Exterminated

Exterminated

                Bertrund “Bert” Geroux stepped from the air-conditioned home into the bright sunlight of a Florida late morning.  He’d spent the last hour following the hone’s owner and being shown various problem areas that needed to be taken care of.  He’d written some notes on a small flip-open notebook, but expected he wouldn’t open it again after that.  He knew his business.  He’d been doing it for twenty years and had learned from his dad who had done it for many years before him.  Killing bugs was in his blood.  It was what he did.  It was what he loved.

                He opened the passenger’s side door of the white van which he drove to every job.  On the side was painted “Buggy” Bert Geroux and the phrase ‘The only good bug is a dead bug.’  The seats had been removed from the back which now contained everything he could possibly need to do his job.  He wasn’t going for those now, however, he was after the lunch he’d packed that morning before leaving his small two bedroom house in the suburbs.  He used to grab something at the various fast-food joints he passed during the course of his work day, but a recent visit to his doctor showed that his cholesterol was too high and warranted a diet change.  He still made occasional burger runs, but now they were fewer and further between.  He’d quit smoking and had cut down on his drinking as well.  That visit had confirmed for him his mortality and he was taking it seriously.  Lunch in hand he found a picnic table nearby and sat down to eat.  He pulled a turkey sandwich from its plastic bag and took a large bite.  He wiped mayonnaise from his face with the back of his hand and chewed the bite thoughtfully.  As he took a second bite a bit of turkey fell to the table.  He brushed it to the ground and continued to eat.  It didn’t take long for a platoon of ants to start working on the discarded turkey.  Bert took notice of them and sighed with disgust.  Even during his lunch he could not escape the constant torment of insects.  He rewrapped the sandwich and returned to the back of his van.  He grabbed a can of insecticide and began to spray the ants that he found.  He chuckled to himself as he did so.

                “You don’t mess with Buggy or his lunch, do you hear me?”

                Satisfied with the destruction he had wrought on the local ant population he sat at the table to finish his lunch.  He washed bites of sandwich down with swigs from a Diet Pepsi.  With lunch completed he returned to the home to finish the job which had brought him there in the first place.  He whistled as he gleefully brought about the end for yet another colony of insects.  Another extermination.  Another satisfied customer.  Another happy day for “Buggy” Bert Geroux.

                After the first job of the day Bert had several more stops to make.  He faced each job with the same fervor as he had the one prior.  For some reason Bert enjoyed killing bugs.  It was a passion that consumed him.  Each and every job of the day brought him new pleasure.  Whether he was disposing of cockroaches, ants, or any other bugs that troubled his clients he had the perfect remedy for what ailed their home.  He grabbed the right chemicals and sprays for every job, chuckling as he watched the insects writhe in agony for the last few moments of their insignificant lives.  He was god and they were the pitiful lives he snuffed out at his discretion.

                Bert exited the house from his last appointment of the day.  He wiped sweat from his brow as he loaded the destructive tools of his trade into the van.  The day had dawned hot and it was hotter still when dusk had settled in.  All in all it had been a very good day for “Buggy” though.  He waved to the homeowners as he plopped into the worn front seat of his vehicle.  He shifted into reverse and backed down the driveway.  As he drove into the steadily approaching night he ran through his plans for the evening.  He’d get home and shower before heading out for dinner.  Sometimes he’d make a meal for one in his microwave and enjoy some television dramas, but tonight he planned to hit one of his favorite watering holes so he’d grab dinner on the way.  It was his birthday after all.  He could spoil himself a little.

                With his fast food burgers and fries purchased and consumed he parked his van at a meter, fed it the appropriate amount of change for his planned stay, and walked the hundred or so feet to the bar’s door.  He walked from the darkness outside to the dimly lit interior of the country themed drinking establishment.  He waved at a few regulars that he knew before leaning on the bar.  He waved off the male bartender when he approached, preferring to wait for the pretty blonde who was currently mixing a drink on the other end.  When she finally approached him he tried to smile appealingly, but his homeliness made it impossible.

                “I’ll have a PBR,” he said.

                She smiled as she filled a glass from the appropriate tap and then slid it across the pitted wood of the bar to him. 

                “It’s my birthday, you know,” Bert announced as he pulled out his wallet.

                “Happy birthday,” the young woman said with a smile.

Burt left his payment and a substantial tip on the bar just far enough away so she had to lean over to get it.  She obliged.

                Bert began to guzzle the cheap beer and crossed the room to the ancient jukebox.  He inserted his money, a rip-off in his opinion, and chose a couple of favorites by Johnny Cash and Hank Jr.  As the songs played he finished the beer and ordered another.  He sang out of tune as the music played and the other patrons were much relieved when his requested songs were over.

                The two beers became four and then became eight.  By the time the male bartender announced that it was last call Bert was barely able to get the cash out of his wallet to pay for his beers.  He was beginning to think that he may have to cancel his early appointments for the next day.  He tried to buy one more beer, a request which was refused, possibly a few too late.  He finished what was left in his glass and headed for the door trying to find his keys in his pant’s pocket.  He was finally noticed by the male bartender when he nearly ran into the closed door.

                “Hold up,” the man said as he scurried around the bar.

                Bert hesitated, hand still searching his pocket, and turned to the man.

                “Let me call you a cab,” the bartender said, clapping Bert on the back in a friendly manner.

                “I’m fine,” Bert slurred.

                “I know you are, but let me do it anyway.”

                Bert was silent.  He had finally managed to fish the keys from his pocket.  He looked from the young man to his keys and then back at the young man again.

                “I’m okay,” Bert said at last.  “It’s my birthday.”

                “Happy birthday,” the young man said and shrugged his shoulders.

                Bert reached for the door handle, catching it on his second try, and stumbled through the door into the cooler night air.  He staggered along the sidewalk, precariously close to falling into the road, until he reached his van.  He attempted to put the key in the lock several times before collapsing against the vehicle in exasperation.

                “Ready for that cab?” Chip, the persistent bartender, asked.

                Bert looked up.  At first he saw three of Chip, but after rubbing his eyes several times was able to see just the one.  He nodded. 

Chip led him back into the building, phoned a taxi company, and sat Bert at a table with a tall glass of water.  He kept a watchful eye on the drunken patron as he went about the business of closing up the bar.  It was only a short time later when he saw the cab pull up and escorted Burt to it.  He gave the cabby the address off Burt’s license and hoped it was correct.

“We’re here!”

The cab driver’s bellow woke Bert from his drunken stupor.  He wiped drool from his chin and exited the back of the cab. 

“Hey, Buddy!” the driver called out his open window.  He held his hand out.

Bert, realizing the man needed to be paid, wobbled back and gave him the rest of the cash he had in his wallet.  The taxi pulled out into the street and Burt began his unsteady journey to his front door.  After what seemed an eternity he made it.  He managed to insert the key after several failed attempts and fell into the house.  With his consciousness waning he shoved the door in an attempt to close it and crawled up the stairs.  He knew he couldn’t make it to the bedroom and so instead settled for a night on his couch.  He collapsed onto it and instantly began a loud, drunken snore.

As he slept a single, solitary ant crossed the carpeted floor.  It climbed onto the couch and then onto the slumbering exterminator.  It was soon joined by another.  And then another.  Soon a multitude of ants had made the journey onto their nemesis.  The ants began to bite and to crawl.  Some crawled into his wide open mouth.  Others journeyed into his ears.  And still others found their way into his cavernous nostrils which flared with every exhalation.  With each bite they injected toxins into his blood stream.  He swatted them in his sleep, but there were too many of them.  The biting continued. 

Bert woke with his skin feeling like a crawling fire.  He burned all over.  He saw the ants on him.  There were too many for it to be anything other than a dream.  He could feel his airway tightening.  He began to brush at the ants, but they kept coming.  He was covered.  His couch was covered.  Even his floor was covered with them.  He kept feeling the bites.  He kept feeling the burning.  He spat them from his mouth.  He tried to blow them from his nostrils and pull them from his ears.  They crawled toward his eyes which he promptly closed.

I need air, he thought.

No air was coming.  His tongue and throat were swelling.  He continued to fight, but to no avail.  Slowly the fight went out of him.  His thrashes came less frequently and finally ceased.  Sensing their victory the ants began to retreat, leaving the dead man in their wake.

The sun had risen on another beautiful Florida morning.  As it climbed higher in the sky Burt’s phone began to ring.  It rang several times before an answering machine finally picked up.

“You’ve reached “Buggy” Burt Geroux,” the machine said.  “I can’t take your call right now, but please leave your name, number, and message after the tone.”

The machine beeped which prompted the person on the other end to speak.

“Buggy, this is Kathy.  I had an appointment with you at ten.  You didn’t make it so I’m hoping we can reschedule.  Please call me at…”

The woman continued to leave her message which Bert Geroux would never listen to.

New Material Soon

I have a new short story completed.  It is one that I have been struggling with for some time so I hope it is enjoyable.  I am just having my editor look it over and then will do some revisions before posting it.  The story is entitled 'Exterminated'.  I also have a couple of new short pieces in the works as well as two new novels which I am going back and forth between.  I hope to have some more short material to post here soon and then maybe another excerpt from one of the new longer works.  Keep checking back.  Thanks for faithfully reading.  As always if you like what you see you can follow the blog or purchase a copy of my novel.

For the ones of fans out there

     Just thought I'd give a little update to the ones of you out there who are interested. 
     I did not complete NaNoWriMo this year.  I am awaiting the collective "Awww."  That doesn't mean that a new novel is not in the works it just means that I didn't finish it in 30 days.  I guess it was a little ambitious to think I could write a novel in a month two years in a row.  As a Red Sox fan I am used to uttering the following phrase.  "Wait 'til next year."
     The new novel is coming along and I am hoping to have it completed early next year.  Then will begin the tedious process of making it as a close to perfect as I can and then shopping it around to publishers.  You will all be the first to know when it is going to be on the market.
     As for new material here I have two short stories currently in the works.  I am also looking through some of my previously written material for anything that would not be a complete embarrassment.  When I find or finish something I will post it for you.  I will update Facebook to let you know it's here.
     Finally, thanks for continuing to check out the site.  If you like what you see it is okay to be a follower.  i won't mind nor will I chastise you for it.  Feel free to pass this site address on to your friends (or enemies either is fine).  And don't be afraid to pick up a copy of my book.  It is available on Amazon or Createspace.  Thanks again for reading and keep visiting.

Free Falling

                Jean Henrikson had been away on business for three weeks now.  Travelling was something he’d long since become accustomed to and was something he enjoyed immensely.  He had no family to go home to, no pets to board during his time away, and no one who would miss him while he was gone.  Some would think this sad and depressing, but for Jean it was simply reality and a reality he had no intention of changing.  The money was good and money was the only thing he was interested in having a relationship with, so for him life was good.

                The cab driver had finished loading his suitcase into the trunk and returned to his seat in the front of the taxi.  He looked at Jean in the mirror.

                “Airport,” Jean said without needing the question to be asked.

                Whether it was Jean’s own persona or rudeness on the part of the driver those were the only words exchanged by either driver or passenger.  Traffic was heavy giving the traveler plenty of time with his own thoughts.  When he was bored with those he fell asleep.

               

                Jean stood in the line to board the airplane.  He was returning home, but for him there was no sense of relief, no desire to be home.  He stared at the back of the man in front of him noticing the tag of his t-shirt sticking out.  It was funny what one noticed when the scenery never changed.  Instead of telling the man about his tag problem Jean simply turned to stare out the large window which looked out over the tarmac.  He saw many planes moving across it, some coming and some going.  He saw one which he presumed was his own, flight number 1470.  The line was finally moving which pleased Jean not because he was in a hurry but because he was a man who hated to waste time.  Time standing in line was time wasted. 

                Upon entering the flying machine he was greeted by a smiling face and a pleasant word.  He nodded his appreciation and worked his way up the aisle, maneuvering his laptop case to avoid the occasional rear end which had not yet been firmly planted in its seat.  He glanced down at his boarding pass once more, spotted his seat, and plopped into it.  He obediently placed his laptop case underneath the seat in front of him, waiting for when he would be told it was safe for him to now proceed to use the device.  He had been journaling about his travels, hoping one day to compile them into a book and be published.  It was a long shot, but one he was willing to take.  Other passengers began to fill in around him until the flight was near capacity.  Once everyone had taken their seats the plane began to taxi and the flight attendants began their presentation of the various safety features the plane possessed.  For some these sewed the seeds of fear, for others they brought comfort.  Jean didn’t care either way.  He closed his eyes and leaned back into his seat waiting for the moment that the plane would speed up impossibly and then begin to climb into the air.

                He heard the engines roar.  He felt the plane lurch forward.  He felt pulled into the seat and just when he thought he’d be pulled through to the other side the plane lifted off.  It continued to climb into the air as if weightless.  Jean knew that many passengers were clutching the armrests, knuckles whitening as they continued their ascent.  He simply smiled.  Then it happened.  The plane shuddered as if it were shivering.  Jean’s eyes snapped open. 

Turbulence, he thought.

He heard garbled words over the intercom and saw the flight attendants begin to scramble.  They sat down and buckled their belts.  More garbled words.  He caught some of them.  Engine.  Failed.  These were not good words.  They were words you didn’t want to hear.  It wasn’t long before the inevitability of the situation presented itself.  This metal thing, this thing that should never have been airborne in the first place, was going to plummet to the ground.  It was a flight which would end with a fiery crash likely taking the lives of all aboard.  Some people began to pray to their gods.  Jean would have prayed to his, but all of his money would do him absolutely no good now.

Jean woke, still in the rear seat of the cab.  He sat bolt upright, glanced out the side window, and saw they were now moving smoothly along toward the airport.  He wiped a bit of drool from his chin and rubbed his eyes.  It had been a dream.  No, a nightmare, but that was all it had been.  It was then he heard the song on the radio.  It was the unmistakable voice of Tom Petty singing ‘Free Falling’.  He looked at the radio and saw that it was tuned to AM 1470, a local classic rock station.  His stomach was filled with lead and his mouth with sand.  The rest of the ride felt like an eternity as he wrestled with his thoughts.

Entering the airport he had decided to reschedule his flight.  After checking the airlines website via his cell phone he’d determined that the next flight would not leave until tomorrow, but his employer would understand.  They’d even foot the bill for one more night at a hotel.  Jean was sure they’d still have his room available.  He walked up to the airline counter and explained to them that he’d decided to stay for one more day.  He gladly paid the change fee and the difference in price of the flight, economy be damned.  He wanted to tell them the plane was going to crash.  Wanted to scream it over the intercom to save other lives, but knew he’d only manage to get himself tackled by security and probably find himself in jail for the night.

No. Thank you, he thought.

Instead he handed over his credit card, signed the receipt, grabbed his bags, and exited the airport to hail another cab.  As it turned out his driver was still there.  The cabby popped the trunk, but Jean motioned that he’d take care of his own suitcase.  The driver shrugged and eased himself back into the driver’s seat.  Jean loaded the case in the back, closed the trunk, and opened the rear door.  He plopped into the backseat and informed the driver he’d be heading back to the hotel.

“Change of plans?” the driver asked.

“You could say that,” Jean replied.

                Jean couldn’t help, but smirk.  ‘American Pie’ by Don McLean was now playing.  He was safe now though.  He relaxed into the seat and watched as the city flew by outside the window.  A light rain began to fall, sprinkling the window.  At home it might be spitting snow.  Jean continued to stare out the window wondering if he’d see the explosion of the plane from here.  He tried to shake the morbid thoughts free from his mind.  Maybe he’d celebrate his life by ordering one of those pay-per0view movies the hotels always offer.  He was sure the company would pay for that too.  Maybe even order room service.  He felt the road surface change as the cab crossed onto the bridge.  The blue water below looked slate gray.

                “Oh crap!” the driver exclaimed.

                Jean watched as the man slammed his right foot onto the brake pedal.  He felt the tires lock up, but the car kept moving forward.  He could feel them slipping on the wet pavement beneath.  He saw the cabby begin to wildly turn the wheel first in one direction and then the other.  He looked out the side window again and saw the rail of the bridge approaching quickly.  He heard crunching metal as the yellow car collided with the green metal.  He felt the car teeter as it came to a stop half on half off the bridge.  His heart thudded heavily in his chest. 

                So this is what it feels like to narrowly escape death, he thought.  I never once saw my life flash before my eyes though.

                In an instant that changed.  The teetering stopped and the falling began.  Jean couldn’t see it, but he knew the steel gray surface of the river was quickly approaching.  He saw scenes from his past fast and furiously, every one of them a regret.  Too quickly it was over.

What happened to Duke?

The following short piece is written for those who have read 'The Death of Harold Hartline' and were wondering what happened to Duke at the end of the book.  Well I asked around and finally found out.  Here it is.

                “Fire,” Steve said sitting up straighter in his bed.  “That’s it.  Fire!”

                Duke popped his head up.  His master was excited which sometimes meant good news.  Duke watched as Steve leapt from the bed, clad only in his boxers and t-shirt, and rushed down the stairs.  Duke hesitated for a moment as he hadn’t been beckoned and wanted to maintain his ‘Good boy’ status.  ‘Good boy’ usually meant an extra scoop of food or a special treat.  Both of these were things that Duke treasured.

                Duke’s hesitation didn’t last for long, however.  He stood up and, like Steve, rushed from the room and down the stairs.  He followed Steve out the backdoor and toward the shed.  Duke enjoyed the shed, but was rarely allowed to explore it.  He sniffed around while his master was grabbing the items he was planning to use for the world’s largest barbecue pit.  Duke scented a mouse and mounted a search for the rodent.

                His search had proved unfruitful, but when he turned to look for his master he found that the man was gone.  He heard the sound of the backdoor closing and ran from the shed, but it was too late.  He sat down by the door, his tail wagging, waiting patiently to be allowed in.  After a few seconds he let out a sharp bark, but Steve still didn’t open the door.  Duke began to whine, but still his owner didn’t let him in.

                The canine’s attention was soon captured by a squirrel which had dared venture onto Duke’s property.  Duke wanted to go after it, but he still wanted to be a ‘Good boy’ so instead he continued to sit.  It wasn’t long, though, before his desire of the chase was too much for the dog to overcome.  He ran.  The squirrel ran.  The race was on.  Duke disregarded the fact that the squirrel had already left his property.  He followed it, tongue lolling from his mouth, and delivering an occasional bark.  The chase ended when the squirrel’s fear was overcome by its cleverness and it ran up the nearest tree.  Duke stood at the bottom of the tree, continuing to bark, warning the squirrel not to come back down.

                Realizing he’d worked up a thirst Duke thought about returning to the house, but remembered his master had left him outdoors.  The clear, blue water of the lake was not far off so Duke went their instead.  He drank his fill of the refreshing water.  With his thirst quenched the dog lay down in the cool grass.  The buzzing of the insects relaxed him and he soon fell asleep.

                The sound of sirens, though the dog didn’t realize that’s what they were, woke him from his slumber.  He wasn’t sure why, but he felt he needed to return to the house.  He sprinted for him as fast as he could run.  He arrived to see ‘the woman’ kneeling beside his owner.  ‘The woman’ had been around a lot lately and she made his master happy.  His master looked hurt or sick.  Duke was worried.  There were many strangers gathered in the yard talking to each other and pointing toward the house.  Oddly dressed men were spraying water on the house while others were running inside.  Duke rushed to his owner’s side, whined once, and then began to lick his hand reassuringly.  Steve patted the dog’s head.

                “You’re such a good boy, Duke,” Steve said.

                Many people think dogs don’t smile, but they do.  And Duke did.

Hope this clears some things up for everyone.  I know it did for me.

NaNo Update

Today begins day four of NaNoWriMo and I am a little bit behind on my writing, but plan to use the weekend to catch up on that.  The good news is that the story is still flowing and there is still so much left to write.  Let's hope its momentum can carry me right (write) through the end.  Stay tuned here for more updates as well as some new material (provided I get caught up and ahead on the novel).  I do have two stories currently in prgogress and a third one in the idea stage.

NaNoWriMo Begins

The fun that is NaNoWriMo has begun and I am excited to see what this year brings.  Last year brought a novel which some of you have read and others have only heard rumors of.  Is it as good as people are saying? I don't know.  You'll have to buy it yourself and find out.  Shameless plug much?  So as the WriMo begins for me I wanted to give a sneak peek at what I am writing this year.  Here it is.

Chapter One

                James Henry stood at the front of the room behind a pulpit which was centered on his congregation.  His long hair was badly in need of a wash and was pulled back in a loose ponytail.  His beard was scraggly and would be well-served by a trim.  He smiled at the small crowd that was seated before him revealing crooked and yellowing teeth.  As well as a hairstylist he should also make an appointment with a dentist, but these things were of no concern to him.  His eyes twinkled, but it wasn’t happiness that gave them their gleam.    The people before him talked amongst themselves causing an enthusiastic buzz in the room.  James looked through the open door at the darkness that had slowly crept in as the sun made its way behind the hills in the distance.  The sound of the night creatures were drowned out by his congregation, but soon he would silence them and the breeze would carry the various chirps and croaks that he was so accustomed to.  He heard people approaching the building, drawn by the lights that shone through the windows and pierced the night’s blanket of darkness.  The meeting had been planned by him and his closest advisers for months, but they had kept the congregation in the dark until just days before.  The final stragglers strolled in through the open door and took their seats in the metal foldout chairs that had been placed in rows on the old, hardwood floor.  James looked at the two brutes that stood in the back and indicated with a gesture that the time had come for them to close the door.  They obliged and then returned to their positions one on either side of the portal.

                “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?”  James asked this as he raised his hands in front of him.  The crowd obliged by ceasing their own conversations.  The silence that remained was only interrupted by ambient noise from the buildings own systems. 

“I am sorry to have called this meeting on such short notice,” James did look genuinely sorry, but the looks on the faces of those in the know told a much different story.  They did their best to hide their knowledge, however, and the congregation seemed none the wiser.

Tim sat in the converted back of a white van.  He had the headphones pressed to his ear, listening to the conversation that was occurring in the converted barn where James Henry held his services.  He scratched his chin and neck, where his new growth of beard was itching, with his left hand and adjusted his position in the chair.  He would have thought that the FBI could afford more comfortable seats than this, but he guessed that money was tight for everyone, even the government.  He turned to his partner.

“How can people fall for this shit?” he asked.

Randall only shrugged and bit into his second slice of pepperoni pizza.  Randall Johnson was a big man.  The first thing that Tim had thought when he’d met him was: I hope someone had the forethought to get this man on a football field when he was younger.  In talking to him he found that the answer to that was yes.  He’d played in high school and two years of college before an injury cut his football days short.  He’d have played in the pros had he stayed healthy.  Instead he’d turned his degree, and a passion for law enforcement, into a career with the FBI.

Their only mission was to sit tight and wait for the moment.  They were new to this particular operation and were unsure of exactly what to expect.  All they knew was that the government had a man on the inside with the cult and he was about to make his move.  If he were successful they were to start the van and drive away as if nothing had happened.  If he wasn’t, however, they were expected to bring the thunders of heaven down upon this seemingly quiet commune in the Nevada desert.  The leader, James Henry, was in casual terms a “bad dude”.  He was willing to kill without conscience and would sacrifice any of his people for what he considered the “greater good”.  In reality he was a weak man with a strong personality.  He had been bullied, no tormented, as a child and had grown to resent anyone that thought for even one moment they were above him.  Given free reign, it was thought, he would lead a domestic terrorist attack.  He was not to be allowed to do this.  The FBI had every intention of ending his life before this attack could be mounted.  If things went right that night would be tonight.

“It shouldn’t be long now,” Tim said, continuing to listen to the voices from the headphones.

“Good, I’m missing my favorite show,” replied Randall with a toothy grin.

“Cop drama?” Tim asked.

“No, The Bachelor.”

Randall smiled.  Tim looked at him, dumbfounded.

“You’re kidding? Right?”

Randall again only shrugged.

Kyle sat in the front row of chairs.  He was trying to listen intently to the words that Brother Henry was speaking, but a strange buzzing in his head kept distracting him.  He’d felt odd since he’d woken that morning and was unable to shake the feeling all day, regardless of what activities he’d used in an attempt to distract himself.   He’d taken a walk in the hills, listening to the sounds of nature and smelling the clean scents which were carried to him on the breeze.  He’d done some of the manual labor around the compound.  He’d even had sex, but nothing took away the feeling.  It was a hard feeling to describe.  He just felt wrong, like he’d woken that morning as a different person.  The buzzing had not started at first, but when it did it had grown more intense as the day wore on.  He stared at Brother Henry and shook his head, trying to rid himself of the annoying sound.  It didn’t help.  He placed his hand at the waistband of his pants and felt the hard bulge which was the gun he’d found hidden behind the kitchen.  He’d felt the need to pick it up and tuck it away though he didn’t know what purpose he would have for it.  There were weapons here of course, but those were to be used to protect the compound against interlopers.  The feel of the gun gave him some comfort, but the buzzing did not abate.  He tried hard to listen to Brother Henry’s words.  To let their meaning wash over him and fill him with the joy and peace they had on so many other occasions, but it was different this time.  The words sounded wrong.  They sounded off.  They sounded like the crazy stuff spouted out by cult leaders that intended to make martyrs out of their whole congregation.

So there you have it.  That is the zygotic beginnings of this years NaNo novel.  Stay tuned for more when I feel sane enough to post it.

Previous story

The previous story was something that I had written about ten years ago while still living in Maine.  We didn't have a washer or dryer in or apartment so would frequently visit a small laundromat just off the interstate in Old Town.  The place seemed fine unless you had to use the restroom.  It was really creepy back there.  Hence the story.  I envisioned this as a lesson in being patient.  I don't know how many times I had to wait for abandoned clothes to be moved because I didn't want to mess with them.  People, however, didn't have the same qualms about moving mine.  I was never assaulted by anyone though so i guess I had that going for me.  I hope you enjoyed it.

New Untitled Story

                The man grabbed his sunglasses from the passenger’s seat and put them on, blocking the sun’s glare.  He looked at the digital clock and grunted disgustedly.  He snatched his cellphone up off the passenger’s seat and pressed the button which automatically dialed his office.

                “Green, Callahan, and-“ a cheery receptionist answered the phone.

                “I know who the hell I’m calling, Janet.  Just put Jack on the phone,” the man grumbled.

                “Yes, Mr. Green.  I’m sorry.”

                There was a click as Janet placed the man on hold.  It was only thirty seconds, but it seemed longer.  Under his pin-striped, black suit and white shirt he knew sweat was forming.  He turned up the air conditioning to combat the hot July sun.  The traffic was heavy and the man’s car slowly moved up the street, coming to a stop every few seconds when the traffic ground to a complete standstill.

                “Dennis?” an eloquent voice asked.

                “Yes, Jack, it’s me.  Traffic’s pretty tight.  I’m probably not going to be in until ten,” Dennis said as the traffic began to move again.  He looked at his clock again and saw that it was creeping up on nine fifteen.  “I’ve got a nine-thirty appointment.  Can you take that for me? I’ll buy the first round tonight.”

                Dennis could hear papers being shuffled on the other end of the call.  “Two rounds and you’ve got a deal,” Jack said with an audible smile.

                “Thanks, Jack.  I owe you one.”

                “Two,” was Jack’s only reply as he disconnected the call.

                Dennis tossed the phone into the passenger’s seat and slammed his hands onto the steering wheel.

                “Can’t you move that heap any faster?”

                The car ahead of him continued to move slowly toward the traffic light.

                “Damn it! The light’s gonna change.”

                As if in response the light switched from green to yellow.  Two cars separated Dennis from it.  The first went through easily.  The second passed underneath as the yellow went to red forcing Dennis to stop.  He mashed his foot down on the brake and the BMW immediately obeyed.

                Once he again had the green light Dennis slammed his foot on the gas and watched as the speedometer quickly rose from zero to forty miles per hour.  He glanced up into his rearview mirror and spotted the two baskets of laundry he placed there the night before.

                “Crap!” he called out to himself and switched lanes without looking.  He then jerked the wheeling, pulling the car into the parking lot of a strip mall where a Laundromat was located.

                I can’t believe I’m doing laundry, he thought to himself.

                Laundry has always been something his wife had taken care of throughout their six years of marriage.  That was, of course, until she’d left him two weeks ago.  Traded him in for a younger model.  One with less miles and a more powerful engine, no doubt.  The thought made him sick.

                Dennis found the parking space closest to the doors available.  He carried the two baskets into the building.  He walked up the counter where he found a heavy woman chewing bubble gum and reading a thing romance novel sitting behind it.

                “Ma’am,” Dennis said, glancing at his watch.

                She raised her meaty hand in a gesture which said: “Hold on.” And then blew a bubble with her gum.

                Dennis did.

                She turned the page, appeared to read a few more lines and then folded the corner over.

                “Can I help you?” she asked, still chewing her gum.

                Dennis stared for a moment, disgusted by every open-mouthed chew.  “Yes,” he said and indicated the two baskets behind him.  “Can you get these washed and dried for me, please?”  He grabbed for his wallet.  “I’m willing to pay whatever it takes.”

                “Sorry,” she replied and continued to loudly smack her gum between her teeth.  “We don’t do that he-ah.  You have to go to Bangah fah that,” she said with a thick Maine accent making washing clothes sound like a sick sexual favor that only specific ladies would perform.

                She opened her book and once again began to read and chew.

                Dennis looked from her to his baskets of laundry and back to her again.

                “Where can I get some…?” he started to ask, but was cut off as she pointed to a wall dispenser.

                “Detergent’s over they-ah.” She answered without even looking up.

                He walked to the dispenser and deposited a few coins.  He scanned the room which was nearly empty, but all of the washers appeared to be in use.  He sat on a bench at the front of the building.  To his left was a seemingly oft-used pinball machine, a piece of cardboard underneath one leg prevented it from rocking.  Beside that was a small table on which stood a coffee maker.

                At least they have coffee; he thought and walked over to it.

                He poured himself a steaming Styrofoam cup and added cream and sugar.  He returned to the bench and pulled the cellphone from his suit jacket pocket.  With his thumb he stabbed the button which autodialed the firm.

                “Janet, put Jack on,” Dennis said firmly when the phone was picked up.

                “Uh, Mr. Callahan is in a meeting.  Your meeting,” Janet replied.

                “Okay, then let him know I’m not going to be in at all today.  Something came up.  Can you please reschedule all of the appointments that he can’t cover for me?”

                “Sure, Mr. Green.  Is everything okay?” she asked with obvious concern.

                “Just peachy,” Dennis replied and hung up the phone.

                The bell over the door tinkled and a balding man walked into the room.  He passed within a few inches of Dennis and brought with him the smell of coffee, stale cigar smoke, and body odor.  The jeans he wore were greasy and paint stained.  By the looks they may never have seen the inside of a washer.  The man walked to a nearby bench and sat down heavily.

                “Mistah, if yer looking for a washah there’s one ovah they-ah.”

                Dennis eyed him with mistrust.  He stood and surveyed the room again, this time finding a washer that seemed not to be running.  He stacked the two baskets and brought them with him.  This washer was in the far back corner which may explain why he hadn’t noticed it initially.  As he approached, however, he spotted a   hand written note on its surface.  The short note was unsigned, but the message was simple.

                Do not remove my clothes from this washer or you’ll be sorry.

                Dennis chuckled as he read the note for the third time.  “You’ll be sorry,” he said and laughed again.  “Sounds like a threat from a fifth grader’s attempt at a horror story.”

                He crumpled the scrap of paper and tossed it onto the floor in the corner of the room.  He opened the washer’s lid and for an instant his head was surrounded by swirling particles, like dust.  They floated around his head like a swarm of bees, so real he could almost hear them buzzing.  He inhaled, frightened, and choked as he breathed some of them in.  His eyes watered as he gasped for air.  He managed a strangled sounding cough and was finally able to clear his throat.  Composed, he began to remove the clothing from the washer.  Seeing no basket he simply dropped them onto a nearby table.

                “Don’t remove my clothes from this washer or you’ll be sorry,” a voice said.

                Startled Dennis glanced around the room.  The man who smelled of stale smoke and sweat was standing before a dryer.  A young mother sat reading, looking up every few seconds to speak sternly to her son and then return to her reading.  Near her a young couple was talking animatedly about a program that was on the television.  It looked like something from the early eighties.  The voice had come from none of them.

                “Just my imagination,” Dennis said to himself.  “Just stress.”

                Dennis loaded the washer as best he could from memory.  He’d never joined his wife in laundry, but when he was younger he did on occasion be in the basement when his mother was performing the task.

                As he closed the washer’s lid he felt a wave of lightheadedness come over him.  He staggered backward, bumping into the table he’d put the orphaned clothes on.  He felt on the verge of collapse.  His mouth was dry and his stomach was doing somersaults.  He got a small cup of water from the bubbler on the back wall and sat down.  Colored spots appeared before his eyes and the room seemed to be spinning.  He drank the water down in two gulps and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  He stood on wobbly feet and filled the cup once more, finishing this one just as quickly.  He wretched once and moved quickly toward the door which said, ‘Restroom’.  The door led to a small, gloomy area behind the dryers.  The controls for all the machines were contained there and it was incredibly noisy.  Dennis spotted the door for the bathroom and felt around for the light switch.  The overhead fluorescent flared to life with its characteristic hum.  The bathroom was small and dirty, but would do.  Dennis dropped to his knees on the filthy floor in front of the porcelain bowl and gripped both sides so tightly his knuckles turned white.

                The walls were covered in writing.  Some were confessions of love while others were failed attempts at poetry.  All were the products of idle time and an available pen. 

                Some day I’ll come back here and write something on these walls, Dennis thought.

                He felt his stomach turn and he wretched.  He vomited his breakfast, still slightly recognizable as bacon and eggs, into the toilet.  He wiped his mouth and nose with a wad of toilet paper and began to stand, but before he could turn for the door his knees again felt weak.  He pitched forward, breathing heavily, and again resumed his iron grip on the toilet bowl.  He vomited again this time seeing threads of blood.  He gasped for air between wretches.  There was more blood.

                That can’t be good, he thought.

                Dennis saw movement to his left out of the corner of his eye.  He turned his head slowly in that direction.  His gaze fell upon a pair of grease and paint stained jeans.  Slowly feeling his life slip away he raised his eyes and saw the balding man.  His mouth was open in a missing-toothed grin.

                I didn’t lock the door, Dennis thought as he looked at the handle, but saw that the lock was indeed still engaged.

                “How you doin’, rich man?” the balding man, who seemed not to be a man at all, asked.

                Dennis vomited again this time all over the floor.  It was almost entirely blood now.  A small stream of it trickled down his chin.  Some had splattered on his shirt and pants.

                The balding man smiled again, its mouth now filled with razor sharp teeth.  Its face was little more than a bubbling, swirling mass.  It raised a gnarled, clawed hand to its mouth and blew out a breath which stank of decay.  With it came a fresh swarm of spores, swirling around Dennis.  His arms and legs grew numb and let go beneath him.  He lay on the concrete floor limp and paralyzed.  The balding man-thing took a step closer.  It was a careful step like a predator sneaking up on its prey.  Then it sprang forward, mouth open and dripping saliva.  Dennis felt the pain as it sunk its claws into the side of his head to hold it still and then used its teeth to rip into his throat.  He had enough time to open his mouth in a blood spewing gurgle before the world went black.  His life blood poured from the ragged tear in his throat.

*

                The balding man walked down the sidewalk in Woodstock.  He had a laundry bag clutched in his right hand, swinging slightly as he walked.  A sign up ahead proclaimed: ‘Laundry. 24-7”.

                “That looks like a good place,” he said as he took a final puff on his cigar and exhaled.  He tossed the stub into an ashtray and opened the glass door.  A bell tinkled overhead.  It was very early in the day and there weren’t many people in the small building, but there would be.  He spotted a free washer in the back corner.

Like Father, Like Daughter

So the 2011 NaNoWriMo challenge is fast approaching.  I am again participating this year and am looking forward to hopefully completing another novel.  I thought originally about a sequel to The Death of Harold Hartline, but have decided against that in favor of expanding my writing horizons.  This year, however, my 13 year old daughter has decided to try her hand at writing 50,000 words in one month.  She's a talented writer herself and I am looking forward to what she is able to come up with.  Come back here to follow our progress during the month of November.

10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

I wanted to start by saying that I do realize there are errors in the story.  That is not intentional, but is by design.  I wanted to post the story as I wrote it to show that a story does not come forth as a finished product, but sometimes has mistakes that the writer intends to go back through and correct.  Many people realize that even in a finished product there are still mistakes.  Spell check and grammar check are not foolproof as this fool has sometimes shown.  For those that have read and enjoyed it as is, I appreciate you taking the time.  I have intended this blog as a place for me to share my writing as well as my thoughts on writing.  It is a place for me to share frustration as well as triumph.  Keep coming back for new stuff.

Part Three of 10 Things You Wanted to Know About Ghosts

“Shall we continue?” he asks.

“You’re the boss,” Stan replies.

“Can you walk through walls and doors?”

Cliff leans forward, appearing to be greatly interested in the forthcoming answer.

“I don’t know.  I’ve never tried.”

“You’ve never tried to walk through a door?” Cliff asks with surprise.

“No, I really don’t have anywhere to go.  I just walk from room to room.”

“How did you get here today?”

“It’s complicated and I’m not really comfortable talking about it, Cliff.”

“Do you want to try now?” queries Cliff.

“Not really. Can we just get on with this?”

“Why do you have somewhere to be?” the interviewer sneers.

“Oh, that’s it!”

The seemingly empty chair rocks backward.  Backstage personnel are shoved left and right, tracking the path of the entity.

“Come back,” calls Cliff.  “I’ll be nicer.  I’m sorry.”

There is silence for what seems a long time.  Cliff is startled when he hears the voice beside him.

“Any other questions?”

“Crap! You scared me,” Cliff says trying to catch his breath.

“Yeah, that’s kinda what I do.”

There’s a tone of satisfaction in the ghost’s voice.

“Okay,” Cliff says, “What is the best thing about being a ghost?”

“Not being interviewed by you that’s for sure.”

More chuckles from everyone not named Cliff Weston.  Stan is silent as he thinks of a real answer.

“I guess I’d have to say not fearing death.  You humans spend everyday on some level trying to avoid death.  I am no longer constrained by that.  I do whatever I want.”

“Other than leave the house?”

“Yes, other than that,” Stan is forced to admit.

“On the flip side of that.  What do you miss most about being alive?”

“I’d say the food.  Without a doubt.  I tried to eat my first day as a ghost and was so disappointed,” Stan replies, longing evident in his voice.

“If you don’t eat how do you sustain your existence?”

“I really don’t know the answer to that one.  I just woke up as a ghost.  I can’t eat and I’ve never had to plug myself in.  Maybe someday I’ll just wink away from existence, but until then.”

“Did it hurt when you died?”

“Dying was painless.  It was the pain leading up to the dying that hurt,” replies the ghost.

“Is there a Heaven or Hell?” asks Mr. Weston.

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy, Cliff, but let me say this.  I think I know where you’re headed.”

“Did you become all knowing when you died?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I already was.  No, I’m kidding.  I wish, but no I didn’t I still know what I knew, but nothing new.  If that makes sense, Cliff?”

“I think it does,” Cliff looks at the camera with confusion.  “Do you interact with other ghosts?”

“So because I’m a ghost I must know all the other ghosts?”

“I just meant…”

“I know what you meant.  I was just riding you a bit.  You really need to loosen up there, Cliffy boy.  I really don’t ever run into other ghosts.  They don’t come to my place I don’t go to theirs.  It’s not like we have a social network or nightclubs or anything,” Stan answers.

“Final question.  How is Elvis and have you seen him lately?”

“Ghostbusters? Really? That’s it.  I’m done.”

The note cards that Mr. Weston is holding are yanked from his hand and flung into the air.  The chair which Stan had until recently been using is lifted into the air and flung across the room seding people diving for cover.  There is silence.  Cliff stands.

“Where is he? Does anyone have him?”

No one replies.  Suddenly there is a loud thud and a fire exit door rattles.

“Damn it!”

The door opens on its own and then closes.  The alarm begins to sound.

“I guess that answers that question.”  Cliff returns his gaze to the camera.  “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen.  That’s the ten things you wanted to know about ghosts.  Uh, make that nine things you wanted to know about ghosts, but were afraid to ask.  Have a good night.”

Cliff is given the signal that the camera has stopped rolling.

“That went well,” he says sarcastically.  “What’s next and interview with the Loch Ness monster?”  

The End