Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A solitary figure long held to be mythic this shambling humanoid is only ever spotted in the worst neighborhoods and rail yards. Some worship him as the god of beggars, others contend he is an angry spirit who kills the unworthy. But few know the truth: He is the fifth horseman. Poverty personified. But we did a good job with that ourselves, so he turned aside from his task and now wherever he goes destruction follows for the rich, and good fortune for the poor.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
From the flash fiction challenge over at Terrible Minds. http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/04/08/flash-fiction-challenge-the-cocktail/
It was a dead night when he came into the bar. It never did get much business on Wednesdays, especially after midnight. There wasn't anyone else there but the owner. The staff had all gone home shortly after the shift started, no real reason to stick around that night. The stranger was a rather short man, barely over five feet high, and he looked unhealthily skinny. He never really looked up, and bangs ere covering his face. He grabbed a stool and waited, didn't say a word. The owner slid over to him. “First body I've seen in here in hours, what can I get you?”
“Something special, a real treat, and make it nice and strong. Mix two.” “Two already? Be careful, the house specialties got a real bite, if you'll pardon the pun. Call it the Rattlesnake.” “Sounds like my kind of drink.” The stranger smiled, and just for a moment you could have seen fangs in his mouth. The bartender slid two highball glasses to the stranger, he handed one back “For you, after all a toast alone is a tragic thing.” He raised his glass in the air and the owner followed suit. “To a quiet drink in comfortable surroundings, and to your health.” The glasses clinked and the stranger threw back the entire concoction in one shot. As he raised his head the owner saw his eyes. Bright yellow they were with slit pupils. Before he could process what he had seen a large angry man burst in the door. “There you are you filthy snake.” he roared. The stranger didn't move. The owner leaned close “Friend of yours?” He just shook his head and sighed “All I wanted was a quiet drink.” The big guy at the entrance pushed forward, shoving empty tables and seats away from him rather than go around. “You worthless freak, turn and face me.” Still the stranger didn't move. The man was getting close now. “Wait just a minute fella. Why are you doing this? And why in my place of business?” asked the owner. “He's a freak, an abomination to all that's good and pure. And he's dangerous. Check that mouth, you'll find fangs.”
“You may be right about the fangs but that doesn't prove anything. Now this man here came in, ordered a fine drink, and still owes me for it. You came in yelling and hollering. Now sit down, this one's on the house. Afterward you can go kill him.” Disarmed the man sat while the owner mixed another round of rattlesnakes. “A toast, to your health strangers.” The newcomer looked sullenly across at the snake man and downed his drink. The venom kicked in before he could stand up. The owner winked at the short man. “He'll wake up in the hospital. Now get going, I'm sure he's got friends.” “But why?” The owner just smiled, showing his fangs.
Recipe for a rattlesnake (minus the naga venom):
1.5 oz rye whiskey
1 tsp lemon juice
1 egg white
Dash of Absinthe
Shake and strain.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
They didn't need the gas masks, not anymore. I just liked the look of really. It gave a kind of twisted humor to the whole scene, like some punk band from the cold war or something. It also served to hide the faces I couldn't stand to see. The horror in their eyes was softened by the glass. Their terrible smiles were completely covered by the tight fabric. And sometimes I liked to think that maybe this would have saved them. Maybe they would be baking cookies in a brightly lit kitchen. If only...
It was a sham of course. A gas mask may help against anything getting on your face but the rest of the skin would be exposed. The poisons that got them would have worked anyway. So it was all a false hope, but what else did I have? As far as I could tell I was the only sane man left in the city. Probably the nation.
The city was dead. Corpses were everywhere, bodies initially piled by the living until they were overwhelmed by the task. Now the pyres are unlit and the stink is overpowering, especially downtown. So I stay safe in the suburbs. Canned food will last me until I die, and camping stoves work. And every day I ask “Why me?”. Why was I the one who lived when everyone else started falling over and staying down? Was there a plan? Was I lucky? Blessed? Cursed?
At first I thought it was my hobby. Taxidermy does get a lot of chemical gunk around you so I guess I'm pre-preserved. But that doesn't make sense. All my friends are just rotting piles of meat now, even the other taxidermists. Their collections are fine though, fine work. I took Bob's prized fiji mermaid fake early on. No sense in it going to waste. I also took his head before it rotted. The body was useless but I felt he deserved better.
I have the only working electricity in the city. It took a few tries but I've got nothing but time. A gas generator and a siphon hose keep the kitchen lit. The gas masked players always finishing cookies, a perfect Rockwell scene. I spend most of my time in that room anymore. It's the last slice sanity and peace in such a grey world, the last remnant of the good life.
Last night was strange. I thought, for just a moment, I saw her move. She offered me a cookie. I nearly fell out of my chair but when I looked again nothing had happened. Of course nothing had happened. They were dead, stuffed with sawdust and filled with preservatives. What was I talking about?
Something happened again. The living room is dark, no in the room to shine a light on. But today the room lit up. Someone was moving in there. I put down my book and ran in, but it was dark. The room was empty and I smashed my leg on a chair. I thought I heard someone running, but the sound faded before I could look up.
It gets lonely in the wasteland. I get bored. Most books were burned early on by lunatics attempting to purify the dead and “heal” our society. TV is useless of course. I could watch videos, but the power drain would be to much for the lights. So I read what I can, I scavenge, and I preserve. A few battery powered lamps and my old gear and my workshop is just fine. I do heads these days mostly, to let the future know about us. Bodies take up to much room. Some I do full size, but a lot are to damaged, so I shrink them. I have quite a collection now.
They talk, I'm sure of it. Not to me of course. And they shut up when they think I listen but they talk. The heads in the basement whisper to each other. They blame me. ME! I gave them a second chance to endure, to be preserved. I made them special out of this entire city. Their voices are dry. In the kitchen I hear muffled cries of agony and pain. Supplications for help. They offer me cookies, but I know they are just plastic. Do they think I'm stupid?
Maybe the heads are right. Maybe it is wrong to preserve them, but what will they do about it? They're heads! They can't even move! Especially after I mounted them. I gave them all little bodies. Not real bodies, no that would take to long. But I did display them. In jars, on spikes, one is on a giant teddy bear.
I need to join them. I should join all my headed friends. I will do it tonight. In the kitchen, where my dear sarcastic sister and her brat of a son can watch. A blade, sharp and fast, in a frame. And then? I get to join in the conversation, until my tongue rots out at least. But don't worry I made plans for that. I will fall in a bucket of formaldehyde. It's rough but it works.
Inspired by the weekly flash fiction challenge at Chuck Wendig's Terribleminds.com Post here: http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2011/04/01/flash-fiction-challenge-the-unexplainable-must-be-explained/
Photo here: http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/60-completely-unusable-stock-photos Number 21.