My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
***
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
***
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
For more information on all the authors and stories featured in The Rabbit Hole 5 check out fellow featured author Joseph Carrabis’s site which has featured interviews on several authors!
The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear And Other Stories of Chilling Modern Horror Fantasy is a collection of ten short stories written by me and is available to buy on Amazon here. Below is an extract from one of the featured stories Thou Shalt Not Suffer.
Thou Shalt Not Suffer
‘I can’t do this anymore.’
There is a room in darkness; the only light the blazing flicker of a TV screen, HD colours reaching out from beyond the liquid crystal display. There is an armchair in the room drawn up close to the TV. There is a cat and a terrarium with a big warty toad crouched on a smooth stone, regal as a dragon. There is a woman. She strokes the cat, her eyes glued to the TV. She is smiling a rictus grin. *
‘This was a mistake.’
She can smell the gas. Her wrists and ankles are strapped. There is a strap across her chest and banding her forehead. She cannot move. The ceiling is very white like an operating theatre. The walls are clear ceiling to floor Plexi-glass. The gas is coming from vents in the ceiling. There are other holes in the floor. She cannot see them because she is strapped to a stretcher in the middle of the room but she knows they are there. The flames will come from the vents in the floor. Tears leak, steady as a tap, down her face. They tickle as they wriggle past her earlobes. She is numb with terror. Panic mounts. She thinks she could pull loose of her body and float like a helium balloon to the ceiling. She wishes that she would.
She cannot turn her head but movement flickers in her peripheral vision. Beyond the windows people are taking seats in the auditorium outside the tiny glass room. The prosecuting lawyers. The Pontiff’s representative. The witchhunters. Keith’s family.
How many people are out there? How many people are going to watch her burn?
Her sobs are muffled by the thick leather mask covering her lower face. The metal grill allows her to breathe and makes her look like Hannibal Lector. They put a sack over her head when they wheeled her in through the baying crowds outside but the witchhunters removed it when they installed her in the room. They want her to see the gas ripple in the air. They want her to see when the room explodes in flame.
You know what your problem is? My sister Stella asked me the other day. You’re a loser, she says. You never try. All you do is complain. And like that was rich coming from her. All she does is complain about me.
Anyway, she’s still banging on. She’s like, look at this place, and waving her hands around like some manic orchestra conductor. And she has this really shrill voice that gets all nasally when she’s angry –and she’s angry a lot, my sister. Mushrooms, Livvy, she shrills. You got mushrooms growing in your bathroom. You’re a slob. A disgrace. I’m sick of cleaning up after you, she tells me, like I’m this huge terrible burden she’s been lumbered with.
Well, no one’s making you, I shout back, don’t I? ‘Cuz I don’t have to take that, do I? No, I don’t. It’s my life, I yell ‘cuz she’s always judging me and I’m sick of it. I’ll screw up if I want to, I tell her. You can’t tell me what to do!
I’m crying at this point, which is just typical. I hate that I’m a crier, ‘cuz it makes Stella go all superior, acting like I’m just crying for attention or ‘cuz I’m a whiny baby. I mean, it’s not my fault. It’s like I got all the most pathetic traits at birth and none of the good ones. Not like Stella.
Sometimes I really hate Stella. My got-it-all-together sister. Goody-goody two-shoes, perfect first-born, straight-A Stella with her perfect hair and perfect teeth and perfect barbie-doll corporate drone wife. She don’t understand how hard it is to be me.
Anyway, what was I saying? Right, about the other day. Stella gives me this look, alright? Like I’m something nasty stuck to her shoe –not that anything nasty would dare stick to Stella’s shoes. Grow up Liv, she says, looking all serious and haughty. You’re thirty-two, not a teenager. Do something with your life.
I tell her to go to hell. She leaves. And then I’m alone, right? Stuck in my crappy flat with the mouldy floors and mushrooms growing up alongside the bath. I mean, you don’t have to worry, I cleaned up before you arrived so it’s not that bad now. But anyway. Mum and Dad pay the rent on this place ‘cuz I’m still looking for work. It’s not like I’m lazy, mind. People just have it in for me.
They can’t deal with my realness, see. I got self-respect, I’m not picking up after other people who can’t use a stupid bin. I don’t care what it says in my job contract. I know I was born for great things; it’s just that no one will give me a chance. I haven’t found my niche yet, you see. That thing that I’m super good at that no one else can do. Circumstances are against me. The whole world wants too much from me while I’m still trying to find myself. No one can see that I’m special. Different. Sensitive and stuff.
It’s like all them suffering artists from the past, yeah? Did anyone tell Van Gogh, Oi mate, you can’t go ‘round cutting off your ears like that, you got to sign on. No, they didn’t. They just let him get on painting his sunflowers and self-mutilating ‘cuz they recognised he was special, didn’t they? Old Van Gogh even had a brother who took care of him, not like me and Stella.
But you know, Van Gogh had to deal with idiots who didn’t understand him too. He was painting his Starry Night and people were like whose that ginger weirdo with the one ear? We should lock him up.
That’s life though, ain’t it?
Special, sensitive, tortured people suffer. They get no appreciation until they die and then everyone is like, wow, look at them Sunflowers, that’s genius. Let’s write sad, hippy songs about how no one appreciates artists ‘til they’re dead. It’s like, a cosmic rule or something.
And like I know I’m one of them tortured artist people. I got to be right? ‘Cuz I’m living in a crappy housing estate full of winos and druggies. And that weird pale guy on the top floor with the widow’s peak who’s probably a serial killer ‘cuz he only goes out at night.
But like, I’ve been working on a novel right? About a girl who fights against the whole stupid world that only sees her loser outer shell. ‘Cuz the world’s shallow and judgy and wouldn’t know greatness if it slapped ‘em silly with a giant sturgeon, would it? No, it wouldn’t.
It’s gonna be a best-seller, my book. I mean, I’ve only written, like, four thousand words in four years, but you can’t rush the creative process. Genius takes time to sprout.
Anyway, I started a Kickstarter to drum up funds but people were all like, well what’s the outline? What’s the plot about? When’s it gonna be done? What’s the genre? And I’m like, don’t distract me with all these questions. My book’s not like other books. It don’t need things like plot or character or whatever. I’ve got tortured genius, don’t I?
So yeah, I read about Mandragora online, that’s how I found about your offer. I was doing one of those “what sort of vegetable are you” quizzes. I’m an aubergine, by the way. Did you know the aubergine is part of the nightshade family? Yeah, like related to deadly nightshade? I thought that was pretty cool. Anyway, I saw your ad saying you were looking for people who wanted to cultivate a new version of themselves, and I was like, that’s me, that is. I’m all about cultivating myself.
By the way, just got to say, your hair is awesome. It’s all bright green and springy like moss. What brand of dye is that? ‘Cuz my friend Oona –well, Beth actually, but she’s been Oona since she went Goth at, like twenty-three–Anyway, she tried to dye her hair green and it came out like a cat wee’d on some straw or something.
But your hair’s nothing like that. It’s awesome. I mean that green lipstick is awesome too. What’s the shade?
It’s natural?
Is that some kind of genetic condition? Err, you don’t have to answer that if it’s personal or anything. Forget I asked.
Mandragora did that? Um, is that supposed to happen, ‘cuz the ad didn’t mention any side-effects.
No way! That’s what you used to look like? Seriously? This picture isn’t photoshopped or nothing? Oh my god. That’s amazing. You look completely different. Way thinner and your skin is, like, flawless now.
I will definitely take green hair and weird lips if it means I get to look like you. Err, you know what I mean right? I’m not trying to come on to you or anything.
Wow, your eyes are so shiny. It’s like they suck in all the light, but they’re so dark and mysterious too. Is that a mandragora thing as well? ‘Cuz in your picture your eyes are blue.
Yeah, I’ve got a credit card. I mean I’m kinda paying off the overdraft, but like, you have an instalment plan, right? You don’t? Oh wow. Err, I’m really sorry but I’m not sure I can pay…free trial? Are you serious? Wow, that’s wonderful.
I’m really glad you think I’m a good candidate for cultivation. It makes me feel better about your company that you care so much about your clients. Y’know, you got to be careful about these internet ads, ‘cuz a lot of them are scams. Not that I’m implying anything about Mandragora, but like, it’s too good to be true, isn’t it?
A glass of water, uh, okay. That’s like your third glass since you got here. Are you sure I can’t get you a coffee? Just water. Okay. I guess hydration is good for the skin and that, right?
I got to ask, your fingers? They’re kind of green. I mean not just the nails, which are like, lethal long, but your skin is like, cauliflower pale, you know? So white it’s sort of greenish? Sorry. That was super rude. I shouldn’t have said anything.
Oh, that’s mandragora as well?
Is there a pamphlet or something that explains all the side-effects? ‘Cuz I don’t know, I might be allergic to going green. I’m allergic to gluten, you know? And strawberries. And cheap silver jewellery. I had silver earrings once and my ear got infected and it was like –Boom –puss and blood everywhere.
Mandragora uses my blood? That’s, um, are you sure this is legal?
Oh, I see. I guess that makes sense. So I just plant this seed thingy in this sack and what, bleed on the soil? ‘Cuz I got to tell you that sack looks like a body bag. Oh, I have to lie in the sack. And what? Put dirt all over me? Isn’t that a bit weird?
Yes, I have heard of mudbaths, but isn’t the mud usually wet and like, don’t you have to sit in a spa bath and put cucumber on your eyeballs?
Okay, no cucumber. No other vegetation. No contaminants. Got it. You know, you were a bit intense then. You might want to chill a bit, ‘cuz it was a bit off-putting. Just saying, for future customers.
Oh, I know, I know. Sales is awful. There was this one time I was working at a call centre, right? Worst forty-five minutes of my life. I walked out. Had too. Those places are like a living death. Soul-destroying, you know?
Well, I guess when you put it that way, sleeping in a sack of dirt with a giant seed thingy on my chest isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever done. And like dirt is good for you, right? Therapeutic and all that?
A pint? I have to pour a pint of blood into the dirt? That’s like, a lot, isn’t it? I mean won’t I get anaemic or something?
Well, yeah I guess that’s alright if it’s the same as giving blood. I mean, you are trained to draw blood, aren’t you? ‘Cuz, I don’t want you missing the vein so I end up haemorrhaging under my skin or something.
Wow, you just carry around needles and blood bags? You must be real confident you’ll make a sale.
The questionnaire? I mean, I remember filling it out and it was super long, like those personality profile quizzes. Wait, so you only do home visits of people pre-approved for cultivation? The questionnaire is that good at weeding out bad clients? Huh, I think this is the first time I’ve ever been pre-approved for anything.
You know what, go ahead. Stick that needle in me. I’ve got a good feeling about this.
Talk to the seed?
What like King Charles talks to plants? That actually works? And like, what is this cultivation process anyway? What sort of changes should I see after doing this? How often do I repeat the treatment?
I have to say, I don’t think I want to do the whole bleeding into a bag thing all that often.
Look, I get that the “Whole New You” thing is, like, Mandragoras catchphrase or whatever– but what does it mean, like really? When will I start losing weight? Will my hair change colour gradually or all at once? These are kind of important details and you haven’t told me anything.
Overnight? Seriously? I’ll be like you in less than twenty-four hours?
Is there like a money-back guarantee if it doesn’t work? ‘Cuz I’ve done fad diets and bought like, fat buster products before and they never work as advertised.
Eww, I have to sleep naked in the bloody dirt? Isn’t that like really unhygienic?
Okay, I mean I guess. If the seed needs to be against my heart, but like, there’s still my skin and my ribcage and lungs and stuff in-between? So I don’t see why a nighty is really going to matter that much—
Well, yeah. Of course, I want to blossom as a life-form. Although, just saying, that is a weird way of putting it.
Okay, I mean, this is like a free trial and you’ve already taken my blood, so what the hell? I’ll do it. I should tell you though, I’m still a bit sceptical about all this. I’m not like those gullible people who will jump on any fad or quick-fix. I’m discerning. That’s always been my problem.
Wow, would you look at that? This seed-thingy is super creepy. It looks like it’s got a face. A scary, screamy face.
Do I really have to put this on my chest, seriously?
Alright, so do you have a number or email I can reach you on if this doesn’t work?
Well, aren’t you confident? Maybe your other clients had no complaints but as I said, I’m not like other people. I want a number for your complaints department, or you can take your creepy screaming seed back and leave.
Thank you. Yes, I will do as instructed. I’ll lay out the dirt and pour in the blood soon as you leave. What no, I’m not going to go to sleep immediately. It’s four in the afternoon.
Germination happens when the blood is still warm?
Fine, alright. I’ll do it. But seriously, you need to work on your sales pitch because you are kind of pushy with your weird void-stare and monotone delivery.
Yeah, whatever you say. I’m sure I’ll enjoy my blooming too. What? You’ll be back for the harvest? What harvest? Holy crap. Why is the seed screaming?
Wait, come back—
****
If you’d like to read more of my work, check out The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear, a collection of ten urban fantasy/horror short stories available on Amazon now.
My short story One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth is featured in Haunt anthology from Dragon Soul Press available on Amazon. Below is an extract from One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile teeth.
One-Eyed Queens and Crocodile Teeth
They say that in the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. But you say bollocks to that, don’t you Cheryl? You’ve never had much time for kings. Nor men, for that matter. And seeing? Well, the blind don’t know how lucky they are.
Your problem’s always been the same. You’ve always seen too much. You see it all. The twisted bodies of the sprites that jump from tree branch to tree branch in a storm. The faces in the wind and the shadows at the periphery of the brightest day. You see the darkness and the darkness sees you.
But you managed. For years, you managed. You were nimble, you were tough; you saw it all and you asked no questions. Monkey sees, but Monkey don’t talk. You survived. You thrived. You were the one-eyed queen in the dark.
You cleaned house for the monsters, learning the lesson of every soul that’s ever been weak amid the strong and the mean; when you can’t fight and you can’t run, be useful. And you were. When wicked old Mr. Watkins guilt came for him, you were there, wiping the tiny finger trails off the windowpanes and ignoring the way the condensation ran like tears.
You spritzed and you squirted, you wiped it all away, but the fingers lingered, scraping invisible patterns over the pane as you turned your back.
When the shadows in the room sniffled and pawed at the smudgy walls, when the reek of ammonia and terror clogged your nose, you whipped out the polish until the room smelled like an orange grove in Andalucía. You scrubbed the walls until they shone like ivory. You swept trapped sobs from between the slats of the Venetian blinds and let them drift as dust to the carpet before you got the Dyson out.
When the cupboard doors rattled in the toy maker’s workshop, you kept your head down and never opened the doors. You never looked into the weeping eyes of all those little wind-up boys and girls with their too life-like faces. ‘Cuz you knew what you’d see. But nothing gets the stink of evil out of the air, does it, Cheryl? Nor stops fear from leaking into the floorboards or terror from rising up the walls like black rot.
Though you surely tried, didn’t you?
If you would like to read more of my work you can find my horror-fantasy short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear on Amazon
The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear and Other Stories of Chilling Modern Horror Fantasy is a collection of ten short stories mixing the urban fantasy and horror genres. It is available to buy on Amazon here
In a dystopian Britain, Lorraine has a severed hand problem. A trip to the woods turns to tragedy for Bethany and a deal with a love-struck demon goes awry for Chris. This is just a taste of the ten short stories of urban fantasy and horror gathered here. Spotlighting a strange and twisted suburban world, where a P.A’s unrequited love for the new girl in the office attracts a nightclub genie, vampires contract with the local cleaning service for discreet stain removal and everything and nothing is as it seems. Each self-contained story provides humour with a bite and chills with a smile focusing on the lives of normal people in an abnormal world where no one is entirely innocent and everyone has something to fear.
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, a tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
Interested in reading more of my weird and creepy stories? The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear a collection of ten horror-fantasy tales is available on Amazon
For more information on all the authors and stories featured in The Rabbit Hole 5 check out fellow featured author Joseph Carrabis’s site which has interviews on several authors!
“I’m not being like anything. I’m just saying. It’s…spangly.”
“Do you like it?”
“Well. It sparkles?”
“We can look for something else.”
“No. No. It’s fine. You like it.”
“I don’t like it. I was asking if you like it.”
“Yeah, but then you got mad about my answer, which means you must like it.”
“No it doesn’t –and I didn’t get mad.”
“You’re mad now.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You sound mad.”
“Look. Let’s just…look over there. What do you think about the blue one?”
“Bit dark, isn’t it?”
“Alright. What about the green?”
“The green one?”
“I’ll take that as a no, then. What takes your fancy?”
“That flowery one is nice.”
“The sleeves are awful. It looks like something Morticia Adams would wear if she suddenly let go of the black.”
“No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t have any tentacle-bits.”
“Tentacle-bits?”
“Yeah, y’know? Morticia wore that skin-tight dress that had the flared strips at the bottom? They look like tentacles.”
“I suppose. The orange one has a nice silhouette but –orange.”
“Yeah. Y’know, we should get a coffee.”
“Not yet, I want to finalise a decision on this.”
“What about a different shop?”
“We’ve already tried four.”
“There’s always more.”
“I hate shopping.”
“I know.”
“It’s just. All of these are so…boring.”
“You could try and make your own. Lots of people do it. There’s like, podcasts and stuff.”
“I hate podcasts.”
“You hate a lot of things today.”
“Mostly shopping.”
“We could get a doughnut.”
“If you’re hungry, you could just say.”
“I’m not. I just want a doughnut.”
“And a coffee?”
“Frappe.”
“I don’t want to stop. If I take a break I’ll lose the will to start again.”
“What about that one? It’s a nice shade.”
“Pink.”
“Oh, right. I know, why don’t we expand our horizons and go look outside the bridal sections?”
“Yeah, but, I don’t want to look cheap. Also, I want to the bridesmaid dresses to match. Don’t say it. I’m not buying everyone the same dress. I want a coherent theme, not a wedding where no one knows who the bride is.”
“That would be quite funny, though.”
“For you, maybe. Not me.”
“None of this is fun for you.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
“Uh, I think getting married is supposed to be fun.”
“Clearly, you’ve never seen those Bridezilla reality shows.”
“Those are all fake. Have you ever seen that Nightmare Cat show? With the guy with the guitar? Every episode is the same. The woman’s an idiot, the man’s an arse. The cat’s insane. No one has a single original thought until Guitar Guy comes over and tells them a bunch of obvious stuff.”
“…What does that have to do with my wedding?”
“Nothing. I was talking about reality TV.”
“I like the cream, but it’s so traditional.”
“The cut-out panels are nice.”
“I like the lacework. It’s intricate without being dowdy.”
“You could try it on?”
“I suppose. What about you?”
“I’m not the one getting married. Why would I try it on?”
“I meant, are there any bridesmaid dresses you like?”
“That match?”
“That compliment.”
“What about a contrast, instead? What do you think about this one?”
“Too colourful. I mean, I like it, but I think it’s a bit too dynamic for a bridesmaid dress. That red stripe reminds me of a race car. I don’t want to be overshadowed. Does that sound vain? It does, doesn’t it?”
“Nah, it’s your wedding. Still, you like the colour though, right?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Well, I was thinking we could be strategic about this. Instead of just wandering around waiting to find the perfect dress, why don’t we start to record what sort of things you like so we can find a dress with as many of those elements as possible?”
“You want to be strategic? In seventeen years of friendship I don’t think you’ve ever planned for anything.”
“My feet hurt. I’m thirsty. I’m willing to try anything to get you to make a decision.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’ll try on the cream one. You try the colourful one. We’ll see how they look and then go and get a coffee or something.”
“Women’s dress sizes are a joke. No way was that a fourteen.”
“I know. The silk felt weird and scratchy too.”
“That shop was a bit of a bust, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t have to get all depressed about it. Americano?”
“Please. I’ll pay.”
“No, you won’t. You want a croissant?”
“…Brownie. Do they have your doughnuts?”
“No, I’ll get a brownie too.”
“Thanks for this. I know I’m being a pain.”
“You’re just getting into the role.”
“I don’t really want to become a hideous screeching harpy, though. Don’t.”
“Too late. That was an open goal. You can’t expect me not to take the shot.”
“Everything is just so complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be. You could just go to the Registry Office.”
“No. The point of a wedding is all the hoopla.”
“Isn’t the point of the wedding meant to be the happily ever after?”
“I could have that without the wedding. Or Luke, frankly.”
“Why don’t you, then?”
“Because I want to get married at least once in my life. I’m nearly forty. I want my princess moment.”
“In Japan some women get wedding photoshoots done even if their single. They don’t bother with a husband or wife at all, just get the dress and the flowers and all that jazz. I mean, they also have agencies for people who want to hire fake family members to avoid dealing with their crippling loneliness in an increasingly atomised and commercialised world. So, make of that what you will.”
“Sometimes I wonder what goes on in your brain. Then I realise I’m better off not knowing.”
“Well, I’m not the one forcing myself to get married.”
“I’m not forcing myself.”
“You kind of are.”
“In what way am I forcing myself?”
“In every way. I haven’t heard you say anything positive about this whole thing, once.”
“You said it yourself. I’m getting into the spirit of the thing.”
“Kat.”
“Don’t.”
“Are you really sure about this? It’s all so fast. I’m mean, after last summer I thought you and Luke were done. Now you’re getting married. Are you sure you’re doing this for the right reason?”
“Well, if I’m not divorces are pretty easy to get.”
“Kat. That’s not funny. I’m worried about you.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Yes, there is. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but you’re miserable.”
“I want to get married.”
“Yeah, but do you want to marry Luke?”
“There’s no one else.”
“You don’t know that. You haven’t looked.”
“I’m not going to cheat on Luke four months before the wedding to test that theory.”
“Why not? He’s done it to you more than once. Sorry. That was—I shouldn’t have said that. Kat? C’mon. Say something. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. Please. Let’s just pretend I never opened my mouth, okay?”
“I just…I want everything settled. We’ve got the mortgage –which is a nightmare to get out of -and the routine. Might as well get married. I don’t think I can find anyone else. And I want—I want to do this one normal thing for my mum, you know? I want her to see me walk down the aisle. Go on, tell me I’m being an idiot. I can see it written all over your face.”
“My face is saying nothing. I don’t think you’re an idiot.”
“You think I’m making a mistake.”
“I don’t matter. You do. If you want to marry Luke, I’ll happily walk down the aisle throwing confetti and wearing my dynamic and race car dress. You know that. I just want you to be sure this will make you happy. You’re usually sure about everything.”
“—I’m not sure about this.”
“I know.”
“You did look good in that race car dress.”
“Shame about the size. I was popping out of the seams.”
“Maybe we should get married. We’ll wear matching racing car dresses and go to Silverstone for the day.”
“As long as I get to wear a stupid flouncy hat, I’m game.”
“They don’t wear stupid hats at Silverstone. You’re thinking of horseracing.”
“Let’s do that, then. We’ll get married. Go to the races and then take a cruise. I’ve always wanted to go on one of those. Luke can be bridesmaid. He can carry our trains. It’s the least the arse could do after everything he’s put us through.”
“Us?”
“Absolutely. I’m the one you cry at when he hurts you.”
“—I suppose that’s true. Though if I was marrying you, I’d wear the spangles.”
“Wear that and I’ll jilt you.”
“That’s hardly a threat. I think Luke’s still seeing her.”
“Kat.”
“I know. It’s sort of funny. I don’t even care anymore. I just want the marriage so I can divorce him. It makes getting a settlement easier.”
“…I don’t know if that’s the most cynical thing you’ve ever said or the most practical. And that’s saying something because you are both of those things all of the time.”
“I prefer to think of it as pragmatic.”
“Well don’t. It’s depressing. And borderline insane. Don’t laugh. I wasn’t joking.”
“I know. Come on. Let’s go back to that last shop. I want to try on the spangly one.”
“Kat…”
“Relax. I’m not having a breakdown. I’m going to tell Luke we’re done tonight and …deal with the fallout as it comes. I just want to indulge my girly fantasy before I do.”
“Crap. Did you have this all planned out?”
“No. It’s your fault. You always make me see when I’m being an idiot.”
“So, you’re saying in the space of what, three hours? I ruined your wedding.”
“Congratulations. That’s a new record for you.”
“Yeah. I know. Are you sure about this?”
“Yes. Although I’ll probably cry at you about it later.”
“I’m sorry, y’know. About Luke. I mean that. I just–”
“I know Deana. It’s okay. Now, come on. I want spangles.”
If you would like to read more of my work The Innocent Have Nothing to Feara collection of ten urban fantasy/horror stories is available on Amazon
On Tuesday 4th, Clive Screed woke up with a headache. Suze was still sleeping so he slipped out of bed and ambled to the bathroom to go through his usual motions before heading to work.
Clive had worked at Cordon and Bloom Accountancy for twenty years; he liked to joke that he was a lifer. He ran several blue-chip accounts and would’ve made the upper echelons of management if he’d possessed an iota of ambition. Instead, Clive possessed a much rarer gift, loyalty, and satisfaction in his work. He was a mainstay of the office; a touchstone for the company and an easy-going mentor for the junior staff. People liked Clive and Clive liked people.
This Tuesday was different. Clive had taken an aspirin before starting his commute to work but it hadn’t worked. The hysteria-tinged prattle of the radio announcer aggravated his headache as he joined the wind of traffic on the ring-round circling the town. Clive’s favourite station had given over most of its air-time not to the golden oldies Clive liked best, but to some drivel about a new strain of virus spreading around the country; Clive paid very little attention. It seemed to him that everyone now-a-days was a hypochondriac. He was forced to change station and this break to his contented routine further aggravated the drilling pain in his head.
He, therefore, entered the office at ten minutes past nine in an uncharacteristically bad mood, ignoring the usual round of half-heartedly cheery greetings from staff members pleased to see him but less pleased to be at work on a Tuesday morning. Clive tried to summon his usual joie-de-vivre while he checked his emails but an odd lethargy dragged at his mind, deflating his spirits. At ten-fifteen he almost cursed when the printer jammed and he caught himself glowering at Julie over the cubicle partition when she coughed too loudly. He was quite surprised and ashamed of himself.
At a quarter past two, Clive was startled awake at his desk. This was shocking for two reasons, firstly, in twenty years Clive had worked at Cordon and Bloom he had never, ever dozed off at his desk and secondly, Julie was screaming.
Clive lumbered to his feet, limbs heavy and uncoordinated. He looked for Julie. Her cubicle next to his was a state. There was blood all over her monitor. Her keyboard dangled over the desk edge, hanging by its cable. Her swivel chair was out in the aisle. Clive tutted under his breath. He detested mess.
This was unfortunate as it appeared that the office had become a shambles while he was snoozing. There were papers everywhere. Cubicle partitions had been ripped from between desks and flung around hither and thither. Someone had planted their bloody handprints all over the off-white walls and Tim-the-intern appeared to be lying in the middle of reception in a pool of his own blood. Clive blinked in surprise, this just wasn’t the sort of behaviour one expected from Cordon and Bloom.
At least Julie had stopped screaming, which was a relief to Clive and some comfort to his aching head. He stumbled upon her body next to junior partner Aaron Carruther’s cubicle, she too appeared to have taken to lying on the floor in a very dishevelled state. Belatedly, he realised she was dead and took a moment to be shocked by that.
Aaron crouched over Julie, blood and drool spilling from his mouth. He yowled at Clive like an angry cat when he saw him, foamy spittle flying from his lips.
Clive reeled back in alarm. He hadn’t thought Aaron the type to go around eating co-workers.
Aaron lunged for Clive’s ankles and Clive fell back into Ranjit’s desk. He grabbed hold of the back of Ranjit’s swivel chair and slammed it into Aaron’s body as the younger man lurched at him. Aaron was not a fit man. He fell backwards, arse-over-tea-kettle as the saying goes. Clive dragged himself up and hurried toward the main doors.
It would be inaccurate to say that forty-three-year-old Clive ran from the office because forty-three-year-old Clive hadn’t done any running since his five-a-side footie team had disbanded when Jerry North went and immigrated to Australia (the lucky bastard). He gave it a good try though.
Rambling down the communal corridor in the office complex Cordon and Bloom shared with a photography studio and a dentist, he lurched drunkenly off walls and into the copier, before pausing briefly and cocking an ear to the screams issuing through the door to Doctor Chakraborty’s surgery. The door was locked and when banging his fist on the frosted glass pane failed to hail anyone Clive reluctantly moved on.
Clive did not meet anyone on the lower floors of the complex. There was evidence that someone had had a bit of a spill; Clive’s sensible black leather shoes sloshed deep into the blood-soaked shag outside Rogers Consultancy on the ground floor. Confused and vaguely concerned at the number of bloody accidents going on in the building, Clive fumbled his way out of the buildings glass doors.
The comfort of the quietude the abandoned office block afforded Clive was lost the instant he stumbled outside. There was a lot of noise and fuss, someone was yelling over a loudspeaker and some fool had put up cordons and police barricades all around the pedestrian plaza. That was just not on, in Clive’s opinion. The plaza was hazardous enough, what with fountain jets set into the ground and the European market setting up shop in the middle of the thoroughfare. The last thing anyone needed was for some jobsworth to turn the plaza into a literal obstacle course of cordons and sandbags and police tape.
Clive had reached the limit of his patience, which was his only excuse for roughly knocking over the cordon and lurching into the plaza. A low, guttural growl escaped him when he saw the broken glass, shattered market stalls and detritus of German sausages, French baguettes and peculiar knick-knacks strewn over the ground. Not to mention the corpses. Really what was all that about? Clive wondered. Since when was it acceptable to leave corpses all over the place? What did he pay his taxes for if the council couldn’t even keep litter and corpses off the streets? It was disgraceful.
Clive was not the only person left to fumble their way toward the distant barricade, a good number of rather unsightly looking ne’er-do-wells were shambling about, bouncing off litter bins and falling over benches. Some of them appeared to be picking at the corpses or fighting one another in a slow and disorganized manner. Clive wondered if these louts were responsible for all the mess.
He avoided the lot of them, ambling along the line of cordons toward the hub of noise and activity on the other side. The voice over the loudspeaker continued to blear out, but the voice was too distorted for Clive to understand. He fixed on the people – normal, unbloodied people—he could see on the other side of the thicket of sandbags, armed police and parked police cars forming a barricade in the middle of the plaza. What was going on here? Clive asked himself. It looked like a scene from one of those disaster movies Suze liked to watch.
Clive was sliding along the outer wall of the abandoned Japanese restaurant, edging closer to the nearest group of officers when one of them yelled and raised his gun. Clive rocked to a halt. A nice, urban lower-middle-class Englishman, Clive had never seen a real rifle before, let alone heard one fired. He fell over in shock, quite winded and unsettled by the whole affair. What the buggery was going on? Why was the police shooting at him?
Had the whole world gone mad while he was napping?
Clive dragged himself away, frightened and scared. He took refuge in the narrow alley between the bank and the bakery where the winos liked to congregate. They weren’t there now. No one was. Clive slumped against the wall and sobbed. His v-neck jumper was all stained and bloody. His left leg shook uncontrollably, his foot bouncing over the concrete. Out in the plaza, the rat-tat-tat of gunfire and the bellowing of the voice over the loudspeaker merged into an incomprehensible cacophony that made Clive’s head hurt abominably. Above the buildings a helicopter whoop-whooped by.
Clive wasn’t sure how long he sat in the alley, surrounded by blood and the stench of stale urine. Time cycled by in a blur of muted sensation. The sound of helicopter rota blades slicing and dicing the air; the staccato bursts of gunfire; the distant roar of jeeps and truck motors; the occasional scream and the sharp, bright tinkle of shattering glass — all of it overlaid by the blearing of loudspeakers.
It grew dark and it occurred to him that he needed to find Suze.
The plaza was a different place when he dragged himself out of the alley. There were a lot more rough-looking types shambling about, growing more aggressive now the sun had set. The barricade at the end of the plaza had been abandoned and all the storefronts sported broken windows and gutted displays. It was like the office all over again, all the order and civility of the town had fallen to ruin while Clive’s back was turned.
Charlemagne Boulevard was deserted; tire marks scoured the asphalt and concrete blocks had been placed over two traffic lanes, preventing cars from coming into the town centre. Clive saw the swirling flash of blue and white police lights further along the boulevard and approached the police car cautiously. The police had fired on him, a law-abiding citizen, but as a law-abiding citizen, it was still encoded in Clive to seek a policeman’s aid.
He was disappointed to find the car abandoned, the blood on the driver’s seat already dried. He moved off, feet slow and dragging. He was so blasted tired that was the problem. He couldn’t think right. Everything was topsy-turvy and his head would not stop aching. It was all wrong. Everything. All wrong.
He needed to get home to Suze; that was it. That was the answer. She’d be worried about him. He was probably late home. He hoped she had dinner on. He was hungry. Filled with a raw, empty hunger that opened in the pit of his stomach like a fissure and threatened to hollow him out. That’s how he felt, he realised. Hollow, like a gutted building. He was nothing but a façade of a man with all his vital bits missing.
Clive stumbled to a stop. He would be the first to admit he was not what one would call a deep thinker by nature. It wasn’t his way to question too much the why and the wherefore of anything. Life was for living, he always said, everything else will sort itself out in time. It was a bit odd for him to be getting all poetic, but he supposed he’d earned the right to get a bit maudlin, what with the day he’d had.
He mopped his brow with a limp hand, disgusted by the drool clinging to his lax chin. He must be coming down with something, he reasoned. He was all out-of-sorts. He had to stop outside the offy on Milden Avenue to collect himself. He picked up a packet of tissues but found Agnieszka indisposed and unable to take his money. He left the correct change on the counter and hoped her son would be along soon to pick up her body. It looked like some rotten soul had already taken a couple of bites out of her.
Clive picked up the pace as he passed by the primary school on Teft Street; he didn’t want to look.
The streets were so quiet. Clive had the ants up the spine feeling of eyes watching him from behind broken windows or shadowed garden corners, but he saw no one. The distant scream of sirens in other parts of the town came to him over the still air the only hint that anyone survived.
Someone had driven a white van into the side of Mrs. Marchants’ house at the top of the street. Another car smouldered further down the way and Clive would be worried about the engine blowing, what with the flames he could see dancing under the bonnet and the audible crackle and pop of melting glass and tires were he not so hungry. It was all he could think about. That and Suze.
Suze and her Sunday roasts, her fat dripping potatoes and the way she melted the cheese on top of the shepherd’s pie just the way he liked, creating a little patina of golden-orange cheesy goodness on top. He started to salivate. He did love his Suze, what with her big hips and ample bosom. She wasn’t fast-moving his Suze, a bit clumsy all told. He hoped no one had gotten to her. He was so very, very hungry.
He slipped around the back of the house, entering through the passage that ran between his house and the neighbours and led to the back garden gate. The kitchen door was less secure than the front. He was so hungry he didn’t want to have to fuss around breaking in through the front window. What would the neighbours think?
He found Suze in the upstairs bathroom, cowering in the bathtub behind the shower curtain. She was in a right state. Screaming and crying hysterically when she saw him. He reached for her and she threw the shampoo bottle at his head.
Well, that was a fine to-do, wasn’t it? A man braves life and limb to get home to his wife and this is his welcome? A spark of anger lit inside him, causing his hunger to surge.
Suze wept and begged as he dragged her out of the bath. Her screaming and sobbing drove a spike of agony into his brain, jagged and rough. He couldn’t bear it. The incessant drilling in his head and the raw wound in his stomach combined in a crescendo of pain.
Pain that only stopped when he took his first bite.
If you enjoyed Clive’s story you can read more of my weird and creepy stories in The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear is available on Amazon
My short story Sweet Summer Swimming is featured in the writers co-op latest anthology, The Rabbit Hole Vol. 5, now available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble in ebook and print. Below is an extract from Sweet Summer Swimming, my tale of murderous jellyfish on the hunt!
There is no purpose, no will. No mind. The jellies float. They beach. They burn and they flounder. They feed and they sink back into the surf. They wait to be called home again. Some have fallen, some have multiplied. It matters not. They are jellyfish. There is no will. No mind. No wonder why.
There is only the tide, the spasm of sensation. The hook and the cry and the flail and the catch. There is the pulse and the propulsion, the sudden arrest, the split and the shatter. The sink and the swim.
They are come, they are go, they know not which. They are the jellies and they are here and they are gone. Time is immaterial when there is only the float.
The tide comes in and the jellies rise to meet it.
***
Wet your appetite for more? My short story collection The Innocent Have Nothing to Fear – featuring ten weird and disturbing fantasy-horror stories is available to buy on Amazon now.
ALDLIS CHRONICLES 