"The Man in the Elevator" #Fridayflash

Depending on how the story-writing goes, this might be my last share of my work in progress, 27. Too disjointed to be a serial, with wild stand-alone flashes, it's seemed appropriate to post excerpts for #Fridayflash. Thanks for reading. - CC

Previous installments (in order):
27
64 Degrees
The Visitor
The List

Photo by Synde Korman

The door to my apartment stood open. Maintenance men clad in overalls smeared white paint over the marks left by my past. Tiffany was gone, and so were the rest of my things. But the elevator. There were two. Which one was it?

I punched the call button, and the slow growl of the lift whirred into motion. The door on my right opened first, but was well-lit, clean of blood stains, and trapped dead ghosts. Looping, Stein’d called it. Had to be the second cab. I reached around, felt for the keypad—cool, round—and sent the car to another floor. I punched the call button again. This time, I believed I could hear the difference between it and the other. Slower, creakier. As if it drew up a heavy burden from a dark well.

The doors split and I looked away almost immediately, but the sight was burned on the backs of my eyelids. A dead man, tracks of feces marking the floor. Fingernails torn and bloody. Sightless eyes turned towards heaven. The stench. I could smell the days of decomposition on him but that was ridiculous. He’d died before I’d even moved in.

The fluorescent lights buzzed in their ballasts like blow flies and a trickle of ants had found a marching line to the inside of his coat. I stepped into the cab and let the doors close me in with him. 

Darkness fell upon the dead and the very dead as the cab descended to the ground floor. As expected, it stuck. The stories had said between third and fourth floors, but it was actually second and third. The lights came on and I blinked at a man in a business suit checking his watch with a mutter. He leaned forward and punched the G button again. And again. 

“Do you think that hitting the button over and over will help much?” I smiled, despite the impending situation. I knew how the story ended now. He glanced over at me. 

“Whatever, kid. I have a dinner party I’m supposed to be the guest of honor at and if this fucking piece of shit elevator doesn’t move…”

I sighed gently. “Think about what’s going on here.” Who died and gave me Stein’s position? It seemed right. I ran with it.

“Mind your own business, kid.”

“Have you tried the call box to see what’s going on with the elevator?”

The man opened the emergency call box and put the receiver to his ear. He frowned and toggled the hook a couple of times before giving up and letting the phone fall to the floor with a metallic clang. “Dead.” 

He started punching other buttons and turned to look at me. “Aren’t you nervous, kid? You probably have some hot broad to bang or at least a band show somewhere. I’ve seen the girls that go in and out of places of people like you.”

“Moved out,” I said. I didn’t see any point of explaining my own demise when he was yet to understand his.

“So why are you here?” The man tugged at his collar and tie. “It gets hot in here quick.”

I nodded and sat down against the wall. The man glanced down at me. “What floor did you get on at?”

I smirked and shook my head. “I don’t know if I should tell you now or wait, Mr. Ashbury.”

His eyes bulged. “If this is some sort of sick joke…”

I shook my head. “No joke.” I eyed and nodded at his briefcase. “Nothing in there to survive with. Not even a small snack. No water. It’s a holiday. No one is around to hear your call.”

Ashbury banged on the metal doors. “Hey! We’re stuck in here!”

I let my head tip back and watched the flickering florescent light. It’d go out soon. The interior would get hotter and hotter and Ashbury here might have had a heavy dose of water before he left his apartment.

“Think they’ll miss you?” I tilted my head up at him. It was hard not to smile. I felt a little crack inside me give way. 

“You little fucking punk. Of course they’ll come get us out. You can’t just let people die in an elevator.”

“But would they miss you?” I reached into my jacket pocket for the cigarettes Stein had given me. Words on the package swam before realigning themselves into Marlboro. Should have been Camels. Get it right. The swirls reconvened to reproduce the cover of a pack of Camels. My brand. I opened the box. 

“You can’t smoke in here!” Ashbury set his briefcase down and swung at my cigarette dangling from my lips but I dodged him easily.

“Look,” I lit my cigarette and handed it to him. “You may as well. No one cares about you in here.”

Ashbury scowled at the smoldering cigarette in my hand, so I shrugged and smoked on it myself. “This isn’t real.”

“Of course it’s real!” His face was red; a vein pulsed on the right side of his forehead. He stank of sweat and fear. The briefcase fell on its side as Ashbury tugged his tie loose. “Of all the complete horseshit. This is a real silk tie. I’m going to ruin my whole suit if the air doesn’t come on.”

“It won’t.” As hot as he looked, I didn’t feel a thing. I wasn’t looping like him. “What’s in the briefcase, Mr. Ashbury?” I grinned. “You can tell me.”

“None of your fucking business!”

I nodded sagely and took a pull on my cigarette. Ashbury coughed and waved the plumes of smoke away. “You’re stinking up the whole damn cab.”

“It was open when they found you three days later.”

Ashbury blinked. “Found me?”

I snorted smoke. “You’re dead, Mr. Ashbury.”

"The List" #Fridayflash

Happy Friday the 13th!

Yet another piece of 27 for your reading pleasure.
Previous installments (in order):
27
64 Degrees
The Visitor

“So, let’s go down the list.” He unrolled a strip of paper and put on a pair of reading glasses. I raised an eyebrow and he pulled them down his nose to peer over them at me. “Great effect, eh? As if I am in reading mode.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem. The dead shall not affect the living. Now what that means is, say you see an old enemy of yours walking a tightrope at a carnival someplace. Maybe he’s trying to impress the girl he stole from you. Don’t look at me like that, we know this doesn’t apply to you. You tossed aside every chance you had for a normal relationship.” He exhaled in a quick puff. “Say you see that enemy and all it’d take is one stray breeze…” His grin widened. “Not your call. Worse, his blood is on your hands. So.” He returned his attention to the little scroll. “With me so far, son?”

                     Photo credit: pagean97 from morguefile.com

I wasn’t sure what to make of the Grim Reaper. Or his sense of humor. I nodded mutely.

“You know, the rest of this seems to be blank, so there you have it. No direct effect on the living. No holding heads underwater, saving children from the path of a bus by pushing them out of the way, no contact that will change the course of their natural lives. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” I leaned over the table. “But I can’t even open a door, so I’m not sure how I could harm anyone.”

Stein rolled his eyes. “You’ll be surprised at what you’re capable of. Did you take the bus to get here earlier? No.”

“But how do I do other things?”

Stein rolled up the paper and crumbled it into nonexistence. “That’s not for me to say. I’m just the taxi driver. You have to have the address, otherwise we’ll drive in circles and I’ll charge you extra fare for wasting my time and fuel.” He sighed and pulled his glasses off, secreting them inside his jacket. “You’re a smart kid, Ren. Figure it out. Look around you. I know you’re ahead of the class just because you’re not looping.”

I furrowed my brow. “Looping?”

“Reliving your death over and over. It could be because you were just too fucked up to remember.” He grinned. “You’ve got to love drugs. See the gods, kiss the stars, feel no pain and bam! Wake up dead.” He stood and so did I.

“Keep in mind one little limitation, son. You’ve got a finite amount of energy. Think of yourself as a child’s toy with a fresh battery. The more you play with that toy, the faster the battery will drain. And once you’re out, and you still haven’t caught the train out of Limbo, well.”

“Well, what?” I was sliding down a slippery slope.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He smiled and grasped my shoulder with a quick squeeze. “Welcome to the Afterlife. But this ain’t it. Except for now. Confused? You just got more sitting at that table than most have ever gotten. Maybe I like you. If I could ever like somebody, but no. It’s all business, as you’ll see."

"The Visitor" #Fridayflash

Yet more from my 27 WIP: 
Previous chunks found first here and here. - CC

Tiffany had her kit out and looked like she was about to shoot up anyway. She was still in a towel and Nine Inch Nails was still playing even though that album was from ’eighty-nine. It was my CD. I guess now it was hers. Just like anything else within her reach. My sister was supposed to have all of this stuff. Maybe she didn’t want it. Maybe she hadn’t been contacted yet.

She snapped off the tourniquet and lay back against the sofa, her gaze looking somewhere into outer space. She licked her lips and swallowed. Curious, I went to stand in front of her. Her gaze shifted to meet mine and a small smile crossed her lips.

“Well, hello there…” she drawled.

I shook my head. Of course she would see me all fucked up. “You’re in my house.”

“Uh huh.” She closed her eyes and rolled her head around on her neck. “This is what I need.”

“What happened, Tiffany?” I crouched beside her and she peeked one eye at me. 

“Pretty easy…you OD’d. Pills, whatever, man. I tried to help you. I put you on your side and you vomited and bled, and I was fucked up too, baby.”

What about the sex we had after? And then she was looking into my fridge. I stood again. She was zoned out. I wouldn’t get anything else out of her, but at least I knew how to make her see me. It was always said drugs opened our minds. I guess that included eyes too.  

There was a knock at the door. I peered through the peephole. It was the creepy guy from the cemetery, Stein. He grinned, and the door swung open. I had to step back out of the way.

 “Mind if I come in? Of course you don’t.” He stepped forward and shook my hand in greeting. His skin was hot, like a stovetop when the oven was on. He even sported a little scruff on his chin and no tie. He indicated the dinette set and pulled a chair out for me. “Sit.”

I did as requested and he took a chair across from me. We regarded one another for a few moments before he spoke. 

“I’ve put this off for a day to think on what I want to do with you.”

I sat back in my chair and rested my palms on the tops of my thighs. “Who are you, exactly?”

Stein smiled and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inside of his jacket. He tossed them on the table. I glanced from the pack to him in question.

“Go ahead. I know you smoked. May as well stay comfortable. I don’t think they’ll kill you again.” He chuckled softly.

A book of matches was tucked in the cellophane. I slid it out, pulled out a slim, white cigarette and struck one of the blue-tipped matches to produce an equally blue flame. Stein slid a heavy glass ashtray my direction. 

“Now, let me get to why I’m here. About a week ago, you died en route to the hospital in the back of an ambulance. A shot was administered to your heart to try to jumpstart you, but you were already on the outside looking in by that time. Do you remember?”

“Sorta.”

“See, my main aspirations are hot hookers and blow, sometimes at the same time.” He laughed. “But my job is to make sure you get where you need to be now.”

“So you’re an angel.”

“Wrong. Angels can’t interfere with the free will of humans. Or just drop down to earth without a damned good reason. No, son, I’m the one that every man, woman and child, and any variation thereof waits for.”

“Death.” The cigarette didn’t taste like it used to, but the simple familiarity of holding it between my fingers and breathing out the smoke was comforting.

“Close. I’m the fellow that shows up along with. I get confused with Big D, but no, I’m nothing that grand, although I have a comprehensive benefits package.”

“Grim Reaper?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “I expected a faceless figure…”

“In a robe? With a big fucking scythe?” Stein mimicked holding the weapon and covered his face. He laid his hands on the table again, only to lace his fingers. “Too passé. Times have changed, and so have I.”

“So what’s this got to do with me?” I crushed my cigarette into the ashtray to extinguish it.

“Keep the pack.” Stein nodded at my hand covering the box. His gaze returned to meet mine. His eyes were dark, like they’d been at the gravesite. “I’d love to take you, Ren, but the truth is you might be somebody else’s. Point is, you have to stay here for a little while longer. Try not to haunt too many folks, eh son?”

“And do what? Just hang around?”

Stein shrugged. “Whatever comes to mind. Need a job? Look around you. There’s plenty to do. Just remember the rules of the dead.”

I frowned. “Rules?”

Stein laughed and waved a hand at me dismissively. “Everything has rules, you know that. Our rules are a little stricter than most because instead of fining you a fee, we’ll just send your ass straight to Gehenna.”

"64 Degrees" #Fridayflash

 A few weeks ago, I posted 27. Here is Ren once again... thanks for reading. - CC

Photo credit: click from morguefile.com

Far away, there was a siren fast approaching. The sound swelled in volume until it was all I could hear, like it was coming from inside me. I dropped the cigarette to the floor to cover my ears. Hands took hold of my wrists and held me down.
I opened my eyes.

I was in a moving vehicle and my body was a bag of sand. The stretcher poked the sides of my arms, but I couldn’t move. The sway of the ambulance increased the roll in my gut and vomit spewed up, unbidden. A woman of indeterminate age held a bag to the side of my face and turned my head. Her gloved hands waved close enough to my face to poke me in the eyes. I wouldn’t react. The siren stopped and so did we. So did I.

I stood close to the curb under the eaves of the Mother of Mercy hospital and watched as EMTs unloaded a covered body on a stretcher. The scene wasn’t frightening or panic-inducing. Not after being that jacked-up. Speaking of which, I’d need to get more. Now that I wasn’t clean anymore. Strangely enough, the thought of not getting more didn’t launch me into a cascade of worry. I slid my hands into my pockets, the swish of the automatic doors stuck on repeat in my brain.

Lights progressed overhead, swoosh-swoosh-swoosh like dotted lines on a road, blinding and sweet.

We got him?

Negative. Try again.

Lightning zig-zagged in my chest cavity. The pierce of a needle straight through the sternum. I hated needles, with their shiny points and oozing fluids, like sharp dicks. Like…

Thunder rolled on the horizon. Trees shimmied overhead. I was standing in a grove. What the fuck was happening? A dream, nothing more.

Renalt had a dream, damnit.

Nate called me Renalt. Nobody called me that but family and family didn’t come around.

“It’s Ren, asshole. Ren!”

A hand appeared on my shoulder, hot. Blazing. My skin wanted to shy away from that touch.

“I’d say Renalt was a fine name, just fine as the day is long.” His voice had a slow, Southern drawl, white Republican. Cheap sports jacket, lemonade-sipping, Tetley tea Southern.

I turned to look at him. I expected a policeman or maybe a security guard, but he was young, not young like me but couldn’t have been more than thirty-five. Sandy-blonde hair with a pronounced widow’s peak above an arched Jack-Nicholson eyebrow. A girl would call him handsome, but there was something about his eyes. The nothing there. Shine of sun on nothingness, to return a bead of white among the black, so deep it swallowed his irises. He smiled, exposing a row of pearly whites too perfect to be anything but caps. I knew caps, I had them myself.

“Rock musicians have to have good teeth, son.” His smile never wavered and seemed genuine.

A cloud blotted out the sun, exposing my flesh to the prickle of cold air. “I never said anything.”

“Why are you standing here? I’d be over there.” He raised his hand, finger extended to redirect my attention to what I recognized was a memorial service. “It’s the last time you’ll be the center of attention. Might as well enjoy it.”

Sunshine beamed down on my head again as the cloud conveniently wisped away, burned through grey wool. It was a beautiful day. And this man had just told me something that was important. My mind ticked away at the sentence. Last time. Center of attention. I liked attention. Once. Very long ago, only but a few years but at my age, twenty seven, a few years was forever. Forever. A trickle of realization oozed down my spine like an oiled snake.

The gentleman smiled again. Sun beat down on our shoulders, he in all black, hands clasped in front of his equally-black buttons as if he ought to be clutching a bible and giving the Last Rites. My Last Rites. I was dead. Dead, and about to be laid to rest in the ground. My mouth dropped open and I turned to the small crowd in slow-motion, mouthing the negative word like a supervillain about to watch his empire crumple in oversaturated and pronounced superdust.

The grass did not crisp under my feet, my shadow did not run ahead of me as it had ever since the day I first poked one pudgy baby toe against the solid earth, no I was air; an angry wind that fluttered the Xeroxed fliers clasped in my family’s and friends’ hands. A sudden breeze that whipped black skirts against black stockings and blew my aunt into my sister.

The man from over there stood over here. He wore a smile that made a tiny dimple in the right side of chin appear and fade depending on the light. “Nice try, son. But you don’t have a leg to stand on now, do you?” His hearty laugh stopped me in my non-existent tracks. I glared at him over the gloss of my black coffin, of course it’d be black, everything else was black out here in the cheery, laughing sunshine, it made so much sense.

“You’re a piece of work, Renalt.”

I jabbed a finger in his direction. “Don’t fucking call me that!”

The man shrugged and held his hands palms turned out, as if in resignation. “Suits you fine, I’d say. Have it your way, son. Ren.”

“Who are you?” I was clenching my teeth so tight, it felt like they would crack from the pressure. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man laughed again. “I’ve got a few names that folks call me, some new, some old, but you can call me Stein. And Renalt?” He arched a brow. “Try living with Cristein all your life.”

“We’re dead.”

“Some would say that, yes.”

Throughout the ordeal, my coffin had been lowered into the grave. The rectangle looked to be a hole into eternity, except if I stepped to the edge. My coffin with its spray of ivory lilies and I don’t know what else gleamed up as the first clod of dirt struck the lid.

“You might not want to watch this part.” Stein stood at my side, peering down in the hole with me. He was just an inch or two taller than me. He squinted his black eyes—not beady, but they still reminded me of a crow’s—at the sun. “Coffee or liquor? It won’t make you sicker.”

“What?” I glanced down at my outstretched arms. White. Whole. I felt real to me. I turned away from the sounds the clods of earth made as the people I’d known buried me.

Beyond the flat, green lawn, a long black car hulked on the shoulder of the narrow cemetery road. I looked from it to Stein. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

“Depends on your point of view, Ren. Not everything you experience ever really happens now, does it?” His smile gave me a chill.

“Why can’t they see me?”

Stein shook his head and stepped back from the scene at my grave. I followed him half way to the car, which seemed to be his.

“Because you’re not really here.”

I blinked. “What? What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m here.”

Stein gave a little snort. “Well, you are, and you aren’t. You-you is over there, about to become wormdirt. What’s left of you is up for grabs. You see son, you did a naughty thing, and as for all naughty things, there’s gonna be consequences.” He grinned.

"The Bath" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: fieryn from morguefile.com

She’s drinking gin and tonic, even though it’s not a girl drink. The blinds are closed, but splashes of red and blue still bleed through. A low hum of glass-bell silence in the house points an accusing finger towards the hall, up the stairs and to the bath. Signs, written in psychic hues of purple. Cryptic warnings. Don’t Go Upstairs. Her hand shakes, tinkling the ice in her drink. It hasn’t been said, but she’s getting talked to. She doesn’t want to get talked to.

Her fingers fidget for a cigarette. This ancient house usually feels warm, but the front door stands wide open, like a mouth, falling into a dark throat of frozen midnight. It’s always midnight when bad things happen, but maybe this one doesn’t count because she took a nap. Fatigue had etched away at her consciousness; the book she’d been reading, fell to the floor, where the cat could sniff and tear at the pages. Sleep is a thief. The night is its witness.

Dirty snow is left to perish on the Berber carpet.

If it happened while she was asleep, that makes it a dream. It feels like one. She takes another sip, and raises the glass to look at it. It looks like water but smells like hell, and that matches her mood.

A uniformed man stands over her. Not looking at her, but keeping watch as others like him file in and out of the door. They bring tools and bags. Soon, it’ll be time to move from the sofa. She licks her lips, numb from the alcohol and stained with nicotine. She’d ran out of cigarettes an hour ago. 

"The Light" - A Paranomal #Fridayflash

Photo credit: streetfishing from morguefile.com

Rain spattered over the cooling hood like blood, tinted carmine and blue alternately by rotating lights. Stein got out of the car. Ahead of him lay a dead woman marked pale and still by the patrol car’s headlights. He greeted the officer and together they gazed absently at the grisly scene before them.  Her dress, once a deep blue satin, was ripped and sullen. The impact had left her barefoot, as being struck by a speeding vehicle often would. The chance-shower paused, as if catching a breath.

“Around what time was she found?” Stein dipped his fingers into the inside pocket of his wool overcoat to fish out a cigarette. A stray breeze caught the Zippo’s flame, wrestling with the golden tongue before he cupped his hand over the determined tiny fire. The dead woman’s blonde hair was soaked in almost equal halves of blood and rain.

“Around midnight.” The officer’s badge read C. Johnson. His face may as well been carved in flint. He dragged his dark fingers up under his plastic-covered police cap through the wiry salt-and-pepper hairs, reseating it on his head afterwards. “The coroner estimates time of death to be about nine yesterday evening, but the cold could be fucking with her temperature.”

Stein grunted in assent, his eyes dazzled again and again by the camera flash as a photographer captured each fatal detail. The dead woman’s diamond wedding ring cast off a shine like a distant star.

“The driver never stopped. No signs of braking at all. Since the road is so far out, we’re figuring it took hours for the next motorist to drive by and see her lying there.”

Stein shrugged. “Or there were more, but you know people…they don’t like to get involved.”

Johnson snorted. “They would have had to drive around her then, with her right there in the middle of the road.”

Blood pooled around the dead woman’s head, sticky and diluted from the light shower. The cleaners were attempting to separate her body from the blacktop. Stein exhaled a plume of smoke and dropped the cigarette at his feet, fating the fading glow into final darkness on the damp pavement.

The crime scene dissipated like fog in the sun. He turned to the woman who stared with wide eyes, her fingers covering her mouth.  Her deep blue dress lay in solemn folds against her legs. She stepped forward on tentative bare feet.

“Do you remember anything?” Stein considered lighting another cigarette, then decided against it. He stood patient, awaiting the woman’s response. She’d stopped at the edge of where the blood stain had been moments before.

She shook her head. “Teddy and I were fighting—he said some words. We were on our way to my mother’s. He was saying awful things about her.” She turned to face Stein, her makeup smeared in black tracks over her pallid cheeks with tears.

“Go on…”

“I told him that if he hated her so much he shouldn’t have come. He told me he didn’t trust me driving alone. We argued.”

“And then what?”

“He…hit me. He was yelling terrible things. He stopped the car and told me to get out.”

“And did you?”

She nodded. “Yes. He drove off and left me there on the side of the road.” She tucked her bottom lip behind her teeth. “The next thing I knew, you were there. Waiting for me.”

“That’s what I do. Wait.” Stein put an arm around her shoulder, walking her back to his car. Long and low, people said about it when asked. Black, or the deadest shade of purple they’d ever saw. He opened the passenger door and she lowered herself into the ashen seat. Stein got in behind the wheel. Cool blue light washed over his features as the engine rumbled into life. “I’ll get you to where you need to go next.”

The woman instinctively reached for her seatbelt, but found there was none. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.” He glanced at her huddled against the door with eyes the color of tombstones. “Your name is Allis Forn. You died in 1979. Do you know what today’s date is?”

“No…what is it?”

He told her and she broke into tears. Thirty-two years she’d waited.

They drove towards the light.

"Race" #Fridayflash

Brit slipped on his racing gloves, smoking a cigarette down to the filter, only to light another one. His knuckles strained against the English leather, fingers clamped tight atop the steering wheel.

“He's not going to show after all.” He smirked, relaxing slightly. Cockiness reared its pointed head and he took a nip from the silver flask in his inside jacket pocket. The blue 'Stang purred around him in approval. Nothing could beat his car. Underneath the hood he had a secret. A little switch under the dash. One flick and he was gone daddy gone.

Thunder rolled in off the highway. A deep rumble drifting up to the precipice. Ghastly blue reflected off the scraggly weeds clinging to life on the rocky edges.

“I'll be damned,” Brit growled and popped the handbrake.

The stranger rolled up next to him and tipped his hat. Lightning flashed overhead without the barest threat of rain. Brit shivered and gave a curt nod to his opponent.

Cindy went to stand between the two cars, short plaid skirt whipping in the breeze. Her fishnets were torn, exposing white flesh. She pulled a scarf from around her wrist and raked her blonde hair from one cheek to blow Brit a kiss. He heard the stranger's laugh.

The scarf went up. Then down.

Cindy was pelted with thousand of tiny bits of rock and dirt as the two muscle cars blew out of there, nose-and-nose, flank-to-flank. Tires scudded on the dirt, chrome flashing as both cars gained purchase at the same time. Brit had to admit, the old man was good. He dug the gearshift into fourth and the 'Stang screamed in response, ripping it up to fifth again once he'd gained on the stranger. The 'Stang chomped up the dirt, snarling as Brit pushed it to redline. He flipped on the radio and cranked up a metal song, riding the high that only this kind of race could provide.

The stranger cut him off at the curve, snapping back into first place. Brit cursed and slapped the wheel. The ass end of the 'Stang skidded in a half-arc before Brit commandeered it back into submission. The stranger had no brake lights.

They broke out of the turn clawing for lead, the stranger's ghoulish Dodge pissing blue flame, dwindling arcs of cerulean embers left to bounce to nothingness in the rearview. A cold bead of sweat rolled down in Brit's left eye and he brushed it away. He could see the shimmer of the violet haze as he pulled to the stranger's rear wheel on his side. The inside of the car was black as a sack of crows.

The straightaway loomed ahead and Brit flipped the switch, releasing the nitro into the engine. The 'Stang shrieked and rocketed forward. He laughed like a madman as he saw the black Dodge fall behind, until the headlights were two little dots in the mirror.

The nitrous gave out almost as quick as it'd kicked in and the 'Stang's speed fell. The finish was up ahead somewhere. Brit peered through the dirty windshield and didn't see the black Dodge fly up behind him.

Metal collided with a sick crunch, and Brit was thrown forward into the steering wheel. He downshifted and tried to shake his tail but the stranger might as well been painted there. Another impact, and Brit busted his lip on his own skull ring. He tried to brake, but they didn't respond. The 'Stang went faster.

They blew past the waiting victory committee and out towards the mesa's edge. The stranger showed no relent and kept his nose up Brit's tailpipe, smashing into it every now and then. Brit'd go left, the black Dodge would swerve left. Brit swung to the right and the stranger would smash into him until he went straight again. The end of the road showed in his headlights. Brit shit his pants as he drove through the barrier.

The fall took forever.

"Dirty Dish" #Fridayflash

Yet another experiment in writing. Dead silence does work wonders. - CC   


She’s taken her small shoes and handbags and left him with closet space. He appreciates the extra three feet of davenport. He’s covered up the flowered print. He’ll put it out for bulk rubbish in February.

She’s grilled for CAUCASIAN MALE. It seems wise. Her mother would have approved of his severe haircut and pencil-thin mustache.

He thinks about CAUCASIAN MALE often. 5’11” with a slight list to his step from an old football injury. CAUCASIAN MALE with the sideways smile—he should have caught that the first time she shared it with him over boiled potatoes.

He’s stretched out. He’s waiting.

The dirty dish is still in the sink. He’s decided to leave it til Wednesday. She’d hate that.

Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com

"Three" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: marko from morguefile.com

Lisa's eyes reflected the glow from the sandy bed, too long ago to be called a river. Pale like moon soil and powdered moth wings. A cloud of dust erupted on the horizon, swirling around six blue lights, splitting apart, two to a being, until they drew near and I could see they were headlights. Three of them, with respective specters behind their windscreens, bony knuckles ridged and accusatory.

They circled us like vultures—tighter and tighter—in spirals of questionable intent. Glowing eyes; burning lights that felt like acid on the skin. There were two, one fat-fendered with the suggestion of green flames, that writhed and licked above the slick rubber that churned beneath like angry hooves. The second, a black Mustang, the lights bleeding to urine-yellow at a certain angle. The driver pressed his skull against the glass and grinned as the draft made her skirt fly up around her legs.

The third was almost reptilian in appearance, long and low, inky-black scaled flesh glinting violet in the light around them, gasping gills in its sides snorting blue fire and in the driver's seat—

An arc of spirits in a close vortex, blotting out the moon and choking our lungs with silt from the dead riverbed. Whispered pleasures, treasures, and torment and the third stopped, tires pouring out of slim wheel wells like viscous oil, clutching the hard packed earth as the dust settled and I was looking into the face of Death itself.

______

I let out a breath; Lisa shook me, clutching an armful of firewood. I opened my eyes and lifted my head to look at her.

“You have to stay awake to see them,” she chided. I rolled over on my side and smiled.

She was wrong.

"Spoiler" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: alvimann from morguefile.com


This story is unique. An experiment from a dream I had this week. Hi-five to my muse. He gave me this, but on one condition: I had to write it backwards. So here is a story-written backwards. Enjoy - CC.


There’s a dull gleam to the moment you realize is your last.

In the side-view, I saw it. Real, but not real. It couldn’t be real. It was flying, and we were going close to one-hundred-twenty miles an hour. A death head in pursuit. A bony sound on the rear spoiler. Like pebbles hitting a window. I heard it before he did.

I glanced over at Bryan, his arms held straight out like he was pushing the steering wheel away, but his knuckles bled white. His eyes were locked on the road. I asked him why was he moving; we could get a better look if we stopped where the grass wasn’t so high. There was no moon, but we could see.

Hey wait, stop the car. Oh my God. Stop the car!

A beeping sound—echoing. A sound off of the old Doctor Who, when they still used wavy tricks to make the opening title interesting.

Religious icons of every creed and culture glowed phosphorescently in the sky, over to the right, like fit-together shapes. Like Tetris. A powdered-diamond-blast-pattern of stars filled the spaces between, gradually melting behind the clouds. Clouds to the left, smoked and swirling, geometric—like Incan designs—squared and labyrinthine. I looked out the windshield, hand pressed against the cold glass.

We were on our way home after a party. It was 3AM.

"Too Much Rope" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: seriousfun from morguefile.com




"Give any one species too much rope and they’ll fuck it up." – Roger Waters


It was one hell of a party. Laurie stood by the homemade punch with Don Rivers, the CEO of Fargo. Don was one of those guys you didn’t forget. He was so overdone with cosmetic surgery in his sixties that he made Kenny Rogers look mild in comparison. He baked his skin golden in the tanning bed and wore a silver-link watch with the brand name so curly it was illegible.

Laurie wore fuchsia lipstick, which made Stein grin. One night at the office, he had Laurie on all fours on his desk. She had the most gorgeous moan he’d ever heard on a woman, and could go for days. She loved the paddle and—

Don glared in his direction, and Stein ripped his gaze away.

Ice floated in his drink, watering down the Skyy Vodka someone’d slipped in it. If they meant to be stealthy, the blue bottle next to the gigantic punch bowl definitely served as a distinct warning. Besides, it unbalanced the fruity taste overpowering it and shifted it into a teenage slumber party concoction created by slipping shit out of dad’s liquor cabinet to impress friends. Stein rubbed his nose, and glanced back at Laurie. He took an extra few seconds to appreciate her long legs in that minidress and headed for the mens’ room.

He engaged the lock and unrolled a baggie of white crystalline powder from his dinner jacket pocket. In the roll was a short straw and a razor blade.

“Did you see the way he looked at you?” Don said, his extra-white dental bleach job nearly blinding his date. Don had a way with women even though none of them could hardly stand to look at him. His wallet proved to be an aphrodisiac, and if that wasn’t enough, his penile pump made sure the lucky lady would never slip away unsatisfied. Laurie was fairly unchoosy about who was paying her car note. The big stiff one was merely a bonus in the situation.

“Let’s take a ride in the Beamer,” Don said, brushing his hand over Laurie’s. She jumped as if startled, and agreed eagerly. Being seen with the old codger in public was more humiliating at times than she could stand. Besides, he’d fuck her and leave her alone.

Stein emerged from the mens’ room, put back together nicely with a nice zing to his pace to boot. Don and Laurie were missing. He grit his teeth. Don made his moves like a cobra, and Stein figured it was about damn time somebody acted as the mongoose.

The parking garage shuddered in shadows as cars exited and entered the towering structure. Don popped the locks on the little tuna-blue Z3 Convertible and opened Laurie’s door for her. Her legs folded in, and she opened her tiny purse for a hair band. Don didn’t like the wind to mess up his hair, but he had a convertible. He often compromised by driving with the top down and the windows up, which Stein always felt was a douche bag trademark.

A long, low black car met Stein out of the garage elevator, and he got in. The earthen-dead scent of distressed leather rose up to meet him, smell of dead cow, his dad had always said. Yet dad always got those goddamn Mercedes with leather seats. If this was cow, Stein'd eat the steering wheel. The coke twisted in his veins, and he grinned at his eyes in the rear-view mirror. He pulled out of the parking space, just as he heard the Goodyears squeak on Don’s BMW.

Don drove fast after they’d broken out of the garage space, and Stein had to work to keep up. Then the damn car would slow down, and Stein would have to drop back to give his quarry a little more rope. He snickered at the memory of Roger Water’s song. It was after Pink Floyd had dethroned their rock-star egoist bassist. Something about rope and fucking shit up.

Out on the freeway the little convertible ahead of him rocketed away, opening up more lead. Stein cursed and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. His car, bless good ol’ Demonic steel, picked up the cues immediately, and within a few seconds he could see Don’s tail lights again. Instead of slowing to a content follow, Stein kept the pedal all the way down and sped up to run alongside the BMW.

Fuck Don. Fuck Laurie, that corporate whore. Stein sidled alongside the BMW. Don glanced, did a double take, and started shouting angrily at the tinted windows of the considerably larger sedan violating his space.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Stein heard faintly in the silent cockpit.

“Fucking lunatic! Get the fuck over!” Don shouted again and accelerated to lose the maniac that somehow decided he wanted to be in his lane while he was still in it. Stein sped up along with him. Don was rich, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d opted for the lower optioned model that gave him the looks, but had none of the horsepower. Had Don opted for the fucking Z4, he might’ve at least shaken Stein.

Don bared his teeth, white-blond hair whipping around his reddened face. Stein could see Laurie peering around Don, trying to see what’d pissed her date off so much. It was probably the most excitement she’d see all week until Don took that overseas trip to Japan. She never had fucked a Japanese man before. It was worth dealing with Don just for—

“What in the fuck is wrong with you?” Don screamed again. Stein cackled behind the deep tint and massive chrome grille of his ride. Yeah, he’d premeditated. Somehow he usually did. It was this kind of luck that kept him in business. Being Death had all kinds of perks.

They crossed over onto a bridge, and Stein jerked the wheel hard to the right.

"Ghost Host" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: o0o0xmods0o0o from morguefile.com

“You don't scare me, you don't scare me," I said

To whatever it was floating in the air above my bed

He knew that I'd understand

He was the ghost of a Texas ladies' man.”

Ghost of Texas Ladies’ Man – Concrete Blonde

The check-in desk was polished and immense. One clerk worked at this unholy hour. I signed my name, collected the key, and declined help with my bags. The elevator worked slowly, creeping skyward at a snail’s pace. I had a business conference in less than seven hours and was hoping for a bath before bed.

The penthouse suite was an upgraded offering to my executive suite. Seems that a conference was in town at the same time. The hotel’d accidentally booked my rooms. I acquiesced to the top-floor accommodation eagerly.

Everything seemed normal until I slipped into the bath. Though the water was steamy, the room grew cold to the point I could see my breath.

“It’s a good thing those bubbles are covering up that heavenly body,” a voice said from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, “I’d have trouble asking you out otherwise.”

“Who’s there?” I asked, sinking lower into my bath, up to my eyes. I had mace; it was unfortunately in my suitcase and therefore might as well been in the next state.

“It’s been awhile,” the voice said, yawning gently. “I can’t imagine what took you so long to get here.”

“Who are you?” I cried again. “Where are you?”

“Pardon me ma’am,” the voice drawled, “I’m just haunting this suite for eternity is all.”

“Haunt?” The hotel brochure featured a 24-hour gym and available massage, not an ectoplasmic roommate for every suite rented. Especially one with a Texas drawl. I wanted to stand, but if he was looking…

“Could you look away then?”

“I could, but why would I want to? You’re the choicest woman I’ve seen in years.”

Unbidden, a smile threatened my lips. “Really?”

“Scout’s honor ma’am.”

“You’re obviously a ghost of good taste.”

A good-natured chuckle. “As long as we’re on the subject of taste—”

“What about taste? I’m not giving you anything.” I said as defiantly as I could, to the voice that was probably completely in my head as a result of two hours’ sleep in the past three days. That was it. It was all a hallucination. I might even be still asleep on the plane.

“I was wondering if you could play a Hank Williams record.”

“Oh. I don’t have any Hank Williams.”

“Have room service send you up a record then.”

“We haven’t met properly,” I faltered, “I’m Jessica.”

“Benjamin ma’am. About that record.”

“I have something better. But you have to promise not to look at me while I set it up.”

He promised, and so I stood, snatched a towel from the stack next to the tub, wrapped it around me, and went straight to my bag. My iHome was one of my favorite gadgets aside from my iPhone. I plugged in the speaker dock, set my phone in the cradle and tapped the iTunes app.

“Any particular song?”

“Ladies’ choice,” was the disembodied answer. I made my selection.

“I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” poured out of the tiny speakers. At first I heard nothing, until there was a sniffle. Then my ghastly guest started blubbering.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he said. “It was playing while I drank myself to death. And once you hear a song, it gets stuck in your head and keeps you awake.”

“So I’ve heard,” I said, with an exaggerated yawn. “Anything else before I go to sleep? You’ll need to leave the bedroom you know.”

“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing your sleep ma’am.”

I bought all of the albums I could find of Hank Williams on iTunes. And plugged the iHome in out in the kitchen.

"Come Together" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: clarita from morguefile.com

The flight attendant served 7-Up to Dad, Orange Crush to Mom, and a Hi-C juice box to little Violet. She winked at Violet and proceeded down the aisle.

Violet strained to see over the seat to follow the nice lady with her eyes. It was better than being trapped in-between her parents.

“Of all the impossible things you could’ve come up with Marshall—”

“It’s for the best. I think that if we just work together we can save this—”

Violet asked to be taken to the potty often. It was the only break in conversation; Mom looked distressed and in need of a break. She was pretty, but with lines creasing her brow she looked tired.

“I’m sorry Vi, we can’t get up just yet. You’ll have to hold it.”

Her plot foiled, Violet glowered at the back of the seat afore her. The urge to kick it tickled her mind. Mom and Dad were busy ignoring the fact that they couldn’t talk to one another anymore. She nearly gave in to her last resort, a temper-tantrum, before the plane listed to the right; the sound of a small explosion rocked the cabin’s occupants.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention. This is an emergency. You must remain calm. Please view your emergency procedures booklet and follow the instructions.”

“He’s kidding, isn’t he Marshall?”

“I don’t know.” Dad’s face was dark and pale at the same time. “Violet honey, are you alright?”

Violet nodded mutely. Mom screamed as the masks dropped from the ceiling. Dad put his mask on and helped Violet with hers. Mom hyperventilated into hers.

“What are we going to do Marshall? We’re going to die! We can’t die like this! This is—”

“Cynthia! Stop it! Where is the woman I married?”

Mom whimpered. She was crying. Violet clung to the armrests, realizing that this was all a very bad thing, but something was happening.

“I don’t know Marshall. The job, the money, the pressure to be better and better—”

Dad’s moustache bristled. “You’re already my personal best.” Noise picked up in the cabin. Violet saw Dad’s eagle tattoo cross her chest to reach her mother. A strained smile. “We must work together now. Will you work with me?”

Cynthia nodded, dabbing at her nose with a sleeve.

At Dad’s request, they unbuckled their belts and pulled Violet down between them. The descent was deafening now at a higher pitch. They faced one another, wrapping themselves around Violet, hands clutching arms, and Mom’s perfume soothing.  Their words were lost in the boom as the final engine exploded.

_______

Did they survive? I'd like to think so. I wanted to present the point that in the most dire of circumstances, attitudes can change—often for the better. Maybe we shouldn't wait til then. Cheers - C.C.

"Fast Folly" #Fridayflash

I had a tail on the way to my apartment from the office one night.

A black-cherry Mustang in my rearview, twisting through traffic like a head-lit cobra snake, looming there. I cut a quick right, wheels cutting into the pavement when I gunned the engine. It was a strange sensation to see it there: the distance kept immaculate but intimidating.

My mind raced, spinning through all the names of those who would like to get a piece of me, and well there were a few. There was my crazy bitch of an ex-wife, my last girlfriend; her new boyfriend.

The feeder sprouted into view and I darted up on the freeway. The Mustang followed, sunset ablaze in the windshield reflection, giving it the appearance of being on fire.

I let the window down to get some air and heard it. It had a low growl, except when I sped up and then it'd snarl with unbidden power. I sped past a line of slower-moving traffic, cutting in-between a Winnebago and a diesel F-250 to hit the inside lane, where the road was wide open.

I stomped down on the gas, and watched the speedometer climb. The Mustang responded in turn until I surmised we were doing close to 100.

A low-flying bird came across the highway, but I hit it before I could even respond. The body exploded into a blizzard of inky feathers; deep carmine red splattered over the expanse of my windshield.

I couldn't see.

The steering wheel ripped itself from my grip, my tires screaming before I did as a semi-hauler disintegrated the front half of my Volvo.

Safest cars in the world, and that's why I survived.

The Mustang passed, and kept going without the slightest lapse in speed as I sat there agape, the dash pinned against the knees I could no longer feel.

"Instant" #Fridayflash

"Repugnant is a creature who would
squander the ability to lift an eye to heaven;
conscious of his fleeting time here."

Right in Two - Tool
____

The sky flashed, illuminating thick, rolling underbellies. Veins of red and deepest black traced those surfaces like a fatty vital organ. Bilboy peered out the rain-speckled windshield up at the magnificent display of nature’s wrath. An old-time country song crooned to itself on the AM radio. The Ford sputtered, recapturing Bilboy’s attention.

“Just a few miles more,” he muttered to the rusted behemoth.

There was this reoccurring dream: It always ended before his inebriated mind could wrap its arms around the true significance. Clouds overhead. Weak headlights stabbing vainly at the gathered night. Indescribable shivers puckering the old Semper Fi tattoo on his right forearm.

The reflection in his big-faced Timex watch, then the old Ford would sputter, just like that. Bilboy’s mouth twisted downwards and he rustled a bagged beverage clinging to the driver’s side door sill in one of those plastic half-circle cup holders you could get at the Speedy-Stop outside of Wilmenco.

This night drew up viscous memories of cold fluorescence, the stench of spilled gasoline and the tight red-burn of rope-bound wrists. It wasn’t too long ago that those scars’d faded  to silver, just under the deep chestnut hairs. Spiderwebs skittered over those bones and canvassed the tops of his hands where the skin peeled back, like an old dirty sock.

Thunder announced just behind the cab making the old man jump in his seat. No seat belt—a ¾ Tonner didn’t have those kind of rules. He took a bitter swallow of piss-warm beer and fumbled in his breast pocket for a Camel, thumbing the lighter in the dash. It never worked; he never remembered that until it’d pop over and over again, only to hold it in til he could feel the heat radiate outwards from the inch-diameter hole.

The spiral of bright orange illuminated the end of his cigarette and guided the lighter back home. The Ford dipped two tires off the paved road onto the shoulder, and Bilboy corrected with a reflexive jerk of the gigantic steering wheel. The other two tires screeched in protest as the empty bed of the truck swung around to meet the front.

Bilboy growled as he attempted to hammer the brake into submission, spilling his beer down his leg and finally the floorboard as both hands clamped on the steering wheel.

Lightning flashed over the slick pavement, strobing the scene as it unfolded before his eyes, but it wasn’t this moment in time.

It was the dream. That same damn dream that jerked him awake, sheathed in chilled sweat and trembling like a newborn calf. The dream of what happened when the Ford really did leave the pavement and fall afterwards.

Snap of thunder. Blaze of fire. Gasoline.

It was his time, but he didn’t believe in that kind of thing. He didn’t believe in anything except Pearl, (who’d gone on fifteen years before) Pabst beer, Winston-Salem and that number 45 car, whose driver was a distinct asshole but he sure did get the job done.

Bilboy threw his arms up to cover his face, but the glass melted through his skin. The old 302 wormed into the cab to greet him, partially severing his right leg in a searing instant. The rain saturated his dry skin as he stared up into the face of his Maker.

"Wire-in-the-Mire" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: mconnors from morguefile.com
The room languished in deep shadows cast from the cheap brass lamp with the paper shade as Peter wrote his letter. Note. It was on a pretty piece of stationery; he'd found it in the drawer, right next to Mindy's wedding ring.

The wedding cake was expensive; he knew that it wouldn't be so big of a deal, but she'd insisted, and so it was ordered: a heaving, tiered, chaliced and laced monstrosity of a thing, with a gag bride-and-groom statuette set on top, and the groom was sinking into the icing.

Wire-in-the-mire, his mind flashed at him, like a temporary neon vacancy sign, just before dawn arrives and the illumination is no longer needed or appreciated. He swallowed his gumption to call the whole thing off, and so they were wed.

Anthony came first: a robust, rosy-cheeked baby that grew to a boy that grew into a teen who learned to hate his own father. Renee was next: the total opposite of her big brother, a slender, sickly little thing that adapted to the shadier side of things and learned the biggest virtues in a good coat of SPF 75 in the summertime. And then there was Linda: a sweet infant that walked three months early, neither cried or threw any tantrums, but died mysteriously just before she turned a year old.

Her little death threw Peter and Mindy into chaotic torment, and nights of insomnia and drinking, until one day, Anthony stole the family car, Renee picked up her bags and followed her mom out to the taxi and Peter found himself alone in that big house.

The fridge tided him over for a solid three weeks before he was forced to go out into the cruel sunshine, pretending that his life wasn't utterly disgusting and worthless, and find sustenance to feed his withering frame. He wasn't good at cooking, and twice he set the burner afire, but soon he grasped the elementary mechanics of heating food to eat and was able to get by just a little easier.

Which of course, added to his guilt, and there was one gloomy afternoon that he ducked into a Goldrush Pawn Shoppe with two p's, one e on the end, like olde England.

Towards the back of the store was a glass case that ran the length of the wall, containing weapons of all shapes and sizes and among them, guns.

"Trade" #Fridayflash

Photo credit: cohdra from morguefile.com

I count the till we'd turned over. Jimmy sits and watches tv. Sweat rolls thick and uninvited from my temple down my cheek like tears. Jimmy laughs at something said on tv. He has a funny laugh. I start over. I could take my ten-grand and make a clean break from him. My eyes cut to the back of his head. The blued steel tempts my fingers. Jimmy takes a drink. I count another bill.

“Louder,” he says and lights a cigarette.

“Ten thousand, like we agreed,” I say.

“Good boy.”

Ever since Mom died, Jimmy's been taking care of me. Teaching me a trade, but it's obvious I don't have the guts to stick it out in a life of crime. Maybe I'd get caught, maybe not. I could get taken in somewhere, anywhere but with him, because after dark, those scary ladies come. They growl and moan like weird cats. They have red nails and mouths and pretend to like Jimmy.

He's snoring. Finally. I don't think he ever put his cigarette out.

I slip the neat stack of bills he'd promised me into my backpack. Then I take his too.

For once, I don't let the screen door slam as I leave.