain of blood, a friend of my son, yes, but this, this was not my son.

Obediently, like in a trance I took the video to the VCR, now connected to my son’s tiny black and white set. With a wad of white paper towels, I had dried and cleaned the soiled cassette, and I now slid it into the machine and watched solemnly while the letters appeared.

THIS WAS YOUR ONE WARNING

YOU CAN STILL SAVE HIM

FIRST, CLEAN UP

It dawned on me what he means, and simultaneously, why. I thought of the drying footprints of blood I’ve left around the house, my fingertips pressed against the corpse. I tried to imagine who might believe that I had slept through that act of unbridled cruelty, but seen and heard nothing.

NOW

I jerked with a start at this screen, as if the teacher has called my name and caught me day-dreaming. I rose to my feet and stopped the tape.

When I thought my son was dead, I believed that no pain could rend me worse. I now could see the foolishness of that. If he were truly gone, then I could not be hurt any worse, and in a way, the man in the dark would have lost. But he lives. He lives for me to agonize over yet again, and this time, I don’t have to wonder about the stakes. I have to do everything I can to keep him safe, I decided. This cannot happen to him.

When I returned from the woods, carrying a shovel wrapped in a thick canvas blanket from the truck, and leaving tracks of dirt and clay, I began to pour the first gallon of gasoline on the bottom floor of my house. When the house was fully saturated, I returned to the VCR and its tiny monitor to watch the rest of the tape. I am a marionette now, dancing to a silent tune, free will no longer even a factor.

The next sentence on the screen was familiar to me; though that was truly the first time I read it. I recognized it by the shape and outline of the letters; it was beneath the ashtray a split second before the impact.

GO NORTH

I was puzzled for a moment, a little resurgence of the self at this oddly vague and cryptic instruction. Just a direction and a command. I wondered where he meant for me to go, and how.

GO NOW. YOU WILL KNOW.

And the tape ended. And I went.

An hour later, a plume of smoke was visible to the south, fast receding behind truck. I drove as far as the truck would take me, until it lost traction on the ice somewhere in British Columbia, and ended broken axle’d in roadside culvert. From there, I walked. My wife shut access to my bank accounts weeks ago, and the small amount of cash that I still carried has long since vanished.

It’s been a month so far, homeless and trudging like a sentinel, through the darkest of winter. The snow and ice bring me comfort, the silent purity of the ground against the noonday sky, white on white. My life is only a direction now, and that anodyne of simplicity has bled into the land.

When I cannot find a house to beg shelter in, or a barn to break into, I build small covered trenches in the snow, and wrap myself in my tarp and blankets. This is more and more frequent as I travel northward and as my clothes begin to stink and mark me as a transient.

During the day, I walk; in the dark, I sleep. I sleep. Long and blissfully hours of oblivion come to with an ease I haven’t had since childhood, and I wake fully rested each day.

I am never alone of course. He is with me, as he always has been. When the last of the money was gone, the pangs of hunger only lasted a day. On the next morning, outside my small snow shelter, a pair of white rabbits lay stretched across the snow, only the red of their blood picking out their outlines on the snow.

During that past year in the fog of his nightmares, I never even considered who he might be. I never catalogued which clients might have secretly loathed me, or which elementary school victim of my bullying now wished me dead. I wonder now, how willful was this ignorance?

The sunlight is warm and unexpected on my face when I exit the barn the next morning, coat speckled with straw. It’s a few miles to the next town, and I can make it time to beg for some breakfast, and supplies for the next vacant stretch.

I call my son from each payphone I pass, direct to his mobile and listen to him get increasingly frustrated when I say nothing. Hearing him angry and alive is everything I need to keep going.

My son is safe, now that I’ve left him. As I believed he would, but for all the wrong reasons, the hunter, the man in the dark, has followed me here. He is no longer a danger to my family, and he can take nothing more from me now.

He is happy now, because we are going north, and so am I, because I know at last and truly, that I have saved my son. The cost is the pittance of my own life, and now I understand; I am grateful to give it to him. I am thankful to be pack horse to this monster, carrying us both onward.

I do not know what he wants for us here, at the top of the world, but I know when the time comes, he will make it known. So until then, I go north.

Credited to Josef K. (aka entropyblues).

The Donkey

One day a farmer’s donkey fell down into a well. The animal cried piteously for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do. Finally, he decided the animal was old, and the well needed to be covered up anyway; it just wasn’t worth it to retrieve the donkey.

He invited all his neighbors to come over and help him. They all grabbed a shovel and began to shovel dirt into the well. At first, the donkey realized what was happening and cried horribly. Then, to everyone’s amazement he quieted down.

A few shovel loads later, the farmer finally looked down the well. He was astonished at what he saw. With each shovel of dirt that hit his back, the donkey was doing something amazing. He would shake it off and take a step up.

As the farmer’s neighbors continued to shovel dirt on top of the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up. Pretty soon, everyone was amazed as the donkey stepped up over the edge of the well and happily trotted off!

MORAL :
Life is going to shovel dirt on you, all kinds of dirt. The trick to getting out of the well is to shake it off and take a step up. Each of our troubles is a steppingstone. We can get out of the deepest wells just by not stopping, never giving up! Shake it off and take a step up.

True Love

It was a busy morning, about 8:30, when an elderly gentleman in his 80’s arrived to have stitches removed from his thumb. He said he was in a hurry as he had an appointment at 9:00 am.

I took his vital signs and had him take a seat, knowing it would be over an hour before someone would to able to see him. I saw him looking at his watch and decided, since I was not busy with another patient, I would evaluate his wound. On exam, it was well healed, so I talked to one of the doctors, got the needed supplies to remove his sutures and redress his wound.

While taking care of his wound, I asked him if he had another doctor’s appointment this morning, as he was in such a hurry.

The gentleman told me no, that he needed to go to the nursing home to eat breakfast with his wife. I inquired as to her health.

He told me that she had been there for a while and that she was a victim of Alzheimer’s Disease. As we talked, I asked if she would be upset if he was a bit late. He replied that she no longer knew who he was, that she had not recognized him in five years now.

I was surprised, and asked him, ‘And you still go every morning, even though she doesn’t know who you are?’

He smiled as he patted my hand and said, ‘She doesn’t know me, but I still know who she is.’

I had to hold back tears as he left, I had goose bumps on my arm, and thought, ‘That is the kind of love I want in my life.’

True love is neither physical, nor romantic.

True love is an acceptance of all that is, has been, will be, and will not be.

Glacial Gloom

Shivering from the cold, Dane slowly opens his eyes. It was dark, almost completely devoid of light but for the glow of his cell phone somewhere beside him. Shaking his head in an attempt to push away the fog of sleep, Dane stretches his arm out to retrieve his phone. How long had he slept? Did he oversleep again?
Straining against what must be his blanket wrapped around him, he is unable to reach the phone on the bedside table. Maybe if he kicked off the covers and sat up first… It was at that moment, that Dane realized he was sitting up. In fact, not only was he in a sitting position, but he also could not seem to move more than his right arm. In a panic, he struggles against whatever is restraining him until his flailing arm hits something directly in front of him. In the near dark, slowly feeling around the obstruction, Dane realizes that what he found is a steering wheel. The fog of his unconsciousness quickly clears when Dane puts the pieces together to understand that he is not in the assumed comfort of his own warm bed back at home, but in fact somehow strapped into the driver’s seat of his ’04 Kia. Memories begin to flicker into Dane’s mind like bright flashes from a camera…

---

Reading an invitation from his closest friends for a ski trip in the mountains of Colorado, thinking how nice it would be to get away from the hustle and bustle of the city for a weekend. Already imagining the fresh cold mountain air, the stress of everyday life dissipating like frozen breath in the air, and especially the possibility of sharing a steaming cup of coffee with Maggie’s hot new friend Alisha in front of a roaring fire…

---

Packing up his car for the trip, talking with Brad on the phone about the amazing ski resort and how amazingly hot Maggie’s single friend looked that morning, and weather reports promising clear skies and perfect driving conditions.

---

An unexpected snowstorm making the lonely drive take much longer than he expected, slowly ascending the steep winding roads up into the mountains. Very quickly becoming the only other car on the road as the snow fall becomes a flash blizzard, reducing the visibility to naught but five feet ahead of the car; the glare from the headlights blindingly reflecting in the falling snow.

---

Barely visible signs announcing the Eisenhower Tunnel a few miles ahead, hitting a hidden patch of ice, overcompensating the turn of the steering wheel, brakes doing nothing to stop the skidding…the feeling of weightlessness after the car careens through the flimsy guardrails and plunges over the edge…seemingly hours later, while in reality likely only seconds, the impact of the car hitting the ravine’s snow drifts and Dane’s head cracking against the window.

---

The car sinking into the deep powdery snow while he sinks into unconsciousness…

---

And now, darkness is pierced only by the faded glow of his overturned cell phone, just out of reach somewhere on the passenger side of the car. Trying his hardest to push away the grip of panic, Dane uses his only free arm to try to determine why he cannot move. While it appears his seatbelt prevented him from further injury, the steering wheel seems to be what is pinning him to his seat, pushed hard up against his chest. Unable to see further into the dark, Dane is not aware that the steering column is as twisted and broken as his legs tangled around it. Numb fingers find his left arm swallowed by the crumpled metal of what was once his driver’s side door. The muted light of the cell phone screen allows him to pick out the dark snow pressing against the spider webbed outline of the shattered windshield, as well as darkening the other windows.

---

Closing his eyes and able to only force shallow gasps of icy air into his lungs, Dane can only assume that his car is somewhere off the side of the mountain a mile or so before the tunnel. Before the blizzard hid anything outside of a few feet from the car from his view, he remembers seeing elevation signs reporting he was passing 11,000 feet up the mountain. There is no telling how far down his little car tumbled before coming to a rest under the snow. Determined to make a call for help, Dane strains as hard as he can muster against the constricting confines of his interior Kia prison; reaching out again to the far side of the passenger seat for his cell, his fingertips just barely brushing the edge of his possible salvation…before the strain becomes too much for his battered body to endure and he slips once again into the soft cushion of unconsciousness.

---

Dreams of a blissful wintery ski resort retreat snuggling intimately under a heavy warm blanket with Alisha are shattered by the sounds of sharp cracking noises that jostle Dane from his catatonic state. Unsure of how long he was dead to the world, he calculated it must have been hours as the precarious comfort of the “always on” glowing cell phone screen has been extinguished as the battery, much like his failing hope for rescue, had given out. Plunged again into the cold wintery darkness, the sharp cracking noise again makes his heart skip a beat. Could this be someone above digging through the snow and ice to rescue him from his cold snow-covered tomb? Feeling hope blossom once again in his constricted chest, Dane takes as deep a breath as the steering wheel allows and screams for help.

---

His screams for help dying on his lips, coughing and gasping for breath, Dane tries to listen for some answer from his presumed rescuers, hoping for some indication that someone is up there digging down to him. Only silence answers his cries for help, broken only by his sobbing, not a sliver of light or hope to be found in the bitter darkness. His mind races at imagined terrors in the pitch black interior of his crushed car, the smallest of noises making him flinch as the car continues to settle under the weight of tons of ice and snow. Did he only imagine the cracking sounds from before? How long has he been trapped here in this maddening cell devoid of light? Is his shivering more from the deepening cold or his fear of the dark? Another popping snap from somewhere on the passenger side causes Dane to whip his in that direction with bile rising in his throat. Screams escape his lips once more, only now shaped more from terror than for hope of salvation.

---

This time his impotent screams are answered immediately by one last cracking sound and a familiar noise that reminds Dane of early mornings back in his old apartment; waking up with the sun, stumbling into the kitchen, and shoving a fresh filter into the coffee maker. Grabbing a new unopened bag of coffee, and pulling open the vacuum sealed top. The is exactly what this new curiosity sounded like; except instead of the fresh smell of roasted Arabica coffee beans, he is greeted with a cold rush of air as the weight of tons of snow and ice from above have finally pushed through the broken windshield and are quickly filling the empty space of the car’s interior. With the frigid rush of powdery hell engulfing Dane in his twisted metal coffin, all he could think of was the smell of that first freshly brewed coffee of the day as he choked in his last frozen breath.

—
Credits to: lordcarnage