Adonis Prison

 

                                                            By Simon Collinson

I was warned this could happen but I just didn’t listen. Just too busy looking at myself to notice. I loved myself so much I could not bear to stop looking at myself in the mirror and taking endless selfies. I would have been alright if I was discreet and private about it but in public I couldn’t help myself.

You see I was just so good looking.

I’d go past a mirror in the pub or restaurant and I’d be there for ages looking at my reflection. I would stop at a shop window to admire myself for hours. I‘d stop strangers and ask them if they agreed with me that I was the best looking person in the room. Someone informed the authorities about me. Naturally there are a lot of jealous people out there who are envious of my handsome looks.

And eventually, I was taken to the court, having been accused of crimes of vanity. The court was packed out. All eyes were on me. I loved every minute of it. The judge found me guilty of vanity on all counts. I had to plead guilty as I am really good looking.

I was given five years in Adonis prison.

Adonis prison was beautiful to look at from the outside like pristine white marble. I was taken in there by hooded guards. I could not see their faces. They wore special glasses. I suppose it was so that they would not feel down when they compared their ugliness to my stunning beauty.

The gate was locked behind me. And it was just empty. Just me in there. That's right, just me. And only me.

Everywhere I looked there were pictures and posters all of me on the walls, windows and doors. There were photographs of me everywhere. In the library all the books had pictures of me on the front, back and every page. In the canteen my picture was on the menu, the cups, plates, bowls on the tables and chairs.

The only thing on TV was my smiling face. The weekly film show was just a picture of me set to the music of Wagner. All the visitors wore masks of my face. The guards and staff all wore masks of my face upon their faces.

My cell was just walls, doors, ceilings and floors of mirrors. Every day I saw reflections of myself and only myself. I thought I looked fantastic.

I was the only inmate of Adonis prison. Everyone was looking at me. fabulous!

At first I thought it was heaven. How great it was to be able to look upon my superb looks every hour of the day? I thought I look even better in prison than I do outside. I am one of those lucky people who get better looking every day.

But after the fifth month it began to get monotonous. I could spot every single feature. Even perfection can look tedious if you look long enough at it. I grew tired of looking at myself all the time. I began to hate seeing myself everywhere. I found I was avoiding myself and staying in bed. I tried to keep my eyes shut in my cell to avoid catching a glimpse of my chiseled features.

I found that when I walked past the mirror I no longer had the urge to look at myself or take selfies.

Five years came round. It felt like five hundred. I was ready for release. Just got to go to the Artemis room for the final procedure. They strap you down as a machine cuts a big scar into your face from your ear to your jaw. They couldn’t take any chances with my astounding good looks.

I’ve been out of Adonis prison for a while now. My face is no longer perfect. It looks scary. I suppose they had to do it as I was so dishy before. It wasn’t fair on the rest of the world to have to look upon my stunning beauty. I no longer excessively love myself or admire myself. In fact I hate the person I was. He was so vain. I no longer look at mirrors or have taken a selfie in years. I wasted so much time looking at myself. I am much more productive now.

I’m glad I’m cured.

About the author: Simon is a writer from England who likes to write stories.

Theme and Variations

 

                                                    By Matias Travieso-Diaz

1782

Rudolf Von Flüstervogel (“Rudi”) played the viola well but lacked stage presence: he caught nobody’s attention with his shy looks and his gray fishhook of a body. People kept meeting and forgetting Rudi time after time.

Rudi barely scratched a living teaching the viola to the children of the aristocracy. He had married Elise, a peasant woman who had given him two average children, a girl named Hanna and a sickly boy, Kurt. Elise complemented Rudi perfectly, for she was lively and resourceful, and her hard work kept the household together.

Rudi’s life centered on a passion for composing, and there lay his worst disappointment. Rudi had penned a few soporific works, all featuring the viola as a solo instrument or in a chamber ensemble. None had ever been performed.

In late 1781, Rudi made an effort to break into the Mannheim Orchestra’s ranks. He started a new composition: a duo for violin and viola. The idea for such a work came from his friendship with Carl Toeschi, the former concertmaster of the Orchestra, who had moved to Munich to join the service of the Duke of Bavaria. Rudi was hoping to convince Toeschi to play the duo with him and parlay the success of the premiere into an invitation to join the Mannheim Orchestra.

 

Early 1783

As months passed, Rudi composed a traditional first movement, an Allegro in which he strove to provide interesting dialogues between the two instruments. A forgettable Andante Cantabile followed.

And then his meager inspiration hit a wall. He did not know how to end the piece. He started losing sleep and became distracted.

“I worry about you” commented Elise.

“I’ll never rest until I get this piece completed,” he bemoaned.

“Let’s hope something can be done about it,” replied Elise with concern.

One afternoon Rudi was on his knees, seeking divine inspiration, when he felt faint. The ground melted away and he fell into a cavity filled with a warm, viscous liquid that enveloped him. He wished he could stay there forever, and never come out.

Then a deep voice resounded, seemingly coming from far away: “You are a coward and deserve your miserable life. If your meager talent fails you, you must comb the world for a source to complete your music!  Get up and find help!!”

Rudi came to and found himself lying on the floor of the room, aching and stiff. His mind had cleared up, and a new idea nested within. He would compose a theme and variations to end his duo; the variations would allow him and the violinist to perform virtuoso passages to entrance the audience. All he needed to do was write it.

 

Late 1783

By October he had a movement comprising a theme and six variations, each with a different character, plus a coda that brought the theme back transformed into a lively dance. He hoped the work would be well received.

He transcribed a copy of the duo and sent it by post to Toeschi in Munich. The response was enthusiastic. Toeschi undertook to send the draft to Christian Cannabich, his successor as concertmaster at the Mannheim Orchestra and now its director; he recommended that Rudi meet with Cannabich and secure a date for the premiere of the work.

It was November before Rudi was able to see Cannabich, who had studied the manuscript of the duo and liked the work. Nevertheless, he was not encouraging:

“Dear Herr Von Flüstervogel, your composition is good, in some parts wonderful, and I would be happy to perform it with you myself.” He paused for a moment, embarrassed. “But the Elector, our patron, has cut back on the orchestra's budget. We have a serious financial crisis in our hands.”

Rudi did not capture the significance of the news. “What … what does that mean in terms of performing my duo?”

Cannabich explained: “We have been told that we can only perform new works if the concert in which they are presented is fully funded. Someone would have to sponsor the evening through a donation to the orchestra, equivalent to the salaries of the musicians.”

Rudi swallowed hard. “And how much would that be?”

“To fully fund one of our concerts a donation of about 1,000 florins would be necessary.”

One thousand florins!  That was more than he possessed or ever expect to make in years. Cannabich wondered aloud: “Yet, the members of the orchestra are going hungry. Perhaps I could bring the question up to them and see if they would settle for half – maybe 500 florins would suffice.”

Rudi got up, defeated. “Let me get back to you” he said hoarsely, fighting back tears.

Later that day, Rudi wrote Toeschi apprising him of the situation. Toeschi’s response was: “I spoke to Duke Carl Theodore and he is willing to loan you 500 florins. You must repay it with interest and agree to come to Munich and perform the work with me, at his court. I enclose a bank note for that amount.”

 

January 1784

The winter of 1783-84 was severe. Heavy snowfall and frigid temperatures swept through Europe. Both of Rudi’s children got sick; by New Year, Kurt was feverish. The doctor concluded: “This boys’ lungs are weak; he has little strength left. I recommend you take him to some place warm, to wait out the winter. Perhaps in the spring he’ll be better.”

 

Elise’s mother had family in Sicily, and Elise contacted her to find out about those relatives. Within a week, she reported to Rudi: “I have a second cousin in Taormina. I’ll write her asking for her hospitality. In the meantime, we have to make preparations for the journey.”

“Preparations?”

“Our travel to Sicily will be expensive. We’ll need to provide for lodging, meals, transportation, plus other expenses.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Rudi in alarm.

“My sister here has agreed to take Hanna in so she does not need to come. My guess is that for the three of us, traveling to Sicily and returning in May will cost us 600 florins, if we are frugal.”

“And where are we going to find that money?”

“You just got 500 florins from the Duke of Bavaria. That plus about 100 florins I have saved should see us through the trip.”

“That’s not possible!  That money is a loan to finance the debut of my duo. I can’t spend it on travel!”

“You’ll have to find a way!” replied Elise, for once raising her voice to confront her husband. “The life of our son is at stake!”

Rudi blinked: “I’ll see what I can do.”

He went back to Cannabich and begged: “Is there any other way that funding could be secured for that concert?”

Cannabich furrowed his brow. Then his face lit up:

“I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“I have been in correspondence with Father Gregor Hauer. He obtained permission from the great Joseph Haydn to perform Haydn’s new cello concerto and is trying to find an appropriate venue to launch the work. Hauer just wrote inquiring about a potential concert with the Mannheim Orchestra. I have not replied yet.”

“And how does that help me?”

“I could write Hauer and request that he sponsor, at least in part, the concert where he would play Haydn’s new work. I am not sure if he has patrons who could subsidize his appearance. I would need to ask.”

“Would you please?” 

“I will write him today inviting him to perform at Mannheim under financial conditions, but who knows how he will react.”

At first, Hauer rejected efforts to make him pay to play, but Cannabich played up the financial straits his ensemble faced, appealed to the artist’s generosity, and hinted that some other musician might be willing to split the cost of the concert. Hauer finally agreed to obtain 250 florins from his benefactors.

Cannabich showed the letter to Rudi: “I fear this is the best we will be able to do. Can you take your son to Italy on half of the Duke’s loan?”

“It will have to suffice.”

February 1784

Rudi had a difficult time trying to persuade Elise to travel to Italy on 350 florins. “Do you want us to starve?” she protested.

“That’s the best I can do” he replied.

“Fine!” she screamed. “You stay. I’ll take Kurt myself, alone!”

It was already early February and Kurt seemed worse with each passing day. Rudi relented: “Please be very careful.”

They departed by coach on the second week of February. Kurt was wrapped in blankets and was deathly pale. Rudi feared his son might not survive the trip; tears streamed from his eyes as he waved farewell. Elise, her face set in an angry mask, did not wave back.

 

April 19-24, 1784

The concert in which Rudi and Gregor Hauer would perform would occur on Sunday, April 25. Hauer arrived in Mannheim on Monday evening, with time for a couple of rehearsals before the concert. Next day, he played the Haydn piece with the orchestra, and then sat in on the rehearsal of Rudi’s duo.

 

Hauer was half asleep for most of the piece. When the last movement began, however, he perked up. At the end, Hauer approached Cannabich: “Herr Direktor, may I have a private word with you?”  Cannabich escorted Hauer to his office and closed the door.

“How can I help you, maestro?” he asked.

“That duo you were rehearsing, who is the composer?”

“It was written by Rudolf Von Flüstervogel, whom you met today. Rudi is a local artist.”

“It is the strangest thing. As you know, I am in residence in Salzburg, working for Prince-Archbishop Colloredo. Another employee of the Archbishop is Michael Haydn, the youngest brother of Franz Joseph Haydn. Well, last year Michael composed six duos for violin and viola at the Archbishop’s request. You see, the Archbishop plays the violin and he wanted some pieces to play with his steward Count Arco, who is an amateur violist. Anyhow, I suffered through Michael Haydn’s duos several times – and the finale of the last of the six is in the form of a theme and variations, identical to the music I heard today performed by you and Flüstervogel.”

Cannabich blanched. “What are you saying?  That Rudi stole the music from Michael Haydn?”

“I do not quite remember the first two movements, but the theme and variations I recall very well.”

“What you are saying, Father Hauer, is very serious. We must get to the bottom of it right away.”

Cannabich had a copy of the duo made and dispatched it post haste to Munich, where Michael Haydn was staying, with a brief, blunt inquiry: “Dear Michael, someone claims to have written this duo. Are you in fact the author?”

 Michael Haydn’s response, sent back by the same courier, stated: “There are many differences throughout the work, but the Theme and Variations in this composition is the same as in the one that bears my name. However, the work was written by Mozart, who allowed me to pass it as my own as a favor. Mozart’s duos are vastly superior to anything I could ever write and I have no right to claim their authorship.”

An exhausted courier returned late Saturday night, just in time to hand Haydn’s response to Cannabich before the concertmaster retired for the evening.

 

 April 25, 1784

At dawn, someone knocked on Rudi’s door summoning him to the orchestra’s offices at the Mannheim Palace. He rushed there, and was greeted by Cannabich, who laid down the accusations levelled against him. “Father Hauer is sure that the work you call yours is someone else’s.” 

Rudi found the courage to respond energetically, though falsely: “Every note in that duo is mine. I spent almost a year writing it and I do not care what anyone says, this is my music, which cost me much sweat and tears. I will defend myself against these accusations until the day I die.” 

 

Cannabich responded coolly:

“Herr Von Flüstervogel, a lot of ill can occur if we pursue this matter in public. I shall just cancel the performance. I do not ever want to see your face again.”

Rudi thought of arguing further, but turned around and slunk out of the palace.

 

Late 1784

Rudi used the remainder of the Duke’s loan to take passage to Taormina to meet his family. He found Kurt in somewhat better health and his wife in a more amenable disposition. He refused to answer questions about what had transpired in Mannheim other than vowing never to return to the city. Elise interpreted his reticence as indication that his duo had been poorly received and did not press the point.

The family moved to Naples in July. Rudi auditioned for a position in the household of King Ferdinand. He was hired and became music tutor to the King’s children. He taught them viola and violin, and threw in German as a bonus. He was well liked by all.

 

1793

Rudi was well settled in Naples when the news reached them of Mozart’s death two years before. He was seized by melancholy, which he tried to disguise but Elise knew him too well and persisted in her questioning until he confessed.

“You may recall that, in 1783, I had been working in the composition of a duo for violin and viola, which I hoped would make me famous. I had written two movements but didn’t know how to end the work. I was desperate.”

“Yes, I remember the incident very well,” replied Elise.

“Then, I had a vision,” continued Rudi. “I heard a strong voice that directed me to look for models from which to draw inspiration to complete the duo. It was a message from Heaven and could not resist its command. I began looking, and in the library at the Mannheim Palace I found a manuscript that contained an unidentified duo for violin and viola. The entire duo was wonderful, but it was the third movement, a Theme and Variations, that drew my attention, for it was just what I needed. I copied the movement and used as the finale of my duo.”

“I never knew who the work’s true author was until last year, when I bought in Florence the score of a duo in B flat by Mozart. In reviewing the score, I realized that Mozart was the composer of the work that I’ve been passing off as mine.”

 “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” rebuked Elise.

“I’m ashamed, but not sorry for what I did. I was following directions from some power greater than I. I had to find a way to complete the work by whatever means possible. So, I stole. But at least, I stole from the very best.”

Elise looked at her husband for a long time. “And you really don’t know the source of the voice you heard?”

“It’s a mystery,” concluded Rudi. “Perhaps it was Mozart himself.”

Elise turned her head away from her husband so he would not see her smile.

About the author: Born in Cuba, Matias Travieso-Diaz migrated to the United States as a young man where he became an engineer and lawyer and practiced for nearly fifty years. Over one hundred of his short stories have been published or accepted for publication in paying anthologies, magazines, blogs, audio books and podcasts. A first collection of his stories, “The Satchel and Other Terrors” has recently been released and is available on Amazon and other book outlets. More details about him can be found here: 

Bobby Bunny and the Great Big Garden

 

                                                    By H.L. Dowless

One warm day in mid-May, Bobby Bunny went hippity hop, right down the bunny trail, until he arrived at this great big garden plot. This handsome plot was very nicely tucked away behind some sweet smelling pink azalea hedges, so Bobby Bunny decided that nobody would ever see.

So.., he raced right along, hippity hop, hop, and he stole ONE carrot, TWO carrots, THREE carrots for free! FIVE beets and SIX leeks before it was anywhere near late. Why, fellow that’s more than THREE times THREE!

Now Bobby Bunny made a habit out of all this stealing and eating, and as we all know, habits that form easily are usually harmful ones. But poor Bobby simply could not stop it. Why raiding gardens was SO much fun, and besides, if there was ever any danger, he could just RUN RUN RUN!

So every morning bright and early, he hopped along. Hippity-hop, Hippity-hop, hippity-hop-hop-hop! He was moving, grooving, singing a tune, like he would never stop; no, not from morning until late afternoon. Hippity-hop, hippity-hop, went-he-down that well worn bunny trail. Hippity-hop, hippity-hop, nobody will ever see or tell. In through those hedges he went, right fast, like lightning, and ZIPPITY-ZAP by the gardener he went, right PAST!

So, he hopped right along until he came to the cabbage, and he stole ONE head, TWO heads, and THREE heads of cabbage he snatched up for free! FOUR turnips, FIVE turnips, SIX turnips, now remember that’s THREE turnips and THREE!

Now the gardener never did like this much, and he vowed aloud to stop Bobby Bunny. So, he swung down his hoe with a great big CHOP! He chopped ONE time, TWO times, even THREE times and THREE! Yes, that gardener chopped so much that day I feared he might chop up even you and me!

But nobody could catch Bobby Bunny that day, like a cool mountain stream he ran very smoothly and FAST! Do all of you hear me now? I do mean that nobody could catch him that day! No not me, not even you, not even the falcon on the breeze, let alone the gardener he ran past. In between the gardener’s feet did Bobby run, dodging the blows of his razor sharp hoe. Out the garden Bobby did go, making the gardener’s head fill with woe!

At the same moment Bobby’s mother eased down that well worn bunny trail, and when she made it to the garden, what did she see? Nothing but that cottontail of Bobby going ZIPPITY ZAP, ZIPPITY ZAP, and she heard Bobby’s voice shouting with glee. She saw Bobby snatch ONE yellow squash, TWO green cucumbers, even THREE times THREE! Yes, and that’s more than enough for anybody. Yes, even some for him. Yes, even some for you. Yes, even some for me!

Around that gardener he raced, ZIPPITY ZAP, through the azalea hedges, laughing so loudly with glee. Well, he raced down that trail with his crop in his hands. So if he was not stealing vegetables, then where would be his profit?, thought he. Right down that trail he went, racing like rushing water, his feet thumping like rolling thunder, just whistling a merry song. Until he arrived at a briar filled thicket, full with lush purple berries and cat-claw thorns which scratched to the pure bone! Inside that thicket soft yellow straw was nice, and warm, and very cozy. You see, this was the place Bobby Bunny called home.

But his mother was very wise and fast herself, and deeply into the thicket zipped she, until she appeared behind Bobby Bunny scolding, causing him to tremble with fear and shake at the knee!

“Don’t you dare go back into that garden,” she screamed. “Do not ever go back again. I fear that you shall be stew before this is all over, and the number of my children shall be reduced from TWENTY to only NINETEEN!

But Bobby Bunny just smiled and said;

“Oh, dear mother, don’t you worry-any about me, for I am just too fast and sly for that old farmer, so let my last word here be said. He shall die of old age himself, before it is me who is dead!”

His dear mother hung her head as she listened to those foolish words that young Bobby sat on the root stump and said. When he finished speaking she glared at him and replied;

“Do not ever say that you have not been warned, and please do whate’er you insist! Just remember Bobby boy, that when you are dead, by all of your family you will be sorely missed. I have tried, and I have tried to raise you right, but you always insist on going wrong. So go on if you must, just please pause and think on my words, think hard before much more time has flown!”

So Bobby paused, and he THOUGHT, and then he THOUGHT some more! Oh soon he thought without some new excitement from somewhere, that his life would be such a bore! He struggled hard to shake those visions of garden vegetables from his head, and those visions of garden mud from his feet, and the thrill of being chased from his yearning heart, as he lay awake in his bed and fought with himself to sleep. So, up and out into the dark of night, he raced. He simply could not stand it any more! More than those visions of the vegetables, it was simply the thrill of the chase.., and the fear of his life becoming such a dreadful bore.

So, he dashed down that bunny trail, ZIPPITY ZAP, right into that garden yaupon hedge. SNIPPITY SNAP went the dry twigs, and against some loose border bricks his feet went BIPPITY BAP! SNAP went ONE carrot, SNIP went TWO radishes, SNIP SNAP went THREE times THREE! SNIP SNAP SNAP SNIP throughout the garden went all of those vegetables, you see. But then suddenly he heard a noise, and his feet suddenly sank with fear. Right beside him he heard the hollow thud of booted feet, and in the air he smelled the breath of soured beer.

“Surely I have you now, bunny boy!,” thundered a voice from the darkness. “Your time on this night has indeed come due! For you should have listened to your dear mother, bunny boy, and all of those who love you true.”

So. Bobby ran, ZIPPITY ZAP, and he dashed to and fro, YIPPITY YAP, but on that night he could simply not run fast enough, nor avoid the gardener’s box trap.

So, thus ends the tale of Bobby Bunny, please learn his lessons very well. Be wise and avoid all traps, and always pay heed to wise advice well. For the dead can never do any good, and fine stories of adventure have they never to tell. These all lie in the realm of the living, who walk where the dead once stood.

About the author: The author is an international ESL instructor. More details about him can be found here: 

Cameron Wood (A Short Story)

 

                        By Robert Pettus

“Wake up and dance, you old bitch!” came a booming, slurred voice. The sound of it reverberated off the thin walls of the now closed dive bar.

Mikey nudged the bartender, Elliot, who was sleeping in a Windsor-back side chair in front of the counter. He was snoring, sliding slowly from his seat. Elliot, being the only bartender, also owned the bar.

Mikey kicked Elliot, he thought gently, in the shins. Elliot lunged forward, snapping awake:

“What the fuck!” he said.

“Wake up and dance,” repeated Mikey, now boot-scooting across the hardwood flooring of the dark bar. The place was closed. Elliot wasn’t sure how Mikey got in, but he knew that it would be damn-near impossible to kick his ass out.

Mikey brought more money into the tiny town of Grayslick than all the other 200 or so residents combined. As soon as he moved in two years prior, he began growing the biggest field of grass you’d ever seen, and no one batted an eye at it. Not the local cops, not even the Kentucky State boys. Hell, Grayslick residents loved him. The old ladies at St Anthony Catholic Church – the only church in town – conjured up some home-cooked goodness for him damn-near every day of the week. Chicken tetrazzini, cherry cheesecake, banana croquette – everything he liked. He never had to go to the grocery. He was a local celebrity.

“Get the hell out of here, Mikey,” said Elliot, “You goddamn, spaghetti-eating motherfucker.”

Elliot called Mikey a spaghetti-eating motherfucker because Mikey was Italian. He was the only ethnically Italian person in Grayslick. Elliot didn’t know any racial slurs for Italian people, so he made up ‘spaghetti-eating motherfucker’. He also liked calling him ‘Tommy Mozzarella’ – spoken in what he thought was a New Jersey accent. It didn’t sound very Jersey, though – he couldn’t completely mask his rural Kentucky drawl when making vowel sounds.  It got under Mikey’s skin, sometimes. Not tonight, though.

“Hey now, hey!” said Mikey. He was in a jovial mood, “I got no intention of getting out of here. I’m not done partying tonight – not quite yet. Them fuckers up in the field were too puss to get more beers once we killed the case, so I figured I’d see what in the hell you were up to. You fuckin’ sleepin’!”

“Yeah,” responded Elliot, “I was sleeping because I had a long day and I was fucking tired.”

“Aw, shut the hell up. You wasn’t tired. You and I both know there wasn’t nobody in this fuckin’ place. I know about it any time there’s a party at The Comfy Corner. I would have knowed about it if there was anything popping off here. You just a lazy old bitch!”

Mikey stepped over to the jukebox. Wrenching free a collection of quarters from his jeans pocket, some of which fell jingling to the floor, he slid a handful conveyor-like into the machine and pressed through the available tunes, flipping the selection of ‘45 records. It was an old jukebox, which was one of the main draws of the bar. The locals loved it. So did the out-of-towners, on the rare occasions they patronized The Comfy Corner. Mikey pushed the button impatiently, finally settling on Slow Train Coming, by Bob Dylan.

“Hell yeah!” he said, “Slow train comin’ ‘round the bend. That’s the truest shit I ever heard.”

Mikey dumped a heaping line of blow onto the counter. He sniffed it glutinously, snapping his head skyward – sweat flung from his long, black hair dampening the floor – screaming like a rabid raccoon. He finished the beer he had snagged for himself – a bottle of Schlitz, free of charge – and smashed it on the counter. He stumbled backward from the counter onto the dance floor and kept dancing, now livelier, though more belligerently. Elliot squinted at him in frustration. He didn’t feel comfortable kicking him out. Mikey was too well loved by the community; he was also crazier than shit – Elliot didn’t want to get on Mikey’s bad side. Nobody did. As much as they loved him, everyone in town knew it was true.

“Hey!” said Mikey, “Check this shit out.” He swaggered out the front door into the night. Elliot thought about closing the door and again locking up, but he knew he didn’t have enough time. It wouldn’t matter, anyway – Mikey would force his way back in. He returned a couple of minutes later, a sawed-off shotgun in hand:

“Look at this shit.” he said, flashing its barrel one-handed across the barroom as if scoping out what to blast. “We was hunting earlier,” he continued, “Couldn’t find a goddamn thing – not even a doe. Not even a goddamn dove. This bastard here is still fully loaded. Never hunted with it before today. I was looking forward to pointing it one-handed – like this – down the nose of a big-ass ten-point, just blowing its fuckin’ brains out all over the side of some tree. I don’t need no mounts for my walls, you know what I mean? I just need fuckin’ burgers for my grill. I need fuckin’ bacon wrapped, cream cheese stuffed birds for my belly.”

Mike was massaging his stomach, glaring in cocaine-addled excitability. He then started rubbing the barrel of the gun like he was jerking it off. He swayed it around the room, pointing it outward from his crotch as if it were his dick. The gun waved back and forth chaotically, out of tune with the stuttering, drunken step of Mikey’s boots. Out of rhythm with Bob Dylan’s prophetic, screaming vocals. He continued dancing to the music. He was struggling to maintain balance.

“Shit.” said Elliot, “Don’t fuck around with that thing. You could wind up…”

Mikey waved the shotgun back across the barroom, in his intoxicated state accidentally pulling the trigger. The canon erupted. It wasn’t a direct hit, but it was close. The deer slug struck and pierced Elliot just above his pelvis. The aging man slid from his chair, slithering involuntarily across the floor, leaving a necrotic, slug-like trail of blood, thumping his fist to the floor, and screaming as the thick, metallic liquid pooled.

Elliot was in agony. He could make no discernable language. He continued writhing. Mikey realized what he had done. He ran to Elliot, asking him if he was okay, stroking his thin gray hair. Elliot gave no response. Mikey turned and ran from the barroom, heading across the gravel street to St. Anthony Catholic Church, its steeple towering high above the surrounding central Kentucky wood – Cameron Wood, as the locals called it.

The angry spirits of a long-ago murdered family haunted the wood. Everyone in town knew that.

Mikey banged on the door, screaming for Father Dickey. Father Dickey would open up – Mikey knew that – Papa Dick was always there. Father Dickey lived next door; if he for some reason weren’t in the church, which he always was, he would still hear the noise from his adjacent, dainty hovel.

The creaking double front doors of the church sprung ajar:

“What?” said Father Dickey, rubbing his drooping, wrinkled eyelids, “What do you want, brother Mikey?”

“The bar!” said Mikey, “Come to the bar! Elliot been shot.”

“Shot?” said Father Dickey, “Do you think I can provide medical support? I can’t!”

“I know, I know.” said Mikey, “Ain’t know where else to go. Ain’t no hospitals in Grayslick, is there? Come on, let’s go – he fuckin’ dying in there!”

Father Dicky paced briskly into the bar, clothed in his black priestly garb. It was far too late for Elliot, who was bleeding out all over the floor. Who knows how long it would take to remove those stains from the wood; they may never fully clear.

The priest glanced backward, scowling at Mikey. Dickey wouldn’t say anything to him – Mikey was far too much of a hot head for proselytizing – but he thought Mikey understood his point, just from a look. Mikey could be dumber than hell, sometimes. He was a hell of a farmer and a natural businessman, but in all other facets of life, he was an idiot.

“It’s too late for him,” said Father Dickey, beginning to administer the last rights.

“Wha… what? What the hell do you mean it’s too late? The old bastard was just sitting there all grouchy-like just ten minutes ago. I shot him with a dull-ass deer slug; you can’t kill a man with a fuckin’ deer slug.”

Mikey was speaking frantically over Elliot’s babbling final confession. Father Dickey couldn’t understand a word – Elliot was far too incoherent – but he nodded, as if understanding. Elliot’s incoherent gurgle, combined with Mikey’s paranoid, childish raw emotion, filled the barroom with an unnerving, grating soundscape. This abysmal noise fused with the still-playing jukebox, which had continued the Bob Dylan album, now playing Gotta Serve Somebody.

Elliot gobbled up the body of Christ lip-smacking like an infant yet to learn manners. He was struggling to keep the unleavened bread in his mouth – pushing it out involuntarily with his uncooperative, dying tongue. He finally swallowed it, washing it down with the wine – a bottle of Gato Negro cabernet – Father Dickey had grabbed from behind the bar. It wasn’t standard, but he didn’t have any sacramental wine on him, so it would have to do. He blessed it. He thought Jesus would understand, considering the circumstances.

Elliot died. Father Dickey closed the bartender’s eyes with his shaking, wrinkly hands. Blood covered the entirety of the floor. Mikey, horrified, ran sprinting from the room, out the door, across the street, and toward the wood.

The streets were dark and barren – there were no streetlights in Grayslick. Mikey ran out of the bar, past the church, and through the adjacent Idle-Hour Park on his way to the wood. He hopped the chain-link fence of the baseball field, scrambling and flailing across the infield like a clumsy second baseman as he bolted through the dusty, cobweb-lined dugout, up the concrete steps, and into Cameron Wood.

The wood was black. It was always dark – darker than anyone thought it should ever be. Most Grayslick locals said it was because of the haunted presence of the Graves family – out-of-towners who had moved to Grayslick generations ago, back during the Great Depression, looking to open a business. Locals hated The Graves’, moving to such a small town like Grayslick and stealing commerce from in-town families during such an unfortunate economic time.

The Graves were allegedly murdered, but no one knew why. That case was never closed. They simply went into the forest one day for a picnic and didn’t return. Days later, when local folks had finally decided to recognize the bizarre nature of their stores continued vacancy, they checked the woods. They found the family dead in a clearing previously thought to be the most serene spot in Cameron Wood. The bodies weren’t peacefully deceased – they had been completely mutilated; limbs twisted morbidly in every unnatural direction; cracked bones split out from the skin. Their faces were drained pale, wide-eyed and screaming. Cameron Wood was decided haunted, after that, whether because of the presence of The Graves family, or of their twisted killer. Nobody went there; nobody besides Mikey.

 Mikey knew that story was a bunch of old horseshit. The wood was dark because it was old. It had never been chopped, never been plowed – it had grown thick, mostly undisturbed, for thousands of years. Crop rotation had yet to shift to that dark collection of ancient foliage. That’s why it was so dark. Mikey thought it was comforting, being in the wood. He liked the darkness, sometimes. It allowed him a mental escape.

Mikey continued sprinting. His heart – already beating at full blast thanks to both the adrenaline from the previous situation, and the remnant, chaotic energy from the coke – seemed to stabilize the more he ran. This helped Mikey calm down. He ran and ran, through the heart of the wood into a perfectly circular clearing. He knew the place well – he always came here when the cops pretended to be suspicious about his field of bud. It was an excellent place to escape.

Mikey sat kneeling on the soft ground, his breath heaving as he struggled to catch it. Even in the heat of summer, even in years of drought, this inner sanctum of the wood stayed somehow well-hydrated. Mikey felt refreshed simply being there. He continued panting, his hands clutched firmly to his thighs – his now dirty jeans sticking like glue to his chafing, sweaty legs. 

The wood further darkened, which Mikey considered strange. He didn’t spend much early-morning time this deep in the dewy thick of the trees, but he knew that it should be brightening outside. Morning was breaking, only not in Cameron Wood.

Mikey looked around the clearing. A wind was kicking up, rustling the dry leaves and dirt of the forest floor.

A circular, tornado-like gust abruptly blew spinning about the clearing. The brittle leaves ruffled from the ground skyward. Mikey noticed the leaves briefly taking a humanoid shape. They then fell back to the earth. The towering, old trees shook and groaned as if in otherworldly communication. No light shone in from outside their enclosed canopy. Mikey was afraid. He stood up and backed away, making to exit the wood. He didn’t care about the damn cops; he didn’t care about Elliot or Father Dickey – not anymore – he would risk it. This fuckin’ place was giving him the creeps. He turned his back to the forest clearing and darted in a frenzy toward the wall of dense foliage.

Before he could make it out of the clearing, he was swept up, legs first, hanging in the air. He was spun around, upside down, through the trees. Apathetic nocturnal wildlife gazed at him from the shaking branches – bats, raccoons, opossums, and owls looking on without care. Mikey shrieked in terror:

 “Ahhhhhhh! Fuck; Fuck!”

His body leveled; he was no longer upside down. His belly was facing the ground as if to fall the fifty feet back to the forest floor; a crushing belly flop. The possessed wind dropped him. He fell hard, hitting the soft dirt and immediately twisting uncontrollably, writhing in pain. The wind picked him back up. He was again upside down, revolving faster and faster as dead leaves swirled as if to encase him in a mummy-cocoon. Out from within the visual blockage created by the swirling leaves, he saw the ghostly figures of four people – a mother, a father, and two young children. The Graves family. They stood staring without care at what was happening. They weren’t creating the chaos – Mikey could feel that – but they also had no interest in stopping it.

The pressure from the force of the spinning wind was crushing. Mikey could feel it splitting his skin and bruising his bones. His eyeballs were pressed to at any moment dislodge. His teeth cracked, continuously buffeted by the supernatural weather. In his final moments, Mikey saw the red-tinted shape of Father Dickey run into the clearing. The priest expressed a knowing look; frantic, though unsurprised. Lifting a bible, he began yelling verses at the growing havoc. Mikey’s time had come. With the wind and the leaves still swirling around him – with the pressure finally becoming too much – Mikey’s body was split, literally. Blood and bone sprayed outward from the cyclone, coating Father Dickey, his bible still thrust forward in defense. The thick, red, life-sustaining liquid saturated the damp dirt of the clearing and the thin, waxy pages of Dickey’s ancient text.

Father Dickey knelt to the earth and sobbed. It had happened again. Looking forward, he saw the family – the first known family taken by this mysterious, demonic force. They looked at him and turned, without care, back into Cameron Wood. Mikey would soon join them, wherever they went.

Father Dickey wept, heaving in the clearing, inhaling dirt and dust. Above the canopy, a new day brightened.

About the author: 

Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. His short stories have been published in numerous webzines, magazines, podcasts, and literary journals. His first novel, titled Abry, was published this spring by Offbeat Reads. He lives in Kentucky with his wife, Mary, his daughter, Rowan, and his pet rabbit, Achilles.

Changing (a Short Story)

                        By Matthew Spence

“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”

― Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

 

“People are changing,” Sean’s roommate said.

Sean glanced over at him. Farley was fairly nondescript and would have been difficult to pick out of a crowd or a lineup. If they weren’t roommates Sean probably wouldn’t have remembered him if they’d only met once.

“What do you mean?” Sean asked. “People don’t change; they’ve been the same for thousands of years.”

“I don’t mean psychologically, I mean physically. Haven’t you seen the news?” Farley gestured at the TV, which was currently showing a Netflix series that they both watched. “What I mean is, they’re physically changing.”

“You’ll have to clarify that for me,” Sean replied.

 

Farley switched to CNN. An anchor was talking about a new pandemic, showing a chart involving animals and people.

“And joining us now is Doctor Stillwater from the Centers for Disease Control…doctor, perhaps you can  explain this for our viewers.”

“Of course.” The doctor was a youngish man, but he seemed very authoritative when he spoke. “What’s happening is essentially a rewriting of  human DNA. We share more than 90 per cent of ours with apes, and more than fifty percent with pigs, chickens, mice, and even plants such as bananas. Increased solar radiation seems to have triggered the genes that regulate natural DNA mutations, resulting in cross-species copying, creating a chimera effect. It’s causing people to develop the characteristics of those animals that we share most of our DNA with, a kind of reverse evolution, if you will…”

“People are turning into animals?” Sean asked, muting the sound. The scene on the TV switched over to video of a man who had clearly developed animistic characteristics such as a thick main of feathers. It looked like a costume, but Farley insisted it was real.

“Animals and in some cases plants like the man said. It seems to be spreading.”

Sean stared at the TV. It was the first time he’d really paid attention to the news or anything on TV in a while, usually he had it on with the sound muted or turned down while he was doing something else.

Sean wasn’t quite sure of what to make of it. Life had previously been predictable but mostly calm for him. Now that routine had been upset, and it made him uncomfortable. But was that the point of what he was seeing?

“Is anyone doing anything about it? Aside from talking about it, I mean?”

“Some scientists say they’re working on genetic treatments. Human animal hybrid genes. But people seem scared of trying something like that.”

Sean nodded. “I don’t blame them. All that Frankenstein stuff scares me, too.”

Farley shook his head. “But we shouldn’t be scare of it, should we? Change can be good. There’d  be no progress without it.”

Sean knew that Farley had a point. But how could there be progress if humanity’s genes were taking it backward?

For the next several days there was slow but steady news about the so-called Gene Pandemic. It wasn’t really a virus; it was mutations being caused by the Sun, so people were advised to wear protection against it when they were outdoors and to stay indoors as often as possible. There was a surge in sales of skin lotion and sunglasses that people wore even on cloudy days. But the mutations kept happening-Sean noticed that some of his office co-workers had stopped showing up to work and was told that they’d been changed, into what his manager didn’t seem to know, but they’d developed symptoms of fur and feathers and in at least once case folds of vegetable skin. Now increasingly worried, Sean went to the local clinic, where to his relief he tested negative for any genetic changes. Then, one day after getting home from work, he was informed by the landlord that Farley had disappeared.

“He just walked out and hasn’t been back since,” the landlord said. “I know this sounds cold, but since you both signed the lease, I may have to have him charged with trying to break it, and you might have to find another roommate. I’ll wait until you do, but for your own sake I hope he comes back soon…”

The question of his rent was soon rendered moot, however, as the landlord herself changed a few days later. She became a type of large bird, something that seemed to big to fly, but she did, taking off through her office windows one day and not returning.

All Sean could do now was wait, and wonder. Was Farley all right? Was he happy being an animal now, if he was one? Would Sean himself be happier without him? Farley was part of the “herd” so to speak, so maybe he was better off. Even so, Sean found himself missing his company, while at the same time it was getting harder for him to remember what his former roommate looked like. He felt badly about that. People, even nondescript ones, deserved to be remembered.

Sean found himself sniffing the air. He seemed to be developing an enhanced sense of smell, and could hear things that were obviously further away, outside of normal human hearing range.

He sighed and sat back in his recliner as he turned the TV on. It was still working, so he went over to Netflix to watch the show that he and Farley had both liked. The actors’ voices were becoming harder to understand, but he still liked watching the action.

Farley was becoming increasingly difficult to remember. Sean now had trouble remembering his own name and found himself lying on the floor, covered in fur, having discarded his clothing, but it didn’t seem to matter. He tried to remember what he could, hoping it would be enough. In the meantime, he barked for someone to let him outside so he could go to the bathroom.

About the author: 

Matthew Spence was born in leveland, Ohio. His work has most recently appeared in Tall Tale TV. More details of the author can be found here: