+The Horror Library+

+Five Minute Movie Review— Human Centipede 2 : Full Sequence (2011)

 

 

Well, at least it wasn't in color. For that, I'll be forever grateful.

And yes...Part 2 did indeed outdo the original, but that's only in the violence and gore department— nothing else about this film is remarkable. It's certainly not better than the original HUMAN CENTIPEDE. And that film was more hype and style than substance anyways.

Once again director Tom Six shows he capable of taking a crazy-ass idea (albeit the same one) and making an entertaining film, without actually following through and making one. This film has zero suspense and no storyline at all. Just a lot of gritty uber-violence by a very creepy little toad man. And after a very short while, the endless torture just blends into itself.

Bring your earplugs. It get loud, and it gets old quick.

Oh, and this film has lots of mouths sewed to buttholes too. Of course, I expected that-- and I bought my ticket, but still...I guess I expected the idea to be expounded upon in less clinical detail, with maybe something new added to the mix.

May I suggest this instead. At least it was entertaining and I could laugh at/with it.

 

 

 

Tension, Suspense, Intrigue, Adventure, and any flicker of even the darkest Humor?                     THE HUMAN CENTIPEDE 2 has none of that. Just a whole lotta bucketfuls of gross, a sequence of events instead of a real storyline, which untimately just add up to an odd mix of MR BEAN meets HENRY PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER. And...not in a good way.

Anyways-- this film outright sucked. Don't say I didn't warn you.

 

Cav

 

~Story of the Day —STONE by Catherine MacLeod

 

—STONE
by Catherine MacLeod

     Sometimes the last person you expect to see shows up in the last place you
imagined finding her. And here she is now.
     (A six letter-word for encounter: impact.)
     She used to call herself Stone. I have to look twice, but no, she’s not a figment
of my imagination. She’s dressed just well enough to go unnoticed. Long sleeves,
high collar, no surprise there. She’s brunette now, wearing gold-rimmed glasses
she probably doesn’t need. A gym bag and a coat over her arm. It’s strange to see her
shifting her own luggage; her assigned bodyguard usually did it for her. I remember
him, vaguely. How she killed him is anyone’s guess.
     She never told her clients her real name. I wanted to know, but most of us didn’t.
Her pimp said the alias came from the old saying, You can’t get blood from a stone.
     Don’t believe it: she bled like nobody’s business.
     The ticket clerk wakes up as she says, “Hello?” A whiskey alto, never pitched
higher than necessary, and always the first thing I recall about her. “I’d like a place on
the next bus, please.”
     “How far?”
     “End of the line.”
     I could  have guessed–Stone’s heading for Andu. Where else? Me, too. There’ll
be a few stops before we get there, but most people headed that way tend to keep
going. It’s the end of the line in more ways than one; a good place for people who want
to disappear. Not good for the faint-hearted, though—what gets you arrested here
barely raises eyebrows in Andu.
     The only crime there is getting caught.
     Stone is the most frightening woman I’ve ever known. She’ll do well, I’m sure.
She always had a way about her: gracefully feral, treacherously kind. She left as many
scars as she got, but deeper. I can still feel them all.
     They say you never forget your first love.

                                                                          * * *

     I try not to stare, but fail. After all this time she’s still horribly beautiful. But
when she goes to the ladies’ room I glance around.
     I like people-watching. A bus station is a good place for it any time. This late
at night it’s perfect. The wind’s picking up; there’s rain on the way. It’s a fit night for
leaving this life, one way or another. We won’t all take the same route, of course.
     On the bench across from me a young woman shakes a half-dozen capsules from
a bread bag and washes them down with Styrofoam-flavored coffee. She casts one
cautious glance at the security guard, who’s maybe the only unarmed person here,
and ignores the rest of us. The businessman beside her is more modest. He opens his
briefcase for cover, but a little coke still blows off his hand and dusts his leather shoes.
Nobody cares.
     Or almost nobody. The young mother beside me hoists her baby closer and takes
a firmer grip on her purse. The child is nursing. A carefully-arranged fold of blanket
hides the act. I don’t find it offensive, but for whatever reasons, some do. My mother
once said she stopped nursing me because I wouldn’t stop biting, but this woman
doesn’t have that problem. She seems content, if watchful. The baby’s quiet.
     I’ve heard it said that a woman’s breasts are the hardest pillow.
     They’re not.
     A middle-aged man carries his bag-wrapped bottle off to a dim corner. I could
be wrong about the middle-aged part, but the young aren’t usually so discreet about
indulging their appetites. Certainly not the boy at the snack machine, eating his fifth
candy bar.
     I enjoy seeing people feed their cravings. The only one I indulge in public is a
penchant for crossword puzzles. I love learning new words.
     Only one person knows what I hunger for in private. And Stone doesn’t care.

                                                                      * * *

     (A six-letter word meaning common occurrence: cliché.)
     Uninitiated young man, experienced older woman. How much older I don’t
know; to me, Stone seemed timeless. But naked she looked ancient.
     Her clothes rustle softly as she sits beside me now. I remember every seam of the
body under them. I was far from her first. She had scars the first time I met her. She
wore them like gold leaf.
     They were actually that expensive.
     I slide down the bench to make room. “Excuse me, you probably shouldn’t leave
your bag on the floor. Sometimes things go missing.”
     She sets it between us. “All right. Thank you.” There’s no recognition in her brief
smile. I didn’t expect it. I was nothing to her but another serrated blade. But even
those few words take me back. Stone speaks as if she’s waiting to tell you a secret or
trying to hold back laughter. She was always more courtesan than hustler.
     I’ve met other women who sold their bodies, but none with Stone’s verve. Her
clients sliced and sawed. They stapled and stitched. They ornamented her with teeth
marks. Once I saw a woman take a bite out of her upper arm, chew, swallow, and
smile.
     “Another satisfied consumer,” Stone quipped as her surgeon patched the
wound, and even he chuckled. Her indifference was charming.
     She had a patron skilled in trapunto, a craft usually practiced on fabric. Objects
are inserted under folds of cloth to make patterns. Most tailors use cotton batting.
This one used screws and roofing nails.
     “Lovely,” Stone breathed. “Will I scar like that when you remove them?”

 

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~Story of the Day —TESTAVILLE, OHIO by M. Alan Ford

 

 —TESTAVILLE, OHIO
by M. Alan Ford

     Roland gave two dollars and thirty-eight cents to the gas station attendant,
who then asked where Roland was heading. “Testaville,” Roland said.
     The attendant seemed unable to decide between a laugh and a frown.
“Testaville? Lots of weird people in Testaville. We get truck drivers all the time who
don’t want to go in, and they’re happy when they get out.”
     Roland smiled. “I know. I grew up there.”
     “Never been there myself. How long you been gone?”
     “Five years.”
     “Well, maybe it’s worn off by now.”
     Roland didn’t laugh. He looked the attendant over quickly before pulling out
onto the highway. The attendant was young, in his mid-twenties, about the same
age as Roland. His shirt was cleanly pressed, his hat spotless and sharp, his attitude
relaxed and easy to talk with. This was different from what Roland was used to, and
he wasn’t thinking of the big city.
     He turned on the radio and listened to music for a while, though this far out,
reception was intermittent and static-filled. He was not paying attention, in any case.
It was background noise, something to distract him from the way his hands tightly
gripped the steering wheel. Traffic was sparse. He nearly missed the exit, which
was nothing more than a small lane abruptly branching off from the highway. He
followed it around in a loop that plunged behind a hill and under the highway, and
found himself on the familiar two lane road rolling in lazy twists and turns through
low hills and stands of trees.
     He found the spot he had come to know as “the border” and pulled off to the
shoulder. There was nothing special about the border. No boundary markings, no
billboard, no “Welcome to Testaville” sign. It was simply an ordinary pattern of
trees and hillsides he had come to recognize. He left the motor running. He got out
and walked a few feet up the shoulder and stood for a moment looking at the road
twisting off into the hills. Then he turned back.
     He reached in through the open door, turned off the engine and removed the
key, and went to the back of the car. He looked up and down the empty road, then
opened the trunk. Inside was a large suitcase along with all the other things usually
found in a car trunk. Spare tire, jack, socket wrench, a few tools, can of oil, spare
gallon of gas. He pushed the suitcase aside and pulled back the blanket behind it.
Hidden under the blanket was a small trinket box made of pale blond wood darkened
by age. It was unlocked but held closed by a brass latch, and the lid was painted
with the image of a winged woman in a robe setting foot on the prow of a boat, as if
descending from the sky only a moment before. He tipped the box back and forth.
Inside, something rolled about.
     He covered it with the blanket again and pushed the suitcase up against it.
Then he got back in the car and started the engine. He did not return to the road
immediately, but only after a pause to take a deep breath, and then he moved the car
at such a slow pace that a sauntering man could easily have walked past it.
     The pattern of hills and trees slid by like a scrolling painted panorama. The
border, as best he could judge it, came abreast of the car. Then it was behind him.
Then he felt it, that first stab of unease. It came like a hand gripping his heart, a
sudden pressure in the chest and a flush of heat to his face, and his fingernails dug
painfully into the steering wheel while his breath caught in his throat. He nearly
turned the car around. Instead, he came to a stop again and breathed shallowly until
the fear subsided, never completely, but to a point where he could continue on despite
himself.
     It stayed with him when the road straightened as it came out from the hills and
he saw Testaville just ahead. It was a small town, only about ten thousand people,
one of many that had sprung up in the building boom just after the war. He drove
past house after house, in tract after tract, looking at the neat small lots, each with a
stretch of lawn and a driveway. At one point he passed a gas station. The attendant,
staring at the sky as he leaned against one of the pumps, wore a dirty shirt pulled half
out of his belt, and his hat was held twisted in his tight fists.
     Roland found his own house among the others. He slowed as if to stop, then
sped up and drove on past. He went around the block twice. Then he turned onto the
main street and drove to the park. It was just as me remembered it, a field of grass and
trees one block square, with benches and picnic tables, and a small playground with
swings and a jungle gym about which children clambered. He parked, stepped to the
sidewalk, and stared into the park for a long time.
     A woman wearing a pink dress with a matching pillbox hat passed in front of
him. She stumbled and fell. Roland helped her up. “Are you all right?”
     She dusted off her dress. The heels of her hands were scraped where she had
broken her fall. “I’m fine, sure.” She gave him a faint smile. “Just accident prone, I
guess.”
     Roland said nothing. The woman walked off. He crossed the street to a store
where he pulled a soft drink from the refrigerated section. His hands shook so badly
that they rattled the bottles.
     So soon? he thought. It can’t be happening so soon.
     Keeping his hand steady, he took the bottle to the counter where a young girl,
about sixteen years old, was arguing with the store manager.
     “But I didn’t touch it!” she said.
     “This isn’t the first time, Shelly. There was a twenty in here.”
     Roland looked at the cash register. The drawer was open, and a few ones, fives,
and tens were neatly stacked in their respective bins, but the next bin was empty.
     “I don’t know!” she said. “The door was open. Someone must have come in.”

 

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~Story of the Day —THE HEALING HANDS OF REVEREND WAINWRIGHT by Geoffrey L. Mudge

 

—THE HEALING HANDS OF REVEREND WAINWRIGHT
by Geoffrey L. Mudge

     Another night, another show, another chorus of cheers and applause and
unbridled joy that we will never hear. In the darkness and silence, only the rumble
of the diesel engine roaring to life lets us know our part has been played for the
evening. This night’s showcase was relatively slow and tame. The only serious injury
to come from the affair was a dislocated shoulder suffered by the blind kid, Augie.
The sickening sound, somewhere between a pop and a crunch as muscle and bone
tore apart, still echoes in my mind. There’s not much to listen to in here, and the few
sounds that aren’t screams tend to linger a little longer than they should. The only
other noise is the wet, hacking cough coming from Juliana’s corner. I think she may
have contracted emphysema or TB, but she won’t live long enough to be bothered
much by whichever.
     However, experience, the harsh mistress that she is, has taught me that the good
shows are tragedies in disguise. Having been here the longest, I’ve seen the patterns
through a dozen of them. Through pure luck or divine intervention, I’ve survived
longer than all those that were here when I joined. Most of the kids travelling with
me now were picked up in Memphis and are generally unfamiliar with the ins and
outs of the business. In my time with the Reverend I have found that slow nights are
almost inevitably followed by horrendous ones. Those nights, the anguished cries
reverberating in my skull make me long for the cavernous silence between one and
another.
     Joseph, chained closest to the heavy door, thinks he heard talk of moving to
Wichita. Isn’t that peachy? Kansas. The heart of the Dust Bowl. The land of polio and
starvation. A visit to the festering wound spewing the misery that has been slowly
eating America’s soul may not end well for some of us. Frankly, I expect some deaths
before we finish, and there are so few of us left. When I came in, there were a couple
dozen of us, but now there are only six, and we all know the carnivorous tumor in
Ralph’s brain will soon finish him.
     Though it’s been quite awhile since we picked anyone up, I couldn’t say just
how long. Time is extremely subjective with no way to track night and day. The
occasional feeding and the never ending shows are the only ways we have to measure
the passage of time. In those terms, it’s been twelve shows since Memphis, how long
that is in normal people time, there’s no way to know.
     To be honest, the anticipation is almost worse than the performance. Almost.
It’s just so damn hard to sit in the hot darkness, afraid to speak to the only people who
could ever understand this ordeal. But what would we say to each other? Speak words
of hope that ring false and hollow the moment they leave one’s lips? Talk of escape
when metal and leather and mal-nutrition make it impossible? No, there are no words
left in any of us. All the pleadings and prayers are spent. There is nothing for us but
the sweltering silence of this dark oven.
     And the show.
     The goddamn show, it must go on.

                                                                      * * *

     The small fire spewed hot sparks and ash into the night sky as Abel hurled a
fresh log into its embers.
     “Hey! Watch out, you stupid bastard!” Lot yelled, beans and pork juice dribbling
down his chin. Abel replied only by hanging his head and stumbling sullenly out of
the weakening ring of light. Lot wiped his grimy mouth on his leather gloves. “Aw,
hell,” he muttered, “I guess I better go apologize to the big lout.”
     “Leave him be, Lot. He’ll find a pile of dirt or a dead animal and he’ll forget all
about it.” Adam’s soft but powerful voice drew a hushed burst of laughter from the
small group of shabby-looking men.
     “Well, you’re the boss,” Lot sighed as he sat back down. “If you think he’ll be ok,
I’ll get back to dinner.”
     “He’ll be fine. Now finish that grub up quick, boys. We got a lot of work in
front of us and you know the Rev hates to get behind schedule.” Adam inhaled a last
mouthful of beans and tossed the can toward the newly invigorated fire. The rest of
the tired men quickly did the same. After much groaning and consternation, they
eventually began to shamble toward the heavily loaded trucks.
     “Where is the good Reverend this evening?” Jeremiah inquired as softly as he
could without belying his utter dread of the holy man. “He didn’t want to share in the
vittles?”
     “My sincere apologies for not joining in the sumptuous feast this evening. I
acquired other accommodations and dined alone in the confines of my trailer.” The
reverend’s deep, haunting voice and soft southern drawl crawled through the cool,
dusty night air from behind the group of men. “Although, I must admit that I am
slightly miffed that my presence was not inquired into until after the ‘vittles’ were no
more than memories and grease stains.” The last few words oozed from Wainwright’s
lips like a foul sludge and sent chills through the spines of every man who heard.
     “Reverend! I. . .uh. . .that is. . .I mean. . .” Jeremiah tried to stammer some sort of
coherent response, but as he turned to face the Reverend, their gazes locked and all
his words seemed to slip away. Wainwright’s eyes were all white with the exception
of the pitch black pupils which pulsed and pinwheeled like a kaleidoscope. His direct
stare was enough to make even the most resolute of men whimper, and Jeremiah
involuntarily stumbled back a few steps.
     The Reverend smiled coldly at his flock of miscreants. 

 

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+Five Minute Movie Review — Rubber (2010)

 

 

It's a movie about a killer tire. And somehow...it's brilliant.

 

 I'm not going to even post a trailer up here, as I think this movie is best to just see without any spoilers (I had none) and with lowered expectations. After all...film about a killer tire, right folks?

But, I'll say this much-- I was really entertained by this little indie flick. I'm not much of a fan of the 'funny' horror film sub-genre...because they rarely are. But this film was multilayered in its weirdness and one of the most off-the-wall original ideas in horror in the last 20 years. And it has a gracious nod to both Greek theater chorus and 1977's "The Car".

Best Murderous Inanimate Object Movie Ever.  Instant Cult Classic!

+Five Minute Movie Review — Scream 4

 

SUCKED.

 

 

 

That is all.

~Story of the Day —SANTA MARIA by Jeff Cercone

 

—SANTA MARIA
by Jeff Cercone

     “Can you believe these people? What the hell’s the matter with them?”
     Rob ignored his friend and pushed his way through the crowd, bumping an
elderly Hispanic woman in the shoulder. He started to apologize, but she was too
preoccupied to notice.
     “Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores ahora y en la hora
de nuestra muerte. . .” She whispered the prayer, tears soaking her grizzled cheeks
and her arms clutching what Rob assumed were her two grandchildren, who stared
wide-eyed at the spectacle.
     Dozens of people, the devout and the curious, had gathered at the underpass
of the Kennedy freeway, positioning for a glimpse of the stain on the wall. A certain
civility had taken hold despite the stifling Chicago heat and the decidedly unholy
stench of exhaust fumes, sweat and urine.
     Most kept a respectful distance, queuing up and allowing a few at a time,
usually a family or a group of friends, to move up to get a closer look. Rob noticed,
then felt guilty for pushing his way to the front.
     “They’re nuts!” Mitch said, not caring who he offended. “It doesn’t look anything
like her. It’s a freakin’ stain!”
     “I dunno, if you stare at it long enough, it could look like her,” Rob answered.
     Behind them, people held their camera phones up to capture the image on the
wall.
     “So how do you explain the one that appeared in rust on the water tower in Des
Moines?” Rob asked. “And then there was the other one that was supposedly just a
random case of brown patch on that football field in Texas. . .”
     “I had a rash once that looked like Danny Devito if you saw it in the right light,
but nobody was asking me for autographs,” Mitch said, shaking his head.
     “You’re all class, Mitch,” Rob said, chuckling inappropriately loud.
     It was Mitch’s idea to come here, not because either of them was religious; he
just thought it would be worth a laugh, and he suggested that Rob could get some
footage for his film class. They had been friends all through high school and Mitch
hadn’t changed a bit, Rob thought. He wished he could say the same about himself.
Iraq had done a number on him. But it was good to be home and among friends. And
nice to be able to laugh again.
     A small, middle-aged man in front of them turned and frowned.
     “Show some respect, boys. The virgin came to see us and all you can do is make
jokes?” He shook his head, the brim of his fishing hat stained with sweat.
     “Sorry sir,” Rob said sheepishly while Mitch rolled his eyes.
     A young woman was hugging the stain on the wall as her three little girls
watched, the youngest holding a beat-up plastic doll that was missing an arm and the
oldest holding the leash of a large black lab who had plopped down in a mud puddle
to cool off.
     “Come up here and tell the Virgin your sins!” the woman barked at the girls,
who approached the wall cautiously. “Ask for forgiveness.”
     They waited another 20 minutes for their turn, Rob only having to shush Mitch
a few times. The man in the fishing hat was on his knees at the wall now, holding
rosary beads in one hand, his other touching the stain. After a few moments, he
struggled to his feet and put the beads in his pocket. He looked at Rob and Mitch and
tipped his hat, then turned and walked toward the sidewalk.
     As they moved closer, Rob took out his video camera and began filming the
crowd, then swung around to follow their gaze. In front of the wall, an impromptu
shrine had emerged, with a couple dozen or so glass candles, the kind they sold at
the discount store on the corner, some with pictures of the Virgin, others with Jesus.
People had left bouquets of flowers, cards, rosary beads, Bibles and teddy bears. Rob
noticed that the little girl had left behind the one-armed doll, probably at her mother’s
urging.
     “Unbelievable,” Mitch whispered. “Isn’t it scary to think about how many
desperate people live around you?”
     “Come on, now. If they want to believe in something, who’s it hurting?” Rob
retorted, panning and tilting the camera on the stain. “It does look a little bit like
her.”
     “You’ve been overseas too long, dude,” Mitch said.
     Rob zoomed in on it. If you stared at it long enough, it certainly looked like the
outline of a woman wearing a robe, her head tilted slightly. He could sort of make
out a feminine face at the top right and hands clasped in prayer above her chest. On
the news, city officials were claiming salt runoff from the highway above caused the
stain.
     “Come on, dude. I gotta get back. I’m meeting Melissa for dinner,” Mitch said,
tapping Rob’s shoulder.
     “I think I’m gonna stay here and get some more footage.”
     “Whatever, Jesus freak. Call me later, dude.” Mitch said, then headed back to
the car they had parked a few blocks away.
     Rob waved the next group in line forward, then stepped back a little to give
them some space, filming the whole time. The three old ladies didn’t seem to notice
him as they added to the pile of offerings against the wall and fell to their knees.
     Rob was kneeling as well as he zoomed in on the women, panning from their
feet and up over their hunched backs to the stain on the wall. He began to pan toward
the shrine but doubled back to the stain. He was sure that he’d seen a pair of eyes open
where the woman’s face would be.
     He focused again on the stain for a moment until he shrugged it off as his
colorful imagination working and turned the camera back to the shrine.

 

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~Story of the Day —I AM VISION, I AM DEATH by Erik Williams

 

—I AM VISION, I AM DEATH
by Erik Williams

     On the East side of Dallas, Elijah pulled into a Motel 6 and bought a single for
the night. He paid in cash. He’d wanted to make Shreveport before stopping, but the
caffeine and speed had lost their effectiveness. He needed to crash for a few hours.
     The room was small but adequate. Elijah brought in his backpack and locked
the door. He slid the curtains closed and flicked the A/C on full. After a quick shower,
he crawled into bed and set the alarm for five in the morning.
     He checked the date on his watch. Two days, he thought. Two days since he’d
gotten the call that Mom was on death’s door. She’d only last a few days, according to
the doctor. A week, tops. Elijah frowned. It would be another whole day of driving
to get to Jacksonville.
     Elijah looked around the room at the sparse walls and small TV and plain art in
faded frames. “I am Loneliness.”
     Then he took a few pulls off his flask and went to sleep.

                                                                            * * *

     Again, he dreamed he was the stranger, trapped inside his skin and seeing
through his eyes.
     The dreams were always different. The settings and atmosphere changed each
time. The stranger, though, always remained constant. The same cadence in his
speech. The same controlled anger pulsing through his veins. He had never seen the
man’s face, since he was always looking out through it, nor had he heard his name, but
Elijah knew him and knew what he was capable of.
     This time he was lying naked on a motel bed, watching the local news, KROUChannel
9, Baton Rouge, he recognized, but he was humming some song Elijah had
never heard. The previous time he was in Houston, smoking a cigarette and drinking
vodka out of a plastic motel room cup. He knew it was Houston because of the 214
area code stamped on the phone set. Other places, he could only guess at.
     Always somewhere different, a nomad like Elijah, though the similarities ended
there.
     After a few minutes, he stood and stubbed out the cigarette. He kept humming
as he walked into the bathroom. Inside, a woman lay in an empty tub. She was gagged
and bound, her eyes wide, her skin pale except for bruises on her breasts and thighs.
     The stranger knelt next to the tub, then stroked her cheek with the back of his
left hand. She didn’t blink.
     “I am Death,” Elijah heard himself say through the stranger’s voice.

                                                                             * * *

     Elijah opened his eyes and breathed deep. Sitting up, he glanced at the clock.
He’d only slept forty-five minutes.
     Another woman. In every dream the guy killed women. Not always the same
way, but always women.
     Elijah sipped from the flask and rubbed his face. The dreams varied in length
from time to time, just as his visions did. He thought about how long he’d been having
the dreams and wondered if it counted as living two lives. It sure felt as if it should.
     A few more sips and Elijah lay back down.

                                                                           * * *

     The alarm woke Elijah at five. His head ached and his eyeballs burned. He
wanted to sleep for another day but forced himself out of bed. After he dressed, he
grabbed his bag, headed to the main lobby and checked out.
     As he walked to the car, he heard a woman whimper. He turned and looked
around the parking lot. It was dead quiet with the exception of the buzz of
streetlights. For a minute, he thought he had imagined the sobs, when he heard
another.
     Elijah slinked toward the side of the motel’s main lobby. The whimpers grew
louder and more frequent. Then he saw the movement of shadows on the asphalt.
Elijah pressed his back against the wall and peeked around the corner.
     A large man, well over six feet, had a young girl pinned against the wall, and
both had their pants around their ankles. The man rammed her from behind holding
the side of her face against the brick wall. Her hands were duct-taped together
behind her back and a strip covered her mouth. Blood trickled from her nose and
tears soaked her cheeks.
     Elijah looked away. He peeked again and they were gone.
     I am Vision, he thought.
     His eyes scanned the parking lot, looking for the large man. Then he found him,
leaning against the front bumper of a semi-truck, picking his teeth with his nails.
     Elijah pushed off the wall and walked toward the trucker. As he did, the bell
rang above the motel’s entrance. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the girl
walking out wearing a maid’s uniform.
     He turned back to the trucker. The man had stopped picking his teeth and was
moving toward the girl.
     Elijah walked faster and pulled a knife from his back pocket. He flipped out the
four-inch blade and held it at his side. His pulse remained steady as he maneuvered
around several cars and flanked the trucker from the right.
     Crouching between two cars, Elijah lunged forward as soon as the trucker
walked by, slicing the knife across the right Achilles tendon. The guy crumpled to the
ground and started to scream but Elijah pounced on his chest and covered his mouth
with his left hand.

 

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~Story of the Day —FINAL DRAFT by Mark W. Worthen

 

—FINAL DRAFT
by Mark W. Worthen

     “How do those bastards move so quietly?” I wiped at my dripping forehead with
a sodden sleeve. Moisture from the muggy air formed on the thick leaves of the dense
jungle around us, and the wetness mingled with sweat and dust leaving muddy trails
down our faces. Even at dusk, it sopped hair and created dark camo triangles on our
backs and chests and sides. My hands were so slick I could barely hold on to my M-
16.
     “That’s the thing, Jared,” replied a voice from my left. “The Viet Cong can go
anywhere without making noise. It’s damn creepy.”
     And the smell. The constant cloying foulness of the rotting plants made my
throat clench, and my A-rations, never quiet, signaled an imminent return, coming up
from my half-filled stomach into the swamp. My thighs and ankles ached from hours
of trudging through shin-deep muck.
     I nodded, holding a little tighter to my slipping weapon. “Like Death himself.”
     The only response I got was a snicker. We slogged on in silence, or our version
of it, though we knew the suck-thwock sounds of our boots signaled our presence to
VC for miles around. Finally, Poet Williams, a tall black man, intoned in his drawling
southern Georgia basso:
     “Upon his shield came the warrior home
     His face, transformed by Death’s unholy grasp,
     Become a mask of calm serenity. . .”
     “So who wrote that one, Poet?” A new voice, one I recognized as Andy Tyler’s.
     “I did,” Poet replied.
     “It doesn’t rhyme.”
     “So what?” I shook my head in the semidarkness. “Who decided poetry always
needs to rhyme?” Surrounded by a squad of hard-ass soldiers, how could I say it was
beautiful, that it reflected the heroism I saw in the Army that made me want to join
up in the first place?
     “Nicely metered though,” came the voice that had complained about the
creepiness of the VC. “Iambic pentameter.”
     “Thank you, Justin,” Poet acknowledged.
     That’s when I saw it.
     I don’t know why it caught my eye there in the dark-and-light pattern left by
the retreating sun, but it did. The muzzle of a Russian AK-47, North Vietnamese
weapon of choice, protruded from leaves in the jungle just ahead. My feet froze. I tried
to speak, to shout a warning, but fear closed my throat. I screamed and screamed, but
no sound came out.
     Looking back, we shouldn’t have been talking like that. If the enemy hadn’t
heard our mucky footsteps, they’d certainly heard our blithe conversation as we
passed. Too late; we’d made our mistake.
     Crack! A single shot, a firecracker sound, and time slowed.
     To one side, Andy grabbed his neck and just stood there, suspended like a
marionette, fingers dark with blood, all the muscle control seeping out of him. He
looked toward me as if to ask for help, but I had none to give.
     Puppet strings cut, I watched him fall into the mud.
     I bent forward and raised my gunstock to my cheek, wet from tears, humidity,
or sweat, and scanned the rest of the foliage for unfriendlies. I could see nothing, only
the shadows of trees and bushes. I couldn’t even find the AK muzzle I’d seen before.
Then, crack, crack, two more shots, and then the shattering chaotic staccato of fire from
both sides.
     I lurched forward and squeezed the trigger.
     And I didn’t see or hear anything further. My mind focused only on the pain
that shot up my right leg, a searing, blue electric streak that blocked everything else.
Hallucinogenic lights colored my vision.
     Then everything faded.
     When consciousness returned and things swam back into focus, I saw a vision
of chaos viewed from the ground. All proverbial Hell had broken loose. Nearby, Poet
triggered his weapon into the wall of foliage, which answered in kind. Screams.
Gunfire. The backbeat rattle of choppers overhead, counterpointed by the booming
of grenades all around.
     I reached out for my dropped weapon with the thought of adding a few shots
to the fray, but a new pain flashed down my side, taking my breath away. Lying on
my left, pinning my arm, I couldn’t move my free shoulder at all and still continue
breathing. I panted, and with each breath, sharper and sharper the flare, as though
someone had knifed me.
     Lying there in the muck, afraid to move, I closed my eyes. When I opened them,
I saw Poet’s face.
     “Jared. You all right, man?”
     “Don’t. . .don’t know.” I had to cough the words out as though they’d lodged in
my throat.
     “Hang on. We’ll get you help.” Poet stood up just as shots erupted again from
the trees. Along the ground, successive bullets kicked up a path of splattering mud.
For a moment Poet watched it, then looked at me and winked.
     And stepped into it.
     His body shook with the impact. Then the crackling gunfire stopped, and I
watched him crumple to the ground.
     That trail of spray would have led directly to me.
     More noise, more light, blurring in and out, and then everything went quiet.
     It was over.
     I heard the battle break out again in another area, far to my left.

 

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~Story of the Day —MOURNING WITH THE BONES OF THE DEAD by Gerard Houarner

 

—MOURNING WITH THE BONES OF THE DEAD
by Gerard Houarner

     Albins looked small in his clothes, as if he’d shrunk in the time between
diagnosis and his arrival at the hospice. Flesh had melted from his cheeks, revealing
the bone beneath and giving him a stronger resemblance to his father, Bernhard, who
paid the taxi as the family got out of the car. The boy looked wrong, too much like a
miniature version of his grandfather, who still lived in the old country and supported
himself with his little garden and as a guide for foreign tourists and movie location
scouts. When he’d been healthy, Albins had looked more like his mother, Gizela, with
a cherubic face and thick limbs the bullies at school had learned to respect. Albins
looked wrong because he was closer to death than Bernhard’s father had ever been.
     “Come on, Daddy,” Albins said, holding out a hand for his father to grab. Gizela
already had the other one. “I don’t want to be late for my appointment.”
     His son’s cheerful voice, strong and loud against the car engine’s purr, skewered
Bernhard. He took a breath, snorted at the engine fumes, straightened his sagging
shoulders, paid the driver and joined the rest of his family on the steps to the old
townhouse on the block of desolate urban wilderness. Gizela led them quickly
into the building, as she was already fading under the harsh summer sun. The loss
of children always hit mothers harder, Bernhard thought as he shut the front door
behind them. He could spend hours in the heat if he had to, though he was relieved
the rumble of buses and trucks, the honking of horns and gunning of engines was
behind him. Familiar scents greeted him in the tiny vestibule. His ears pricked to the
faint sound of crunching. Candles burned along the banister of a dusty set of stairs
ahead of them.
     In the gloom, his son’s skin still glowed unnaturally from his exposure to
daylight; the boy could have stayed outdoors forever.
     “Are both of you going to stay with me?” Albins asked as two attendants
emerged from opposing open doorways in the hallway that led from the vestibule.
They smelled like freshly turned earth.
     “Yes, love,” Gizela said, cupping her baby’s head as the attendants stopped
before them. Their teeth chattered, their blind eyes gazed past mother, father, son,
through the steel door that had opened for the three after each had whispered the
name they found in their mother’s womb.
     Albins giggled at them, but he wouldn’t let go of his parents’ hands.
     “You have to go with them,” Bernhard said, pulling his arm up. “They’ll take care
of you. We’ll see you in a little while.”
     “No!” Albins cried out, and his voice echoed up the stairwell, through doorways,
in rooms with bricked-up windows. Dust rained down on them from the cracked
ceiling. “You just want to leave me here and get away and never come back.”
     “What do you want?” Gizela asked, her voice quavering as she ran her fingers
through his thin black hair
     “Don’t leave,” Albins answered, with determination.
     “We won’t,” said Bernhard. “There’s a place for us to wait?” he asked the
attendants.
     “Upstairs,” a woman’s voice croaked in the stillness. Beyond the left hand
doorway, a flame came to life in a pool of oil contained in the hollow of an upturned
skull on the floor. An old woman in rags leaned into the flickering light, pointed
upstairs, grinned toothlessly. “That’s where we all end up.” She cackled, showing
gaps in her rows of teeth.
     She reminded Bernhard of his mother, in the madness of her later years.
     Albins moaned as if his illness was suddenly too much for him. But the healers
had said there’d be no pain. At least, no physical discomfort. Bernhard recognized
the sign, and understood. The change was upon the boy. He was reacting to the old
woman, to the attendants. He was frightened.
     “We’ll be close by,” Bernhard said, going down on one knee to talk directly to
his son. “You can come to us, when you’re ready. If you want to.”
     “You won’t leave, like you did before?”
     Bernhard opened his mouth to say something, closed it, feeling Gizela move,
sensing her warning. Don’t argue with the boy. Don’t explain. Don’t make excuses.
     “No.”
     “You’ll stay with Mom?”
     “Yes.”
     “And you’ll both be there if I need you?”
     “Yes.”
     Reluctantly, Albins released his grip on Bernhard’s hand, and his mother’s. He
went between the attendants, but they did not offer their bony, claw-like appendages
and the boy did not take hold of them. When they turned and walked down the hall to
the back of the building, Albins followed, a step behind. He never looked back.
     “He’s so brave,” Gizela said.
     And I’m not? he almost answered. But that was an old argument, from another
time and place. He’d left that all behind, proved to himself and her and anyone and
anything that cared that he was as strong and brave as any. He had the skulls to
prove it, and the gratitude of those who’d needed the blood and meat and bones he’d
provided. Of course, Gizela would say something like, too bad you couldn’t do all of
that for us, when it mattered.
     Those were old arguments. Dead ones. He was back for Albins. They were here
for Albins. Blood called its children out of the wilderness. And death.
     “Yes,” he said, at last. “He’s a brave one.”
     They went up creaking stairs to the first floor, flickering candles giving way to
strings of naked bulbs hung across the ceiling. 

 

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