Dead Things - Marius Dicomites

It was worse than she expected.

Nothing could really prepare you for the cold, irrefutable confirmation - the shock of the moment when all doubts and illusions were snatched away to be replaced by a suffocating and onerous grief. The final day for the dead was the beginning for those left behind. This was when the mourning truly began.

Rachel watched silently as the long procession gradually gathered around the graves. It was still raining heavily – it had been raining for most of the day – and as they held their umbrellas over each other, she felt they were closing themselves off from her. They were a close, impenetrable group, and she was not allowed to be part of them. But she understood; she was the one to blame for all this. She had no right to share their grief.

From a distance, hardly feeling the cold or the rain, she held herself as she watched the ceremony. Desperately, she tried to draw some consolation from the priest’s words, but she was only reminded of what she had lost. How could words relieve the gnawing shock and disbelief she still felt? How could words ease the emptiness? There could be no persuasive reason or justification for all this. She just wanted those she had lost back again. She wanted things to be the way they had been before.

She lowered her head as the ceremony finished. The mourners passed her as they left. None of them spoke to her, and she didn’t attempt to speak to any of them. When they had all gone, she took a step towards the graves. But it was too much. Despite the stark reality before her eyes, she still didn’t want to accept the truth. The tears she had tried to suppress clouded her eyes. Falling to the ground, she began to sob uncontrollably.

And then they came. They wrapped their arms around her and took her into their fold. They held her close and tight. Whispering to her, they pressed their faces against hers; they rocked her gently and tried to soothe her as the reality penetrated her consciousness and she began to scream with grief. Holding her even tighter, they drew her away. She didn’t resist. She needed peace. Surrendering, she fell back against them; she hid within them as unwanted memories flooded relentlessly into her broken mind.

Willingly, she lost herself to them, and prayed that she would never recover herself again.

#

They had left her alone.

It didn’t matter. She had no use for them anymore. She had recovered enough of her sanity to recognise the distant pity they had shown her. Since the day of the funeral they had chosen to keep their distance - not one of them had spoken to her face to face. They hadn’t reached out to her again. They had been a hollow presence offering reserved consolation. Well, she no longer needed the forced solace they had shown her; knowing the contempt they really felt for her, she had no further patience for their cold compassion. She had depended on it in the beginning – it had been her only grasp on her sanity. Now she knew its worth, and she despised it as much as she despised them.

To be left alone; that was what she wanted. With the curtains closed and all the lights off, the outside world didn’t exist anymore. There had been phone calls for a while – incessant phone calls – but then she had ripped the phone cord out. Without day or night, without time, without even sound, she had kept to her bed; cocooned by the bed sheets wrapped around her, drifted in and out of a half-conscious sleep, where dreams with familiar faces waited for her – and she woke up crying. To be left alone; she needed to be left alone.

But there was someone in the house.

Unconsciously, she had been hearing it for some time; agonised, struggling to be heard, the intermittent murmur of a man’s voice from the room next door - their child’s bedroom. There had been so many thoughts running through her mind; broken, disjointed and irrational thoughts that she had been compelled to utter out loud – the man’s voice had been lost in the confusion. But the thoughts had stopped now, and it was there, it was definitely there.

And he had no right to be in her house. It was her house!

Swaying with rage, dragging her breath down her throat, she threw the bed sheets off her, and stumbled unsteadily, heavily, almost blindly, out of the door and into the passage. Fleetingly, it crossed her mind that it might be a burglar. But she didn’t care. There was too much rage inside her to care, and she was already giving voice to her rage when she pushed the door open.

The room had changed; everything had changed. Her child’s bed, the cartoon wallpaper they had taken days to put up, the toys that had filled the room – they were gone. Instead, the walls were covered with stained, faded wallpaper which was peeling off the walls at the edges; heavy pine furniture took up most of the space and dominated the room; and ingrained in every aspect was a gloom that seemed almost indelible.

And there was the bed.

Any rage she felt was dissipated at the sight of the frail, withered form that lay there, struggling to breathe but hardly moving, clearly so weak he was unable to move. It was a sight that instantly aroused pity in her; but it was also impossible. She was curious now. Expecting the incongruous vision to vanish at any moment, she moved cautiously closer and looked down at him. He saw her. His eyes widened with shock.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

He had asked the question she had wanted to ask him. Still unable to believe he was real, she reached out her trembling hand to touch the bed.

They both screamed at the same time.

They were pulled apart from each other. An invisible force swept over her like a wave; it was as cold as ice, and she shuddered involuntarily as it continued to move in ripples through the air. It was palpable - she was unable to resist as she was carried along with it. The man – the whole room – simultaneously moved away from her; she was thrown into a world of constantly changing visions of the familiar and unfamiliar; intrusive, pulsating, all-consuming visions which stole all sense of her physical body.

And suddenly she found she was no longer in the bedroom.

It was the materialisation of a memory that had burned every detail of itself into her mind. She was making her way down the staircase, struggling to see through the thick, billowing smoke which choked her every time she drew breath. She knew what was coming. She knew what was about to happen –

“Mama!”

A tremulous moan of revulsion and disbelief fell from her lips. She shook violently with the next step, and then couldn’t go any further – it was too much. Not again, she pleaded inwardly, her body leaning backwards. She struggled to persuade herself it wasn’t real; but the smoke stung her throat with each breath, and the searing heat was beginning to burn her skin. It was real. It was happening again!

“Mama!”

Knowing what was about to happen, she could feel her heart pounding as she stumbled blindly forwards. The cry had come from the living-room. She couldn’t see anything through the door; the thick smoke obscured everything.

“Amy,” she screamed out frantically.

“I can’t get out. Help me!”

“Stay where you are,” she ordered. “I’m coming!”

The words she had spoken before; they were exactly the same words she had spoken before. Tears began to stream down her face. “I don’t want to,” she pleaded faintly.

“Mama!”

The voice jolted her from her hesitation. She couldn’t just stand there and watch. She had no choice. With clenched fists, she threw herself through the door; and felt the explosion from somewhere inside the room throw her whole body forcibly back through the door and against the wall in the passage. Her head struck the wall first; she could taste blood as her twisted form slumped to the ground.

She couldn’t move. Sitting with her back against the wall, she could only watch helplessly as the flames spread into the passage; and she could only listen to the cries for help as her sight rapidly darkened. Her strength was draining away from her. She opened her mouth to cry out for help; the sounds were stifled as they climbed up her throat. She could hardly focus her thoughts now. There was nothing she could do.

I’m sorry, she whispered inwardly, and everything slipped away from her.

#

Sooner or later, it was going to stop. It couldn’t go on forever. Nothing could go on and on forever. She had to endure and be patient. It was going to stop.

“Mama!”

Shuddering with revulsion, she pulled the bed sheets over her head. A strangled cry escaped from her mouth as she curled into herself and wrapped her arms around her knees. But she couldn’t hide. The house had become a part of her now, and so every sound jarred harshly into her hearing, and every movement crawled through her with a violating, almost palpable sensation.

Nothing was hidden now.

“Mama!”

“I can’t help you,” she cried out desperately, pulling the bed sheets off her and sitting up in the bed.

“Mama!”

“I can’t help you,” she screamed, her body shaking violently. “I can’t – “

Her words were stifled as another low but distinct sound crept through to her from the bedroom next door – an insistent scratching, something heavy falling to the ground, and then beginning to drag itself across the ground. She knew what – who – was coming; she could hear him straining and gasping for breath as he struggled to push himself forward.

The door.

The realization that there was no key on the door threw her into a panic verging on hysteria. She was galvanised into action. She heard him coming out into the passage as she rushed to the door. Frantically, she made an effort to push the chest of drawers beside the door across it; but it was far too heavy – it refused to move. As the door shook and the doorknob began to turn, she twisted around with a shudder and held her back against it. It was futile. Her body sank convulsively to the ground as he repeatedly thrust against the door. He was too strong. This wasn’t the frail and elderly man she remembered – he was steadfastly exerting himself beyond his endurance.

The door began to open. She screamed as his hand came through the gap and clutched hold of her arm; without thinking, she pulled the rest of him through the door as she shrank away with terror and revulsion, and suddenly he was bent over her, his hands repeatedly reaching out to her as she tried to pull herself away. He was as cold as ice; she could feel the sharp cold in the air around him.

“Help me,” he pleaded hoarsely, his countenance suffused and twisted with agony.

“No,” she screamed maniacally. Her back came up against the wall as she recoiled from him again. Digging his nails into the carpet, he dragged his emaciated body across the ground; and she felt the cold emanating from him enclose her as he came over her. Its not real, she whispered inwardly, as his trembling hand touched her face. But she could feel his breath; she could feel his skin.

“Help me!”

In a sickening shift, the palpable became impalpable. His twisted face penetrated her consciousness and burned into her mind. There were gnawing thoughts streaming inside her head – but they weren’t her thoughts. The world around them rocked back and forth before; and she could only feel relief as an impenetrable black quickly smothered everything around her and engulfed her consciousness.

Where was she?

The room had changed; the man was gone. It gradually came to her as her awareness of her surroundings grew. This was the room where she had found the old man. But there was something horribly wrong. There was one change.

She was the one in the bed.

In a half-conscious stupor, her thoughts were sluggish and struggled to find coherence. Making an effort to rise from the bed, she immediately sank back down again as a sickening nausea washed over her and made her crave sleep. It was then she grew aware of a dull but constant, slow-throbbing pain in her chest and abdomen.

“Help me,” she whispered.

There was someone in the room with her. Her vision was blurred, and at first all she could discern was a figure composed of shadows moving about. Whoever it was, they chose to ignore her plea; silently, with an unmistakable urgency, they moved about the bedroom. They were searching for something. Although her vision obscured the detail, she could hear drawers opening and been rifled through, objects been pushed impatiently aside.

“Who are you?” she choked out.

And suddenly they were looking down at her. It was a man in his early twenties. Tension tautened his face, but there was the barest trace of a smile on his lips. His eyes gleamed with familiarity, but there was no compassion or warmth.

“Who are you?” she said again.

His face convulsed with contempt. Before she could say anything else, he lifted a pillow over her; he wanted her to see it in his hands. A feeble moan crept from her lips as he thrust it down onto her face. Blindly, she reached out to try and push him away, but she was too weak to have any effect, and it only made him press the pillow down harder.

This wasn’t her death, but she could feel the pillow pressed against her mouth; she was the one struggling for breath. But this wasn’t her death. This –

The sight was ripped away from her. For a moment, she was sure she had been blinded; but then another sickeningly familiar vision bled into the dark before her eyes.

“Mama!”

She shook her head with shock and held herself as she stood in front of the door again. Tears welled in her eyes. The past would always come back to her. There was no choice – she had no choice. She hurled herself through the door; and felt the explosion throw her body against the wall again. But something had changed; she felt it as she sank into unconsciousness.

She knew the truth now.

#

Dead things caught in the fragment of a past that would never release them; on and on, it would go and on – until they were driven insane, and then they would be lost in the moment of their deaths. There would be nothing but their deaths.

It was there in her mind - distinct memories that hadn’t existed before. Her husband had come home drunk. He had lit a cigarette and quickly fallen asleep on the sofa; the cigarette had slipped from his hand. Amy had entered the room to see him, and she had seen the fire starting on the sofa. She tried to wake him, but he wouldn’t wake up – and the fire had quickly spread out of control. She wouldn’t leave the room. She made an effort to pull Graham off the sofa, but he was too heavy for her – and she still wouldn’t leave the room.

And then she had played her part. It was the fireplace. There had been something wrong with the fireplace, and if she gotten there a minute earlier it might have ended differently. The fireplace had exploded just as she entered the room. It wasn’t the explosion that had killed her. It had ended for her when her head struck the wall.

It wasn’t her fault. The hole in her mind was gone – it wasn’t her fault. There was nothing she could have done to prevent what happened. The fireplace had been installed a week earlier – she now realized it had been faulty. If it hadn’t been for the explosion, they might have all survived the fire.

What was she going to do?

The truth could bring little consolation now. It was a living death. They would keep going back in time to die again – she would never see their faces. And in another time, in the same house, an elderly man would be suffocated to death.

What was she going to do?

The answer came to her as the old man’s labored breathing slithered into her hearing from the bedroom next door; it was the only thing on her mind as she climbed off the bed and, steadying herself, went towards the door and out into the passage. She heard him falling off the bed as she came to the door of his room. Her fear of him had gone; there was no reason to fear now. As she heard him beginning to drag himself across the ground, she opened the door and went straight to him, calmly knelt down in front of him as he reached his hand out to her, his agonised eyes holding onto her with a frantic desperation.

“Help me,” she said hoarsely.

He understood; she could see he understood. He crawled closer to her and held out his hand again. As she stopped down to him, a movement at the corner of her eye made her look up. There was nothing there, but she still had the sensation of an invisible presence repeatedly throwing its gaze at them as it went about the room. She remembered the old man’s murderer – what had happened before the murder. Time meant nothing in this existence. The past was waiting for them; it had been waiting for them all along.

She stretched out her hand.

It happened so easily this time. In an instant, she found herself standing in the doorway, looking down at the old man as he lay on the bed. There was a discernible, palpable change in the substance of her surroundings; she could feel the cold in the air and the ground beneath her feet; she could see the light from outside slipping through the gaps in the curtains, and hear the sounds of voices in the street. This time it was different. It was real, or as real as it could be. Why was it different?

She stiffened as she heard hurried footsteps from the room below her. The old man moaned with dread and made a feeble effort to lift himself out of the bed.

It was happening.

The trepidation thickened and pounded inside her as she rushed to the bed. At first the old man could only look at her with disbelief. And then he held out his hand.

“Help me,” he pleaded.

“Shh,” she hissed warningly, and for a moment could only stare down at him as her mind struggled to formulate a plan. They couldn’t go downstairs; he would be waiting. What was she supposed to do? What would be enough to change things?

The wardrobe.

It was in the corner of the room. It was large enough to fit both of them. Hurrying over to the wardrobe, she threw open the doors and returned to the bed. Pulling aside the bed sheets, she brought her arms under the old man’s knees and back. He was so light and frail – it was surprisingly effortless to lift him from the bed and carry him to the wardrobe. As she heard a door opening downstairs, she placed him inside in a sitting position against the inner wall. The footsteps were beginning to make their way up the stairs as she climbed inside the wardrobe to join the old man and closed the doors.

How could they die if they were already dead? What did they have to be afraid of? It was incomprehensible - there was nothing to fear, yet the fear choked them into a cowering silence as the footsteps came nearer. This was real. The old man was going to die, and what would happen to her when she was discovered with him?

The footsteps entered the room, and then they stopped. In her mind, she could see him looking around the room, trying to determine where the old man would hide. But she didn’t need to imagine. When the footsteps started again, they came straight towards the wardrobe; and when they stopped, she knew they couldn’t hide anymore.

She thrust the wardrobe doors open and threw herself blindly at him. Her hands found his throat, and she used the hold to push him back with all the force in her body. At first he was surprised – he hadn’t expected her to be there – but he quickly recovered his senses, and then his face contorted with a brutal rage. He seized hold of her arms, and they both writhed frantically against each other. He couldn’t get near enough to harm her; with her hands clutching his throat, she kept on pushing him away. But she was beginning to weaken; she couldn’t sustain the effort. If she lost, it would all be over, and the past would reclaim them. There had to be an end to this. It had to stop.

Her strength flooded back to her, and her frustration and rage drew on it as she pushed at him violently. They stumbled out through the door and into the passage; and there was a moment when they were both helpless and blind as they fell over the banister and down the staircase. In her mind, she was ready to seize control again as soon as she had the chance, but her head struck the wall as she tumbled down the stairs. The pain and shock caused her to loosen her hold, and she could do nothing as she was sent sprawling into the passage on the ground floor.

Her body wouldn’t move. Her consciousness was quickly slipping away from her. Hearing sounds from the living-room, she twisted her head sideways – and tears welled in her eyes as she saw her daughter going into the room. She could smell the smoke. She could -

“No,” she whispered, and caught her breath as a figure suddenly knelt over her. It was the old man. Had she saved him? Where was his murderer? If it was over for him, it was good. But what about her? What about her family?

“Help me,” she pleaded desperately. He stretched his hand out to her. Her vision was deteriorating, and as she reached out to him she found herself reaching out to darkening shadows.

And the world slipped away.

#

In the dark, she could hear crying.

The light started to trickle into the dark. There were voices now. They were familiar, but she couldn’t bring herself to open her eyes. There was too much to dread, and so she kept her eyes closed tight. There was nothing more she could give. If failure and disappointment waited for her again, she would hide from the voices and anything that reminded her of the past. She didn’t want to be hurt anymore.

“Mama!”

Involuntarily, her eyes flew open, and she confronted the source of the voices. Her husband was sitting up against the wall, sobbing uncontrollably; their daughter knelt beside him, crying with confusion, and crying because he was crying. Shaking her head with a wary disbelief, she crawled slowly to them on her hands and knees. Hesitantly, she touched her daughter’s tear-stained face; her touch remained there, and when she was finally persuaded of its substance, her defenses slipped away and the uneasiness and doubts in her mind dissolved into relief. Looking at her husband, she could only feel pity. He was in shock. He realized what he had done, and it was too much for him.

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her. His body quaked as he tried to speak. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

There was no anger inside her. What was the point of recriminations? It was in the past. “I know you are,” she answered softly, resting her hand on his shoulder. She brought her daughter closer to her, and smiled as she hugged them both. In death, this was her existence now. They were all together, and they were all that mattered to her. The world was altering around them again. The visitants who had looked after her at the funeral, and after the funeral, grew into her awareness and surrounded them with warmth. There was no dread. She was certain that whatever happened it couldn’t hurt her anymore.

They would all be together.

Read more >>

When You’re Alone - Jonah Koenigseker

Karen was gone. She had been gone for three weeks now and I didn’t know what to do with myself. Due to the season, friends and family called to wish me happy holidays and inquire about how I was doing being that it was the first Christmas without Karen. The calls were appreciated, but invariably the well-wisher would quickly be escorted off by whiny, over caffeinated children or a demanding wife to perform some tired annual ritual. During the lulls between calls, I began to feel an intense tinge of loneliness. Christmas had always been a time of cheerful gatherings and exciting festivities for me. Now I was living hundreds of miles away, on the outskirts of Detroit, and while their well wishes were somewhat comforting, I was still alone.

Following an adjustment phase, I made the decision to cure the emotional and mental paralysis ailing me. The first few days of the next week I immersed myself in repetitive, tedious work, something to occupy my muscles and mind. Cleaning. Folding clothes. Going through and organizing the boxes in storage, something Karen always nagged me about doing. I missed her, even the sometimes incessant nagging.

By Thursday afternoon I completed the household chores, crossing the final one off the list I had created to track my progress and throwing the crumpled piece of paper in the trash. There was nothing remotely watchable on television, especially now that I had cut back, canceled the satellite dish and resorted to basic cable. I still had time off from work, though, and I needed something to occupy my time. I checked my work e-mail, but my mailbox was empty. Even work would be a pleasant reprieve from the solitude I was experiencing. In search of something to do, I walked into the kitchen and noticed the cupboards were beginning to look bare, so I decided to make a trip to the supermarket the next morning. A trip I use to take with Karen.

The next morning I spent nearly two hours at the market deciding I would stock the fridge and cupboards just in case a blizzard trapped me inside the cramped one bedroom apartment. Before my selection of products had been based solely on the product’s price, but this morning I made a point to review the health facts, dragging my index finger across the information printed on the boxes and cans. Calories per serving, vitamin A, sodium, I examined it all meticulously. Karen had been worried about my health.

When I arrived home I unloaded the car full of groceries. My muscles strained and it felt good in a pleasantly sadistic way. Endorphins shot up my neck and towards the receptive neurons and the human opiate reminded me to take a trip to the pharmacy the next time I was out. My hands ached, still tender from the accident and I needed something more sustainable to numb the pain.

Again, I checked my work e-mail and again there was nothing unless I was counting the few generic holiday messages, probably copied and pasted from the previous year’s greeting and sent out in a blanket e-mail. All the groceries were put away, the cupboards now overflowing with unnecessary non-perishables. I ate lunch later than usual on account of the grocery trip and was content to know it would shorten the rest of my day. While at college my mother had given me a cookbook, something to keep me from relying on burgers and tacos. I prepared a new recipe that took me about an hour and a half. Not long after I was once again looking desperately for something to cure my boredom. The afternoon’s lineup of shows were the usual; reruns of decades old sitcoms, talk shows and a racial assortment of judges. Around three I began staring lazily at an infomercial and fell asleep, but woke up forty minutes later more tired than before. That night I remained awake. I couldn’t sleep right, now that Karen was gone. I could still smell the aroma of the body lotion she used before laying down to bed. The glow from the moon displayed the still visible contours of her body on the face of the mattress. At four in the morning, I moved to the couch and was able to grab less than two hours of undisturbed sleep before the alarm rudely made its announcement.

The weekend was a monotonous two and half days of torture. My nocturnal habits had been knocked off course like a barreling train being released from its trusty steel rails. Of course, my sleep hadn’t been the same since Karen was gone. Progressively it was worsening and outside regular visits to the pharmacy, I was finding it hard to cope.

On Tuesday afternoon, I realized I needed to get out of the apartment, so I showered, shaved and searched for anywhere where I could spend idle time walking and people watching. When I had gone to the supermarket I had felt as if a weight had been lifted. For a moment, I imagined the dulling pain from my reclusiveness being absorbed by unsuspecting bystanders in doses too minute to make any considerable difference to them. It was only three by the time I had exhausted the mall, hardware store and a used book store. Earlier, I had been so immersed in a new Bentley Little novel that I skipped lunch entirely. Dinner wasn’t for another few hours, but I decided it best to eat now. Despite the other day’s forage, I decided to eat out. The company of others had either boosted my spirits or digested a share of my pain. Regardless, Karen was gone and I would have to save money, so I ended up resorting to fast-food and promised myself I would start eating healthier tomorrow. Slowly, I drove to the far side of town hoping the round trip would consume more time. Someone behind me laid on their horn. I waved back enthusiastically with a one finger greeting.

The dinner rush hadn’t yet begun, so I took my time ordering, scanning the overhead menu and quizzing the attendant behind the counter on each item. The young woman was young and attractive. A pair of large almond shaped brown eyes and plump pinkish lips set in a cream colored face. Her brunette mane was tucked tightly in the corporate hat she was obligated to wear. A pony-tail protruded from the opening in the back. It was when she smiled that I saw Karen’s face. A face of ten years ago before she was gone. Despite, her best efforts, I ended up ordering something off the dollar menu anyway. When I reached for the bag, my hand brushed against hers slightly and it was soft and supple. Soft and supple, like Karen’s hands. She giggled embarrassingly and her cheeks flushed in tones of crimson.

Upon arriving home, the contentment from earlier in the day was beginning to wear off. I tossed the keys into a basket by the door, hung up my coat and checked the answering machine where the bold, red numbers looked back unblinking. I checked my cell phone’s voicemail. Nothing. Once I was done with the sack of food, I was back to where I had been before. No, it was worse. The deep contrast of the satisfaction I felt before with the mind numbingly dullness of my life here in the apartment made me slip into a deeper depression. I checked out a social network site Karen had insisted I visit.

Something she had insisted on before she was gone.

I located some old high school friends and a couple of college buddies. I sent them all messages and my spirits were lifted to a small degree. It would have made Karen proud.

It was Friday evening when it dawned on me that I spent nearly forty-eight hours without speaking to another human soul. I checked my account online, no one had made me their friend. Maybe they were out. Maybe I should call them. But what would I say? I had lost touch long ago. I could call Evan, the guy from work that I talked to on break. He wasn’t a friend, really an acquaintance, but then again he knew I was new in town. Karen would have wanted me to call.

Evan answered. He was busy. Screw him anyway.

Karen had warned me about this. Warned me that I wasn’t friendly enough. Too cold and distant. She pleaded that I do more, make some friends, join some type of sports team. I promised I would, but never did. And here I was in a new town, away from family, friendless and without Karen.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I drank milk. I did some push ups. I even took some of the green and white pills for my hands, which made me drowsy, but nothing more than that. The television was on at all times now, a voice, a soothing human voice in the background. I popped some popcorn, opened a beer and switched it to ESPN and listened to the sportscasters carry on with some pointless drivel. Waiting for them to say something stupid, I’d yell at the screen and chuck popcorn at the two dimensional figures. It was my first semi-human interaction in more than two days. Someone from the apartment below hit the floor with a blunt object. I yelled back and they returned the verbal assault with something unintelligible. Perhaps tomorrow I would leave them a treat, maybe a broken back window or slashed tires.

The next day I decided to return to the fast-food restaurant and order from the young woman who resembled Karen. I saw her behind the counter and as I approached the register I waited. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Hi,” I replied. “I was here the other day, remember? You helped me with my order.”

She looked back with eyes wide and hands falling to a defensive position, an automatic reaction when being confronted by a potential stalker or just general creep. “I’m sorry sir. I don’t remember. Can I take your order?”

How could she not remember? She had smiled at me. “You helped me order. Two double cheeseburgers and a fry,” I looked for a reflection of recognition. “Then our hands touched.”

“Just a moment, sir. I need to talk to my manager.”

“No you don’t!” I yelled as she escaped to the back. “I was here the other day and you took my order! Stupid-”

“Listen, buddy,” A burly man behind me stepped to my side poised to leap on me if necessary. “Maybe you should go somewhere else.” The man was twice my size with facial scars that just begged ‘take the first swing.’ In spite of my anger, reason prevailed.

Once in the car my disdain for the woman for failing to recall the other day was still palpable, but the anger I had felt dissipated. Though my head was clearer, the hands that gripped the steering wheel throbbed with pain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the acne encrusted face repeated. “Your prescription is no longer good.”

“Listen,” I moved in closely and pulled out a fifty visible to him and no one else. “I really need those pills.”

“I understand, sir, but I can’t give you anything without a prescription.”

“How much is your student loan payment this month?

“Sir, I’d love to help you out, but really I could lose my job over this.”

I leaned in closer eyeing the blue checkered tie around his neck. A noise, something falling from a back shelf was all I needed. He jerked towards me, gagging at first.

“What the-!” he shouted before the words were cut off again.

In the back, a middle aged woman with cheaply dyed hair caught a glimpse of what was transpiring at the front counter and came running. “Let go of him!”

Hours later, I was exhausted from driving around and decided to make my way back to the apartment. I first scouted out the complex for any flashing lights before parking in a discreet lot towards the back.

Nothing about either of the incidences was covered by the local news. To temper the pain in my hands I popped several Advil tablets in my mouth. Since the accident I had become resistant to most pain relievers, so I felt nothing. What would Karen have thought about me if she had been here? Would she be understanding? Or would she have been terrified?

For the rest of the week I laid low hoping to avoid attention. I kept the blinds shut and constantly made sure the doors were locked, checking it over and over like someone with an obsessive compulsive disorder. In reality, I didn’t have anything to do. Television had somehow worsened and I never was much of a reader. Still, I needed something to entertain myself. On account of the pain in my hands, I couldn’t work out. Having a dog would have provided some comfort, but Karen had been allergic. Even if I were to get one, there was no room for one in the apartment.

At two-thirty I waited anxiously in my car outside the mailboxes for some interesting correspondence. The mailman was fifteen minutes late, but when he arrived he showed no signs of urgency. My impatience swelled with each minute he wasted. Finally, he had finished, and I unlocked the tiny door and grabbed the pile of envelopes inside. Bills. Junk mail. A magazine Karen had ordered before she was gone. I was about done when I flipped over a plain envelope. It was from the DMV. I needed new tags. At last something to do.

By noon I was in line, having forgotten to grab lunch. I was the only one with a silly grin on his face. In front of me a girl, not yet school age, whined to her mother and it reminded me of my sister when she was younger. Behind me I could smell a waft of perfume and the feminine fragrance was comforting, especially since Karen had been gone.

Someone placed a hand on my shoulders. “Excuse me. Is this the line for renewing tags” a woman about my own age asked. I assured her it was.

The touch of another human felt – shocking. It was the first time I had been touched since my first visit to the fast-food restaurant. It took an hour before I was attended to, but I didn’t mind. I was glad to be in the company of others, even if they were strangers

When I was called, I approached the counter and received the normal apathetic, condescending so-called welcome expected of a government bureaucratic. But I had done more than simply be the next person. Apparently, I had made the huge mistake of not having filled out forms X, Y and Z.

Not allowing the woman to damper my mood, I read the instructions of each form carefully and filled out all the information. When I was done I returned to the side of the counter.

She noticed me in her periphery, turned and unprovoked let loose. “Just a minute, sir! Can’t you see I am helping someone at the present moment?”

She breached the boundaries of her authority. And as we argued and shouted and came within inches of blows I wondered who this woman thought she was. What gave her the reason to believe she had some right to berate others in public as if they were misbehaving children? Soon after it all began, she yelled for security and I escorted myself out.

But I wasn’t finished with this woman. I could have reported her to her superior, but I knew how the government unions work and at the most she would have a minor blemish on a report that neither affected her pay nor her status. At these moments, Karen would have curbed my anger, touched my arm and whispered softly, easing the ebb and flow of adrenaline through my veins. But Karen was gone.

The following day I trailed the woman from the DMV’s parking lot to her residence. She drove an average car, never exceeding the speed limit. She lived in an average house in an average neighborhood. I was sure if I was to knock on the door there would be a husband and two kids.

Average. Except for her notorious rudeness, the woman was to the outside world, insignificant.

When I arrived home I plugged her license plate into a work database.

Her name. Ellen Thomas. Average.

I wondered if anyone would know what I was about to do. Would anyone even notice me? I was alone and seemingly invisible to the outside world. Only when I ordered something, took out my money and paid for something did anyone seem to notice. Of course, I wasn’t even sure yet. I had a motive and time. I’d have to let the rest run its course naturally. I was far from home and no one would have noticed me, except for Karen, but she was gone.

Insomnia struck again, but this night I was hard at work. I devised a plan, revised it and then ran it through my head more times than probably necessary. I figured the early morning would the best time to strike, but the urge nipped at my conscious. If it was going to happen, it would be tonight.

I found a plain black duffel bag and methodically placed an array of instruments I thought may be of use. By the time I was packed, showered and dressed, it was still too early, so I sat in an old stuffed chair Karen had wanted me to throw out. I sat far from the television, staring at the door. My leg involuntarily shook as I waited for the moment. Time slowed, but there was no rush. The time had to be right.

As I replayed the scene from the previous day, my anger multiplied and any apprehension that may have existed quickly disappeared. She had been curt and heartless, using her position beyond its scope. And I had a feeling this wasn’t the first time. Oh no. It wasn’t an outburst, an understandable error in judgment. This was who she was.

My heart began beating faster as time crawled by. I looked down at my watch. Only ten more minutes and I would be on my way, disguised and unnoticed.

Suddenly, below the apartment I could hear a noise. Then another. It sounded like footsteps on the stairs. Could the cops have finally come for me?

The footsteps continued until they stopped somewhere on my level. Now the cement floor absorbed most of the noise. Carefully, I placed the duffel bag on the ground in front of me and with the back of my feet slide it under the chair, hidden, but within reach.

There were more footsteps, each one growing in intensity. Finally, outside the door they stopped. A rustling of keys preceded a probing of the keyhole. The handle moved.

Slowly it began to turn, the internal mechanics weeping from the lack of lubrication.

And then it swung open.

It was Karen, smiling, “Hi, honey. Did you miss me?”

Read more >>

Say Goodbye - C.J. Miozzi

Dan scrambled to his feet. Disoriented from the fall, the teenager reached out into the darkness and touched the cold, stone tombstone he had tripped over. His heart raced -- his pulse throbbed in his temples.

"Mark," he whispered. "Mark. Where the hell are you?"

Dan spun about in the dim light of the crescent moon. Amidst the shadows, he spotted a small patch of grass illuminated by Mark's flashlight. The stocky teen kept low to the ground as he rushed over to the light. He looked around nervously, but couldn't perceive any movement in the large cemetery.

When he reached the flashlight, Dan saw Mark's prone form sprawled out on the grass beside it.

"Dude, come on, we got to get out of here." Dan nudged his friend with his foot. "That guard was right behind us. He can come around any minute."

Light fell upon the tombstones mere feet away from the two friends.

Dan dove into a mound of earth behind a tombstone.

The light scanned the area. "You punks aren't getting away this time," spoke the gruff voice of the night guard. "You're going straight to juvie, and your folks are going to pay for all those tombstones you kicked over." Footsteps shuffled closer through the grass.

Dan held his breath and squeezed his eyelids shut. Don't come this way, don't come this way, he pleaded in his mind.

The footsteps receded from earshot.

The teen mentally counted sixty seconds before letting out a deep breath. He rose to his feet and tried to brush moist soil off his new Philadelphia Eagles football jersey.

After ensuring the guard was nowhere in sight, Dan turned back to Mark, who still lay on the ground. As he squatted beside his friend, Dan held a finger near Mark's nostrils, and felt warm air pulse out.

Dammit, he thought. What if he's in a coma, or something?

The teen reached into his pocket and closed his hand on his cell phone. He took a deep breath as he formulated his plan. He'd call 911 and ask them to send an ambulance. He'd set his cell to play through his music tracks, and leave the cell with Mark, so that the paramedics could just head toward the source of the music. Then, he'd hop the fence out of the cemetery before anyone caught sight of him.

Dan pulled out his phone and flipped it open. The cell's light colored his green jersey in an eerie blue. A message popped up on the screen: "No reception."

"Having difficulty calling for help?"

Dan spun around with a start.

A tall, lanky man stood beside him.

Dan staggered back and shone the blue light in the man's gaunt face. "Dude, what the hell?" He passed the light over the man's body to ensure he wasn't wearing a guard uniform. "You scared the hell out of me. You don't… you can't just sneak up on people like that, man!"

The man's hawk-like face spread into a wide smile. He stared down at Dan with his pale eyes, one blue, the other grey. A milky film clouded the grey eye.

Unsettled, Dan broke eye contact. "Look man, my friend here is hurt. Can you stay with him while I go get help?"

The man ran a pasty hand through his long, thinning hair. "My name is Mareus."

Dan paused at the unexpected answer. "Whatever, man. Just stay here with my friend, okay?" He glanced around, but there was still no sign of the guard.

"I can't do that, Daniel."

Mention of his name snapped Dan's attention back to the man. "How do you know my name?"

"I am the soul collector." The milky eye stares straight through Dan.

"What?" Dan said, incredulous. "Are you some kind of mental case?" He noted Mareus' worn vest, his patched-up pants, his veiny arms. He's a hobo druggy.

With a sigh, Dan reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "You want money? Here." He grabbed a twenty dollar bill, and offered it. "It's all I got. Just please, stay with my friend, and don't tell anyone that I was here."

"I hold the key to the next world." Mareus opened his loose leather vest.

Dan recoiled at the sight of an antique key embedded in the man's skeletal chest. Blue veins snaked away from the key, visible beneath the waxy flesh. Green light poured out of a gem that protruded from the circular bow of the key. The light throbbed, and within the gem, Dan saw swirling clouds and flashes of ghastly faces.

"Dude, what is that?" Dan pointed a quavering finger at the key.

"Say goodbye to your friend, Daniel." Mareus loomed forward, dwarfing the stocky teen.

"What? No!" pleaded Dan. "He's not dead; we can still help him!"

"It's time." Mareus stepped forward.

"No, please, look, he's still breathing! Just let me get an ambulance. I'll stay here with him; I don't care if I get sent to juvie." Frantic, Dan waved his cell around. Why can't I get a signal? I'm outdoors, in the middle of the city!

"You cannot help him." Mareus extended a gangly arm and closed his knobby fingers around Dan's wrist.

The teen almost lost his grip on his cell as he trembled at Mareus' touch.

Mareus guided Dan's hand. He shone the cell's light by the tombstone that Dan had tripped on.

Dan's blood ran cold.

A stocky teenage boy wearing a green football jersey lay still on the ground, his head split on the tombstone.

"Say goodbye."

Read more >>

The Couch Troll - Jeanna Tendean

The old man coughed and wheezed. His bones ached as he slowly climbed out of the flea-ridden, tattered bed. He hobbled into the living room, while holding his aching back. He moaned aloud, causing his dog, a shepherd-collie mix, to tweak his ears, but nothing more. “Ya lazy mutt.” The old man griped as he made his way to the beer and cigarette stained lazy boy. The wooden skeleton of the chair bulged through the trodden cotton, allowing the old man sturdy support as he eased down. He still couldn’t believe someone would throw out a good chair like this. Sure, it had its share of burns and a few stains, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d snag his pants or scratch himself on a few unruly wires or splinters snaking out, but other than that the chair was in great condition.

“Pansy wansys wantin’ somethin’ new every time they turn around,” he grumbled to no one in particular. “That’s why everyones’ in debt up to their frigholes,” he said, while glaring at the mutt. Besides food, utility bills, cigarettes, beer and soap, the old man hadn’t paid a cent for anything going on twenty years. That’s why he had a decent amount of cash hidden safely away underneath a particular floorboard in his bedroom. He had never entertained the idea of a bank account, for there was a price to pay when someone else counted your money. The old man lit a Boral cigarette and looked around admirably upon his second-hand furnished living room.

Everything that furnished his modest shack he’d found on the side of roads and at the city dump. And he prided himself at his ability to sniff out the best. He looked over at the newest couch. Loading that couch up in his truck had caused his back to sing soprano, but it was worth every note. It was the nicest piece he’d ever come across. No stains, no smells, no tears or cigarette burns: not even sagging cushions or upholstery. He couldn’t fathom why someone would just set it out at a Hannah home charity site. It was in the same condition as the couches down at Flannery’s Furniture, not that he’d ever bought one from that turd. But one day, he’d gone out for a stroll on the town’s square to look for dropped coins, and he stopped at the window and peered in at all the new couches. And he knew that sooner or later some of those couches would end up in his living room. And by the time they made their grand appearance in his home, the couches would be worth much more than what they were sitting in the swanky furniture store.

The old man stubbed out his cigarette and sat back in the groaning chair. He glanced at the couch again and chuckled, causing phlegm to lurch up his throat. He swallowed it down and chuckled harder. He has had his fair share of roadside couches, and half of his wealth he’d found inside them. Oh, the quarters, nickels and dimes lost by fools and more fools. He’d found dollar bills, five-dollar bills and one hundred dollars bills numerous times. He had even lucked up and found three diamond rings, a gold Rolex and a strand of genuine mother of pearls. Yes, over the years he’d found many riches inside the dark bowels of couches. He’d found pictures, and he kept those, too. He leaned up, reached under the coffee table and pulled out a 30 cal. ammo box he’d had since his stint in Vietnam, and positioned it between his legs. He gently unlatched the lock and looked inside. Smiling back at him was a snaggletooth grin from a child with a gapped up haircut, an elderly couple celebrating their 54th wedding anniversary, a wild punk-eyed teenager with blue hair and black nails, and there was even a lady with no legs, smoking a cigarette, perched on a bed. The old man wasn’t a thinker, wasn’t a philosopher, but he did, at times, question his motive for keeping the pictures of people he never knew, nor will. But when those complicated thoughts crossed his mind, he waved them away, just like a pesky fly.

He closed the steel box and pushed it back under the coffee table. The couch was beautiful, he thought and looked a little closer at the designs in the upholstery. With his head cocked in one direction, he saw Asian dragons blowing fire from their mouths, but when he looked from a different angle, all he saw were gold squiggly designs with a deep orange underlay. He didn’t know what fabric made up the upholstery. He’d never owned a couch so new, so expensive, but it felt like silk to the old man. And the couch had a smell, too. Not a bad one, rather musky and piney. Yes, he was lucky. The old man sat back, closed his eyes and laughed, because he knew, better than any moron, that he’d be a few coins richer in the morning…

The sun was up, but jaded by dark rain clouds. The old man sweated profusely after turning the couch, so the bottom faced outward. “Just like a woman positionin’ to give me her goods,” he said to the dog that snoozed on the floor and flicked an ear at the occasional flea. “Lazy mutt,” he said. “I don’t even know why I let your bag of bones stay around here.” The old man got onto his knees; they popped from the weight of his beer belly. He clicked his box cutter out as far as it would go. The old man had a set routine for this, having done this many times. He had learned that not all treasure was lost between and under the cushions. The good stuff fell deep down inside the dark bowels, because when people sat down, it widened the gap between the side and back walls of couches. He began to cut at one end and made a straight line to the other side of the under fabric. He dropped the box cutter on the floor and reached into the dark slit. He felt over thick metal coils and roughened pieces of wood, fingered the small nooks and crannies. As he neared the end, his heart sank. Nothing, nothing at all. “Sure as a dog’s got fleas, there’s gotta be somethin’ in here,” he said aloud. He frantically groped over every inch of the metal and wooden guts of the couch and finally struck pay dirt. It was round, a tad larger than a softball and smooth, but his fingers didn’t recognize its dynamics. He felt a hollow spot, and he prodded a finger into the round mystery, and slowly pulled it out into the clouded light of day.

It was a skull. A baby’s skull. He was sure of it. While in Vietnam, he’d seen many skulls, skulls from adults and babies, alike. It was toothless, with large round eye sockets. On top of the skull was a V-shape jagged slit where the baby’s skull had not fused together, yet. It didn’t have time. It looked alien to the old man. He dropped the skull on the hardwood floor, and it clanked, like porcelain smacking wood. He shook, while the hairs on his back and neck stood up. Its hollowed eyes gaped up at him. Fear surfed in his stomach. What should I do? The old man’s thoughts ran like a hamster on a wheel. If he called the police, they’d not only take the skull, but also the couch. They were a package deal. But he wanted the couch more than any other piece he’d found. It was a gem. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “No, uh huh, there’s no way on god’s green earth I’m giving this couch to a bunch of badge-totin’ Barney Fifes’,” the old man confirmed aloud. He picked up the baby’s skull and pushed up from the couch. He retrieved his box and locked the skull inside with the pictures. Not a picture box anymore, now it’s a steel coffin. The old man shivered at the unwanted thought. He maneuvered the couch right side up again and went to his chair, reclined back and thought about the skull. He wondered who the babe was and why someone would murder a newborn. He wasn’t a bleedin’ heart for no one, but hurting a baby crawled under his skin. It gave him the willies. He also felt a little guilty for not doing what he knew was right and moral; feelings he wasn’t accustomed to feeling. But the old man waved the complicated thoughts away, just like a pesky fly…

He had drifted off to sleep, but something roused him from a forgotten dream. He opened his eyes. Night had fallen, and the living room was dark. As he reached for the lamp switch, a voice sounded from the new couch.

“Don’t do that.” The voice was deep and melodic. The old man gasped and looked in the direction of the couch. The moonlight spilled in through a gap in the curtains, and he saw a silhouette sat on the couch. Panic seized the old man. “I’ll make this quick for the both of us. You’ve got something that belongs to me and I want it back – now.”

The old man reached further for the lamp switch but thought better of it, so he strained his eyes to see the stranger that rattled off a demand. “Who are you?”

“My name is Emos, and I want my skull back.”

The old man grabbed his chest and stuttered, “You’re -- you’re crazy, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout’.

“Sure you do, I watched you take it.” The old man was speechless. Fear shadowed his heart.

“Get outta my house,” the old man demanded. Emos laughed a husky laugh and said, “Give me the skull, and I’ll be more than willing to depart for my humble abode.”

“I ain’t got no skull, now get out of here.”

“The skull is mine, and you took it from my home,” the stranger hissed.

“I’ve never taken nothin’ from anybody’s house – I might be a lot of things, but one thing I ain’t is no thief. Everything I get, I get fair and square.” Though his vision had adjusted to the moonlight, darkness still swallowed the living room, and the old man couldn’t distinguish the features on the stranger’s face.

“The skull is in that steel box under your coffee table, is it not?” Emos asked. The old man’s heart beat harder, like eager hands on a bongo drum; he had been caught.

“What if it is? I didn’t steal it from your home. I found it in that there couch your sitting on.”

“Yes, I know, this couch is my home,” Emos explained.

The old man couldn’t believe his ears. “That couch is your home?”

“Yes, I live down inside the couch. I’m a couch troll.” It started deep down inside the old man’s stomach and slowly inched its way up into his chest and then into his throat. He couldn’t contain it any longer. He burst out laughing so hard he choked on his own phlegm. “That’s the craziest gobbledygook I’ve heard in my whole life. You need help, boy.” The old man laughed, wheezed, and then coughed again, until he thought he would croak. Relief swept over him. Somebody who thought of his self as a couch troll was nuttier than a tin-house rat. “Go on, boy, get outta here, I won’t tell a soul,” the old man chuckled. He grasped the lamp switch between his thumb and index finger, but let go when the stranger said, “There are couch trolls in many couches, and this is my couch.”

The old man rolled his eyes in the darkness and said, “Uh huh, if you live down in that couch, then I piss silver and shit gold. I mean, how could you fit? A human can’t survive inside a couch, for Christ sake,” the old man said and snickered.

“I’m not human. And when we trolls burrow down in a couch, the couch expands inside, and it expands for everything we snatch. And there is plenty of room. You humans think you lose your precious possessions down in couches, but you never lose them. We reach up and snatch them,” Emos explained. “In fact, the lady who had the couch before you always folded her laundry sitting right where I am now. She would leave it stacked up nice and neat, while she pulled lint from socks and went about putting it in the trash. And when she’d walk out of the room, I’d reach up and snatch what I wanted – a sock, underwear, tee-shirts. After a while, she realized she was losing her clothes in the couch, so she stopped laying her laundry here. In fact, she stopped laying everything on this couch after her baby went missing. Oh, I’ve snatched some wonderful things – you name it, I’ve snatched it. You know, when you ponder on it, you and me are a lot alike. We both troll for possessions that aren’t quite ours.”

The old man’s smile completely vanished, along with his relief, and fear replaced his amusement. This guy is nuts, a grade-A, number one fruit-friggin’ loop. “Listen to me,” the old man pleaded, “I have found a lot of couches in my day and have found some really nice stuff down inside – even money, but I have never seen hide nor hair of a couch troll. Why now, after all these years?” the old man asked, although he didn’t know why. He learned a long time ago that you couldn’t reason with insanity.

“Perhaps you’ve only acquired abandoned couches. We move, too. A couch doesn’t last forever, so we move on to another couch when ours start falling apart. Sometimes, we move for the simple fact we’re bored. And when we move we leave everything we’ve snatched behind. We don’t take anything with us. Good for you, huh?” Emos grinned. “When I do move on, I’ll be sure to leave the skull behind, and it’s yours for the snatching. But as you can see, I still reside inside, and the skull is mine. I consider myself a patient troll, but even I have my limit.”

Emos clasped his hands together and said through clenched teeth, “If you don’t give the skull back, I’ll snatch your skull.” Sweat popped out on the old man’s forehead and armpits. He’d seen many basket cases in Nam, but this guy took the cake and crammed it down his throat. He shouted the first thing that came to mind. “I’m gonna blow a hole between your friggin’ eyes! You got five seconds to get the hell outta my house, an--.” The old man felt a swarm of fluttering moths in his chest. Blood coursed hotly through his veins, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. The old man had never felt this way before; it terrified him. Was it a heart attack or a stroke? No, it wasn’t, he realized, after a few moments. It was panic. Minutes passed, while he desperately tried to calm himself. After his heartbeat slowed and his eardrums stopped banging, finally, he opened his eyes. He looked towards the couch and switched on the lamp. The stranger was gone. The old man looked at the front door; it was ajar. He clutched his chest, cautiously got up, and stumbled to the door. He walked out onto his front porch; his eyes scanned his front yard. He saw nothing, except a dense patch of fog draped lazily on the trees. All was quiet and still, except for a band of frogs crooning to the night. He closed and locked the door and looked at the mutt on the floor, who flicked its ear at the occasional flea. “A lot of good you do, ya son of bitch.” He retrieved the ammo box, slowly unlatched the lock and looked inside. The skull stared back at him with hollow eyes. “Couch troll, my ass,” the old man scoffed. But as much as the he hated to admit it, he was scared. How did that loon know the skull was in the box? He had to have been looking through the window, the old man reasoned with himself. Adrenaline conquered his panic, and he paced back and forth in the living room, staring at the steel box. He couldn’t keep the skull now, since that fruitcake had been spying on him. He’d take the skull to the police station and tell them he found it on the side of the road, because he still wanted the couch. He just didn’t want the skull in his possession now that he’d met Mr. Mentally Insane. So if he did come back, the old man could tell him the police had it, to go harass them. He lifted the skull from the ammo box, put it in a plastic bag and walked out into the quiet night towards his pick-up truck.

He was relieved to be back home; his eyes burned from exhaustion. After five hours of questioning, answering and lying, the old man wanted nothing more than to fall into a deep sleep. He looked around the living room, but didn’t see his dog. He whistled through his horse-sized false teeth, but the dog didn’t come. “Lazy mutt,” the old man grumbled. He glanced at the clock. 3:48 a.m. What a night. He’d never thought in all his seventy-two years of living that he would’ve experienced madness like this. Crazier than the Vietnam War. The old man thought and yawned. He sat down on the new couch and rubbed his callused hand over its silky upholstery. He decided to sleep there. But first, he retrieved his 45. from his bedroom, and then he reached behind the couch to close the curtains up tight, if by some chance the couch troll, no, window troll, more like it, decided to come back and peek in at him. Laughing, the old man stripped down to his underwear, lay down on the couch, and placed the gun on his chest. The soft fabric was cool against his weathered skin. It was more than comfortable: it was heaven. He felt like he was lying on a silken cloud. Man, what a find. Damn, if he wasn’t the luckiest son of a bitch, he didn’t know who was. As he rubbed his heavy eyes, a six-fingered claw with sharpened yellowed talons snaked up between the cushions of the couch and snatched the old man, twisting and screaming, down inside the darkness.

The workers loaded the couch onto the flatbed truck and climbed inside the cab. “That’s a nice couch.” “Yeah, it is. Ya want it? It’ll just sit at the dump if you don’t.” “Sure. Me and the ole’ lady’s been wanting a newer couch since the baby came along.” The workers stopped at the man’s house and hauled the couch into the living room. “Oh wow,” a lady, carrying a newborn baby, cried. “It’s the prettiest couch I’ve ever laid my eyes on.” “Glad you like it, sweetie, but I have to get back to work – got to finish cleaning out that ole’ man’s house.” They kissed goodbye, and the lady sat down on the new couch. She rubbed her hand over its soft upholstery. Was it dragon patterns, or just squiggly designs? She wasn’t sure. The microwave beeped from the kitchen, so she got up, and gently laid the baby on the couch. And the old man down inside looked at his lazy mutt, while rubbing his yellowed talon claws together, waiting for the perfect moment…

Read more >>