THE NATURE OF LOVE (AND OTHER DISORDERS) by Judith Kelly Quaempts

Posted on April 20, 2012 by Bosley

The lake mirrored the sky and the pines that studded the surrounding hills. The melancholy cry of a mourning dove echoed across the water to their rowboat.

Once, Lester would have remarked on the beautiful surroundings, the songs of the birds. Now he sat bundled in a blanket, his gaze on her unblinking.

“I wish you hadn’t, sweetheart,” she said, breaking her promise to herself. She swore she wasn’t going to keep bringing up the moment her perfect marriage collapsed. Let go and move on, she kept telling herself. You aren’t the first woman with an unfaithful husband. Get past it.

“You proposed to me on this lake, sweetheart, remember?”

His cold stare unnerved her.

“I’ll always love you Lester,” she said.

Leaning forward, she kissed his forehead, then with a twist of her wrists, toppled him over the side.

She had weighted him well before she wrapped and tied the blanket around him. Getting him into the pickup had been a little tricky but she managed. Unloading him hadn’t been difficult at all. She simply backed the pickup to the water where the rowboat waited.

The lake was bottomless.

Now he and his girlfriend could spend eternity together.

THE END

* * *

Judith Kelly Quaempts lives and writes in rural eastern Oregon. Her short stories, poetry, and poetry reviews appear in several online journals, most recently Corner Club Press.

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AMONG THE TALL GRASS by Anthony Bell

Posted on April 6, 2012 by Bosley

She walks through the tallgrass of the vast prairie, giggling as it licks at her shins and outstretched hands like a bunch of puppies. The hot wind makes her feel fresh. She follows her wavy shadow among the high stalks of brown.

Her pigtails bounce along with the knee-length skirt she wears. Excitement fills her as she approaches the far-off hill; a tingle of anticipation, long in waiting. The ground is soft and comforting under her delicate, bare feet, and she likes the dig of her toes among the soft soil.

A butterfly rises from a golden strand of grass and leads her onward, seeming to look back. She knows what it means to say in its silent way, and she follows, the smile never leaving her freckled face. She runs with her arms outstretched, leaning with her turns, buzzing and rumbling as she dashes along.

The butterfly rises and rises and she remains rooted, spinning, her head tiled back as it continues upward. She laughs and falls to the ground, then blows out a big sigh. There are wispy clouds high in the sky, gentle strokes of a brush to accentuate something far greater. The girl lingers among the loving sway of grass, enveloped in its gentle embrace and lulled by its murmuring.

The smell of chocolate and Graham crackers and marshmallows is too easy to imagine, and she hops up and dashes on, eyes on that faraway hill. The crackle of burning wood and the lick of fire; a taste of smoke; swatting a mosquito—she knows this; she loves this. She runs through the prairie and snatches a piece of tallgrass from the earth and waves it around, casting the spells of her imagination as she bounds on.

There is a strange heat she is unused to; maybe it is later than she thinks. She giggles again and jumps through the air, then again. Her mind is on the fire, the heat, the silhouetted faces of her friends, and the black background of everything else. Their little world.

This valley is her little world, though. Her mother’s voice comes to her in the wind and she is happy, not sad. Her laughter is among the tallgrass and her sweet smell is left behind by the butterflies she can never quite reach.

Up and up they go.

But she is happy to chase them, happy that she is allowed to see them. Happy that the smell of her mother is all around in her little world. Her friends wonder what she likes so much about this place, as does her dad, but she doesn’t tell them. It is their secret. And secrets have to be kept. She knows this, as she knows she will always return to this place.

There is a great rumble in the distance, and for a moment the ground moves beneath her. She maintains her balance, however, and blinks, looking ahead. A gust of wind soon flashes her and she raises her arms to shield her face. She giggles and continues on. Another gust of wind rushes onward and she turns sideways for its duration. The hill is still plenty far off, then the barn, and finally home. And then tonight. She still needs to find the perfect stick. Her daddy will sharpen it, of course, but she must find it. Her mother loved the burnt shells of the marshmallows most. She does, too.

Her mother once said that angels are born among the tallgrass.

There are balls of fuzz floating in the air; sweet sounds and smells; the gentle sway–always that sway. She believes what her mother said. Is there any better place?

No. She knows this. She knows this and doesn’t stop moving. There are clusters of trees atop the hill, and they wave her onward. Come on, they say. Come on, you! And she goes.

The wind whispers a few sibilant notes she is unfamiliar with. She stops and looks about her, for her mother.

She does not see her.

The butterflies have gone and all is still as she replays the static in her mind, trying to understand.

The trees are waving madly now, and suddenly they are forced forward, their tops almost touching the ground. They are no longer happy.

From the crest of the hill, the tallgrass begins to bow before her, a fan folding over, a dog with tail tucked slinking from abuse. The wind is strong and rude, and she does not hear her mother among it.

A huge mushroom cloud rises in the distance somewhere over the hill. It is black and bloated and without welcome among the wispy white accents already in the sky. And then the horizon is a rolling fire atop the hill, charging with a horrible brightness like a legion of horsemen with shiny swords drawn. The trees are engulfed, released from their painful stretch. The grass crackles into memories.

And she remains among the tallgrass, the prairie, where angels are born.

THE END

* * *

Anthony Bell has been published in the anthologies: Strange Tales of Horror by Norgus Press; Dark Things IV by Pill Hill Press; Anthology of Ichor: Gears of Damnation by Unearthed Press; and online in Issue 8 at Fictionfix.net. I have forthcoming publications in anthologies by Norgus Press and May December Publications.

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Out for Dinner by Wilbur L. Ochiltree

Posted on March 23, 2012 by Wilbur Ochiltree

She relaxed on her recliner, sipping her coffee.  What a dreary night.

She flipped through her magazine.  Will he call tonight?  He better; I want to go out for dinner.

Up from her porch a scrapping she did hear.  What was that?

She shivered.  Silly you; you watch too many horror movies.

The ceiling beams creaked and with a groan, they hushed.  It’s just this old house settling.

She glanced out and saw the shadows stirring.  How the night plays its tricks.

“Oh!” she squealed when that large hand came smashing through the window and grabbed her by her hair.  Splinters of glass flew through the air.  It yanked her right through that window and out into the cold winter’s night.

“We got meat tonight, boys,” it shouted and laughed holding her up and gave her a shake.  With wide eyes, she screamed, but only they heard.

“Do we have to eat her first, or can we have some fun before dinner?”  One of the little ones asked of the big one.  They all came close, leering at her.

She fainted.

She never woke up again.

Only a few gnawed bones marked her unmarked grave.

THE END

* * *

THE END

* * *

He was born at Donaldson Air Force Base in Greenville, SC. His father was a lifer in the Air force. At 17, he joined the Army. He spent half a lifetime overseas between Air force bases and Army posts. Left the Army in 1976 and went into land surveying and construction work. Rejoined the Army in the early ‘90’s to help with Desert Shield, but had a stroke during retraining and had to get a medical discharge. He has been a member of the VFW. Currently is considering membership in the American Legion. Has five children and two ex-wives. Lives with two dogs, which are more like kids. Has had two short fantasy stories published in the Judges Guild Journal back in the ‘80’s. He loves horror, fantasy, sci-fi, and suspense books and movies. Is a comic book fan from way back. Has always enjoyed reading, and even as a kid, always wanted to be a writer.

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SEWER DOGS by Harris Tobias

Posted on March 13, 2012 by Bosley

People flush every imaginable thing down the drain. Among sewer workers there are stories of the most bizarre things turning up in the tunnels and drains beneath the city. There’s the body parts story; that’s almost routine. Occasionally and entire body is found.There are many stories of pets getting flushed into the sewers and surviving, even breeding in the dark. There’s the story of the Volkswagen, but that’s almost certainly mythical. It’s the creature stories that are most likely true. Every sewer worker has seen some strange wildlife down under the streets. Just ask them, they’ll tell you.

One of the most universal wildlife stories is the one about the ‘sewer dog’. Sewer workers in every big city and several not so big have reported for many many years hearing a dog barking, whimpering and howling in the wet and putrid environs of the sewer. Sound can travel a long way in the sewer and while many a worker will profess to having heard the dog, no one has ever actually confessed to having seen it. But that hasn’t diminished the strength in the belief of the sewer dog’s reality indeed, if anything, this belief is more firmly planted than ever.

In Chicago sewer workers carry dog biscuits for good luck. In Minneapolis they throw a handful of kibble down the hole before they enter. In New Orleans they call their dog ‘Drano’ and call to it as they work. In some sewers, so the story goes, the dog is a black lab, a friendly soul swept down a storm drain as a puppy and doomed to prowl the maze of drains looking for food, love and a way out. In other stories, Drano is a fierce, feral creature, half wolf half dog, born and raised in the sewers, the offspring of generations of sewer dogs.

There are several things that all these sewer dog stories have in common. One is the reaction of the workers to that mournful echoing howl. When the dog howls in the usually dark and silent tunnels, all work stops and hairs rise on the backs of the necks of even the toughest old sewer rat. Another point the stories have in common is pride. The tough survivor is the universal mascot of sewer workers everywhere. There are the ‘Drain Dogs’ of Atlanta, the ‘Sewer Hounds of Portland’ and the ‘Pipe Pups’ of Cincinnati to name a few. It is estimated to be over 175 dog related crew names working in cities around the world.

If there is any truth in this dog story it is a sad one. Drains and sewers are no place for a dog. Dark, wet and filled with vermin there is not much a dog would want except for the abundant source of food the rats provide. But life is, if nothing else, persistent and adaptable and, just maybe, in a sewer somewhere a dog has adapted to so alien and inhospitable an environment. And maybe that dog calls out in its frustration and pain for a human companion. Or, more likely, the poor beast is so psychologically twisted and warped by its existence that it has become something else. No longer man’s best friend, it probably wouldn’t be the kind of dog you’d want to know.

THE END

* * *

Harris Tobias was raised by robots disguised as New Yorkers. Despite an awkward childhood he learned to read and write. To date Mr. Tobias has published two detective novels, The Greer Agency and A Felony of Birds, to critical acclaim. In addition he has published short stories in Down in the Dirt Magazine, Literal Translations, Electric Flash and Ray Gun Revival. He currently lives and writes in Charlottesville, Virginia.

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We can not break bread with you …

Posted on November 24, 2011 by Bosley

 

“Wait, we can not break bread with you. You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years from now my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the road sides, and you will play golf. My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts. The gods of my tribe have spoken. They said do not trust the pilgrims. And especially do not trust Sarah Miller. For all these reasons I have decided to scalp you and burn your village to the ground.”

 — Wednesday in Addams Family Values, 1993

Actually — happy thanksgiving to all you CoT’s readers and authors.  (Yes, all ten of you.) :D

 

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Nimbus Exhales by Raymond Marble

Posted on November 20, 2011 by Bosley

NIMBUS EXHALES

$2.50

Howie’s just met a new girl and she does something for him none of the party girls he’s met can match.

From contributor, Raymond Marble.  On sale now!

 

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THE SHAFT by Tim Greaton

Posted on November 20, 2011 by Bosley

I fell at least thirty feet.

It’s hard to tell exactly how deep this shaft is, but that’s my best guess. I mean, a man couldn’t survive a longer drop. Could he?

A furry limb brushes against my cheek. I don’t bother to push him away. I call him Harry—no pun intended. It’s like we’re friends now. I think he’s been hurt, too.

I pull the new piece of webbing from my face. It’s a thick, sticky string. I roll it up between my palms. It reminds me of Mr. Salbury’s class where Eric and I used to roll up balls of masking tape and throw them at each other whenever he wasn’t looking. That was fifteen years ago. I toss the web roll against the stone wall beside the others. How much longer can Harry keep making this stuff?

I didn’t know they came this big…spiders, I mean. I had to pull Harry out from under me after the fall. He must weigh five, six pounds.

I hear him move down toward my legs.

I’m a little hungry, but mostly thirsty. A soda would sure go good. My leg hurts.

It’s pitch black here, blacker than I’ve ever seen. Many times, when I was a child, I thought I was in the dark. Now I realize I wasn’t. When I hid in closets, light always seeped in through the cracks around the door. And those times me and the other kids held séances in the basement, light always made its way through the makeshift drapes we stapled over the squat windows. But the bottom of this shaft is truly dark. This blackness doesn’t even carry the memory of light.

I knew my leg was broken in several places by the way my right sneaker was pressing against my left ear when I came to. I must have passed out a dozen times before I was finally able to push the shattered limb back where it belongs. Still crooked, but….

* * *

I struggle to a sitting position. I’m really hungry now and I’d die for a drink. Harry and I are friends, but I think he knows what I’m thinking; he doesn’t come near my upper body any more.

He’s done a good job with my leg, though. Wrapped it real good. It hardly hurts at all. I’ve been pulling off any webbing higher than my upper thigh. I think the lower part is completely cocooned now.

When we get out of here, I’m going to put Harry through medical school. He’ll like that.

Chuckle.

I don’t expect anyone will find me here. I came alone. Me and Julie had a fight just before, so I didn’t tell her where I was going. Hell, I didn’t even know myself. Just grabbed the flashlight and started walking.

I used to come into these caves a lot when I was a kid—

I feel a sharp pain in my right shin.

“Cut it out, Harry!” I shout. Echoes of my croak fill the cool, stale air. “Be careful, will you? You’ve got the worst bedside manner I’ve ever seen.”

Chuckle.

It’s been over forty years since they stopped mining here. I heard there never was much gold anyway, just enough to tease old man Winters into bankruptcy. No one else was stupid enough to pick up where he left off. Been abandoned ever since.

I don’t feel much now, just the chills that occasionally sweep like a Canadian wind up and down my spine. It’s as though my nerve endings finally gave up, excepting only the sporadic checks to make sure I’m not dead yet. It’s just a matter of time….

Too tired to sit anymore, I’m lying with my head propped on a rounded stone. A few jagged shards of rock poke at my back, but they don’t bother me now. Funny, how a person can get used to things. Another pain shoots through my leg.

I kick Harry.

He was attempting to wrap my left leg at the time. It’s not that I mind. I know he needs the practice for med school, but….

I only take two of his legs this time.

He crawls away.

I think he’s mad.

Seems fair to me. After all, I did give him one leg and mine are bigger. I suck the juice from the furry limbs then chew through the fur to get at the stringy flesh. Reminds me of the frog legs we used to eat at Range Pond Camp Ground. We never had frogs this big, though.

With food in my stomach I drift off to sleep, barely noticing as Harry again begins work on my left leg….

I hold the rock tightly in my right hand. I rub my chin with the other and feel the stubble has turned to almost a beard. I wish I could get at my comb to run through it, but Harry’s got me webbed just above the waist.

He’ll definitely be a credit to the medical profession: pain in my leg’s completely gone.

I hear him sliding across the floor. Now that four of his legs are missing, it’s much easier to hear him. He’s real careful not to come too close to my arms.

Suddenly, I pitch the rock.

A satisfying thump announces my success. Everything from my waist down is wooden. It takes me the longest time to maneuver my body close enough to grab him.

A tear runs down my cheek as I rip two more legs from his plump body. I’m worried that I hurt him with the rock.

After I’ve eaten, I hug his body and fall into a deep sleep….

My right arm is still free. In my hand I hold a small round stone. I promised Harry I wouldn’t hit him with a big one again.

I listen carefully for any sound of movement. Harry’s having a tough time getting around, only one leg and all. I don’t know how he’s going to make out when I take the last one. It’s only fair, though.

I hear him scurry. My rock flies….

I hug Harry tight, a furry ball against my cheek. He’s shivering. I don’t think he’ll make it much longer. I feel pincers breaking the skin on my neck as I drift into the land of dreams.

THE END

* * *

Tim Greaton lives in Maine with his beautiful wife and three amazing children.  He shares 7-acres with 1 dog, 2 cats, and a population of ducks that varies with the weather. He’s a full-time corporate writer and novelist. His fiction, non-fiction and advertising work has appeared in forums all around the globe. His novels “The Santa Shop,” “Under-Heaven,” “Zachary Pill, The Dragon at Station End”, and “Ancestor: Book I” are all available in ebook. “The Santa Shop,” and “Under-Heaven ARC…From My Cold Young Fingers” are both available in paperback. “Heroes With Fangs” will also be available in the next few months. His brother’s publishing company refers to him as “Maine’s Other Author TM” but he prefer just Tim :-) .

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Once upon a time there was a little girl …

Posted on November 9, 2011 by Bosley

 

“Once upon a time there was a little girl named Tessie,” he said. “She was smart, and pretty — ” Tessie curtsied to prove his point ” — and one day she didn’t look both ways before she crossed the street and ran right in front of a truck. Then bam!”

(Sorry no attribution for the pic.)

Aimee C. B. AKA Pookie —  1991 – 2010 R.I.P 

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HAIR OF THE WOLF THAT BIT YOU by David Siegel Bernstein

Posted on November 2, 2011 by Bosley

Despite the haggard look on her face, the bartender was cute. She approached me with a relieved smile—I was the last customer.

After I ordered, she ran her fingers through her long auburn hair, shaking her head. “Virgin Lupy? What’s that?”

I smiled. “You’re not the only one who asks. I got hooked on it while traveling through Europe and now it’s my favorite drink.” I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out an index card with a recipe and handed it over to her. “Here’s the recipe.”

 

She read it and frowned. “Is this a joke?”

I wasn’t sure how long we would be alone. I extended my index nail and slashed her throat. Now, where’s the vodka? I looked at the girl—she probably wasn’t a virgin. I sighed. It wasn’t easy getting top-shelf these days.

THE END

* * *

David Siegel Bernstein has been published in numerous print, podcast, and online magazines. He also serves on the board of directors for the Philadelphia Writers’ Conference, leads the Words-in-Progress writers group, and contributes a monthly article to the Abandoned Towers Magazine Blog titled: Science for Fiction (S4F).

A complete bibliography can be found at http://DavidSiegelBernstein.blogspot.com.

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An Interview with Irene Thompson, author of THE A-Z of PUNISHMENT AND TORTURE

Posted on September 24, 2011 by Bosley

It is a difficult task to conveniently, or comfortably, arrange a catalogue of cruelty to document the full extent of man’s inhumanity to man …

The A-Z of Punishment and Torture is available as an e-book where ever fine e-books are sold.

CoT: It seems that The A-Z of Punishment and Torture may have put you outside of a certain comfort zone in regards to the content — would you write another book on a macabre topic like this?  Or did you find yourself truly out of your comfort zone?

IT: I have written about totally factual events, both past and present, reporting them in as objective a way as I could. In a journalism career spanning more than 40 years, I have written on an enormous range of subjects, some very distasteful, so I suppose I am able to be dispassionate, in much the same way a surgeon operates on a living human without feeling emotionally connected to the person. While some of the content of the book is disturbing, I don’t think it’s any more unpalatable than the content of the average nightly news bulletin, or a detective drama. Sadly, we have all become relatively immune to cruelty and violence. I think the book is important in highlighting some of the worst atrocities still being inflicted on humans in parts of the world. We shouldn’t be ignorant of how others suffer.

How does the reworked e-book version of  The A-Z of Punishment and Torture compare to the 2008 hardcover release?

The major difference is the change in illustrations. This time they have been drawn by Cathy Edmunds, whose unique style captures the stark drama of the subject material. There have been a few additions to the written content but largely changes are minimal.

Were there any entries that didn’t make it into the published version? If so, why?

As you say, there are limits to what you can include in a book intended for the general public. I have excluded any material I considered salacious or unnecessary to fulfil the brief, i.e. giving an overview of punishments.

What sort of reader did you envision would be interested in The A-Z of Punishment and Torture? Has the actual audience turned out to be what you expected?

I was surprised how many young people showed an interest in the book. I had assumed it would appeal mostly to (a) men and (b) older people. Initially, readers tend to pick up the book with a certain amount of reluctance, maybe thinking it’s a boring historical account, or because they think it will make for stomach-churning reading. However, once they have turned a few pages, they discover how fascinating a subject this is, and that the book can be read in bite-sized pieces.

Did the e-book version measure up to your exceptions?  How does the process compare to traditional publishing?

I’m not sure I had any expectations with regard to the e-book, since I knew nothing about them. I was very impressed with the e-book production process compared with traditional publishing. Electronic editing made it quick and straight forward to make changes and to track them.

I can definitely see that e-books are the future. I’m delighted to have had the opportunity to become a part of this exciting revolution in book production and reading.

[Read an excerpt of The A-Z of  Punishment and Torture here.]

THE END

* * *

An insatiable curiosity and natural flair for crisp, colourful writing have equipped international journalist Irene Thompson with the communication skills so vital in the quirky and demanding world of off-beat non-fiction.

Previous books include in-depth investigations of modern day ‘miracles’ and hair-raising escapes from death.

She worked on newspapers and magazines in London,
Hong Kong and the US, among other places. And her work with mass-circulation tabloid press developed a taste for the bizarre … hence The A-Z of Punishment and Torture.

Irene has been US-based education correspondent for the UK’s Daily Mail, editor of a monthly publication for British visitors to Florida, has written for the Ladies’ Home Journal, the Daily Telegraph, Hello!, Woman, Woman’s Own, the BBC’s Vegetarian and Good Food Magazine, Slimming, Real Homesnd Take-a-Break.

She now lives in the beautiful English county of East Sussex with husband, John, another veteran journalist and European editor of a mass-circulation US-based newspaper group.

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