I stumbled out of bed and swatted the alarm clock off my bureau in a frenzy, cracking the screen against the wall. The red glow of the numbers vanished in an instant, leaving me with absolute darkness hovering over my house. From the window, I saw rows of homes perched along the lower reaches of the town for miles, black and silent.
A pale orb hung low above us, as though the moon had crept a little closer in my sleep.
My cell lay dead on its charger. My alarm clock had used a battery backup.
The alarm had been set for 3 PM.
Pieces of an impossible puzzle began to fit themselves together in my groggy brain. I grabbed my jacket and rushed into the silence of the afternoon night, flitting from door to door with no response. A few hung open, and I ventured inside to find tables set for breakfast and clothing strewn across bedroom floors, as though the town had packed a hasty bag and fled.
Everybody had evacuated, and nobody had thought to tell little old me.
And, as I stood alone in the middle of the empty Main Street, cursing neighbors I couldn't name and pondering my options, it occurred to me at last to wonder why they had vanished. I gazed up at the pale orb hanging in the sky, and I realized it had moved...
And the giant, looming eyeball focused square on me.
Friday, April 21, 2017
Friday, April 7, 2017
[#077] The Bottle and the Glass
I remember the last time I saw my grandmother without red hair.
She was turning 77 and I had driven two hundred miles to see her. It was the least I could do for the woman who'd held my hand at my father's funeral and then fed me for more than half my life. The scent of fresh-baked cookies greeted me in the hall, and the sight of her lying face down on a persian rug greeted me in the den.
Grandma didn't wake for two weeks. I still remember the night my aunt called to tell me Grandma had changed. She never rose from the rocking chair in her bedroom. She never made a sound, except to cry when left alone. She didn't seem to recognize her own name, and...
And Grandma refused to step inside the den.
Twelve years in that house and I'd never really adjusted to the den myself. It lay at the center of the house, beset on every side by another room. The only natural illumination came from a creepy, frosted skylight stretched across the entire ceiling. She would often sit in there for hours drinking wine and reading to herself in a whisper, just loud enough to hear from the hallway between the incessant ticking and tocking of her clock collection. She would sometimes sit up long past my bedtime, and I would venture through the wall of sound the following day to collect the glasses and bottles she forgot.
I returned on Christmas for the gathering.
Her hair had fallen gray and dry, damaged from decades of dye I had never realized she was using. She looked so frail and lifeless without her shiny red crown, a life-sized doll hunched over in my grandmother's chair. This year's family get-together was a big one, as so many distant cousins I had only met through Facebook came to see what became of Grandma. She was the one link to a huge arm of our family descended from her long-passed sister, and I balled my fists as the ingrates polished ham and potatoes off her finest china and chattered about the tragedy of her imminent demise every time my auntie led her from the room.
The guests had gone by ten, leaving Grandma to my aunt and the mess to myself. As I wandered through the house collecting plates and wadded napkins, I paused outside the entrance to the den. Not one person from the party had stepped inside, and indeed many of them had complained about the volume of the clocks even through the closed door.
Why, then, was the door now open?
A glance behind my shoulder saw my grandmother's shadow at the end of the hall. My aunt's voice floated gently through the air besieged by ticking, and I couldn't make out anything but the words "--to bed."
Heavy clouds of snow and winter coated the moon that night. No light poured through the ceiling, and shadows drenched the tiny room. As I squinted, I could just make out the tell-tale shape of a bottle on the end table inside. A glass with a tall stem, her favorite glass, stood next to it, half-full of ruddy liquid.
And just above the top of the chair, turned deliberately away from the door, I caught a glimpse of a wisp of scarlet hair.
I grinned and shut the door. Maybe next time I'll sit with you, I thought.
The bottle and the glass waited for me the next morning.
She was turning 77 and I had driven two hundred miles to see her. It was the least I could do for the woman who'd held my hand at my father's funeral and then fed me for more than half my life. The scent of fresh-baked cookies greeted me in the hall, and the sight of her lying face down on a persian rug greeted me in the den.
Grandma didn't wake for two weeks. I still remember the night my aunt called to tell me Grandma had changed. She never rose from the rocking chair in her bedroom. She never made a sound, except to cry when left alone. She didn't seem to recognize her own name, and...
And Grandma refused to step inside the den.
Twelve years in that house and I'd never really adjusted to the den myself. It lay at the center of the house, beset on every side by another room. The only natural illumination came from a creepy, frosted skylight stretched across the entire ceiling. She would often sit in there for hours drinking wine and reading to herself in a whisper, just loud enough to hear from the hallway between the incessant ticking and tocking of her clock collection. She would sometimes sit up long past my bedtime, and I would venture through the wall of sound the following day to collect the glasses and bottles she forgot.
I returned on Christmas for the gathering.
Her hair had fallen gray and dry, damaged from decades of dye I had never realized she was using. She looked so frail and lifeless without her shiny red crown, a life-sized doll hunched over in my grandmother's chair. This year's family get-together was a big one, as so many distant cousins I had only met through Facebook came to see what became of Grandma. She was the one link to a huge arm of our family descended from her long-passed sister, and I balled my fists as the ingrates polished ham and potatoes off her finest china and chattered about the tragedy of her imminent demise every time my auntie led her from the room.
The guests had gone by ten, leaving Grandma to my aunt and the mess to myself. As I wandered through the house collecting plates and wadded napkins, I paused outside the entrance to the den. Not one person from the party had stepped inside, and indeed many of them had complained about the volume of the clocks even through the closed door.
Why, then, was the door now open?
A glance behind my shoulder saw my grandmother's shadow at the end of the hall. My aunt's voice floated gently through the air besieged by ticking, and I couldn't make out anything but the words "--to bed."
Heavy clouds of snow and winter coated the moon that night. No light poured through the ceiling, and shadows drenched the tiny room. As I squinted, I could just make out the tell-tale shape of a bottle on the end table inside. A glass with a tall stem, her favorite glass, stood next to it, half-full of ruddy liquid.
And just above the top of the chair, turned deliberately away from the door, I caught a glimpse of a wisp of scarlet hair.
I grinned and shut the door. Maybe next time I'll sit with you, I thought.
The bottle and the glass waited for me the next morning.
Friday, March 31, 2017
[#076] The Reliquary
Moonlight spilled through the endless rows outside, the wind rustling a path through the tall corn as I set the heavy pewter chest down in the porch light. My fingers traced the divine swirls and sprawls etched into the surface of the foot-long box as I listened to the night song falling quiet. The owls roosting in the barn hid. The coyotes howling through the distant trees fled, and the stars alone accompanied me as I undid the clasp and pulled up the lid.
Half a dozen mechanical children danced a circle around a fallen log. A bulbous gut hunched there, bordered by the arms and legs of a man and topped with the bristles and tusks of a boar. The monster drew its arms to the sky, to me as I watched, and opened its mouth in a noiseless laughter.
The wind ceased, and I gazed out at the rustling corn to watch Him emerge.
Half a dozen mechanical children danced a circle around a fallen log. A bulbous gut hunched there, bordered by the arms and legs of a man and topped with the bristles and tusks of a boar. The monster drew its arms to the sky, to me as I watched, and opened its mouth in a noiseless laughter.
The wind ceased, and I gazed out at the rustling corn to watch Him emerge.
Friday, March 24, 2017
[#075] Cleaning House
My pristine kitchen window framed a gorgeous golden-pink portrait of the sky as the sun dipped beneath the rolling farmlands to the west. I swiped a finger along the frame and admired Mrs. Mender's handiwork when it came up clean of dust. A month earlier the sill had harbored a streak of filth and insects I could never stand to touch myself, but all my problems had gone away since I let the maid into my life. Now the carpets were vacuumed, the sink was clear of dishes, and I could stand to look at the toilet for the first time in years. She even arranged my books!
I opened the cabinet for a mug to fill with fresh coffee. I sighed with happiness as my eyes played across the rows of unblemished ceramic and glass waiting to greet me. "Worth every penny," I said to myself.
Deep, brown liquid life flowed from the percolator, the glorious and bitter scent filling my heart with warmth. I sipped and sauntered down the dust-free hallway to the den, where my old dog lay panting on the floor beside the couch, nosing at the space beneath. The massive leather seat was much too heavy for Mrs. Mender, and so I couldn't be surprised if it still held a couple morsels I had dropped in my sloppy late night meals. It occurred me as I watched my chubby beagle try to crawl beneath the furniture that I should pull the couch out and finish the job myself.
After all, she had done so much for me. It would be a shame to leave such a blemish on my perfect home.
Setting my mug on the table, I wrapped my hands around the closest arm of the couch and pulled. It was heavier I remembered, or else the fabric caught on something held fast to the corner behind it. I leaned over to peer down the back, and a strange cry filled the air as I knelt on the cushion. Startled, I quickly leapt backward and tensed.
From beneath the couch arose a weak cry muffled by the overstuffed leather.
Adrenaline surged through me. My renewed strength strained against whatever fingers held the couch in place, and the muscles in my arm began to throb and ache. Giving it one last go, I shot forward and knocked the couch back to startle it from the grip of whatever lay beneath, and then I grabbed the side of the furniture and nearly rolled backwards with it.
The couch pulled away from the wall to reveal a shivering, yellowed mass of flesh drenched in the sweat of fear. I couldn't help myself but laugh as my dog dove on it, and the thing began to scream.
Living in a house of monsters isn't hard if you learn to handle them. You've got to show them you mean business, and you can't be afraid to break a few bones while you establish boundaries. Or while you spill a gallon of purple monster blood up and down the walls.
After all, if worst comes to worst, you can always hire a maid.
I opened the cabinet for a mug to fill with fresh coffee. I sighed with happiness as my eyes played across the rows of unblemished ceramic and glass waiting to greet me. "Worth every penny," I said to myself.
Deep, brown liquid life flowed from the percolator, the glorious and bitter scent filling my heart with warmth. I sipped and sauntered down the dust-free hallway to the den, where my old dog lay panting on the floor beside the couch, nosing at the space beneath. The massive leather seat was much too heavy for Mrs. Mender, and so I couldn't be surprised if it still held a couple morsels I had dropped in my sloppy late night meals. It occurred me as I watched my chubby beagle try to crawl beneath the furniture that I should pull the couch out and finish the job myself.
After all, she had done so much for me. It would be a shame to leave such a blemish on my perfect home.
Setting my mug on the table, I wrapped my hands around the closest arm of the couch and pulled. It was heavier I remembered, or else the fabric caught on something held fast to the corner behind it. I leaned over to peer down the back, and a strange cry filled the air as I knelt on the cushion. Startled, I quickly leapt backward and tensed.
From beneath the couch arose a weak cry muffled by the overstuffed leather.
Adrenaline surged through me. My renewed strength strained against whatever fingers held the couch in place, and the muscles in my arm began to throb and ache. Giving it one last go, I shot forward and knocked the couch back to startle it from the grip of whatever lay beneath, and then I grabbed the side of the furniture and nearly rolled backwards with it.
The couch pulled away from the wall to reveal a shivering, yellowed mass of flesh drenched in the sweat of fear. I couldn't help myself but laugh as my dog dove on it, and the thing began to scream.
Living in a house of monsters isn't hard if you learn to handle them. You've got to show them you mean business, and you can't be afraid to break a few bones while you establish boundaries. Or while you spill a gallon of purple monster blood up and down the walls.
After all, if worst comes to worst, you can always hire a maid.
Friday, March 17, 2017
[#074] I received a Presidential Alert on my phone this morning.
My
phone is always set to vibrate. Two things I do each night before I
head to bed are: A) Make sure the thing's plugged in to charge, and B)
Make sure the volume's set to zero, just in case someone from work tries
to call me. I couldn't even tell you what my ringtone sounds like. I
might have heard it once when I left my sound on by mistake.
So you can imagine my surprise when the loud buzz of the emergency alert system pierced the veil of sleep around 4:30 in the morning. It's a frightening sound by design, and I struggled to ignore it. We get an Amber Alert every year or so, but they're always so far from home I've never heard of the towns listed in them.
Nothing interesting like that ever happens in Summerdown Grove, so you grow to forget them if you can.
Fast forward a couple hours and I'm crawling out of bed to the sound of my neighbor pounding on my front door. He asked me if I got the message. He said everybody else on our block got it too, and nobody could get a straight answer from the cops. He was gathering people in the bomb shelter beneath his basement, as he put it, "just in case."
I slammed the door in his face and stumbled back to bed, picking up my phone on the way. The screen flipped on without a lock, my stormy wallpaper replaced with a black screen and a white text box labeled "PRESIDENTIAL ALERT."
It read:
"SMMRDWN GRV AREA: TAKE SHELTR IN BSMENT, DO NT OPN DOORS R ANSWR PHNE, TRST N ONE"
I don't have a basement, so I'm cowering under my bed and tapping this out on my shitty phone keyboard. It's hailing now and the power's out, but I can't hear anything else unusual. The neighbor called a couple times, but I just don't know what to think.
Especially since the alert was dated for tomorrow night...
So you can imagine my surprise when the loud buzz of the emergency alert system pierced the veil of sleep around 4:30 in the morning. It's a frightening sound by design, and I struggled to ignore it. We get an Amber Alert every year or so, but they're always so far from home I've never heard of the towns listed in them.
Nothing interesting like that ever happens in Summerdown Grove, so you grow to forget them if you can.
Fast forward a couple hours and I'm crawling out of bed to the sound of my neighbor pounding on my front door. He asked me if I got the message. He said everybody else on our block got it too, and nobody could get a straight answer from the cops. He was gathering people in the bomb shelter beneath his basement, as he put it, "just in case."
I slammed the door in his face and stumbled back to bed, picking up my phone on the way. The screen flipped on without a lock, my stormy wallpaper replaced with a black screen and a white text box labeled "PRESIDENTIAL ALERT."
It read:
"SMMRDWN GRV AREA: TAKE SHELTR IN BSMENT, DO NT OPN DOORS R ANSWR PHNE, TRST N ONE"
I don't have a basement, so I'm cowering under my bed and tapping this out on my shitty phone keyboard. It's hailing now and the power's out, but I can't hear anything else unusual. The neighbor called a couple times, but I just don't know what to think.
Especially since the alert was dated for tomorrow night...
Friday, March 10, 2017
[#073] Summers Past
The
familiar tune drifting through the evening air was a time machine,
pushing my tired brain back to June of 1986 when my friends and I ran
free along the sun-drenched streets of Summerdown Grove. Fresh from
school, the five of us had hit the road with slingshots and sneakers and
a compass in our heads that always pointed to adventure. We'd hiked the
edges of the forest and balanced on the rafters of the old rail car
factory, and once we'd even bolted screaming from the haunted house on
Medicine Row. We read comics under flashlights in tents beneath the
stars, and September loomed in the distance like a razor-fanged specter
waiting to rip the carpet out from under our feet.
And then the first day of school finally came, and Jacob didn't show.
We'd left him at the baseball diamond just a day before. Our mothers had booked our last weekend of freedom solid with trips for school supplies and doctor's visits. I was fourth to be picked up, and I remember waving sadly to Jacob while our station wagon pulled away from the park, just as the churning music of the ice cream truck emerged from the distance and I sighed as though my greatest problem that year was missing out on a strawberry shortcake bar.
That was the Saturday before school began. Though he still hadn't shown by the next Friday, a couple more weeks passed before I finally heard the word "kidnapped."
By June of 1988, I was alone. Lucas had disappeared the year between, and Brent's parents got scared and pulled up stakes. Michael's dad got a job in another state, and Travis simply drifted away from me. I hadn't thought of him until today, when a boy who vanished from my life thirty years ago grinned at me from the evening news, older and bearded and scarred.
Travis was missing. His wife had last seen him hiking out to the corner the night before to fetch a treat for his bed-ridden son... From the ice cream truck.
I stood with my eye to the peephole as the truck cruised down my street for the second time in ten minutes. It hadn't occurred to me before, but that day on the baseball diamond in 1986 was the last time I'd heard the cheery tune cranking from the speakers of that old, beat-up machine. Thirty years I'd gone without seeing or hearing it, and just tonight it came back.
A tiny hand print smudged across the truck's big, filthy window. The driver's side was tinted pitch black. The thing slowed to a crawl as it passed my house, then sped up again when it reached the neighbor's plot. It puttered along the rest of my street, all while cranking out that hideous song.
I racked the shotgun in my hands as the truck turned wide at the end of the block for a third run.
And then the first day of school finally came, and Jacob didn't show.
We'd left him at the baseball diamond just a day before. Our mothers had booked our last weekend of freedom solid with trips for school supplies and doctor's visits. I was fourth to be picked up, and I remember waving sadly to Jacob while our station wagon pulled away from the park, just as the churning music of the ice cream truck emerged from the distance and I sighed as though my greatest problem that year was missing out on a strawberry shortcake bar.
That was the Saturday before school began. Though he still hadn't shown by the next Friday, a couple more weeks passed before I finally heard the word "kidnapped."
By June of 1988, I was alone. Lucas had disappeared the year between, and Brent's parents got scared and pulled up stakes. Michael's dad got a job in another state, and Travis simply drifted away from me. I hadn't thought of him until today, when a boy who vanished from my life thirty years ago grinned at me from the evening news, older and bearded and scarred.
Travis was missing. His wife had last seen him hiking out to the corner the night before to fetch a treat for his bed-ridden son... From the ice cream truck.
I stood with my eye to the peephole as the truck cruised down my street for the second time in ten minutes. It hadn't occurred to me before, but that day on the baseball diamond in 1986 was the last time I'd heard the cheery tune cranking from the speakers of that old, beat-up machine. Thirty years I'd gone without seeing or hearing it, and just tonight it came back.
A tiny hand print smudged across the truck's big, filthy window. The driver's side was tinted pitch black. The thing slowed to a crawl as it passed my house, then sped up again when it reached the neighbor's plot. It puttered along the rest of my street, all while cranking out that hideous song.
I racked the shotgun in my hands as the truck turned wide at the end of the block for a third run.
Friday, March 3, 2017
[#072] Planetfall
I was halfway to work on the eight o'clock bus when the first ship fell from the sky.
A crash of tangled metal cut the clatter in an instant, and only the screaming of a single babe broke the silence draped across the stretch of morning road as every car in sight squealed their brakes. I counted hours from the seconds between the squealing and the wreckage, as the bus turned sideways in the slow motion of my overwhelmed mind.
Memory skipped a few steps after the world began to tilt. I remember staring at the blood on my fingers in shock as I struggled to remember how I ended up in the median. Wheels spun in the air inches from my face. In the distance I could just make out the triangular shell of flashing lights and burning metal, and the bodies scattered in the field around it, all gray flesh and beaks and bones cracked and crackling in the fires.
Twelve more scattered across the state alone. Nobody saw them coming, and their wreckage took a hundred thousand lives across the globe without a single shot fired. First contact was a blood bath, even though none of the invaders lived to issue demands. None of them could tell us why they came or why they crashed.
Or why the scorches on their ships made it seem as though they'd been shot at from behind.
A crash of tangled metal cut the clatter in an instant, and only the screaming of a single babe broke the silence draped across the stretch of morning road as every car in sight squealed their brakes. I counted hours from the seconds between the squealing and the wreckage, as the bus turned sideways in the slow motion of my overwhelmed mind.
Memory skipped a few steps after the world began to tilt. I remember staring at the blood on my fingers in shock as I struggled to remember how I ended up in the median. Wheels spun in the air inches from my face. In the distance I could just make out the triangular shell of flashing lights and burning metal, and the bodies scattered in the field around it, all gray flesh and beaks and bones cracked and crackling in the fires.
Twelve more scattered across the state alone. Nobody saw them coming, and their wreckage took a hundred thousand lives across the globe without a single shot fired. First contact was a blood bath, even though none of the invaders lived to issue demands. None of them could tell us why they came or why they crashed.
Or why the scorches on their ships made it seem as though they'd been shot at from behind.
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