The Music Box of Manhattan

Just like last week, Chuck has us looking at another 10 titles. I chose the above one as it looked plain weird to me. 

enjoy.

Dad found it at a garage sale and thought I’d like it for my collection. It was very old, had lost its key to unlock it and badly needed a polish. I needed to take it into the city to get it open by my usual locksmith who helped me with these things.

“Thanks, Dad, I appreciate this. But it’s so old.” I took it from him carefully, “Did they say where they got it?”

“No.” he sighed, “Just that it came from Manhattan.”

A few days later, I was in the city at the locksmith who usually helped me with these things. He picked up the box carefully frowning, “Girl, this thing is older than any you’ve brought to me.”

“I know. Dad told me it was from Manhattan.”

His eyes lit up, “Where?” he put it on the counter and pulled out a book from a shelf behind him, flipped through the pages and then found a picture of it on one page, “Here you go.” He pointed at it, turning the book towards me, “The Music Box of Manhattan. It’ll start playing when you’re in Manhattan, opening up a tear in time.”

I read the blurb about this box and cast a wary look at it, wondering exactly what I had gotten myself into with it, “Okay, it’s locked for a good reason.”

He nodded, “Yeah. And you better take it back to the garage sale place your Dad bought it from.”

“Good idea. I don’t want my money back, I just don’t want this.” I looked at the ornately-carved box, now not wanting to touch it, but knowing I had to.

“Hey, so long you don’t open it, you’ll be fine.” He smiled, “Here, I’ll put it into a bag for you and you won’t have to handle it too much.” He pulled out one of his paper bags and slotted it in carefully and passed it across the counter to me on its bottom, “There you go.”

“Thanks, Chris.” I took up the handles after photographing the page with my phone.

The drive didn’t take long; as the house where Dad got the music box was on the way home. I pulled up outside the place, and looked at with a broken heart: it had been sold just the other day and the place looked vacant, “Dammit.” I got out of the car anyway and walked up to the place to see if anyone was there – the estate agent, new people looking at where they’d put their furniture… a homeless person hoping to spend the night. But there wasn’t anyone and the place was locked up tight, so I walked back to the car and leaned against the door not knowing what to do.

“Hey there.” A voice said to my left. I looked up to find a neighbour, “Yeah, they moved out pretty darned quick after the garage sale.” The man had hedge pruners in his hand, “But I found out where they went.” He dug out of his pocket a piece of paper and handed it to me, smiling, “I had to return something I bought too.”

I looked at the address: it was in Manhattan. I looked up at him, “But this is impossible, I have a music box from Manhattan, why would they get rid of it if they’re moving there?”

He shrugged, “You better get yourself there and find out.”

I got back into my car and started to drive. As I jumped onto the highway, the box began to play. It didn’t play ‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ like some music boxes do, or a waltz, it played a 1920’s rag-time song. It was mesmerising; so much so that by the time I parked the car outside the antiquities store named ‘As Time Goes By’ the sun has well and truly set and the box was playing loudly in the seat next to me – hardly muffled by the bag it was in. I picked it up as I got out, paid the meter and then approached the store. As I walked to the front door, the damned box stopped playing in mid-string of something.

A man who looked older than time looked up from his just-as-old book, “Well, hello there, how can I help you?”

I put the bag on the counter, “My Dad bought this at a garage sale the other day and it’s locked. But on the way here it started playing.”

He smiled as he pulled it out of the bag. But what he pulled out wasn’t old and dusty and had a key in its lock. This music box was brand new! Stepping back, I pulled out my phone and read the page I had photographed; it didn’t say anything about what would happen if it turned out the box could renew itself.

“What’s that?” the man asked.

“A phone.” I stupidly answered, then realised as I looked over at his telephone that it was a rotary phone – one I had never seen in my parents’ house before – and I quickly pocketed my mobile, “What year is this?”

“Does it really matter?” he smiled touching the box, “You brought the music box of Manhattan home to its rightful owner.”

“How? I didn’t do anything but come here.” Wherever here is. “And how do I get home?”

“Home?” he smirked, “You must know Chris, the locksmith.”

“Yeah, how did you know that?”

“Well, he knows me very well. He drove to your town and never came back, and so this has me wondering exactly where is the tear…”

“Tear?”

“In time… you drove through it; just like he did.”

“You never answered my question.”

“That’s because you don’t want to know. You are stuck here until another music box shows up, just like this one.”

“Well, who are you?”

“I’m Chris’ father, and this is 1956.”

“I’m from 2016.”

“Well, don’t we have a lot to talk about?” he patted the music box and it started to play again. Panic welled in my gut as I turned to the door, opened it to find it had begun to rain. I looked at my Ford to find I had parked a 1950’s Pontiac. Why hadn’t I noticed how old the car was? How could I not notice the people who had dodged around me were dressed so differently? A cop walked slowly up to me, perusing my jeans, sneakers and Nirvana t-shirt, stopped and asked me a question. Before I could answer, the door of the antiques store opened and the old man pulled me inside, “You really are from that time.”

“What happened to my car?”

“Well, it changes when it gets through the tear… but you don’t notice it until you get outside here.” He sighed, “I have to contact Chris and let him know. But you both can’t be here… you have to be there and he here.” He pulled out another music box – one that was far older than any other on the shelves, one he hid from customers – and opened it after turning the key on the bottom. It played a lovely little tune.

The music box on the top shelf began to play behind Chris. He turned from his late night work and looked up at it as it plinked and played in the semi-darkness of the room.

The Day the Music Died

I write poetry as well as flash fiction and horror. Yesterday, I was reading a tribute to him and half-listening to a tribute on the radio, when I found I just had to write about David Bowie. You'll recognise some of his greatest lyrics below... as this poem wouldn't have been about him if I didn't add them in.


Put on your red shoes,
and dance the blues...
Under the serious moonlight
While the starman
      we all grew up with - 
Our souls connected with - 
    Like we were family - 
                of some kind...
Is making the stars ...
          ... look very different today,
as he joins the greats 
   and becomes a member 
                    of that band up there,
leaving us with a part of our colour spectrum

                less bright

Leaving us gutted,
                       shattered
       that he's no longer
                                     here.

His voice is silent.
    His Swan Song Album
             breaking our hearts.

Yes, Bowie is gone from this Earth, 
     but he will live on 
        in my generation.
We were lucky enough to live here
            at the same time
                 he did. 

To Dance Beyond The Hand

The door is locked.

I think.

I’m sure it is.

This basement smells horrible, and I hope the sound of this typewriter doesn’t attract attention from the outside.

You see, I’m a writer – and we’re banned from creating new worlds because … well… I’m not quite sure why, but we are.

I think it scares them…

No, not our audiences… it scares the other ones, the ones who can’t control our thoughts and our…

…thought I heard a noise outside. It was just a rat in the corner. I gave it something to kill it, so it doesn’t freak me out at another time.

I’m not sure when this happened – the banning of all creative writers – but it’s looking very much like ‘Fahrenheit 451’ out there; but instead of book burnings, they’re ‘stablising’ writers. In my honest opinion, it’s because we can think up worlds, create situations, people, cultures and everything that fills in all the gaps and work on them until they’re so convincing that the public will follow our created worlds until we finish them up… and then we go out and do it all again.

And we do it for money.

However, it’s because in the real world, the capitalistic pigs who trail us along know we can see between the gaps of their biggest mistakes and yet, with writers, we fill in those gaps and make the story we’ve written – the fiction – better than the life everyone lives.

So, people prefer to read and live in books, than follow the news and politics.  This is better for us artists – right? Wrong. To shut us up, they have made us the bad guys and put out a bounty on us all – even the famous ones.

Yes, your favourite writers are being locked away with their hands kept from the typewriter, being kept from writing anything… they can’t even keep a journal in case that journal turns into a book they’re secretly writing in longhand. How pathetic is that? I think…

I’m in another location.

I only had two days in the basement of the local high school. I heard some noise upstairs and had to stop writing so they’d go away.

It’s been three days since you last read my writing.

I’m in the back rooms of a regional art gallery. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. So, I’ll make sure I can tell you as much as I can about me as possible.

I’m not famous, I’m not rich. I just love to write.  I love to create worlds out of nothing on the blank page and enjoy the ups and downs of the creative process. It’s just how I work – and have always worked.

When I did have a house, I had an office filled with books, a computer and all the writing gear I ever wanted and wished for. It was great to be a creative and enjoy the process… I even had a Writers’ Group to attend. This helped me connect with other writers – we thought alike – and we enjoyed each other’s company.

But when one vanished, and the cop who was with us, warned us of what the government had in mind for us, we immediately closed down the group and stopped emailing each other.

Our worlds became very small.

They found me…

I had to move again…

Dammit!

I’ve had to hide the typewriter and am now hand-writing this in a notebook… I hate this because I hardly ever hand-write anything anymore, and the process is so slow.

But at least it’s quiet.

I can’t do any writing at night… and I’m living on the street.

Oh shit…

“Where is your typewriter?”

“I’m not telling you… my Grandpa gave it to me… it’s not going hurt you.” Tears well in my eyes.

“Somebody else might use it.”

“Not if they don’t know how… it’s a particular type… it’s very old.”

The suits look at each other before one sits across from me, while the other moves to the door. The one across from me sighs, “You’ve left it in a museum?”

I didn’t say anything.

“The basement we nearly caught you in?”

“No.”

He bashes the table with a fist, “Where!”

“That must have hurt your hand… it’s all tingly now, isn’t it?”

He stands so quickly, the chair he sat on topples over, “We’re getting nowhere with her.”

“Of course not… she’s a writer… they’re the best people at keeping their own secrets.” The other says still standing at the door, “But if we threaten…”

I smile, “Threaten? Is that all you have in you?”

The first suit lunges towards me, raises his fist, growling, “You little…” then his partner grabs him, pulling him back, “She provoked me.”

“No she didn’t. Sure she’s got a smart mouth, but she didn’t touch you.” He whispers, “She’s a writer… they work with their minds.”

“You are staying here until you tell me where your typewriter is.” He shoves his partner off him, “This place will get to you.”

I look around the room with the two-way mirror, a table, four chair and one door, “A room? You’re leaving me in a room? I’ve got my mind to keep me company, and you think you can make me go nuts on toast by leaving me in a room by myself? This is seven-year-old time-out crap.”

They leave the room.

They close the door.

I look around for a few minutes wondering what I was going to do next.

There is no way out.

But I knew where my typewriter was…

Sitting down at the table, I clear a space in front of me and concentrate as I put my hands out where they’d come in contact with the keys.

Closing my eyes, I visualise my Lettera32 in front of me on the table.

It didn’t take much to bring it from the hiding place I had put this wonderful machine.

Within minutes, I feel the wobbly, plastic keys under my fingertips and smell the ink on the tape – there’s nothing like a typewriter like this!

Smiling, I begin to type.

Thwack!

Thwack! Thwack-thwackity-thwack!

Oh! Yes, the words play out onto the paper in front of me! They are the dance beyond my hands – my fingers – they are the extension of my brain, of my imagination.

I hear the lock in the door.

Removing my hands from the keys, the typewriter vanishes.

I look up.  The two suits stand there.

I know they had been watching me through the two-way mirror.

“You’re more dangerous than first expected.” Says the first one.

“So, you’re gonna kill me?”

“No.” the second one shakes his head, “You could probably change something about how this would work out if we tried.” He gestures to the table, “Has your typewriter always been on the table?”

I grin: “My typewriter is wherever I am. Nobody can take it away from me. It’s part of the dance of my fingers – and even if they’re not there, my mind can control its every move.”

The sun on my face has never felt so good.

They’re going to leave me alone, but I’m not allowed anywhere near the city.

So, I’ve traveled to a place where I can be alone… with my typewriter, plenty of paper and my thoughts and worlds… so the dance beyond my hands and fingers can continue in relative peace.

But then, I can go anywhere with the typewriter… so I still travel.

Vortex

Happy New Year! Yes, it's a new year, a great time for great flash fictions! This the first of many that Chuck has us indulging in! He got us to pick one from 9 off a selection from flickr and I chose one which had me in a spin - a time-lapse photograph of stars from a rocky outcropping overlooking water at dawn or sunset... when I saw that, the words just came.

Enjoy!


It was time.

New Years Eve was the date.

Dawn was the time.

We had to make sure we didn’t drink any booze, take anything weird or do anything stupid to watch this prophecy come to pass on the rocky shores off Scotland.

It happened every year and most people who went to witness it sometimes didn’t come back from it. But this was a special time for us three; as we were going through it for the first time in three years.

You see, we got stuck in a time where there was no electricity, no technology and where the castles that we were learning about in school had only just been finished.

Yes, we landed in the Dark Ages.

And me being a redhead didn’t help me. So many people thought I was either prostitute, a vampire or a witch; and so from the very start, I was running for my life. As for my friends? Well, it didn’t help that one of them was my girlfriend and she and I couldn’t be seen together in public.

However, we did hide out in a village not far from the vortex, where the people there helped us. They dressed us, fed us and kept us together, as they had seen this happen before and had forbad their own from venturing forth to that rocky outcropping on the turn of the new year.

However, we were treasured, as we could all read and write, so that was something good. Two of us could cook, and Matty found that hunting was a fun past-time he never knew he’d enjoy.

Now, wisps of snow fell from the sky as ice hardened in puddles in the rock pools. It had been a harsh Winter and quite a few elders had passed away in the village; leaving it smaller than it had been last Summer Solstice. And some of the younger babies hadn’t survived the Winter Solstice either; and being the only Pagan Priestess amongst the people, the job was given to me to perform the funerals for the dead… there were so many of them that had died from diseases that were curable in the modern world. After each funeral, I’d go back to my hut and cry, wishing I could go home.

Then, the Romans arrived.

They took my Mina… my sweetheart… but not for long!

Something happened.

Something strange… something unexpected.

My witchcraft which was so harmless in the modern day actually meant something here. When I pointed my staff, electricity sparked and spat from the end of it, blazing across the darkness of the night of when they arrived, freaking out the horses and killing a massive guard.

Mina’s shackles were unlocked with a mere thought from me and she came running back to my side as I turned to those filthy, horrid men, muttering, “You leave now.”

They didn’t have to be told twice as what they had witnessed couldn’t be explained to anyone – not the King, not their Commander, not anyone – and so they clumsily mounted their horses and left the tiny village, leaving my Mina with us.

Matty approached me as my woman stared at me, whispering, “How did you do that?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know…” I gazed over at Mina with absolute love in my heart, “When the thought of losing you crossed my mind, I felt anger – pure rage – engulf me.”

The village elder walked across to my hut where I stood, “You are great, and yet you have not given us your name.”

“Selma.” I said, “It’s a stupid name.”

“No, it is not.” He smiled in the dark, “Your powers have protected our village and your kin. You are all members of our village now, but we know you must return to where you belong soon.”

So much has gone on since that night…

A war…

A plague…

Two fires…

Three invasions…

Seven funerals…

Twelve births… with seven deaths…

All this in three years; and it was time for us to leave. Our leader knew it was time as we had been talking about going home for a long time now. I missed so much of home. Mina wanted to start a life with me and Matty wanted to go back home and finish his uni studies.

As the dawn’s light filtered each star from the sky one by one, the chill in the air became less. But we knew it had begun as the stars that were left spun in a spiral, making us feel sick, making us feel light-headed, making us drop to the rocks one by one, filtering us out – just like the stars from the night sky.

“Selma, wake up.” Mina’s voice sounded muffled as the sun’s warmth touched my skin.

“Hey, are we home?” I asked.

“Yeah, I think so.” Matty’s voice said helping me to sit up.

We looked around the rocky shore and found the township of police looking at us. An ambulance had shown up, along with police, our parents and the media was being held back. We allowed them to take us to the hospital for tests – to clear us of any diseases that we might have picked up – before we went home.

That night, we all gathered together at my parents’ home for dinner and I looked around the living room at photos on the mantle and on the walls were really old. Looking over my parents, I noticed my Mum had more grey in her hair than she really should (but then, she might have it because I was missing). It wasn’t until I looked in the pantry when I noticed that there were more pills there than three years previous and I heard my brother come into the kitchen.

“Hey, Selma.” He said grabbing a glass from the collection on the drainer, “Mum and Dad aren’t young anymore; and you vanished for so long.” He shook his head, “You, Mina and Matty were gone for a decade.” He saw the shock on my face, and smiled, “How long did you think you were gone for?”

“Three years.”

The smile fell off my brother’s face.

Santa's Workshop

Merry Christmas! Thought to see this Silly Season through with a Santa and Krampus Flash Fiction ... right in time for the Big Guy in the Red Suit to show. Can't beat irony...

enjoy!

Ever get that feeling that the life you’re living now is just all made up to keep you in line? I have for about a year now.

But that’s not the reason why I hate Christmas.

That’s not the reason why I can’t stand the sight of all the Santa Claus’ at the shopping centres asking kiddies what they want for Christmas.

I hate this time of year because I’ve worked for the very man himself… 

I knew you’d start laughing.

I work in a huge place which stunk of sickly sweet sugary foods with hundreds – no, thousands – of other children he happily call his ‘little elves’ for a long time. It didn’t matter that some of us are beginning to wonder exactly why we are all working for some old, morbidly obese man who only work for one month a year – and yet he knows everything about every kid around.

And oh, yes, his cousin, Krampus, shows up with the ‘Naughty & Nice’ list in around October. I’m tellin’ ya, that dude is fugly, but don’t tell him that, he’d only gloat about it. Santa? Well, he tries not to be too hard on Krampus – not after last year when Krampus turned him into a version of himself… yuk! Scared the crap out of all the youngest elves around the township, I’m tellin’ ya!

But … oh hang on.

I had to put a candy cane in the swear jar. I forgot that we’re not allowed to swear. I’m technically not even allowed to be writing in this diary. I just hope he doesn’t find out I’m doing this.

But he will.

And anyone who ‘turns against’ him are usually demoted to the stables; which is never good, because those reindeer aren’t as cute and cuddly as you think. Comet kicks you when you least expect it. Blitzen bites. Donna is addicted to those stupid candy canes and the rest spit, throw up and poop everywhere but the stables.

But how I ended up here in the North Pole is a complete mystery to me. And why my folks haven’t come looking for is another. Is there a blind spot that this horrible man who dresses in the same dreadful, red, smelly suit every year casts a spell and my folks suddenly forget they have a second child?

This doesn’t mean I don’t know what work is. We all work seven hour split shifts with two one hour breaks. We get paid with free accommodation, free food, free clothes (when we need it), and if we get sick (which ironically, is almost never), we have free home care doctors. But none of us are allowed to leave this place. If we do, we either disappear forever, or we go back to our families with little to no memory of what we’ve been through here.

I’ve heard some of the ones let go from here don’t survive very long out in the real world either. They end up in institutions or they try to come back here and fail… and end up dead.

I have asked to go home, but the longer I’m here for, the less I remember of my family. I think it’s something in the food that makes us forget our family and the outside world. The more I eat and drink it, the less I remember my… um… siblings and I have a mother, I think. Damn! (another candy cane for the swear jar).

This is disturbing and depressing me, and yet I can’t tell anyone. I have tried to talk to the home doctor, but he just stands there looking at me with a questioning expression on his face with his bag in his hand. I can’t tell him how much I hate this place, because he will report it back to the Big Man and he will assess the situation and…

The sharp smell of disinfectant invades my nose and eyes snapping me awake. Restraints hold my arms in place as a doctor sits by my bedside reading through my green diary with a red and white spine.

Looking up, he smiles, “Hi. Do you know where you are?”

I shake my head, “He didn’t like what I wrote, so instead of sending me to the stables with Comet and Blitzen, he sent me…” I look around and see it’s not snowing outside, “He sent me home.”

“He? Who’s he?” the man places the clipboard with my diary on top of it on the table at the end of my bed.

Tears fill my eyes as I struggle to look at him, “I can’t tell you… he’ll know, I’ll be punished with coal in my stocking at Christmas.”

“You’ve been missing for over five years, Beth. You showed up at the local police station dressed like an elf.” He said, “We’ve been trying to convince you that you’re not one, but your ears. How did your ears get that way.”

I tried to cover them, but the restraints stopped me, and I blushed instead, “We all become elfish in the end, when we figure out what has happened to us.”

“You were kidnapped.” He said, “You were taken from your local park when you were only seven years old.”

“And I’m how old now?” I ask.

“Thirteen.”

“And nobody found me?” I cast a stare straight at him, “Has is ever crossed your mind why that is? And why there’s so many children who have gone missing and have never returned… and yet, nobody has found them?”

“Well, you mention the North Pole in here.”  He picked up the book.

I looked at him. I knew he had been naughty all year. I knew why I had been sent home. It was punishment in a way… I still worked for Santa, but I also worked for Krampus. I could see this man was no doctor. He was impersonating one, “You’re not real.”

“Of course I am.”

“No… you don’t understand. You’re not a doctor.”

A laugh bubbled nervously from his mouth, “How can you prove that?”

“Because, I know why I’ve been sent away from the Workshop.” Looking down, I order the restraints to let me go. As if the leather heard me, it unbuckled. Sitting forward, I pick up my diary, “I’m here to find out who’s Naughty and Nice. I don’t work for Santa anymore; I work for Krampus. And you, ‘doctor’ haven’t been nice to anyone this year.”

The Gates

NaNoWriMo... aaahhh... well, I'm not doing so hot at it right now - but I'm attempting to get my book working. Yes, I'm still plugging away at it after my car was broken into, after suffering from horrible heat stroke on Friday from a stinking hot heatwave; and yes, even when my mother landed in hospital with her heart problems (they still don't know what's going on - which is a worry). But here's the 1,000 words of 'The Angel Wars' - a continuation from 'Angel Love'... yep, I found a darker side to them wingnuts up there. 

Enjoy.

He didn’t know what he hated more, the fact that he was stuck on Earth with the stinking mob of Humans or the that he knew someone was behind those gates.

He looked at the large padlock with Enochian engraved into it, and knew deep down that only one being could put that there: God.

“You’re gutless.” He whispered and the gates moved slightly, as though where had been a breeze where there never was one. Stepping back, Michael looked up at them as they rose up and disappeared into the cloud above him, “You’re too scared to come out here and talk to me, Father! To tell me the truth of why you threw your warriors to the wolves, without warning and without their consent, their Graces being ripped out as their wings burned painfully from their bodies! This caused such an upheaval on Earth that you brought forward an Apocalypse forward by thirty generations!”

The padlock snapped opened.

The chains rattled off and fell to the ground.

The gates opened for the Archangel to step through.

Heaven was a wasteland. He moved through the Time-Keeper’s Quarter and peered through the massive door to find The Great Hall empty of souls.  Looking up at the large Chrystaline-Opal Timepiece, Michael noticed its face was shattered stilling its hands at 5:15pm – the time of The Fall.

Tears filled his eyes as he realised that it had all been planned… the question that bothered him now was: how long did God know?

“I knew from the very beginning of placing Humans on this Earth that this was to happen, Michael.”

He turned to see him, his Father, everyone’s Father, standing behind him. It was the first time, he had met him in his long existence, and Michael wasn’t pleased nor impressed with this little, ordinary-looking man: “So, you’re him.”

“I am so sorry, my son…”

“Don’t call me that!” he snapped, “I stopped being your son when you slammed the gates of my home on my arse – and my brothers and sisters arse’s as well – and shattered the Chystaline-Opal Timepiece!”

“I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.” The older man said, “Is that such a crime?”

“You’re our creator.” The Angel growled, “Whatever happened to nurturing your Paradise?”

“Paradise?” the man’s eyes widened, “You call that war torn craphole down there a Paradise?”

“No, but they were trying. They prayed to you and us, and what did we do? Nothing. You ordered us to do nothing but listen and just be there for them! What use is that?” Michael spat. His anger began to turn the surrounding clouds dark as lightning spattered around them and thunder quickly followed. The first diamond raindrop plinked against the glass of the small room.

“So, I was supposed to just fix everything just because they complained and bitched to me about their pain and they blew each other up?” God asked, “And what of Gadreel? His crime was…”

“You saw what he did. You could have fixed it, but you didn’t!” the Angel fixed a glare on his Father who turned away from him, not wanting to know – wanting to ‘be alone’.

Michael knew it… his Father was ashamed of everything he’d ever done. It still posed the question: why?

GOD

This place was once a place of wonder, of beauty, of creatures which were just starting out.

It was his Paradise on a brand new planet.

His best work yet!

It was how he created Earth in the first place that was great. He didn’t plan this world – unlike the others – instead, just making sure he was in the right place at the right time. He was around when this planet was just settling in to the right spot as it was born, as it was cooling down, while it was still smouldering and had that brand new smell about it… he loved that smell about a new planet.

Then, he did the stupid thing and put them on it.

Them = Humans

He thought it was a good idea at the time, and they did well for a few thousand years. Then the serpent was let into the Garden by Gadreel because they wanted to know everything – and he was young, inexperienced and stupid too – and they went and overdosed on the evil and serpent seduced them with.

First it was Eve and that damned tree!

Then, Kane killed Able – he’d never known anything so dreadful in all his life! It was the very first murder – cold-blooded, calculated and mindful in all its ways – and yet, it was over the one brother who was talking to Lucifer, while the other made a deal with that Angel himself to save Able’s soul so it would come to Heaven.

Personally, that was the worse deal to make.

Kane still walked the Earth – but he was in hiding; not even God himself could find him. And the weapon forged to kill anyone or be used on his children.

He sat in The Great Library as the fires burned low. It was quiet here now there was nobody around to bother him about anything… too quiet… but he’d gone and done the one thing he’d promise himself to never do.

He thought throwing everyone out of the Garden was a good idea. But they cried and pleaded for his help. They killed each other in cold blood. They created false idols and built things to worship instead of him because he decided it was a good idea to leave them alone.

Now, he thought it was a good idea to throw his Angels out of the only home they’ve ever known and make them lose their Grace – what in all Hell was he thinking?

“Father?” Michael had followed him to The Great Library, “Do you need help with this?”

He looked up from the large, overstuffed chair, “Michael, it’s been so long since I walked amongst my children on Earth.” Tears blurred his vision as he gestured to the chair across from him for his dearest son to sit, “How to make this right?”

“Let me help you.”

The old man nodded, “I thought…”

“I know.” He reached out and touched his hand, “We could bring them all home together and make Earth better again.”

“So, what now?”

“You have to let the Angels come home – that’s the first thing.” He said.

The man looked up at the domed roof of where the diamond rain fell overhead, “But they all lost their Grace.”

“You can work with that – you created us.” Michael stood, pulling on his hand gently.

His Father cringed, “You don’t understand, son, I haven’t been on Earth since Jesus was born.”

The Angel let go of his hand, “Oh I see. Okay, if you come with me, I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

“How?”

“I’m your son, it’s my duty to make sure you’re safe.” Michael replied, “I’m not leaving this place without you.”

The old man shot him a filthy look, “You’re not giving me a choice?”

“No. Your children need you. Your warriors need you. That’s all there is to it.” He said, “Come, don’t come, see if I care.” Michael walked to the door of The Great Library, opened the door and turned back to him, “But if you stay here, and they find out you didn’t come, you will be labeled a coward. Nobody will want to come home, nobody will believe in Heaven or Hell – or you.” He turned to leave, when he felt a hand on his arm.

“When do we leave?”

Don't Fear The Reaper

Song titles are great to write to. This week, Chuck has us writing to them - but we must go with the theme of the song... mine? 'Don't Fear The Reaper' - a great 1970's song!

Enjoy!

My eyes opened to rain on my face.

How did I come to be on the side of the road – in a ditch to be precise – amongst the dirt, mud and long grass?

Sitting up, I looked around quickly and found my car was on its roof! The beautiful metallic red had been scraped off its side by some monster and most of the windows shattered!

I wanted to be sick – my sweet ride had been totaled by somebody. Walking up to the passenger side door, I bent down to look inside as the emergency services showed up and started putting down foam and sawdust to take up the petrol and oil.

“Hey, when do I need to go to hospital? I woke up over there…” I asked one of the medics, but he turned his back on me and talked to a cop. I waited to see if he’d turn back and speak to me, but he didn’t, instead, he ran up to the ambulance shaking his head, “Call the coroner, think she’s gone.”

“Hi Amy.” A voice said behind me and I turned to see a well-dressed young woman standing next to my car, “You’ve had a really bad night, haven’t you?”

“How come nobody will talk to me, but you will.” I asked.

She put her head to one side, “You don’t know…oh no… it happened too quick for you to register.”

“Register what?” 

She shook her head, “I can’t tell you unless you admit it to yourself; and you have to remember what happened tonight as well.”

“I got dumped, that’s what happened. He proposed to me, then a week before the wedding, he fuckin’ got cold feet and made off with one of the sluts better known as a Bridesmaid.” I snapped.

“You were on your way home from his place, right?”

“His parent’s house.” I corrected her.

“That’s right. Then?”

“Then what? I woke up over … there.” I pointed to the ditch I found myself in, “But how did I get there?” I turned to find she was gone, “And who were you?”

I had to remember what happened tonight and what happened to my sweet car. 

I started to cry.

“She died on impact.” The voice echoed through the morgue. This place was creepy on television shows; you have no idea what it’s like to actually see one up close and personal – especially when they’re carving up your own body and you’re watching on.

“Oh, dear, an Engagement ring.” A Medical Examiner pulled that rock off my finger and placed it in an envelope, “I bet it all went south and … no we can’t assume about people’s lives. Was there alcohol involved?”

Her assistant looked at the chart and read the results, “No. She hadn’t been drinking; but the other driver was way over the limit; and they’re in theatre right now.”

“What a shitty way to go.”

“Amy, are you ready to go?” the young well-dressed woman was back.

“Where did you go?”

“I had … other things… to take care of first.” She looked at the two Medical Examiners, “I see they’re doing their best with your body.”

“Yes.” I replied in a small voice.

“Don’t worry, you’ll look good at your service.”

“Where is she?” Matthew’s voice screamed from the hallway, “Oh my God! Don’t tell me that Amy’s dead… she can’t be!” he barged into the room and stopped. His face was contorted with grief, disbelief and horror as he caught a glimpse at what they were doing, “No! No! Not my sweetheart!” he fell to his knees sobbing.

“He really did love me.” I watched him wishing I could hold him again, wishing I could kiss his lips and take in his scent. But all I could do was stand next to him feeling useless and stale. I turned to the woman, “Get me out of here.”

The cemetery wasn’t where I wanted to be; but my family was standing around watching a casket being lowered into the ground as the sun touched the trees in the early morning.

“It was a closed casket because your head injuries were too severe.” She whispered in my ear.

“Oh…I see.” I muttered, “I didn’t want to be here.”

“We all attend our funerals; it’s a type of closure.”

“Who are you?” I asked looking at her.

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“I’m surprised you haven’t figure me out yet… you’re a smart person, Amy.”

“I don’t understand why you can see me and nobody else can, are you my guide?”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m not your guide. You meet them after you’ve been through me.” She smiled, “But I do notice that you’re scared of me.”

“What are you?”

“I’m here for you, Amy… I’m your Reaper.” 

Emmett's Little Secret

This time around, Chuck has us writing X meets Y of Horror meets Not-So-Horror... this should be fun - in more ways than one!

Enjoy!


My neighbour has a secret.

I’ve noticed him as he’s come home every night from work, called out to his wife – Astrid – had dinner, then retired to his garage until around midnight.

I know he did this because the light from his garage shone through my bedroom window well after I turned out my light and went to bed.

On Friday nights, while I studied further into the night, I’d take breaks out on the roof and watch, listening as he worked away in that dark green garage; and noticed one thing: the two cars were never kept inside it.

The doors were always closed.

The two family cars were always parked outside on the driveway.

I watched him for about three months before we got our first decent thunderstorm and he eagerly arrived home, clambered up on the roof of the garage as the wind picked up and made sure the tall shining wires were connected right.

He was drenched by the time he climbed down – as he’d neglected to put on a raincoat – and he stood out there in the pouring rain and wind grinning up at those wires as though he had invented them. Within a few seconds, he’d run inside the garage and fiddle with something and I knew he was waiting.

For what I wasn’t sure, but I waited in my room watching on as the lightning came closer and closer.

But storm passed over and the closest the lightning came was the footpath outside. It left a large, black stain on the concrete about three feet across, which faded over the next three months to a light grey and kids played marbles on it.

He was disappointed about where it had made landfall; and just seemed to stare at the black stain on the concrete as I checked the letterbox the next afternoon.

Then, he looked over at me, “Hi there.” His voice was kind husky and loud for somebody so young; as though he was a little deaf and had to shout to make up for it, “How are you?”

I looked around to see if he was talking to me, then back at him, “I’m good.”

“I’ve noticed you’ve been watching me… would you like to see what I’ve been making in my garage?”

I hesitated, “Um… I don’t know you.”

Slapping his forehead as he burst out laughing, he stepped across the road hurriedly, thrusting his hand out, “I’m Emmett.”

“Hi… Amy.”

Glancing at the letterbox, he spotted our last name, “Pond.”

“Indeed.” I smiled, but couldn’t keep it as he rushed across the road to his house, then turned, “Well, Amy, are you coming or not?”

Stepping inside the garage, I found the place crowded with instruments, a couple of large tables, a huge telescope (which protruded through the roof here – and yet it didn’t show on the outside) and then there was a blue police box in the middle with its doors open and wiring feeding from inside it.

Curiosity got the better of me as I stepped toward it and looked inside where my eyes followed the wiring to a huge circular desk which seemed to be the epicenter of this thing… and yet, the box was bigger on the inside than the outside… and yet the garage had the same perimeters.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Emmett mused as he proudly looked around his garage.

“Which one? Your garage or the box?” I asked.

“Both, Amy, both!” he answered as he seemed to remember something and rushed across to the bookcase, scanned the books, muttered, “Ah-ha!” and pulled a book down from the shelves and came back to me, “I assume this is yours?”

I took the book from him and looked at its red cover. It was a book I had lost years ago at school – somebody had stolen it from my locker in high school, “Where did you get this?”

“From the kid who stole it off you.” He said, “Did you know he had a crush on you and wanted to own something of yours?”

“Oh… no. But I love this book.” I still wondered how he got it, “How did you get it off the kid at the exact time he was stealing it?”

“That, my dear, is hard to explain.” He grinned that same grin I saw when the storm was on – he was nuts on toast.

“Thank you.” Turning, I started toward the door, “I better go home, I have to study and give Mum the mail.”

“We have another storm in a few days.” He said, “I hear you’re good at science.” He walked me home.

“Yes, I’m okay at it I guess.”

“Well, how would you like to be part of an experiment – a witness if you will?” Emmett’s eyes glowed with hope, “I just need an assistant.”

“It’s for the next storm, isn’t it?”

“Yes… I need somebody to help me with my secret.”

The storm didn’t strike when we had hoped; it went around our suburb instead. Emmett was disappointed. But then I was too – I loved storms as they’re great entertainment.

This gave Mum and Dad time to meet Emmett and get to know him as a neighbour, as well as his wife, Astrid. They came over for dinner, where we found out they were from all over, traveling for work and wherever they wished to live. Dad thought it must have been a great joy to be able to pick up sticks and move at a moment’s notice, and Emmett smiled and said it was. They seemed happy and wonderful and lovely. Both sets of adults talked well into the night, but I had to head off to bed – being seventeen sucked. I was part adult, part child; and yet still had to do what my folks told me to.

Soon, the Summer storms arrived along with the heat. It was great to be able to feel the storms coming, predicting them with such accuracy that Emmett and I were ready for the lightning when we needed to record it.

Well, that’s what he told me I was doing.

Then, Astrid went missing.

The police searched everywhere for her. Emmett was beside himself as the neighbourhood rallied around him in support to help him find his beloved wife, soulmate and companion. They were such a wonderful pair; so old-fashioned and retro-looking and yet so cool that everyone loved them from the start. Eventually, Emmett went back to work on his secret in his garage.

“I can’t see why you can… Astrid was such a big part of your life.” I said at the door as he begged me to come back.

“I need to keep working in her name… please I need you there.” He said, “My work will keep me sane.”

“Okay.”

The next day – around midday – a storm struck.

It was massively wonderful!

Day turned to night.

Thunder rolled as though the world was engulfed in a drum solo in the darkened, broiling clouds overhead.

Emmett was in his element as the readings came through – and the strikes came closer and closer.

All my study at school was really beginning to pay off as we looked up at the glass ceiling at the flashing, darkened sky and he threw the switches and the wires entering the blue box in the garage started to hum.

“Now, be careful… they’re all live, okay, Amy?” he shouted above the thunderclaps.

“Okay!”

Next, the box began to glow from within… a soft green, then it turned blue and it made a sound as though it was going to feedback on itself before it vibrated and a sound of woman’s voice came from the box. It wasn’t before long when I recognized that voice: it was Astrid’s!

“Emmett!”

He turned grinning, “What?”

“Astrid’s inside the box.”

He looked over and nodded, “I know. I put her there.”

“You what?”

His huge grin told me everything I needed to know – Emmett had lost his marbles in the biggest possible way, “I put her there… and then called the police and told them she was missing. I mean, it didn’t take much to put my wife into the machine – I mean she’s dead anyway. It’s just a matter of juicing up the machine and getting her going again.”

My gut did a backflip, “Dead?”

He walked across toward me, reaching over the top towards a shelf and grabbing a pair of heavy-duty gloves and pulled them onto his hands, “Why yes… I needed a freshie to get things going.”

I stared at him: “Freshie? How come you’re using that word as though you’ve done this before?”

“Oh, come now, this can’t be your first rodeo… can it?”

“The worse thing I’ve done is dissect a frog; and I was just about the only person in the class who didn’t regurgitate their lunch.”

Emmett hesitated, “Oh, I see… so you’ve never seen a dead body before – a real one. I can show you her if you want.”

“No… I’d rather remember her the way she was… please.”

“I thought you had more guts than this.” Looking me up and down, a smile carved its way across his cheek, “Actually, we can find out if you do…”

Outside the storm had doubled in fury and I just wanted to get home; but knew I couldn’t leave just yet – it was too dangerous to run across the street.

But his house was close enough.

I raced out the garage door – just dodging out of his grasp – and into the howling storm outside, getting drenched in a few seconds. I knew where the door of the house was and raced toward it; totally surprised that it was open.

Once inside, I stood there dripping wet for moment, leaving the two monsters behind me – one human, one Mother Nature – before I took a step into the kitchen and could smell it: decay. This filtered into the back of my nose and I couldn’t get rid of it as I gagged into my hands and looked around trying to figure out where that stench was coming from. And it wasn’t long before I found it: there were three people sitting in the living room propped up as though they were watching television; but yet it wasn’t switched on.

It was the Parkinson’s.

They hadn’t been seen in about three months.

Emmett and Astrid told everyone they had moved away.

But I don’t remember them moving anywhere… they would have told everyone.

“Oh my God… he killed you all.”

“That’s right, I did, Amy.” Emmett’s voice came from the kitchen behind me as the door closed out the other monster outside. His snide grin was still on his face, “And now, the blue box is alive… Astrid survived the experiment and is part of it. She’s its soul power source. But there is one little problem.”

I hated to ask: “And that is?”

He slowly picked up a meat cleaver, “You’ve now seen far too much.”