Don't Talk To The Dead

Okay, I'm continuing on from Coolerbs on the Flash Fiction from last week!  I saw this, read it, and loved it!  The top green on is the first 500, the second purple one is the next 500 and then, the bottom blue one is my work... enjoy!

Everyone knew talking to the dead was a bad idea.  

 It always ended up creating all manner of messes for the rest of the world to deal with.  The riddles the dead would weave…people knew better than to listen to them anymore.  If Osama Bin Ladin hadn’t thought he was following his ancestors plans, he probably never would have become a radical.  Hitler wouldn’t have become an elitist.  Hell, most serial killers start off by listening to the whispers of the dead.

 That said, a lot of people were willing to break their rules to carry out the wishes of a lost loved one.  Only problem was, quite often, they didn’t realize that the echoes people left behind weren’t really them anymore.  Just the worst of them would remain, the parts they wanted to leave behind and never think about again.  Their darkest secrets, their worst desires, their most wild, inappropriate thoughts.  Remnants weren’t human anymore.  Just a concentration of evil, all their former goodness stripped away forever.

 Cory already knew all this.  Knew it better than most people, in fact.  Not many people were willing to study old messages from the dead as a career, let alone be insane enough to actively attempt to communicate with them.  Cory had been deliberately talking to the dead for the better part of six years now, carefully recording each interaction, extensively analyzing every aspect of what the dead would say.

 Granted, some of these conversations were more significant, and traumatic, than others.

 He’d talked to his “grandfather” a total of twelve times now.  Each time was more difficult than the last.  Even though Cory knew, logically, that the man talking to him wasn’t really his grandpa anymore, it was impossible to completely dissociate the evil remnant from the kindly, world-wise man Cory had known.  

 The first time they’d spoken, he’d told Cory to kill a judge.  He’d said the man had murdered more than one criminal to keep them from revealing his many affairs. Cory, obviously, hadn’t done it.  Truthfully, he didn’t believe any facts he got from the dead.  They were all spinning their own, manipulative stories, not to mention that their memories were skewed by how little of their original self was left.

 Still, every time he spoke to his “grandfather” and the man wondered why Cory wasn’t doing as he’d been told, it got harder.  Having the man who raised you, the man you respected above all others, being disappointed in you was never easy, and Cory still hadn’t managed to totally separate this remnant from his grandpa.

 The longer you talked to a specific remnant, the harder it got.  All the research said it.  And, by all accounts, no one who spoke to the same one thirteen times had managed to evade either ending up in a psychiatric facility, attempting to kill someone, or committing suicide.

 Because that was what the dead did.  They tried to get more people to join them.

Then, on the thirteenth visit, as predicated, something changed. Cory could feel it through the entire day leading up to it. The night before; he could not sleep, his pumping heart becoming the soundtrack of insomnia.  He spent the night staring at his ceiling, fiddling with the air conditioner; too hot, then too cold.

On five hours of rest he went through that day, the clouds echoing his mood with long dark streaks, pressing up against each other, as if they were stitched together. He stopped a moment to look up at them. The hints of rain gave the air its own taste. As the rain began to drop, he raced towards the facility.

The facility itself was a strange location, by anyone’s standards. The rifts that allowed the remnants to bleed through had popped up on the earth surface, with little care for what stood there. Both hospitals and playground alike, leveled in the rush to study. The buildings were built up around the chambers that contained the phenomenon.

The rain was already splashing on the nape of Cory’s neck, sprinkling across his face and fogging his glasses. Yet, he stood and looked around for a moment, remembering the swing set and the long yellow slide. It was there he had first met his grandpa, when he had first been introduced to the man who would influence his life. He had not known who this man was; just an elderly man who always laughed at his jokes, no matter how juvenile.

A particularly large drop of water hit him on the upper eyelid, and he was forced from his memory. He brushed it off, and pulled out his keycard. The I.D. picture display was a much happier version of him; a much more naïve version.

The machine accepted his card with a flash of green light, and he walked inside

Besides the various monitoring areas, and overly long hallways, the building really only consisted of one room. It was a circular area, cameras all pointing at the center, recording even the slightest twitch from the pit on the floor.

That was really the best way to describe it: a pit. Darkness ebbed from it, the bright lights of the room doing nothing to diminish it. A ring of electricity spiraled around the edges, keeping anything that might escape from moving beyond it. “Grandpa” had learned that well enough during a heated conversation.

Cory was not sure why, but he felt dread as he powered on the various devices. The beeping of monitors filled the quiet room. The cameras all swiveled in their sockets and focused on the platform. A long stream of light pumped down the pit.  In response, shrieking noises came from within. A few hands reached up towards the edges, only to be electrocuted back into their place. Only one allowed through.

It took a few moments, but he eventually appeared. Rising up from the pit, like a toy at the claw machine. His skin a translucent blue, his eyes were white globes; devoid of irises.

“Hello, Cory” he said.

Cory pulled a seat around and sat down, “Hi.”

“You still haven’t killed the bastard judge.” He said.

“You’re still on about that?” he groaned, “Thought we’d talk about something else.”

“Like what?” his ‘Grandpa’s’ eyes glowered at him.

He heard the rain become heavier outside and thunder grumble like drums overhead, “Like… are you really my Grandpa?”

“Of course I am.” He snorted, “I know everything about you.”

Smiling the young man nodded, “Oh yeah, sure.  Any dead person could say that when they make contact with a living human because they have to mind-meld.  But, you sure as shit don’t act like my Grandpa… you’re a remnant, and you’re hiding my Grandpa.”

The old man said nothing as he looked down, then sighed, “So what?”

“So what?  So, my Grandpa wouldn’t get me to kill some judge I know nothing about.  And before you start bitching, I’m not going to begin stalking him like some sicko.”

“Listen kid, all you have to do is kill him… that’s all I’m asking.”

“Bargaining… jeez aren’t you past that?”

The remnant stood there in silence, knowing Cory wasn’t going to be forced to do anything, “Listen, you should know by now that your Grandpa is long gone, and I’m using him.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.  You’re highjacking his body and all, but really do you have to blow this bullshit over me again?” Cory snapped, “I’m not doing it!”

Lightning flashed outside and they were plunged into darkness for a moment.  When the lights came back on, Cory’s Grandpa was gone, “Dammit.  Lost contact.” He stood, turning toward the computer to see how it all went down; as he knew it would have recorded everything, even when the power went off – as it was working off its battery.  Looking at the screen, he watched the last moments of the conversation.  The lightning flashed.  The lights went out and came back on.  In between those two events, a low-grade energy reading was picked up on the cameras before they switched off.  It read outside the force field which he had set up.

Looking up quickly, Cory realised the remnant was lose, “Crap!”

“Crap indeed.” A voice at his shoulder whispered in his ear.  He jumped back, running into the corner of the desk, looking around but finding nothing as the voice continued on in his head, “You’ll never find me, Cory…” it took on a sing-song tone, “I’m in your head… I’ll drive you crazy.”

“No!” he shouted shaking his head, “Get out!”

The voice whispered up close to his left ear, “Make me.”

The doctor came into his room and watched him with two other interns next to him as he sat by the window looking out at the day mumbling to himself.

“This is Cory.” The doctor said, “He checked himself in here last year and was fine for about a week, then he started talking to a man called ‘Grandpa’.  He believes he’s been talking to the dead…”

Cory turned around and looked at the doctor with white glowing eyes, “Don’t talk to the dead… don’t talk to the dead… don’t talk to the dead…”

Pictures - Parts I & II

Okay, guys, here's the thing.  I needed a lot of the scenes from the first 500 words I had chosen this week.  So, I've copy and pasted Deanmcsmith's work into here and continued on with my work; separating our works with different coloured inks... hope it runs on well enough.

The film is on original Kodak Panchromatic, which I guess makes it no older than 1928. It was archived in the foreign films section of the library, though there is no distinguishing documentation to support it. The film can is the original Kodak, though the serial numbers are missing. There looks to be about an hours worth of film, though at this point I can’t say for sure. It’s never been projected though, there don’t appear to be any marks on the material at all.

Sammi left the tablets voice recorder running while she set up the projector. Her mind was still on the stacks and the small mountain of films she needed to get through if she was to have any hope of earning a bonus in time for Christmas. The job had been a dream come true for her when she had gotten it, it would have been for any film studies graduate, but the gloss had soon worn thin. If the last three weeks and 300 films were anything to go by, then the majority of the libraries uncatalogued films would be either bad student projects or donated home movies.

The film begins with a black background, the title added at the time. It’s in German, Der Wag, I have no idea what that means. Next comes a name, Lotte Kiebar, followed by Filmregissuer. If I had to guess I’d say that makes her the director. More black background then it fades, replaced by shots taken at the entry to a forest. The lighting is superb, it’s early in the morning, the shadows giving the game away. I can see pines and a few firs, there’s a lot of snow on the ground and down one side of the trees. Camera pans down and I can see a single set of bootprints. The camera follows them down what looks like a track, the snow less thick on the ground. There’s little camera shake, the shot is slow but steady, unlike anything else I’ve seen from the period. A bird flies into the branches of a tree and snow falls down in large clumps, the cameraman jumping back to avoid it. We get a quick glimpse of the sun,

Sammi paused the film, more than a little confused. The sun was just going down in the last camera shot, despite less than 15 minutes of the film having elapsed. Rewinding the film didn’t help; there was nothing to suggest that it had been edited. It was the original take. Pushing the doubts to one side, Sammi set the film going again.

which appears to be setting. The camera is following the tracks once again, into a large clearing, a mound in the middle of it, Looking to be about 7 feet high, the mound is turfed over, the snow missing in patches. Night has almost completely fallen now.

There was a knock at the lab door, heavy handed. Sammi jumped, then went to stop the film, laughing softly at her reaction. Her hand was poised, ready to flick pause when

She realised she was the only one here.  Sammi hadn’t heard anyone approach – as she normally did in this place – and so the heavy-handed knock at the door couldn’t have happened… could it?

Reluctantly she rose from her seat and walked to the door in the semi-darkness after turning off the film completely and then switching on a table lamp.  There was a large, hinged peep-hole for those who had to be identified which had been built into this place and she quickly unlocked it and pulled it open!

Just as she suspected:  there wasn’t anyone standing there.  But if she had heard the knocking then, who the hell was it?  Sammi shook her head… she didn’t want to know.  She closed the peep hole and locked again, turned back to her work and found there was dirt on the floor.

“Bloody grots…” she muttered picking up a broom from the shelves and sweeping it up.  But the more she swept, the more there seemed to be, as she shuffled closer to the screen and found herself standing on a forest path.

It was freezing.

It was sunrise.

A bird flew to a branch.  The snow fell off it in clump and she jumped, moving slowly…

Why did this feel so familiar?

Turning back to where she came from, she found the forest path winding away from her into the mist and a person in her face manning the camera, “Action.  Walk now.”

She hesitantly walked along the path where there were now two boot tracks... instead of one… they approached a large mound which really did look around 7ft tall!  She turned to the camera person, “How did I get here?”

She smiled, “You watched the film, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Heard somebody knocking?”

“Yes.”

“Turned your back to the screen, yes?”

Sammi sighed, “Yes.”

“You are the next to be added on.”

“What?”

She moved the camera toward the mound, grinning, “To be added on.”

“Sammi! Time’s up!” Richard opened the door to the archival room and found it empty.  His girlfriend’s bag and notes were on the table with a film running on a screen.  As he watched, it he saw somebody who looked like his girlfriend turn from a 7ft mound and say ‘yes’… then the camera turned to the mound. 

Suddenly, the camera turned to him! Richard saw the inside of the archival room on the screen, “I see you.” A woman’s voice came across the tape recorder, “And everything I see in life, how everything ends up… is all about the pictures I take.”

He glanced over her shoulder at where Sammi was standing looking as Richard watched his girlfriend slowly turn into a tree from the forest, “Hey!” he stepped into the room, letting go of the door handle.

The door slammed shut.

Richard found himself on a forest path covered in snow.

A bird flew to a branch on a tree.

A clump of snow fell, making him jump.

He turned and found a camera lady behind him, “Action.  Now, walk.”

The Wardrobe Monster

The power had gone out soon after the storm started up, and pretty soon after, her e-reader died too.  She looked outside and noticed the whole neighbourhood was in darkness. Sighing, Savannah showered by torchlight and went off to bed.

But not for long… only a few minutes after she switched off her torch, she started hearing noises coming from her wardrobe – noises she had never heard before.

Unnatural noises.

Her folks had told her there was no such thing as monsters when she was a kid.

That was crap.

She knew it.

But then, she had seen this thing destroy people’s lives in a split second, and now she was sitting up in her bed terrified of it.

Savannah knew it was crap, and closed her eyes, “It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real…” she kept chanting to herself to see if it would make the noise in her wardrobe stop.

To make her mind from going crazy…

To make her nerves from being on edge…

…to make her relax again.

She pulled the covers of her bed up to her chin and watched the door handle of the wardrobe as the shadow of the trees moved across it, “Crap, I’m in my twenties and …” she swallowed dryly, “I’m too fucking old for this shit!” kicking off her covers, she pulled on her Ugg boots, dressing gown and grabbed the waterproof torch she kept by her bed when storms like this hit and switched it back on.  Walking toward the wardrobe, she followed the large circle of light.

Five feet out, the noise started to sound like a grunting pig.  She thought it was cute – but weird – seeing it came from where her clothes were stored.

Three feet out, her gut cooled as she heard scratching coming from inside… along with screams.  The grunting was gone.

One foot, and Savannah noticed smoke was seeping from underneath the doors as she reached forward to open the door…

The door handle suddenly rattled loudly… clearly… and…

The whole door shuddered as though somebody bashed against it!

Savannah shuffled back, tripped over her glory box at the end of her bed, and sat on the end of her bed as the two wardrobe doors opened…



Two guys in Terrible Minds wrote second parts to my first.  I thought to put the links up here so you guys can read them.  As this continues on, I'll add the others on so it finishes the tale.

The Wardrobe Monster - Part 2 (Deanmcsmith)

The Wardrobe Monster - Part 2 (John Freeter)

The Wardrobe Monster - Part 2 (Soph)

The Wardrobe Monster - Part 3 (ronnehbook)

The Reaper's Thunderhead

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” the priest stood in the rain holding his umbrella over his head, as he read from the well-worn bible with the other.

Andrew was my best friend, my lover… my husband.  And now he was gone.  His whole family was taken by what was known as a myth in my family: The Reaper’s Thunderhead.  A thunderstorm where a Reaper visits you while the power’s out for a moment and takes your soul from you… it’s freaking scary as all shit when you’ve been told two different stories about it – one where it’s true, and other where it’s crap.

Exactly who do you believe when this has happened to your inlaws and the person you’ve devoted the last twenty years to?

I had attended every service of Andrew’s family and watched their numbers dwindle as he did.  Each time, a year had passed and each time there had been a storm on the night of their passing… just as there had been on the night of Andrew’s passing.

And he wasn’t old either.

My dear sweet Andrew – Andy – Swinston was only thirty-three years old when he was in Vegas on a business meeting with some clients at the Desert Rose Hotel.  He decided to skip going to the casino (he wasn’t much of a gambler) and head straight for his room.  Besides, a storm was brewing and he didn’t want to get caught between the casino and his room.  In between the power failing and the generator kicking in – which was only about twenty seconds – my wonderful love of my life lost his life.

He was in his room by the time the lights went out.

He had locked the door and windows – as the rain was coming in.

So, how the Reaper had come in was a huge mystery to everyone.

But the M.E. said the same thing about how he died that was on the other medical reports:  heart attack.

This was bullshit.  My husband worked out, ate healthy, hated junk food and wouldn’t even tolerate it in the house.  So, I wanted to know what the hell happened to him!

I went in search of people who dealt with Reapers professionally. 

Now, call me nutsie-Malone, but when I looked around between the cracks of what we called ‘society’, I found people who dealt with the underground of what we called ‘normal humanity’… and they had been watching Andrew’s family closely for over a decade.

I sat down on the end of the bed in the no-star hotel as the two guys watched me carefully, “What do you mean, you’ve watched his family?”

“Well,” the fatherly one referred to his hand-written notes, “Andrew and his whole family were cursed to die – even his offspring – to be handed over to a certain Reaper.” He glanced over his reading glasses as he went on, “And it was a deal Andrew’s Great-Great-Great Grandfather made with a demon that has you in this crap.”

“I’m not in any crap.” I said, “My husband died, and he’s the youngest of his family.”

The young man sitting near me sighed, “Not quite.  You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

I protectively folded an arm across my stomach, “No… yes.”

“The Reaper will want your young one… and he will destroy you to get at him or her.” The older one said removing his glasses and watching me, “Now, you either terminate your pregnancy, which would piss off the Reaper and he’ll kill you simply on principle.  Or you ride out the next storm – which will come in a few days.”

“And he’ll kill me just for my baby.” I whispered rubbing my stomach, “Okay, there is a way out of this… I came to you two to fix this.”

“Right… there is a solution, but it’s not going to be nice.” The young guy said.

“If it ends the curse, I’m happy… because I’m not going to freak out every time there’s a storm just in case my child is killed by something my family doesn’t believe in.”

I found out their names.  The older one was Roger, the younger guy Benny; they were father and son and had lived what they called ‘The Life’ since Benny’s mother was killed by a Crossroads Demon who screwed them over about fifteen years ago.  Seeing Benny was only around twenty years old, he doesn’t know any other life… but he has street-smarts and this is good.

They inspected my home which Andrew inherited and spotted a few things around the place which were marks of The Reaper which gave us absolutely no protection. 

“Your husband’s family had tried to protect you, but The Reaper easily destroyed the marks to get to you once you and Andrew had a child.” Roger shook his head, “And …” he looked down at the garden where he spotted a patch of dirt which wouldn’t grow, “Have you been able to grow anything here?”

“No.  I’ve been trying, but…”

Both Benny and Roger exchanged a worried look and Benny sprinkled some water over the area and it sizzled as though it was hot, sending up steam, “Crap.  It’s been here … as recent as last night or early this morning.  Just watching you.”

My gut cooled, “When is the storm due?”

Roger looked over at the horizon as the wind picked up, temperature suddenly dropped a few degrees and we heard a grumble of thunder, “Ten minutes.”

I looked at them both:  “Let’s do this.”

The lights went out as the skies darkened quickly.

I felt a horrible cold presence behind me as I stood at the window, and I knew it was almost time to either die or fight for my life.

I knew Roger was at the door, and Benny couldn’t be far behind him as I heard their steps stop.

Looking up, I smelled the dreadful…

…cold…

…scent… of death…

A white hand swiped at me in the gloom as lightning flashed outside… it was then I saw the skeletal face of Death standing in front of me.  

Fear stilled me…

…Courage made me break the bastard’s curse by using his scythe against him!

The power came back on and there was a black smouldering robe on the floor and I held a sizzling white hot scythe in my hands.

Michelle's Daily Movements

It was early morning when Michelle sat at her desk, propped her cordless phone onto the bookshelf next to her and dropped her mobile two shelves below and carefully placed her hot chocolate on the coaster on the shelf between them.

The computer hummed, ready for her to type… to edit… to delve into the other world of her being the writer, instead of the person everyone knew.

Her brain switched into the other mode she knew so well as she slid into her business-style chair and turned it around – away from the door – and began to type.

Her hands sped across the keyboard, as the world she had created within her mind expanded, fleshed out, became her own, and the characters within her world ran, stabbed, killed, ate, drank and made love to each other in such a way she felt as though they were her own friends… and she had a private little camera crew showing of their lives. 

Once in a while, she’d turn and take a long gulp from her sweet  hot chocolate and read over what she’d written, correcting her spelling, groaning over how she didn’t write this or that better (and fixing those things up as she place the mug between her arms and typing quickly; allowing the warmth of the mug to touch her arms before she’d pick it up again and keep on reading). 

Before she knew it, Michelle had finished her few chapters – her 3,000 word limit had been reached – and she had long drunk her hot steaming mug.  It was time for a shower.

She scrubbed the chilliness that had settled into her pores, hoping the stinging heat of the water would warm her at some point.  Steam rose around her, worming into her sinus’, wetting her hair, and sending temporary shivers up her spine.

She had been still too long and the cold of the day had set into her joints.  She hated this, but she needed to get herself warm for the next part of her day.

Work.

This was another kind of work that people knew she did but didn’t think she took seriously.  She worked the craft markets and so worked on craft pieces for hours on end… sitting still at her back door at a craft table.  Her hands always moving, her mind moving, but her body staying completely still – really frustrating – but what she got finished was great!

After finished blow-drying her hair, brushing its frizziness, she snapped on her watch, blew her nose on a tissue before throwing it away and then pulled on her ugg-boots and turned off the bathroom light and walked back into the office to collect everything she needed to go downstairs.  Grabbing the camera – in its snood – the cordless phone, and mobile phone and looping her fingers through the handle of the empty mug, she checked the computer, to make sure it was switched off, and then turned and walked out the door, shimmied past the hall table and down the steep stairs to the living room. 

It was freezing down here… but she was dressed warmly in her paint-covered track pants and jumper.  After putting down the empty mug in the kitchen, she walked to the stereo system, push the button ‘Video’ for the turntable and flipped through her collection to choose the music for the afternoon.  This would keep her from getting cold and make sure she was active every few minutes.  The first album of Santana’s ‘Moonflower’ was selected and she put on the second album side 2 on… sweet!  Drum beats started and she boogied her way around the living room as she picked up the remote and upped the volume, loving how this music got her moving every time!  Bopping her head, she opened the fridge, grabbed one of the covered paint plates and put it onto the paint-covered denim mini-skirt she used as a rag for her brushes.  Then, she danced out to the cheap clothes horse where a few picture frames were set out drying, chose one, boogied backed to her craft table, slipped into her bright green swivel chair, pulled back the plastic, grabbed the bottle of flow medium and got the paint working – making it thinner without losing consistency – and then grabbed a paintbrush and began working on painting a fine, dainty vine around the picture frame…

Three hours passed and Michelle had changed the vinyl four times, organised a drink for herself, grabbed something to eat, waited for two coat hangers to dry, painted six sprung pegs, five dolly pegs and finished up one picture frame… yep, a lot of had happened. 

Most of all, the afternoon had begun to turn into night… the shadows had begun to turn dark across the backyard and the house was becoming darker. 

It was time for dinner – at 4pm.  Michelle decided pizza would be perfect.

She pulled out a large metal bowl, self-raising flour, dry yeast, olive oil and a ¼ cup of hot water.  She sifted the flour, put in a teaspoon of yeast, about a tablespoon of olive oil and put in the hot water then grabbed the wooden palette from next to the stove where the other utensils were stored in a container and she mixed it all together carefully, folding it all, not letting the air out… until it was a ball of soft, dough.  She placed a t-towel over it and set her iPod for an hour.  Then she got to work, chopping up her favourite things for pizza:  cherry tomatoes, mushrooms, olives, capsicums, garlic… all the good stuff!  Cut a piece of baking paper, sprinkled some flour on it and put on the oven.  Before long, the timer went off, she rolled out the dough, put on the ingredients and put it into the oven for 20 minutes!

Bell rang!

Michelle opened the door, heat rolls out invitingly with the aroma of pizza! 

“Oh!  Yummo!  Dinner!” she pushed the slide under it, took it to the cutting board, cut it into quarters, served it up and bit into the first slice before even sitting down at the table!

I See Red...

The sun was setting when I approached the house, casting a burnt orange/red glare across the sky on our first of many meetings at her place of mystery.

Auburn’s real name is still a mystery to a lot of people, as she’s been around for so long.  However, being a writer for the ‘On The Bottom Line’ Newspaper, it was an honour to be asked to write an article about this long-time author and artist.  She had been in the public eye for such a long time, I don’t remember exactly when she was born, as she’s never told anyone her date of birth.

Today, I was going to ask… see what was going to happen.

Would she tell me?

Would she laugh?

Would something else happen?

I pushed the large iron gate closed behind me and walked along the winding path up to her front steps.  This place was immense!  So many plants and there was so little room in this garden… it appeared to be a complete mess, and yet, it wasn’t.

I walked across the impressively wide verandah and rang the bell by the door, then waited for her to answer the door.  While I did, I looked around, and resisted photographing this place… I just didn’t want to interfere with her privacy – not yet.

“Hello. You must be the reporter.” Her voice behind me was surprisingly young.

I turned to find a face of youth, “Um… yes.  Ms Aurburn?”

“Call me Red, all my friends call me Red.” She smiled and her beauty shone through, and I almost forgot why I was there, “Please come in.”

Smiling I walked through the door and into her house, catching a glimpse of the outside as the sunset of the day turned the rest of the garden, skies and outside completely red – as red as Auburn’s hair.

We sat in her beautifully furnished home talking about her many publications and art exhibitions for what seemed like hours as we ate a light snack set out on a huge dining table.  I felt as though I had come through that famous wardrobe into Narnia and I was dining within royal halls as the pieces inside Auburn’s home were from overseas, collectable, and there were some things around the place I notice that I just hadn’t seen before – ever! – and I didn’t have the courage to ask her where she had gotten them.  But she told me anyway without me asking.

This made me wonder how she knew what I was going to ask without me asking.

“I think I have enough notes to get an article on you.” I rose from my seat, “Thank you for your time.  You really must be busy.”

“It was an absolute pleasure.” She rose as I did and followed me to the door, “I look forward to reading the article.”

As I walked out to the curb where my car had been parked, I found it was gone!  So, I pulled out my phone and called my office, but they hadn’t heard of me and hung up before I could say any more.  I went back inside to Auburn’s place and she opened the door, “I think something has happened.”

She smiled, “Yes it has.”

“What’s happened?” I nearly didn’t want to hear her tell me, but I needed to know.

“You came here, you saw red before, you saw red… and now… you’re seeing red again.” Amusment played in her eyes.

Frustration tightened in my gut, “What the hell does that mean?”

“Red… three times… think about.”

“I gotta go.”  I turned and walked away.

Walking through the gate so the local cemetery I looked around at the place, and found where our family plot was.  I walked up to the plots, where they lay side by side, and found mine.

I felt sick as I read the stone: I saw red, I saw Red, I saw … red.

Charlie and the....Woah!

“Charlie!  Time to get your lazy butt outa bed and get dressed!”

Mum’s voice screamed up the stairs and somehow infiltrated under my doona, two pillows and through my long hair.  Shit she can really bum a dude out.

“Crap!” I throw the pillow covering my head across the room with my eyes shut and hear it bounce off the wardrobe door as it shudders a little and bumps closed, quietly clicking onto the magnets.

Hang on… I didn’t have a wardrobe door like that!  My sister did!  My wardrobe door was a large rolling door!  I sat up and looked around: “What the f…” I didn’t get to finish the profanity that was coming out of my mouth when I heard a shattering scream split the air – yep, my sister.  I climbed over the end of the pretty white, four-poster bed and stared at my face – um her face, our face, um – in the mirror.

“Darren!” her voice was at the door, “Open this immediately.”

I walked to it, unlocked it – why did she lock everything? – and let her in, “Get in here.  And stop screaming.”  I watched as a very feminine version of me sat on the edge of the bed, crossed his legs and began playing with his hair, “Jesus, man, you’re such a girl.”

“Screw you… have you seen yourself?”

“Yeah, I have.” I nodded sitting next to her… him, um… “What  do we do now?”

“You and your friggin’ magicks.”

“Hey, I didn’t do this.”

The door opened and Mum was standing there, “No, he didn’t, but your father and I did.”

“What?” I stood and began to pace, “Mum!  I look stupid.”

“Correction, you feel stupid… you and your sister have changed places and this will stay like this for a week until you both learn to respect each other.” She looked from me to my sister, Charlie, “Now, both of you get ready for school!”

We exchanged horrified expressions:  “School?”

We caught the bus halfway to school, felt as though everyone was staring at us and then got off at the mall where we walked to the nearest library and found out that what Mum and Dad did wasn’t in any book there – of course! – so we had to look around home to see which of my spell books Mum had gotten her hands on.

“What do you mean, you might know which one it is?” Charlie hissed.

“I mean, I might know which one it is.” I replied, “And I’ll have to search my book collection when we get home.  Come on, we have another kilometre to go until we get home… and school will be over by that time.”

She sighed, “I hate this.”

“You’re not the only one.” I pulled at the bra strap on my shoulder, “How do you put up with bras?”

She smiled, “It’s actually not too bad to not have to put one on for once.”

“Shut up.”

We searched my bedroom for the spell book I was looking for, but our folks had taken it.  Searching the house wasn’t on the cards as our Mum was a Clean Queen from way back – she’d know if we had been snooping for anything. 

We sat in my original bedroom with music going and I talked, “Okay, I know Gary might have an idea of the spell.  He was weird enough to copy the whole book out when I bought it… now I know why he did.”

“Such a freak.”  She muttered.

“Shut up.” I said grabbing my mobile and texting him.

Gary walked into my room half an hour later with Mum smiling behind him, “Gary’s here.” She looked at me, “Charlie, help me with dinner, okay?”

“But, Mum…”

“Now.” The smile fell off her face as glanced at my ‘sister’ and Gary.  I left with Mum and wondered what was going to go on while I was gone.  I helped Mum set the table, feed the dog, put out the rubbish (which I didn’t know my sister did), clean up the lounge room (twice, because Mum wasn’t happy with the first attempt) and then I cut up the veggies and put them into a bowl of water to be ready to roast.  Then, Mum told me to ‘ready the chook’… I’ve never seen her do this! But I did as I was told and readied the chicken – and then, I scrubbed my hands until they were raw but they still smelled like dead chicken and butter!

Gary left with a worried look at his face.  He knew what was going on as he dragged me outside, “Dude, your…” he looked me up and down, “…sister, told me what was going on.  You have my absolute trust I won’t tell anyone.”

“Are you sure?” I pushed a curl behind my ear.

He spotted that reflex and blinked, “Yeah… My Aunt and Uncle did this to my cousins last year… it was shit!  It was embarrassing.  I didn’t want to tell you; and now I won’t tell anyone about this.”

“The spell, though.”

He smiled, “She has it.”

“Thank you.”

That night, after dinner, Charlie and me cast the reversal spell.  I know we did it correctly, but we had to wait until sunrise to see if it took effect.

I opened my eyes the next morning and I was still in my sister’s room.  But it felt different.  I wasn’t mad about this for some reason as I sat up and looked in the mirror; not until I looked in the mirror and realised I was still my sister.

A tap at the door sounded and I opened it to see my sister looking at me… my blond-haired, blue-eyed sister… looking at me!

“I was going to say it worked, but it doesn’t look like it.” She said.

“Get in here.” I opened the door wider and she rushed in and I slammed it shut, “We did it right!”

“Yes.”

“What went wrong?”

“Charlie?  Darren?  You both in there?” Mum asked tapping her nails on the door.

I opened it, “What did you do?”

“You didn’t wait the week out, and used a reversal spell.  It reverses the effects on your sister… but it makes the spell permanent on you.” she grinned, “Charlie, you’ve always wanted a sister… haven’t you?”

The Miraculous Archive

Chuck gave us a list of 10 titles to work with... I chose above title and below is what I did with it! Enjoy!

It was impossible.  

Totally and completely.

How as she to fix this problem was beyond her?  

Tess opened her PO Box and sighed at the envelopes waiting for her inside the tiny dark hole, knowing they were bills she had to pay.

She hated her life.

There wasn’t enough money in her life.

By the time she paid her rent, bought her food and paid her bills, she didn’t have any money left to put away for savings… and she was working full-time.

Pulling the envelopes out she found they had been hiding a parcel pick-up card.  It was red – this meant, it needed her signature – so she locked up the little door, pulled the key out and made her way inside the place.

It was starting to rain when Tess got home with the large box in her car.  As she pulled into her car port, she looked over at the opened parcel in the passenger seat and wondered exactly what was in that box, and who in the hell had sent it to her.  So, instead of waiting for the rain to get heavier, she got out of the car, after grabbing her stuff and went inside where  - within minutes – the light rain turned into a downpour.

“Well, at least this was a good thing for once today.” She groaned turning on the kettle. 

Once she made herself some coffee, she sat down, paid the bills (and was once again broke for the month) and then looked at the unexpected parcel.  She inspected the wooden box, wondering how to open it, when the lid slid off and a large blue book was exposed.  It wasn’t much to look at – in fact she thought it was kind of ugly – but it was something of a curiosity as she’d never seen anything like it before.  There was a note inside the box:

‘Tess, you don’t know me very well.  We met at a bookstore a few years ago and you said you were curious about the book I was reading at the counter here in San Fran.  Well, I had promised you this book once I was finished with it… now my time has come to hand it onto you. 

If it’s arrived at your postal address, this means I have passed away.  I was suffering from the Big C when you met me but it caught up with me.  This book is called The Miraculous Archive.  It doesn’t look much, but it’s lots of fun – just don’t let it out of your sight!  In the wrong hands it’s dangerous!  
Your friend in this life and the next, Michael.’

She remembered now!  Wow!  It had been around five years since her vacation in the USA, and he remember her?  Well, that’s something!  She hadn’t remembered Michael too well, but then, she had only visited his store in San Francisco once on a stinking hot day to find a notebook to use as a diary and he tossed a pen for a good price and they chatted about this book for around ten minutes and that was it!  She never went back… and he did promise to hand it onto her when he was finished with it.

Tess put down the note and pulled the book from the box carefully.  It felt heavier than it looked as she sat down in her favourite easy-chair, put her coffee on the little stand by the arm and opened it to the first page:  but it was blank.  She turned to the next pag and it was blank as well!  Flipping the pages between her thumb and first finger, she found they were all blank! She just didn’t get how this was going to be an archive if there was shit all in it!  Tess rose from the chair, walked to her tall bookcase across the living room and slotted in next to her other books she considered useless – yep, her textbooks from high school.

Weeks passed and Tess’s life moved on.  She found herself a better job with better pay and for the first time in a long time, she could finally start saving up for something.  She opened a bank account and started saving up for a holiday overseas – her next big thing on her bucket list.

She didn’t take much notice of the big blue book on her shelf as it was empty.  And so, when she scored her first two weeks’  holidays, she found she wanted to do nothing more than give her home a good clean out – and do up her garden too.  She wanted to make her place feel good – as good as she needed to feel when she arrived home each day. Halfway through the dusting, she looked at The Miraculous Archive and found it had a newer look to it – a much cleaner appearance than it did than when she first collected it from the post office.  So, she put down her dusting cloth and pulled it off the shelf and sure enough, the book looked, felt and smelled as though she had just bought it brand new! 

“Woah… this is…” she didn’t want to say ‘miraculous’ in case she was going to jinx it.  On opening the cover, the pages were gorgeously new with brilliant gold-trimmed edges!  She wondered how this book became so … so, “Now what do I do?”

As though it had heard her question, the book gave her the answers: ‘Do with me what you wish… I am The Miraculous Archive, a living entity of information.  Ask me a question about anything and I will endeavour to give you an answer.’

Slapping the book shut, Tess dropped it to the floor!  It landed with a loud thud as she took a step back.  And stared at it with tears filling her eyes, she realised her life could be a success if she asked this book the right questions… 

but could it also lie to her?

He's My Superman

It’s been a busy night for him.

And I sleep in my bed knowing he’s running around the city and the world keeping everything safe for us all.

Everyone loves him for saving their lives, for being there for when they need him, at the just the right time.

But what you don’t know, it can be lonely when I roll over and he’s not there for me to snuggle up to; when he’s off helping you people.  Yeah, he’s so caring and wonderful and has the most intense hearing I’ve ever come across.

But that can be a curse too.

I can’t plan a surprise party for him because he’ll hear me whispering about it to our friends.  Or he’ll see the note – and what’s written on it – when I hand it to our friends from across the room or across the street with that super sight he’s got.  Great stuff, but really that’s just cheating!  But I do love him.  There’s led, but you see lining envelopes with that stuff is not only expensive, but a damned nuisance for the postal system and courier services… so I’m better off telling him what’s going on and not keeping too many secrets from him.

Besides, he’s the most gentle man I’ve ever come across… but when I first met him, he easily destroyed the remote to my television by pressing the buttons on it.  No worries!  He managed to race out and replace it – and I mean race! – he was back in a gust of wind with a better remote with fresh batteries and it was ready to go before I could mourn the loss of the last one.

Dating a man like Superman has its perks… he’s well built, can move anything around the house (I mean moving house is a synch!  The removal guys sit back and just watch grinning that they don’t have to do any work and let Clark have all the fun).  Then, there’s gardening… he loves to uproot a tree once in a while… and planting one is just as much fun.  And yeah, we have the most gorgeous garden and there’s wasn’t a bulldozer in sight!

However there is a few worries on my mind about him – as there is with every woman who is in love with a super hero.  I constantly wonder if he will ever retire.  And will he look as distinguished as I think he will as he ages?  I hope so… I really do.

I often remember fondly the first time I saw him at Smallville High School.  He was on the school newspaper there, covering the sports pages.  The coach of the football team wanted him to try out, but Clark didn’t – he wasn’t interest, well, so he said.  We worked on a few articles together while the cheerleaders swooned over him and then I didn’t see much of him after that.

The next time I saw him was in university.  We had a few classes together and even then, we didn’t hang around with each other.  He did his thing – and it was then I noticed he did his vanishing act once in a while; and missed out big on the fun occasions – but then, I didn’t really have an interest in him.  By this time, his folks were getting on, and he was visiting them a lot… but then his Dad died.  This really hit him hard; and it was the first time I found out his was adopted.

I was working in Metropolis at The Globe when he showed up and started working for Mr White; and he remembered me!  Jeez, it had been about five years since we last saw each other, how did he remember me was beyond me, but then, he and I got together at the Christmas Party.  We’re both not really into crowds and so I found him outside in the freezing cold and we got talking, finding we had a lot in common.  Clark and I ended up chatting all night just inside the door, in a little corner, just hidden away enough to be private, and yet in view of everyone for nobody to start up gossip.

It’s been two years now, and we’re happy to live together, love together and enjoy each other’s lives.  I know his complete history and have been to his secret places on Earth – the place he built in the coldest area of the north – and he knows all my secrets too.

We’re happy.

I roll over as the moon has woken me up, to find his warm body is back in bed with me.  The safety of his arms cocoon me and I love his smell – but I do sense smoke in his hair of where he’s been, “Mmmm, hello there.” I whisper.

“Well hello there.” His voice mumbles close to my ear, “I missed you.” His mouth finds mine, “I tried to shower out the smell, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.  You’re back safe with me, that’s all that matters.” I look into his eyes and see the soft silver there that nobody sees because they don’t get close enough to see it in the dark; otherwise to everyone else those eyes are an ocean blue.

Yes, he’s my Superman…

But then, he’s everyone’s Superman too…

He’s mine in a much different way. 

Post Mortem

Chuck has us using Twitter - something I don't have - but I jumped on the site and used the YouAreCarrying line and it came up with some funny stuff. Mine was:  Deidrie's Necklace, A magazine, the second clue, a tourist brochure, the second contact, a maid's note.... and the below is what I did with it. 

I hated doing this kind of thing.  The crime scene was bad enough, having to work through the blood and guts of the whole thing with the forensics there along with the police and reporters just off there in the background… but I hated going through their pockets and bagging up everything in readiness for what the family needed to pick up.

But this guy had some weird stuff on him, so I decided to wait until the cops looked at it all before giving it back to the family.  I labelled it carefully and had everything ready for inspection, along with my report all e-mailed to the right people after I worked the guy over – and the cause of death didn’t take long… a gunshot wound to the head!  I mean, jeez, who didn’t see that killing him?

I noted everything carefully:

‘Deidrie’s Necklace’ – it was in a box and labelled with a card.

‘The Strand Magazine’ – something he had collected from the post office and had bought on ebay… this magazine had been out of business for yonks.

A card from the game of ‘Clue’ – it was the second clue to the first clue of the game, he had cheated on the game as I had found it in his front pocket.

A tourist brochure of San Francisco – and yet we were in Boulder.  Strange.

A contact lens box with only one contact lens in it … ah!  There’s the first one… in his left eye, “Hang on…his eyes are green, the lens’ are blue… okay…”

From his jeans pocket I pulled out a maid’s note: a shopping list on one side of paper and a list of house hold chores to do.  A few of the chores had been crossed off.

I thought this was a strange lot of things to have on a guy.  But I  bagged each item up and lined them up for the cops to look at, just in time for them to show, look at the things, take the report – with the photos and everything inside the folder – and the let me know it was time to let the stuff go back to the family.  I thought that it was over, as I pushed Mr Mullens into the locker and closed the freezer door.

Two weeks to the day later, I had another guy come in with exactly the same things on him.  The cops – as well as me – thought this was the beginnings of a copy-cat serial killer and started up a file on this, trying to piece together what these two have in common.

There was nothing.

Well, except this person was a woman – Mrs Mullens.

I put her body away and wondered if the person who did away Mr Mullens was the same person who did away with Mrs Mullens.  I really tried not to let this bother me as I closed up the Morgue and went home.

Then it hit the news, there was another murder close to my home – down the street, actually – and so I was called to take in the notes and work on the body.

I walked into the crime scene and found it was almost a duplicate of Mr Mullen’s murder… right down to where the furniture was place.

I got a shiver up my spine, “Wow.”

Sergeant Cole nodded, “Yeah, it’s a duplicate, eh?”

“Creepy.” I stepped up to the body with my booties on my feet, costume on, hair gathered up and gloves on my hands, “I’ll need to do tests for this one… they weren’t shot.”

“No.” Cole said from the front door, “Poisoned.”

Back at the morgue, I found the same lot of things on this person.  This was getting to become a regular thing as I scooped up everything, bagged it all up, photographed it all and made it ready to be seen by the police. 

Then, I noticed the maid’s note:  it was the same, but different.

Grabbing the other two murder files, I pulled out the photos of the maid’s notes and found they were the same lists but different.  On Mr Mullen’s list, three of the ten chores were crossed out – shopping, vacuuming, clean the bathroom.  On Mrs Mullen’s list, five of the ten chores were crossed out – shopping, vacuuming, clean the bathroom, make the bed, laundry.  I looked over at the new list I had and found there had been a new one added – making it eleven things on the list – but all but five things had been crossed out:  shopping, vacuuming, make the bed, dusting, laundry, ironing. 

This made me wonder, how these lists were made, who made them and how did the murder know exactly what these people did in their lives to get these things done.  I tried not to think about it, as my long day had come to an end and I packed up everything to go home.

My house was in darkness as I arrived home, I was looking forward to a nice quiet night alone to watch a bit of television and read a book.  Yes, it had been a long day.  As I walked inside the door, I found that my fuse box had gone.  So, I picked up the torch on the way through to the hallway – where my fuse box was – and switched it on.  I only caught a fleeting glimpse of the Sergeant Cole’s face as something hard and cold hit my face.

I came to on the floor.  From the position I was in, I realised I was in the same position as the others who had been murdered.  My glasses had been removed and only one contact lens had been shoved into my left eye.  All the things I had found on the other two bodies had been place on me – Deidrie’s necklace, a magazine (of some kind), a second clue from the game of ‘Cluedo’, a tourist brochure (from San Diego this time), the box with the second contact lens in it and a maid’s note… all of which had been carefully place on my person by Sergeant Cole.

My head hurt from where he had hit me, but I managed to whisper softly, “They will catch you.”

His face leaned in close, “No, honey, they won’t.”

I smiled, despite the pain of my shattered cheekbone, “But they will.  I sent all the reports, the lists, the names to your Captain with my suspicions of why they were picked.”

He sat on the floor grinning, “And what did you conclude?”

“The Mullens’ were your neighbours when you were young.  They’re Jewish; and you hated them.” I said, “You had a good reason to hate them… you loved their daughter, Deidrie.  You dated her for a while, bought her a necklace and proposed to her.  But when her folks didn’t want you in their family, you hated them with such a passion you never forgave them.  Deidrie married somebody else.”

The grin had slid off his face, “How did you know that?”

I looked at him, “Well, you see, Sergeant, you were looking only at Deidrie, weren’t you?”

“Well yes, of course.”

“You never considered that she had a little sister, did you?”