Welcome to darker, a showcase for dark speculative fiction. Issue 2 July/August 2010
FEATURED STORY
Feeding the Passion
by Robert J. Duperre
"Ladies and gentlemen...Amy Forte."
The emcee backed away with a bow and the curtain behind the band parted just slightly. The crowd grew quiet with anticipation. A tall, slender woman emerged. She sauntered across the stage and past her band mates, violin in hand, as if the place belonged to her. Her gait exuded confidence; an ebony goddess greeting her adoring disciples. When she reached the lone microphone standing front and center of her pulpit, she waved her left hand and offered a single, earnest smile.
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Blink, by K.S. Thomas
What is Dark Speculative Fiction?
We don't apply a strict definition to what constitutes "dark speculative fiction." That said, we generally view both "dark" and "speculative" as important modifiers.
"Speculative" means that the story should in some way incorporate elements that either do not exist in the real world, or at least are not readily apparent there. Fantasy stories that take place in an imagined world satisfy this requirement. So do science fiction stories that include technology or other characteristics that do not yet exist in our world. Horror stories should include a supernatural element or some other characteristic that distinguishes the world of the story from that which we encounter on a daily basis. Thus, Silence of the Lambs, while an excellent story, is not "speculative" fiction.
We interpret the word "dark" broadly as well. It should describe an atmosphere or feel to a story. There need be no overt horrific element in order to have a dark story, though these elements are certainly acceptable. We do not consider grauitous violence or gore "dark" in and of themselves. These may certainly have their place if the story calls for them, but a story that relies on either of these for its sole horror element does not belong here.
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The emcee backed away with a bow and the curtain behind the band parted just slightly. The crowd grew quiet with anticipation. A tall, slender woman emerged. She sauntered across the stage and past her band mates, violin in hand, as if the place belonged to her. Her gait exuded confidence; an ebony goddess greeting her adoring disciples. When she reached the lone microphone standing front and center of her pulpit, she waved her left hand and offered a single, earnest smile. The band began to play; drummer brushing against his snare and cymbal, guitarist gently strumming, man behind the upright bass smoothly plucking away. The audience became hushed yet again as the woman theyd all come to see lifted the fiddle and placed it beneath her chin. Soft, warm notes emerged from the instrument as she passed her bow over the strings, singing out in a pitch of whines and moans that sounded almost human. The bodies of those watching swayed to the music, entranced by the beauty and perfection of both the song and its architect.
Jack Scherzo was among those in attendance for that performance, as he had been for each of the previous five. A nondescript thirty-something with wavy brown hair going gray in all the wrong places and a body growing chunky in others, he was a man who lived for music. Throughout much of his uninspired life, the only thing that initiated a sense of awe in any person he met had been his vast record collection. There was no style or genre he didnt appreciate and henceforth gather en masse - the classical styling of Mozart and Chopin, past masters like Robert Johnson and Nina Simone, modern bits of underscored brilliance by The Mars Volta and Coldplay. His wife, with whom he felt a pliable sort of security he assumed to be love, never truly understood the depth of his passion. She looked at his anthology as an innocent, leisurely pursuit, not recognizing that the extent of his worship for all things melodic went far deeper than simple audible fascination; Jack Scherzo needed the melody to
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overtake him, much as any other living being required oxygen to breathe. It had been two years prior when he first heard the glory that was Amy Forte. At the time shed been a relatively obscure up-and-comer, her recordings trapped in the moribund wasteland of local college radio. Her voice entered his ears from the speakers of his car stereo and immediately his heart filled with a type of yearning hed never felt before. The songs she sang, the notes she played - an unheard of amalgamation of R&B and classical, with a whisper of Goth, folk, and traditional jazz thrown in for good measure - tiptoed on his brain like gentle, massaging fingers. A sudden plea built up inside him; he needed to find her, needed to experience the splendor of her music in vivid, living color. Watch her perform live he did. Forty-two times over the past two years. He scrutinized her progress from an anonymous peculiarity to a widely accepted, critically acclaimed star. Obsession ruled him. The simple act of looking at her picture felt like a religious experience. She possessed the beauty of Dorothy Van Engle, the voice of Josephine Baker, and the precise hands of Fritz Kreisler. The perfect woman, the perfect living musical instrument. His job at the paper mill became his hobby, and listening to music - to Amy - his career. On days she appeared close to his home, he simply wouldnt show up for work. No calls, no forewarnings. In the span of a couple weeks, his employer grew tired of the constant no-shows and fired him. Jack didnt care. He looked on as her audiences swelled with each show and the legend of her unique style and beauty grew. She was public property now, not just his veiled princess. But that did not bother him; the fact her popularity swelled out of control developed into a point of pride. He'd seen her since the beginning, after all; supported her when she was nothing. In that way, he knew she would always be his alone. Jack glanced at his watch, feeling impatient. 10:37 PM. It was an odd sensation, that impetuosity. Never before had he wished to speed up time while sitting in his seat during a show. In fact, every other experience had been one of trying to expand time, attempting to draw out every moment until it seemed as if life were occurring through a slow-motion projector. He sighed. Two more songs, fifteen more minutes, and his life would reach its ultimate
overtake him, much as any other living being required oxygen to breathe.
It had been two years prior when he first heard the glory that was Amy Forte. At the time shed been a relatively obscure up-and-comer, her recordings trapped in the moribund wasteland of local college radio. Her voice entered his ears from the speakers of his car stereo and immediately his heart filled with a type of yearning hed never felt before. The songs she sang, the notes she played - an unheard of amalgamation of R&B and classical, with a whisper of Goth, folk, and traditional jazz thrown in for good measure - tiptoed on his brain like gentle, massaging fingers. A sudden plea built up inside him; he needed to find her, needed to experience the splendor of her music in vivid, living color.
Watch her perform live he did. Forty-two times over the past two years. He scrutinized her progress from an anonymous peculiarity to a widely accepted, critically acclaimed star. Obsession ruled him. The simple act of looking at her picture felt like a religious experience. She possessed the beauty of Dorothy Van Engle, the voice of Josephine Baker, and the precise hands of Fritz Kreisler. The perfect woman, the perfect living musical instrument.
His job at the paper mill became his hobby, and listening to music - to Amy - his career. On days she appeared close to his home, he simply wouldnt show up for work. No calls, no forewarnings. In the span of a couple weeks, his employer grew tired of the constant no-shows and fired him. Jack didnt care. He looked on as her audiences swelled with each show and the legend of her unique style and beauty grew. She was public property now, not just his veiled princess. But that did not bother him; the fact her popularity swelled out of control developed into a point of pride. He'd seen her since the beginning, after all; supported her when she was nothing. In that way, he knew she would always be his alone.
Jack glanced at his watch, feeling impatient. 10:37 PM. It was an odd sensation, that impetuosity. Never before had he wished to speed up time while sitting in his seat during a show. In fact, every other experience had been one of trying to expand time, attempting to draw out every moment until it seemed as if life were occurring through a slow-motion projector. He sighed. Two more songs, fifteen more minutes, and his life would reach its ultimate
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crescendo. "Thank you, everyone," Amy said into the microphone with her cherub's voice while the crowd chanted for one more, one more, one more. Her smile could melt glass, as well as the heart of a romantic. "You've been a spectacular audience tonight." With that she left the stage from where she appeared, leaving behind a spectral trail of shimmering light. The spectators continued chanting for a few more minutes until it became clear she would not be reappearing for an encore. They then dispersed, filing out the theater exits as if their lives ceased to have meaning. Jack stood up from his chair, cracked his back with arms high above his head, and went in the opposite direction. He experienced an odd sensation while approaching the area just left of the main stage. It felt like fear, but he knew that wasnt exactly right. More like the awareness he assumed one would feel when encountering God for the very first time; a forbidden feeling, the certainty he would not be remotely worthy of attention. He flashed the pass hanging around his neck to security, who led him through the back corridor. As he walked, he glanced at the rectangular piece of plastic. Backstage Admittance - Jonathon G. Scherzo, it read. The final payoff resulting from countless letters, pleas, and donations sent to her representation. The panic slowly faded as he repeated the words on his press pass over and over again. By the time he reached the door to her dressing room, the fear had all but vanished. What replaced it was enthusiasm, unrest, and awe. "Wait here," the security guard said. "Miss Forte will be with you when she's ready." Jack did as he was told, standing silently with his hands clasped before him while he rocked on his heels to the music in his head. After fifteen minutes of calm, the dressing room door cracked open and the most stunning face he'd ever seen up close poked out. "Mister Scherzo?" Amy Forte asked. Her voice, even when simply speaking, sounded harmonious. "Yes," Jack replied.
crescendo.
"Thank you, everyone," Amy said into the microphone with her cherub's voice while the crowd chanted for one more, one more, one more. Her smile could melt glass, as well as the heart of a romantic. "You've been a spectacular audience tonight." With that she left the stage from where she appeared, leaving behind a spectral trail of shimmering light. The spectators continued chanting for a few more minutes until it became clear she would not be reappearing for an encore. They then dispersed, filing out the theater exits as if their lives ceased to have meaning. Jack stood up from his chair, cracked his back with arms high above his head, and went in the opposite direction.
He experienced an odd sensation while approaching the area just left of the main stage. It felt like fear, but he knew that wasnt exactly right. More like the awareness he assumed one would feel when encountering God for the very first time; a forbidden feeling, the certainty he would not be remotely worthy of attention.
He flashed the pass hanging around his neck to security, who led him through the back corridor. As he walked, he glanced at the rectangular piece of plastic. Backstage Admittance - Jonathon G. Scherzo, it read. The final payoff resulting from countless letters, pleas, and donations sent to her representation. The panic slowly faded as he repeated the words on his press pass over and over again. By the time he reached the door to her dressing room, the fear had all but vanished. What replaced it was enthusiasm, unrest, and awe.
"Wait here," the security guard said. "Miss Forte will be with you when she's ready."
Jack did as he was told, standing silently with his hands clasped before him while he rocked on his heels to the music in his head. After fifteen minutes of calm, the dressing room door cracked open and the most stunning face he'd ever seen up close poked out.
"Mister Scherzo?" Amy Forte asked. Her voice, even when simply speaking, sounded harmonious.
"Yes," Jack replied.
The door swung inward, revealing the full of her figure; the sculpted body of a Greek goddess. "Come on in." Jack followed her outstretched arm, passing close enough to her on the way through to smell the faint odor of jasmine-scented perfume. His heart jumped and his loins rumbled with heat. When he entered fully he stood still, allowing her to close the door and guide him the rest of the way. He felt lost, like he couldn't think on his own; a robot whose artificial intelligence had been corrupted. The dressing room was quite large - as big as a decent sized living room - and cluttered from floor to ceiling with all sorts of paraphernalia. A table rested against the far wall, standing at the base of a huge mirror, its surface overflowing with makeup, hair brushes, and every other cosmetic supply known to man. Two Ibanez guitars hung from the wall to the left, four half-constructed violins to the right, and posters from great bands of the past like the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, Jethro Tull, and Rush plastered on them all. Countless sealed boxes surrounded the two posh red leather couches that faced each other like duelists in the center of the room. A single antique coffee table, square and stylish with meticulous rose vines carved into its legs, had been placed between the couches. An unused crystal ashtray sat on top of that. The room itself smelled odd, but not bad; as if Amy's own fantastic scents had beaten back the musty remnants of a thousand prior occupants until only the slightest trace of them remained.Amy moved to the center of the room and sat on one of the couches. She motioned to the one opposite her. "Sit down," she said. Jack did so, again like that slipshod automaton. The leather creaked a bit and he heard air escape from seams in the material. The cushions enveloped him and for no apparent reason he felt trapped. A lump the size of Nevada emerged into his throat. "So," said Amy, "you're Jack." "Uh-huh," Jack replied, the stubborn lump making it difficult to talk. "Well, I'm really glad to meet you. I've read most of your fan mail. And I really appreciated the money. It sure was a hell of a lot. How much again?"
The door swung inward, revealing the full of her figure; the sculpted body of a Greek goddess. "Come on in."
Jack followed her outstretched arm, passing close enough to her on the way through to smell the faint odor of jasmine-scented perfume. His heart jumped and his loins rumbled with heat. When he entered fully he stood still, allowing her to close the door and guide him the rest of the way. He felt lost, like he couldn't think on his own; a robot whose artificial intelligence had been corrupted.
The dressing room was quite large - as big as a decent sized living room - and cluttered from floor to ceiling with all sorts of paraphernalia. A table rested against the far wall, standing at the base of a huge mirror, its surface overflowing with makeup, hair brushes, and every other cosmetic supply known to man. Two Ibanez guitars hung from the wall to the left, four half-constructed violins to the right, and posters from great bands of the past like the Rolling Stones, the Beatles, Jethro Tull, and Rush plastered on them all. Countless sealed boxes surrounded the two posh red leather couches that faced each other like duelists in the center of the room. A single antique coffee table, square and stylish with meticulous rose vines carved into its legs, had been placed between the couches. An unused crystal ashtray sat on top of that. The room itself smelled odd, but not bad; as if Amy's own fantastic scents had beaten back the musty remnants of a thousand prior occupants until only the slightest trace of them remained.
Amy moved to the center of the room and sat on one of the couches. She motioned to the one opposite her. "Sit down," she said.
Jack did so, again like that slipshod automaton. The leather creaked a bit and he heard air escape from seams in the material. The cushions enveloped him and for no apparent reason he felt trapped. A lump the size of Nevada emerged into his throat.
"So," said Amy, "you're Jack."
"Uh-huh," Jack replied, the stubborn lump making it difficult to talk.
"Well, I'm really glad to meet you. I've read most of your fan mail. And I really appreciated the money. It sure was a hell of a lot. How much again?"
The fact she spoke to him like a normal person calmed his jittery nerves. "Well," he said, "it was sent out in varying increments over the past few years, I think around twelve thousand dollars when all was said and done." Amys cheeks puffed out and she whistled. "Wow. That's a lot of money. You rich?" Jack shook his head. "Absolutely not. In fact, that pretty much cleaned me out. Shoot, my wife even decided I had a problem and should get some help. We separated after that. Been on my own ever since." He said these things in an even tone - not as a plea for pity but as an absolute statement of fact. "Oh, sorry about that," she replied, her face uneasy. "No biggie. Its not permanent. She'll be back. I know she will. But this isn't about her. Its about you." "Why? What're you trying to prove?" Jack smiled. "I know what I like. And I'm gonna give my support however I can." "What if I dont want your help?" "In that case," he leaned forward, so as to emphasize his point, "you're gonna get it anyway." At this, the disturbed expression left Amy Forte's face. She threw her head back and laughed, her breasts heaving beneath the thin camisole hanging from her shoulders. The fluorescent light above flickered, caused her subtle brown skin to glow, as if the laughter gave a visible luster to her inner essence. "What's so funny?" asked Jack. "You are." His brow furrowed. "Is that so?" "Yep," she answered. "Funniest damn bastard I ever met in my life." Jack's enjoyment melted away. "I'm here to honor you," he said, "and you laugh at me?" "Oh, come on!" Amy jumped up and danced around the room like a gazelle strung out on cocaine. "Look at yourself, Johnny. You're pathetic! You give up your life...for what? To meet me? You really think I care about you? There's a million guys out there just like you! All begging for a piece of me, all wanting to meet me.
The fact she spoke to him like a normal person calmed his jittery nerves. "Well," he said, "it was sent out in varying increments over the past few years, I think around twelve thousand dollars when all was said and done."
Amys cheeks puffed out and she whistled. "Wow. That's a lot of money. You rich?"
Jack shook his head. "Absolutely not. In fact, that pretty much cleaned me out. Shoot, my wife even decided I had a problem and should get some help. We separated after that. Been on my own ever since." He said these things in an even tone - not as a plea for pity but as an absolute statement of fact.
"Oh, sorry about that," she replied, her face uneasy.
"No biggie. Its not permanent. She'll be back. I know she will. But this isn't about her. Its about you."
"Why? What're you trying to prove?"
Jack smiled. "I know what I like. And I'm gonna give my support however I can."
"What if I dont want your help?"
"In that case," he leaned forward, so as to emphasize his point, "you're gonna get it anyway."
At this, the disturbed expression left Amy Forte's face. She threw her head back and laughed, her breasts heaving beneath the thin camisole hanging from her shoulders. The fluorescent light above flickered, caused her subtle brown skin to glow, as if the laughter gave a visible luster to her inner essence.
"What's so funny?" asked Jack.
"You are."
His brow furrowed. "Is that so?"
"Yep," she answered. "Funniest damn bastard I ever met in my life."
Jack's enjoyment melted away. "I'm here to honor you," he said, "and you laugh at me?"
"Oh, come on!" Amy jumped up and danced around the room like a gazelle strung out on cocaine. "Look at yourself, Johnny. You're pathetic! You give up your life...for what? To meet me? You really think I care about you? There's a million guys out there just like you! All begging for a piece of me, all wanting to meet me.
You know what you all are? You're lambs. Feeble, pitiful lambs." Jack stood up now. "Shut up," he said. "Why?" "This isn't right. This isn't you. I know that. I've watched you, listened to you, your entire career. The same woman who wrote those beautiful songs couldn't possibly have your attitude." "You know nothing about me." "Yes I do!" screamed Jack, fuming. Amy turned her back to him and ushered him away with a dismissive wave. "Get out," she said, "and never come back." Jack lost it. The awe and anticipation he'd felt only moments before disappeared, replaced by a bubbling, liquid rage. This moment, which was supposed to represent the pinnacle of his existence, had turned into anything but. His fanatical mind couldn't take it any longer. He ran at her, almost tripping over a box as he did so, and grabbed her thin arms. With a violent motion he spun her around, drawing her face within a few short inches of his. He smelled the sweetness of her perfume again. It didn't bring him any solace this time. By contrast, his fury grew. "This was supposed to be my night!" he shrieked. "All I ever wanted was to be a part of what you brought me! A part of the music! How dare you take that away?" Amys eyes narrowed. Despite his anger and the pressure of his grip, she didn't seem afraid. In fact, the emotion those eyes did display froze Jack in place. They looked so cold, so involved -- the icy gaze of a surgeon. "Interesting," she said. Jack felt a bee sting his side and glanced down. A syringe stuck out of his abdomen, its plunger depressed. His senses grew hazy and his vision blurred. He let go of Amy and staggered away in a backpedal, his heel knocking against the couch. He fell, butt whacking the hardwood floor with a thud, and proceeded to scurry away in a crab-walk. Amy hovered above him, her beautiful face not so charming any longer. She sauntered forward in slow
You know what you all are? You're lambs. Feeble, pitiful lambs."
Jack stood up now. "Shut up," he said.
"Why?"
"This isn't right. This isn't you. I know that. I've watched you, listened to you, your entire career. The same woman who wrote those beautiful songs couldn't possibly have your attitude."
"You know nothing about me."
"Yes I do!" screamed Jack, fuming.
Amy turned her back to him and ushered him away with a dismissive wave. "Get out," she said, "and never come back."
Jack lost it. The awe and anticipation he'd felt only moments before disappeared, replaced by a bubbling, liquid rage. This moment, which was supposed to represent the pinnacle of his existence, had turned into anything but. His fanatical mind couldn't take it any longer. He ran at her, almost tripping over a box as he did so, and grabbed her thin arms. With a violent motion he spun her around, drawing her face within a few short inches of his. He smelled the sweetness of her perfume again. It didn't bring him any solace this time. By contrast, his fury grew.
"This was supposed to be my night!" he shrieked. "All I ever wanted was to be a part of what you brought me! A part of the music! How dare you take that away?"
Amys eyes narrowed. Despite his anger and the pressure of his grip, she didn't seem afraid. In fact, the emotion those eyes did display froze Jack in place. They looked so cold, so involved -- the icy gaze of a surgeon.
"Interesting," she said.
Jack felt a bee sting his side and glanced down. A syringe stuck out of his abdomen, its plunger depressed. His senses grew hazy and his vision blurred. He let go of Amy and staggered away in a backpedal, his heel knocking against the couch. He fell, butt whacking the hardwood floor with a thud, and proceeded to scurry away in a crab-walk. Amy hovered above him, her beautiful face not so charming any longer. She sauntered forward in slow
motion. He couldn't back up fast enough. Her features began to meld and shift. Jack attempted to cry out, but no sound came. Then, as she reached down for him, everything went black.# The sound of giggling woke him. He felt disoriented, almost an imitation of himself. Jack opened his eyes. He was sprawled out on the floor, resting with his back propped up against the wall with arms limp by his side, forearms resting on the floor. He squinted, trying to figure out what was going on. Amy sat on the leather couch a few feet away. The woman he'd come to meet looked at a sheet of paper propped up on a music stand with enormous interest. She fiddled with a very odd looking, unfinished violin while she read. On the coffee table sat a shiny round metal bowl, into which she would occasionally dip a thin strand of what appeared to be cowhide, dousing it the way one would a sheet of wallpaper. Then she held the strip above the basin, letting the excess liquid drip away, before applying it to the side of the strange instrument. A cigarette hung from her gleaming lips the whole time, its glowing base of ash progressing gradually closer to her mouth with each breath she took. Jack moaned. Amy turned her to him. "Oh, hey there," she said. "Youre awake." Jack tried to lift himself but couldn't. He commanded his body again to move, but it didn't seem to be listening. When he attempted to open his mouth to ask what the hell was going on, a pathetic moan was all that emerged. Every ounce of his being felt numb. Amy took her eyes off the paper, snuffed out her cigarette, and glanced at him with a kind, appreciative expression. "This is my favorite part," she said, apparently oblivious to his struggle. "I'll read it to you. 'When I look at you, I know what it feels like to come face-to-face with divinity. Listening to your music is like a colonic for my soul. Every bit of pain in me goes away, if only for a moment, and is replaced by a lightness so wonderful that I
motion. He couldn't back up fast enough. Her features began to meld and shift. Jack attempted to cry out, but no sound came. Then, as she reached down for him, everything went black.
#
The sound of giggling woke him. He felt disoriented, almost an imitation of himself. Jack opened his eyes. He was sprawled out on the floor, resting with his back propped up against the wall with arms limp by his side, forearms resting on the floor. He squinted, trying to figure out what was going on. Amy sat on the leather couch a few feet away. The woman he'd come to meet looked at a sheet of paper propped up on a music stand with enormous interest. She fiddled with a very odd looking, unfinished violin while she read. On the coffee table sat a shiny round metal bowl, into which she would occasionally dip a thin strand of what appeared to be cowhide, dousing it the way one would a sheet of wallpaper. Then she held the strip above the basin, letting the excess liquid drip away, before applying it to the side of the strange instrument. A cigarette hung from her gleaming lips the whole time, its glowing base of ash progressing gradually closer to her mouth with each breath she took. Jack moaned. Amy turned her to him.
"Oh, hey there," she said. "Youre awake."
Jack tried to lift himself but couldn't. He commanded his body again to move, but it didn't seem to be listening. When he attempted to open his mouth to ask what the hell was going on, a pathetic moan was all that emerged. Every ounce of his being felt numb.
Amy took her eyes off the paper, snuffed out her cigarette, and glanced at him with a kind, appreciative expression. "This is my favorite part," she said, apparently oblivious to his struggle. "I'll read it to you. 'When I look at you, I know what it feels like to come face-to-face with divinity. Listening to your music is like a colonic for my soul. Every bit of pain in me goes away, if only for a moment, and is replaced by a lightness so wonderful that I
lose myself in it. By the time the song ends, it feels as if my feet are touching the ground for the very first time. Because of this, I love you so much more than anything in my life, but it goes way beyond any concept I could possibly do justice to in the words that I have at my disposal. You make me happy, even though I]ve never met you, and for that I want to thank you.' You wrote that, Jack. It's beautiful. I appreciate it, I really do." Jack recalled exactly how he felt when composing those words, sitting in a hotel room in Albany with no shirt on, listening to her CD for the twentieth time that night. He'd been entranced, intoxicated by far more than the fifth of vodka he consumed. He tried to speak again, to let her know he remembered. Once more, nothing came of it. Amy stood up. She carried with her the incomplete violin--a device that actually looked to be constructed from a wad of clay--and lowered herself to the floor beside him. She stroked his thinning gray hair. He felt comforted even though he couldn't move, even though he remembered how he got to be in that position in the first place. He didn't care. Her other hand disappeared below the mound of his swollen belly. He couldn't crane his neck enough to see exactly what she was doing, but it sure looked by the way her arm swayed forward and back like she was giving him a hand job. He felt nothing but a strange, uncomfortable, liquid sensation. It figured. She must have noticed his disappointment. "Oh, honey. I'm really sorry about this. You were pretty angry and I'm just a tiny little thing. I had to protect myself." A frown appeared on her face. "But that's okay. You proved yourself to me, and that's all that matters." "Huh?" asked Jack. His senses were slowly coming back to him; though he still couldn't move, feelings crept their way from fingertips to forearm. A biting tightness shot its way up his spine from his abdomen. In that moment, he wished to be back in that prior state of deadened bliss. Amy's expression became distant. "There are so many things one person can give another. Love. Dedication. Commitment. All these things are special in their own right, but they're also ambiguous. They're subjective, without meaning in the physical state of being. But passion, on the other hand. Now there's something tangible.
lose myself in it. By the time the song ends, it feels as if my feet are touching the ground for the very first time. Because of this, I love you so much more than anything in my life, but it goes way beyond any concept I could possibly do justice to in the words that I have at my disposal. You make me happy, even though I]ve never met you, and for that I want to thank you.' You wrote that, Jack. It's beautiful. I appreciate it, I really do."
Jack recalled exactly how he felt when composing those words, sitting in a hotel room in Albany with no shirt on, listening to her CD for the twentieth time that night. He'd been entranced, intoxicated by far more than the fifth of vodka he consumed. He tried to speak again, to let her know he remembered. Once more, nothing came of it.
Amy stood up. She carried with her the incomplete violin--a device that actually looked to be constructed from a wad of clay--and lowered herself to the floor beside him. She stroked his thinning gray hair. He felt comforted even though he couldn't move, even though he remembered how he got to be in that position in the first place. He didn't care.
Her other hand disappeared below the mound of his swollen belly. He couldn't crane his neck enough to see exactly what she was doing, but it sure looked by the way her arm swayed forward and back like she was giving him a hand job. He felt nothing but a strange, uncomfortable, liquid sensation. It figured.
She must have noticed his disappointment. "Oh, honey. I'm really sorry about this. You were pretty angry and I'm just a tiny little thing. I had to protect myself." A frown appeared on her face. "But that's okay. You proved yourself to me, and that's all that matters."
"Huh?" asked Jack. His senses were slowly coming back to him; though he still couldn't move, feelings crept their way from fingertips to forearm. A biting tightness shot its way up his spine from his abdomen. In that moment, he wished to be back in that prior state of deadened bliss.
Amy's expression became distant. "There are so many things one person can give another. Love. Dedication. Commitment. All these things are special in their own right, but they're also ambiguous. They're subjective, without meaning in the physical state of being. But passion, on the other hand. Now there's something tangible.
It's real, it's juicy. And necessary." She lifted her hand. A massive gob of some sticky red substance rested in her palm. Snaky, dripping tendrils flopped through the gaps between her fingers, dangling there like the legs of a jellyfish. Jack's eyes grew wide. "Passion breeds creativity," Amy continued. "It breathes life into everything, from the artist's paintbrush to the writer's pen. Without passion, life would read as a textbook, all cold and analytical and devoid of any true meaning." She tossed the bloody mess into a basin placed next to him. There were four other tubs along with it, circling around his legs, all filled to the brim with more of that burgundy, gummy matter. Terror slithered into Jacks brain, but he couldn't express it properly. "What...are you...doing," he stammered. "Shush," Amy replied, placing a finger on her lips. "Don't try to speak." She went back to work, once again digging into the cavern he was suddenly sure had been opened up on the other side of his stomach, biting her lip occasionally in concentration. She maintained a running dialogue as she gutted him. "Take this stuff, for example." She pointed to one of the bowls. Jack wished he could be sick. "Intestines make a very nice hardening compound. You put the right mix together, and you have a varnish that acts as a second skin. Blood mixed with putty is great for adhesive purposes. Muscle tissue, when dried and pureed, makes for the perfect resin. Bone itself is sturdier than wood and adds a different acoustic tonality to the instrument. But the sound can be kind of sharp, so a coat of flesh around both the interior and exterior dulls it somewhat, makes it more pleasant. And tendons...oh, wow, you gotta see this." Amy excitedly reached behind her back. When she brought her hand around, it held a bow. "I've never really liked the sound of horsehair strings. And I did try human hair at one point, but it ended up being a bit too fragile, and it made the instrument sound, well, grumpy. That's when I thought, hey, why not try something a bit more elastic? Tendons! It'd been right in front of me all along. I could've slapped myself for not thinking of it sooner. Look at this." She held the bow beside Jack's ear and flicked the yellowish-tan threads with her finger. A sharp twang echoed in his skull. "You hear that? Now that, my friend, is perfection."...'
It's real, it's juicy. And necessary."
She lifted her hand. A massive gob of some sticky red substance rested in her palm. Snaky, dripping tendrils flopped through the gaps between her fingers, dangling there like the legs of a jellyfish. Jack's eyes grew wide.
"Passion breeds creativity," Amy continued. "It breathes life into everything, from the artist's paintbrush to the writer's pen. Without passion, life would read as a textbook, all cold and analytical and devoid of any true meaning." She tossed the bloody mess into a basin placed next to him. There were four other tubs along with it, circling around his legs, all filled to the brim with more of that burgundy, gummy matter. Terror slithered into Jacks brain, but he couldn't express it properly.
"What...are you...doing," he stammered.
"Shush," Amy replied, placing a finger on her lips. "Don't try to speak." She went back to work, once again digging into the cavern he was suddenly sure had been opened up on the other side of his stomach, biting her lip occasionally in concentration. She maintained a running dialogue as she gutted him. "Take this stuff, for example." She pointed to one of the bowls. Jack wished he could be sick. "Intestines make a very nice hardening compound. You put the right mix together, and you have a varnish that acts as a second skin. Blood mixed with putty is great for adhesive purposes. Muscle tissue, when dried and pureed, makes for the perfect resin. Bone itself is sturdier than wood and adds a different acoustic tonality to the instrument. But the sound can be kind of sharp, so a coat of flesh around both the interior and exterior dulls it somewhat, makes it more pleasant. And tendons...oh, wow, you gotta see this." Amy excitedly reached behind her back. When she brought her hand around, it held a bow. "I've never really liked the sound of horsehair strings. And I did try human hair at one point, but it ended up being a bit too fragile, and it made the instrument sound, well, grumpy. That's when I thought, hey, why not try something a bit more elastic? Tendons! It'd been right in front of me all along. I could've slapped myself for not thinking of it sooner. Look at this." She held the bow beside Jack's ear and flicked the yellowish-tan threads with her finger. A sharp twang echoed in his skull. "You hear that? Now that, my friend, is perfection."
...'
"Stop," said Jack in a barely audible whisper. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "I don't wanna die." Amy frowned. "I'm not finished yet, Jack. Now all this stuff is well and good, and it can create quite a pleasing musical instrument. But it has no power if there's no passion behind it, if there's no energy to feed the vision. That's why I had to test you, Jack. My inspiration has been waning for some time. I had to make sure you possessed the essence I needed. Unfortunately, I'm nothing without my instrument. It feeds me, much like you now are feeding it." With that, she picked a large knife up off the floor. In one sweeping motion, she buried its piercing end into his chest. Jack could feel his ribs snap as she dragged the blade down his center with strength no mortal could possess, his flesh and bone opening up like an ever-growing, greedy mouth. Blood and entrails poured out, littering his lap and everything else around him, but it didn't hurt. At first he'd assumed it was because of the drugs. He knew better; he must have been too far along in the process to feel much of anything. Thank heaven for small favors. "The heart to shine the frets," Amy said, gazing at him lovingly. She then pointed to his head. "And to top it all off, the source of your passion, your brain, will wax my strings. Oh, dont look so down, Jack. You said all you ever wanted was to be a part of my music. Now you will be. Forever." "I...loved...you" Jack said, his consciousness fading. A low, rumbling snarl reverberated from the dim area behind them. A pair of red eyes lit up the darkness, just above her shoulder, behind a kinky curl of her hair. "I know, honey," said Amy, and a sincere frown crossed her lips before uttering the last words Jack Scherzo would ever hear: "Unfortunately, I'm a kept woman. I'm sorry."
"Stop," said Jack in a barely audible whisper. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "I don't wanna die."
Amy frowned. "I'm not finished yet, Jack. Now all this stuff is well and good, and it can create quite a pleasing musical instrument. But it has no power if there's no passion behind it, if there's no energy to feed the vision. That's why I had to test you, Jack. My inspiration has been waning for some time. I had to make sure you possessed the essence I needed. Unfortunately, I'm nothing without my instrument. It feeds me, much like you now are feeding it."
With that, she picked a large knife up off the floor. In one sweeping motion, she buried its piercing end into his chest. Jack could feel his ribs snap as she dragged the blade down his center with strength no mortal could possess, his flesh and bone opening up like an ever-growing, greedy mouth. Blood and entrails poured out, littering his lap and everything else around him, but it didn't hurt. At first he'd assumed it was because of the drugs. He knew better; he must have been too far along in the process to feel much of anything. Thank heaven for small favors.
"The heart to shine the frets," Amy said, gazing at him lovingly. She then pointed to his head. "And to top it all off, the source of your passion, your brain, will wax my strings. Oh, dont look so down, Jack. You said all you ever wanted was to be a part of my music. Now you will be. Forever."
"I...loved...you" Jack said, his consciousness fading.
A low, rumbling snarl reverberated from the dim area behind them. A pair of red eyes lit up the darkness, just above her shoulder, behind a kinky curl of her hair.
"I know, honey," said Amy, and a sincere frown crossed her lips before uttering the last words Jack Scherzo would ever hear:
"Unfortunately, I'm a kept woman. I'm sorry."
PREVIOUS /FIRST
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Blink
by K.S. Thomas
Blink and everything changes. That's what some folks claimed anyway. Not that Dristan Modan cared what others said. To him their opinions were like shit-chutes, everyone had one and they all reeked to high heaven. Only, he knew if things didn't change, he might blink and his dreams would disappear.
"Jesus Christ, Val! Whydaya always have to make me late?" he bellowed up the stairs.
"Shut-up, Driz, I'm moving as fast as I can!" Val screamed back.
Women - can't live with them, can't kill 'em, he thought. He stalked back into the living room and flopped into one of the leather armchairs with a huff while he waited for her to get her tail in gear.
Her screwing up his schedule aggravated him to no end, but what really pushed him past his limit was that her doing so might cost him his chance at stardom. The Black Diamond Marauders - a local rock band - gave him a shot at playing lead guitar for them a month ago, and since then he'd missed enough sound checks to infuriate the other members. Hell, they went as far as to send him a goddamned email which read:
Dear Mr. Modan,
One more time and it's see-you-later.
How fucking impersonal!
Then again, he couldn't blame them. The group was gaining some notoriety of late, and they needed someone who would put the time in. They could find another lead-ax in the blink of an eye, and while anyone who replaced him may not be as good, they would probably be more reliable. If that happened, he'd be shit-out-of-luck.
He mulled the group's threat over several times during the past few days, and decided he had no real choice but to make it on time - with or without her.
He checked his shitty Timex watch.
Five minutes was all he was going to give her.
Five minutes, and like it or not, he was outta there.He needed to calm down, focus on one thought at a time. If, by the grace of God, they made it to the sound check, he had to be on his game or he'd play like shit. That wouldn't fly straight either. Sitting back, he reached into a pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a clear orange bottle. Damn ADHD. His doctor promised him that the new FDA approved medication, Evlert, would help him control his constant daydreaming, while not having the fucked-up side effects of Ritilan. He only tried half a dose since getting the prescription filled, but it did just what the doc had said. The hazy, light-headed feelings for the first twenty minutes were nothing, and after that, his head mellowed out. He could focus, which was great, yet he hated being a slave to any drug. Pot he could deal with, but man-made-shit freaked him out. Except it worked, and that was the only thing that mattered. Besides, he practiced while on them the night he tried them and he thought he played better. He twisted off the plastic cap and shook out two yellow capsules. Mellow-yellow. No other words described them better. He chuckled, then popped them dry, replaced the cap, and shoved the bottle back into his pocket. "Ah-hum," Val called. "You ready, Mr. Impatient?" Dristan jumped out of the armchair and spun around to look at her. In faded blue jeans, red halter-top and matching pumps, she looked stellar. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders in a wave of curls, while her bright green eyes glittered in the light. She always managed to look like the perfect arm candy for his gigs. "Uhm, yeah, I guess so, what about you, got your hair and make-up done right? I don't wanna have to turn around 'cause your eyeliners runnin' or nothin'." "Yeah, yeah, shut-up and let's get going. I don't want you being late for your precious gig." He checked his watch. She was lucky - this time. He pulled his car keys from his pocket and sighed. "Listen, you may not think I'm
Five minutes, and like it or not, he was outta there.
He needed to calm down, focus on one thought at a time. If, by the grace of God, they made it to the sound check, he had to be on his game or he'd play like shit. That wouldn't fly straight either.
Sitting back, he reached into a pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a clear orange bottle.
Damn ADHD.
His doctor promised him that the new FDA approved medication, Evlert, would help him control his constant daydreaming, while not having the fucked-up side effects of Ritilan.
He only tried half a dose since getting the prescription filled, but it did just what the doc had said. The hazy, light-headed feelings for the first twenty minutes were nothing, and after that, his head mellowed out. He could focus, which was great, yet he hated being a slave to any drug. Pot he could deal with, but man-made-shit freaked him out. Except it worked, and that was the only thing that mattered. Besides, he practiced while on them the night he tried them and he thought he played better.
He twisted off the plastic cap and shook out two yellow capsules.
Mellow-yellow.
No other words described them better. He chuckled, then popped them dry, replaced the cap, and shoved the bottle back into his pocket.
"Ah-hum," Val called. "You ready, Mr. Impatient?"
Dristan jumped out of the armchair and spun around to look at her. In faded blue jeans, red halter-top and matching pumps, she looked stellar. Her dark hair flowed over her shoulders in a wave of curls, while her bright green eyes glittered in the light. She always managed to look like the perfect arm candy for his gigs.
"Uhm, yeah, I guess so, what about you, got your hair and make-up done right? I don't wanna have to turn around 'cause your eyeliners runnin' or nothin'."
"Yeah, yeah, shut-up and let's get going. I don't want you being late for your precious gig."
He checked his watch.
She was lucky - this time. He pulled his car keys from his pocket and sighed. "Listen, you may not think I'm
goin' anywhere with this, but I am. You know, you should support your man instead of tearin' him down." He scurried past her, opened the front door and waited for her to exit, then closed it. As her pops instructed him time and time again, he wiggled the handle to make sure it was locked and wouldn't open at the slightest breeze. "You need to grow up, Driz. I mean, we aren't getting any younger, and you have a good job at the mine. If you just put more energy into..." He rounded his beat up Dodge Neon and hit the button on the key fob to open the locks. The horn signaled all clear and he pulled open the driver's side door. He was on the verge of sliding in when Val said, "What, just because you're pissed at me you lose your manners?" Dristan pursed his lips and pushed himself back out of the car. Without a word, he stormed around the front of the car, yanked open her door, then slammed it closed after she got in. What a pain in the ass! She was pissing on his dreams again. If she kept it up, he figured he might start resenting her for it. Why was he even with her? Sure she was hot, sexy, and a hell of a ride in bed, but was that it? Probably not, but every now and then she twisted the knife and called it love, that she only wanted what was best for them. Yeah right, whatever helped her sleep at night. Stop being such an ass, Driz, he thought, she's a good girl. She only has your best interests at heart. It wasn't like she did it all the time. He slid into the car, started the engine and backed out of the driveway. Calmed a little, he glanced at her and asked in a polite way, "Why do you have to do that?" "Do what?" "You know, make me feel like shit!" "I do not." "Do too." "If something I said made you feel bad, Driz, it's because you feel the same way already." The skin on his ears burned and he grunted. "What kind of psycho-babble is that? It's bullshit is what I think."
goin' anywhere with this, but I am. You know, you should support your man instead of tearin' him down."
He scurried past her, opened the front door and waited for her to exit, then closed it. As her pops instructed him time and time again, he wiggled the handle to make sure it was locked and wouldn't open at the slightest breeze.
"You need to grow up, Driz. I mean, we aren't getting any younger, and you have a good job at the mine. If you just put more energy into..."
He rounded his beat up Dodge Neon and hit the button on the key fob to open the locks. The horn signaled all clear and he pulled open the driver's side door. He was on the verge of sliding in when Val said, "What, just because you're pissed at me you lose your manners?"
Dristan pursed his lips and pushed himself back out of the car. Without a word, he stormed around the front of the car, yanked open her door, then slammed it closed after she got in.
What a pain in the ass!
She was pissing on his dreams again. If she kept it up, he figured he might start resenting her for it. Why was he even with her? Sure she was hot, sexy, and a hell of a ride in bed, but was that it? Probably not, but every now and then she twisted the knife and called it love, that she only wanted what was best for them.
Yeah right, whatever helped her sleep at night.
Stop being such an ass, Driz, he thought, she's a good girl. She only has your best interests at heart.
It wasn't like she did it all the time.
He slid into the car, started the engine and backed out of the driveway. Calmed a little, he glanced at her and asked in a polite way, "Why do you have to do that?"
"Do what?"
"You know, make me feel like shit!"
"I do not."
"Do too."
"If something I said made you feel bad, Driz, it's because you feel the same way already."
The skin on his ears burned and he grunted. "What kind of psycho-babble is that? It's bullshit is what I think."
"No it's not. You feel like you're unable to make a good living at your job, so you're looking for another outlet to see if you can make the kind of money my dad does. You think that's the only way to make me happy. Admit it, you're a dreamer." "No I ain't," he protested. "Sure you are. It's one of the things I love about you. I'm just trying to be realistic, is all. Making a ton of cash fast isn't the way to do things. And you being a guitarist in a crappy band isn't going to make it happen either. Hard work is." The haze worked its magic on his vision and his mind slowed down as he guided the car onto Route 183 South. "Hard work! What, you think standin' on a stage under those God-forsaken blazin' lights and playin' your heart out is easy? Let me tell you, it ain't." "Oh, come on. You play a guitar. It's not like you're performing quadruple by-pass surgery or something. That's work, and it takes a lot of dedication just to get to that point. "Look at my dad. He worked his ass off for twenty years before they made him supervisor. It wasn't until he'd broken his back for almost thirty years that they recognized his real potential. That's hard work. You need to start thinking like a twenty-five year old, Dristan, not a fifteen-year-old-wannabe." He kept his eyes trained on the road. The last thing he wanted to do was give her any indication that she might be right. And she was for the most part. Not all, but a good chunk of his problem was trying to score it big so he could look like a winner. Not just to her, but to her folks as well. He was certain they disliked him, and money had a lot to do with it. He eased the car to a stop at the junction of Route 183 and Route 443. For the first time he noticed how fast the once overcast sky darkened. The gas station across from them wavered like a mirage in the desert, the traffic lights slowly swayed two and fro in a windless world. Just some of the wonderful side effects of the miracle drug, but he still believed he was more than capable of driving. It was no different than driving after a few beers, and that he did just fine on more than one occasion. He turned his attention back to Val. Her skin looked pale, her hair stringy and frayed. Some side effects weren't
"No it's not. You feel like you're unable to make a good living at your job, so you're looking for another outlet to see if you can make the kind of money my dad does. You think that's the only way to make me happy. Admit it, you're a dreamer."
"No I ain't," he protested.
"Sure you are. It's one of the things I love about you. I'm just trying to be realistic, is all. Making a ton of cash fast isn't the way to do things. And you being a guitarist in a crappy band isn't going to make it happen either. Hard work is."
The haze worked its magic on his vision and his mind slowed down as he guided the car onto Route 183 South. "Hard work! What, you think standin' on a stage under those God-forsaken blazin' lights and playin' your heart out is easy? Let me tell you, it ain't."
"Oh, come on. You play a guitar. It's not like you're performing quadruple by-pass surgery or something. That's work, and it takes a lot of dedication just to get to that point.
"Look at my dad. He worked his ass off for twenty years before they made him supervisor. It wasn't until he'd broken his back for almost thirty years that they recognized his real potential. That's hard work. You need to start thinking like a twenty-five year old, Dristan, not a fifteen-year-old-wannabe."
He kept his eyes trained on the road. The last thing he wanted to do was give her any indication that she might be right. And she was for the most part. Not all, but a good chunk of his problem was trying to score it big so he could look like a winner. Not just to her, but to her folks as well. He was certain they disliked him, and money had a lot to do with it.
He eased the car to a stop at the junction of Route 183 and Route 443. For the first time he noticed how fast the once overcast sky darkened. The gas station across from them wavered like a mirage in the desert, the traffic lights slowly swayed two and fro in a windless world. Just some of the wonderful side effects of the miracle drug, but he still believed he was more than capable of driving. It was no different than driving after a few beers, and that he did just fine on more than one occasion.
He turned his attention back to Val. Her skin looked pale, her hair stringy and frayed. Some side effects weren't
so glamorous, but they'd be gone soon and he'd be okie-dokie. "Listen, I get what you mean, but do you have to be such a downer? I mean, I love playin' guitar, and dreamin's what I do best. Besides, if it weren't for dreamers, we wouldn't have light bulbs, stereos, television, indoor plumbin'..." She giggled. "Wait, wait...you're not going to try and equate your playing guitar with men who changed the face of society by creating things we use in everyday life?" "Uhm, yeah. Why not?" "That's insane." "No it's not." "Yeah, it is." "Fine, then if it weren't for dreamers, no one would have had the pleasure of listenin' to Elvis Presley, The Who, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Metallica, Disturbed, oh, and let's not forget the greatest band ever KISS." Val sniggered. "That's more like it. That's exactly what I want in a husband - a guy who jumps around on stage in make-up and platform shoes." "Don't laugh, they're multimillionaires because of that stage show." "Dristan, money isn't everything. I'd be just as happy living in a one-room apartment, with a nineteen-inch TV and a futon couch for a bed. As long as we're happy, who cares how much money we have?" He shrugged his shoulders and stared at the yellow lines that streaked by in wispy, ghost-like flashes. She was right once again, but his pride wouldn't let go. He knew she had it good at home right now, and he wanted to offer the same things. Yet he knew he was nowhere near doing so on his present salary of a mere twenty dollars an hour. She interrupted his thoughts. "Okay, let me put it this way." "Shoot." "Would you bet our happiness on the lottery?" "Huh?"
so glamorous, but they'd be gone soon and he'd be okie-dokie.
"Listen, I get what you mean, but do you have to be such a downer? I mean, I love playin' guitar, and dreamin's what I do best. Besides, if it weren't for dreamers, we wouldn't have light bulbs, stereos, television, indoor plumbin'..."
She giggled. "Wait, wait...you're not going to try and equate your playing guitar with men who changed the face of society by creating things we use in everyday life?"
"Uhm, yeah. Why not?"
"That's insane."
"No it's not."
"Yeah, it is."
"Fine, then if it weren't for dreamers, no one would have had the pleasure of listenin' to Elvis Presley, The Who, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Metallica, Disturbed, oh, and let's not forget the greatest band ever KISS."
Val sniggered. "That's more like it. That's exactly what I want in a husband - a guy who jumps around on stage in make-up and platform shoes."
"Don't laugh, they're multimillionaires because of that stage show."
"Dristan, money isn't everything. I'd be just as happy living in a one-room apartment, with a nineteen-inch TV and a futon couch for a bed. As long as we're happy, who cares how much money we have?"
He shrugged his shoulders and stared at the yellow lines that streaked by in wispy, ghost-like flashes. She was right once again, but his pride wouldn't let go. He knew she had it good at home right now, and he wanted to offer the same things. Yet he knew he was nowhere near doing so on his present salary of a mere twenty dollars an hour.
She interrupted his thoughts. "Okay, let me put it this way."
"Shoot."
"Would you bet our happiness on the lottery?"
"Huh?"
"Well, would you spend all your money on one lottery ticket in hopes of making loads of money just to make sure you could support me the way you want to?" Dristan tapped the steering wheel and breathed a heavy sigh through his nose. A flashing red light at the approaching intersection warned him to slow down, and he eased off the gas. "I'm waiting." "No," he said. The car eased to a stop. He glanced past her. No cars, just some old man standing near a house fifty yards away - his hands cupped atop a shovel handle and his chin resting on the back of his hands. Driz turned his head and looked the other way. Again nothing. He swung his head in her direction again. "No, you're right as usual." The old man was now walking towards the car, and Driz shivered. Something felt off. "I know...," he started to say. That's when things went Twilight Zone on him. Blink. Dusk disappeared, replaced by blackness so profound he felt certain no color in the human mind compared. The single flashing red light was gone as well, and a smell so vile he had to choke back his desire to hurl replaced the fresh mountain air. Before he could look to see if Val was still there, something massive slammed into the car as though it were straddling railroad tracks and a freight train had just barreled out of nowhere and into its passenger side. His mind slowed down and everything went sort of movie slow-mo on him while he took in every horrid detail. Glass skittered across the dashboard with an eerie tinkling sound. The car's frame twisted out of shape and let
"Well, would you spend all your money on one lottery ticket in hopes of making loads of money just to make sure you could support me the way you want to?"
Dristan tapped the steering wheel and breathed a heavy sigh through his nose. A flashing red light at the approaching intersection warned him to slow down, and he eased off the gas.
"I'm waiting."
"No," he said.
The car eased to a stop.
He glanced past her.
No cars, just some old man standing near a house fifty yards away - his hands cupped atop a shovel handle and his chin resting on the back of his hands.
Driz turned his head and looked the other way.
Again nothing.
He swung his head in her direction again. "No, you're right as usual."
The old man was now walking towards the car, and Driz shivered.
Something felt off.
"I know...," he started to say.
That's when things went Twilight Zone on him.
Blink.
Dusk disappeared, replaced by blackness so profound he felt certain no color in the human mind compared. The single flashing red light was gone as well, and a smell so vile he had to choke back his desire to hurl replaced the fresh mountain air. Before he could look to see if Val was still there, something massive slammed into the car as though it were straddling railroad tracks and a freight train had just barreled out of nowhere and into its passenger side.
His mind slowed down and everything went sort of movie slow-mo on him while he took in every horrid detail. Glass skittered across the dashboard with an eerie tinkling sound. The car's frame twisted out of shape and let
out a tortured groan. The steel door panel and roof screeched violently, as they ripped open like a tin can. Then, with an invisible moan the darkness surrounding them pressed down on the car and caused it to crumple like a piece of tinfoil. Driz had expected the horrifying sounds to accompany the amount of damage he bore witness to, but those things weren't what turned his skin into a thin layer of ice. No, Val's frightened howl made him shudder - that, and how he managed to hear it so distinctly over the din of chaos. In the split second it took for the passenger side of the car to fold inward, his mind raced with questions: What in God's name hit them? Why had it turned so dark, so quick? And above all, why could he hear every fucking sound? A new chorus of screams drowned out Val. His insides twisted. There were other sounds along with the cries of anguish, but Driz prayed they were only his imagination. Something feeding. That's what it sounded like. And it wasn't pleasant. To be honest, it sounded exactly something he once caught on the Discovery Channel. Like ravenous lions tearing into a fresh kill - crunch, rip, tear, smack. God he hoped his ears were wrong. And the smell! The air reeked of ammonia, copper, and vomit. He gagged again. The smells vanished quickly as his other senses overloaded on information and tried to absorb, then interpret what was happening. Blink. Everything returned to normal. Gray clouds of dusk swept by overhead, the rocking traffic light, and the normal sounds of birds calling out. The car remained a twisted heap of metal and plastic, but they were back. Val's screaming brought him around. He glanced at her, then past her to spot what hit them. Nothing. No car, no train, hell, not even a fucking meteorite or some crazy shit like that. Just...nothing. The old man who had been standing near the house was only five feet from the car now. He appeared to be
out a tortured groan. The steel door panel and roof screeched violently, as they ripped open like a tin can. Then, with an invisible moan the darkness surrounding them pressed down on the car and caused it to crumple like a piece of tinfoil.
Driz had expected the horrifying sounds to accompany the amount of damage he bore witness to, but those things weren't what turned his skin into a thin layer of ice. No, Val's frightened howl made him shudder - that, and how he managed to hear it so distinctly over the din of chaos.
In the split second it took for the passenger side of the car to fold inward, his mind raced with questions: What in God's name hit them? Why had it turned so dark, so quick? And above all, why could he hear every fucking sound?
A new chorus of screams drowned out Val.
His insides twisted.
There were other sounds along with the cries of anguish, but Driz prayed they were only his imagination. Something feeding. That's what it sounded like. And it wasn't pleasant. To be honest, it sounded exactly something he once caught on the Discovery Channel. Like ravenous lions tearing into a fresh kill - crunch, rip, tear, smack. God he hoped his ears were wrong.
And the smell! The air reeked of ammonia, copper, and vomit. He gagged again. The smells vanished quickly as his other senses overloaded on information and tried to absorb, then interpret what was happening.
Everything returned to normal. Gray clouds of dusk swept by overhead, the rocking traffic light, and the normal sounds of birds calling out. The car remained a twisted heap of metal and plastic, but they were back.
Val's screaming brought him around.
He glanced at her, then past her to spot what hit them.
Nothing.
No car, no train, hell, not even a fucking meteorite or some crazy shit like that.
Just...nothing.
The old man who had been standing near the house was only five feet from the car now. He appeared to be
reaching out to help Val. "Help!" Driz called out. "Please, help us..." Blink. He couldn't see a thing, everything darker than the darkest night. The sounds were back, as was the rancid, putrid stench. Everything felt, looked, and smelled hellish. All he could think though was that Val needed help. She had to be hurt - bad. He reached for his seatbelt and called out to her. He continued to fumble with the jammed seatbelt buckle and glanced over at Val when something reached through what was left of the passenger side, grabbed hold of her, and yanked her out into the pitch-black of God knows where. It had been a hand, though not like anything he'd seen before. As large as a man's head, if not larger, it had long, bony fingers covered in gray mottled, wrinkled flesh and savage inch-long, dagger-like fingernails. Stunned, Driz sat stock still for what seemed an eternity. He shook his head hoping to clear the haze. Was this just an effect of the new drug? Was it causing him to hallucinate? Whatever he saw sure-as-shit looked real, not to mention, vicious and powerful. How he figured that bit out he wished he could wipe from his memory. There was so much blood and it happened so fast, yet he knew he'd never forget it. Enraged, he screamed and threw himself at the seatbelt, trying to free himself. He wanted - no needed - to chase whatever took her from him. Maybe it was the adrenaline talking, but he needed to get her back or kill whatever it was that had her. He struggled with the restraint, pounded on the crumpled steering wheel, and drove his knees into the dashboard. Nothing moved and he soon felt his energy wane. He turned to look out into the abyss where Val vanished. Blink. Night was setting in, the gleam of the red flashing light above showed he was back. He spun his head. Blood streamed down what remained of the door and pooled on the empty, twisted seat where Val had been moments ago. In the void where the window had been now only showed the old man's dark eyes peering in at him.
reaching out to help Val.
"Help!" Driz called out. "Please, help us..."
He couldn't see a thing, everything darker than the darkest night. The sounds were back, as was the rancid, putrid stench. Everything felt, looked, and smelled hellish. All he could think though was that Val needed help. She had to be hurt - bad.
He reached for his seatbelt and called out to her. He continued to fumble with the jammed seatbelt buckle and glanced over at Val when something reached through what was left of the passenger side, grabbed hold of her, and yanked her out into the pitch-black of God knows where.
It had been a hand, though not like anything he'd seen before. As large as a man's head, if not larger, it had long, bony fingers covered in gray mottled, wrinkled flesh and savage inch-long, dagger-like fingernails.
Stunned, Driz sat stock still for what seemed an eternity. He shook his head hoping to clear the haze. Was this just an effect of the new drug? Was it causing him to hallucinate? Whatever he saw sure-as-shit looked real, not to mention, vicious and powerful.
How he figured that bit out he wished he could wipe from his memory. There was so much blood and it happened so fast, yet he knew he'd never forget it.
Enraged, he screamed and threw himself at the seatbelt, trying to free himself. He wanted - no needed - to chase whatever took her from him. Maybe it was the adrenaline talking, but he needed to get her back or kill whatever it was that had her. He struggled with the restraint, pounded on the crumpled steering wheel, and drove his knees into the dashboard. Nothing moved and he soon felt his energy wane.
He turned to look out into the abyss where Val vanished.
Night was setting in, the gleam of the red flashing light above showed he was back. He spun his head. Blood streamed down what remained of the door and pooled on the empty, twisted seat where Val had been moments ago. In the void where the window had been now only showed the old man's dark eyes peering in at him.
"No, no, no, no...," Driz bellowed, yanking at the steering wheel with all his might. Blink. It was there, in the world of blackness, staring at him. Yellow eyes, hovering in the darkness, glistening with hatred, perhaps hunger. There was no face, no nose, no mouth with jagged teeth, just eyes. Large glowing golden eyes, which hung in the air like twin orbs dangling on a mobile above a baby's crib. Blink. They were gone. Screaming sirens replaced the shrieks of agony. Driz glanced into the cracked review mirror. State Police vehicles raced towards him, their flashing lights and wails of 'help on the way' didn't assure him he'd live to see another day. Blink. His skin felt hot and slick with blood - part of it his own from small superficial wounds caused by flying debris, some Val's. It smeared his arms and splattered his clothes, but he ignored it and struggled to free himself. He needed to get out, away from the ungodly madness stalking him now. If only he could blink. He glanced towards the hole where Val once sat and a burst of hot air rushed over his neck. He didn't have time to turn his head as the thing that grabbed Val tore into him.# Blink and everything changes. That's what some folks claimed anyway. Not that Dristan Modan cared what others said. To him their opinions were like shit-chutes, everyone had one and they all reeked to high heaven. Funny how that thought changed in the blink of an eye though. Sure, it was cliché, but it was ironic nonetheless. If he had only listened to some of that reasoning, perhaps things would have turned out different. If he had just switched off his ego for a split second the night before, maybe Valerie would still be alive. He couldn't get over the feeling that if he curbed his anger, or had that new prescription worked properly, she would still be there by his side.
"No, no, no, no...," Driz bellowed, yanking at the steering wheel with all his might.
It was there, in the world of blackness, staring at him. Yellow eyes, hovering in the darkness, glistening with hatred, perhaps hunger. There was no face, no nose, no mouth with jagged teeth, just eyes. Large glowing golden eyes, which hung in the air like twin orbs dangling on a mobile above a baby's crib.
They were gone. Screaming sirens replaced the shrieks of agony. Driz glanced into the cracked review mirror. State Police vehicles raced towards him, their flashing lights and wails of 'help on the way' didn't assure him he'd live to see another day.
His skin felt hot and slick with blood - part of it his own from small superficial wounds caused by flying debris, some Val's. It smeared his arms and splattered his clothes, but he ignored it and struggled to free himself. He needed to get out, away from the ungodly madness stalking him now. If only he could blink.
He glanced towards the hole where Val once sat and a burst of hot air rushed over his neck. He didn't have time to turn his head as the thing that grabbed Val tore into him.
Blink and everything changes. That's what some folks claimed anyway. Not that Dristan Modan cared what others said. To him their opinions were like shit-chutes, everyone had one and they all reeked to high heaven.
Funny how that thought changed in the blink of an eye though. Sure, it was cliché, but it was ironic nonetheless. If he had only listened to some of that reasoning, perhaps things would have turned out different. If he had just switched off his ego for a split second the night before, maybe Valerie would still be alive. He couldn't get over the feeling that if he curbed his anger, or had that new prescription worked properly, she would still be there by his side.
Dristan glanced at the nurse standing next to his bed. She inserted a needle into his IV and pushed the plunger. Slowly, he turned his attention back across the room to the man who'd come in a few moments before.
