The Other White Meat

Chapter 1

Flune 5 2948

The ground crunched dryly under Luthor’s plated boots. Dry, brittle bones of varying sizes littered the graveyard. Several headstones and markers lay toppled or broken before their respective graves. Luthor’s brow furrowed at the sight. Many of the graves appeared disturbed from the inside out.

He gripped his well-honed sword tightly and unsheathed it from his back. The weight and balance it felt good in his hand. He laid his other hand on the symbol that hung from his neck and offered a silent prayer. Brushing a lock of black hair shot with silver from his face, he glanced back to the small village to the west. The lantern lights from the village flickered like will-o-wisps against the darkness of the night. The light of the full moons, Enoch and Styg, reflected brightly in the sheen of his bastard sword.

Cael is with us tonight, he reassured himself. He snapped a nod at his partner and signed her forward. We will end you tonight, Rhynos Maethers.

The tall slender woman acknowledged the signal with a double tap on her thigh. She moved into a wide forward arc. Two metallic constructs, their bodies resembling canines, sprang from their crouched positions next to the woman and fell in line with their master. The woman twirled her quarterstaff and caught one end under her arm, focusing her energies into the other. The end of her staff flared with a soft white light before becoming muted once more.

“Mother Myr protect us this night. Father Cael give Ix’chel and I the strength and guidance to return those who defy you to your righteous grasp”, the symbol clutched by Luthor glowed softly as he uttered the blessing. Luthor felt warmth flow through him, bringing his thoughts to focus and edging away any hints of fear.
He took up the same approach as Ix’chel moving into position around the abandoned shack that once served as the gravedigger’s hut.

Luthor stalked toward the left side of the shack. He attempted a peek inside the hut only to find the windows covered in heavy oiled leathers. He grumbled and inched to the front of the shack signaling Ix’chel and her hounds around back. The links of his mithral chain shifted in hushed symphony as he crept to the front door.

Ix’chel skulked to the rear of the shed. Her hound constructs, Ixaotal and Mazlan, closed in behind her and snarled an alert with a metallic growl. Ix’chel’s muscled tensed in anticipation of attack. She squatted to scan the horizon with her amber eyes. The hounds growled as the ground shuddered before her. Three humanoid bodies erupted from the earth, their eyes a feral red and their skin a sickly pallid color of green. Flesh hung loosely from their decrepit forms. A horrid stench drowned Ix’chel as they rushed her. She sprang forward into a roll as sharp jagged teeth gnashed and razor claws slashed where she was a second ago. Ixaotal and Mazlan charged forward barking metallically as Ix’chel brought her staff to bear, readying herself for the oncoming fight.

Luthor rested his hand on the doorknob of the hut, twisting it to enter. The sounds of metallic snarling alerted him of danger. He stepped away from the door, straining for sounds of Ix’chel being overwhelmed. The slight distraction cost him; a loud crack erupted from the door as it was ripped from its frame from the inside. A man stood inside the door frame, tossing the door to the side. Wearing only trousers and his hair a matted mess of dirt and twigs, he gave Luthor an evil grin. His bare chest rippled with muscle, his skin white as bone, almost luminescent under the twin full moons.

“Brother Maethers sends his regards, Brother Prathius,” the grin became a mouth of fangs as the man lunged towards Luthor with clawed hands.

Luthor quickly dropped to a knee bringing his sword around, piercing the monster’s abdomen. The monster howled in pain as Luthor used its momentum against it and lifted the creature over his head and slamming it to the ground. Luthor leapt over the creature in a somersault pulling the sword free. Landing in a crouch, Luthor uttered a prayer and extended his hand toward the vampire; his hand flashed brightly as a ray of white holy light shot from his palm. The monster quickly rolled into a stand avoiding the ray.
It burst into laughter as the laceration to its midsection repaired itself as if never there.

“Yah gonna have ta do better than tha’. In fac’ why don ya come ov’r here an’ let me have a bite.” The vampire gazed into Luthor’s eyes.

Luthor felt the pull on his mind; the lull washing over him dulling his senses. He limped forward dragging his sword behind him.

The vampire licked his fangs hungrily as Luthor staggered toward him. It placed its hands on Luthor’s shoulders pulling him closer to him. Baring its fangs, the vampire tilted Luthor’s head to the side. Its fangs grazed Luthor’s neck and then howled in pain.
The vampire twisted, throwing Luthor toward the hut. Staggering back, the vampire pawed at the dagger protruding from its side. The wound sizzled and oozed with pus.

Luthor rolled into a crouch. “Is that better, Frant? Does the taste of silver give you that satisfied feeling? I know it does for me.”

Frant snarled pulling the silver dagger from his bleeding side. The wound remained, oozing and steaming with black ichor.

Frant lunged again, coming in low. Luthor sprang to his feet setting them for the charge. He leveled his sword for impact at the last moment, throwing his shoulder into the blow. Frant accepted the sword fully into his chest; the tip erupted from his back. The force of the blow lifted Luthor off his feet hurling him backwards into the hut. He felt as time was standing still as he flew through the air until smashing into the back window.

Ix’chel swept her staff low catching a ghoul at his ankles knocking it to the ground. Ixaotal quickly pounced on the newly prone creature clamping its iron jaws on the ghoul’s neck. Mazlan followed suit with a second ghoul, clamping tightly to its leg.
The fourth ghoul twisted with a howl, launching itself at Ix’chel. A clawed hand ripped through her cloak. Splintered nail and broken bone was the only result.

Ix’chel spun catching the ghoul in the side with the enchanted end of her staff. A light flashed and the ghoul’s side was nothing but ash. The ghoul ignored its missing ribs and continued its attack. Ix’chel gracefully dodged each blow bringing the staff end up across the ghoul’s chin. Its head exploded in a puff of ash. Its body slumped to the ground and moved no more.

Mazlan dragged the leg of its ghoul. It crawled slowly behind attempting to retrieve its leg. Ix’chel cut its chase short with a quick thrust of her staff. She gracefully maneuvered to dispatch the ghoul held by Ixaotal. The wall of the shack shattered behind her. Ixaotal spun around to see Luthor on his back amongst the timber and shattered glass.

Ix’chel flung herself toward Luthor, her destination suddenly blocked by the vampire.
It stood over Luthor, its eyes wild with hate. Luthor’s sword protruded from its chest, black ichor dripping from the point that exited its back. Ix’chel shifted to a defensive stance as the hounds finished off the ghouls. The monster stared at Ix’chel pointing a twisted gnarled finger at her.

“Stan’ back, wench. Yeh’ll ge’ yers soon enough. Dah is gonna have a lil’ snack before da main course.” The creature laughed deeply bringing his full attention to Luthor.

Luthor held a vial in his hands prying the stopper out with his thumb.

“Wha’, yah think a lil water is gonna hurt me? Really are stupid ain’t yah. Huntin’ vampires at night. Drop it, Brother, now!” Frant reached down grabbing a fistful of Luthor’s chain shirt.

Luthor flipped the stopper out spilling the contents onto the ground, “This? Oh, this isn’t for you, Frant. It’s to water the silver Ix’chel dusted the ground with earlier today.”

Frant stared at the ground as the liquid was quickly absorbed by the earth. A blue aura washed over the ground etched with runes he clearly recognized. Frant dropped Luthor and ran. The aura glowed bright stopping Frant in mid stride. Pain coursed through his body. Frant howled in pain; the body of the ghouls disintegrated into ash.

Luthor sprang to his feet. “Now, Ix’chel!”

Ix’chel focused her energies into her hand and lunged toward Frant. She reached out and touched the tip of Luthor’s blade releasing the built up energy into it. The glow washed over the tip passing further down the sword and into Frant’s body. As it flowed, the flesh around the sword burned and turned to ash. Frant screamed in agony, trapped in the holy aura that circled his home and impaled with Luthor’s now enchanted sword. Luthor stepped around Frant grasping the hilt of his sword.
“Cael calls you home, Frant” Luthor twisted his sword and with a hard thrust upward, he cleft Frant in twain. The two halves turned to ash as they fell to the ground.

Ix’chel stepped next to Luthor placing a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry he is not here, Luthor. We will catch him soon.”

Luther only nodded pulling two more vials of holy water. “We have graves to bless.”

************************************************** ******************

The next morning, Luthor woke to the sound of knocking. Still groggy from the long night, Luthor pulled the covers back and swept his feet off the bed and to the floor. He had contemplated last night’s events. Something bothered him. Was there a spy in the church? Had this been just a setup for him? Could it have been just Caevari tossing him a break? It was sloppy in either case. The rapping came again.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.” Luthor stumbled to the door, cracking it slightly.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir. I have a message for you, delivered just this morn.” The maid held the sealed parchment out to him nervously.

“Thank you.” Luthor exchanged the parchment with a silver coin.

The maid’s face brightened, “Thank you, sir! Thank you kindly!” She hesitated, “And thank you for saving our town.”

“Yeah, Myr bless you.” Luthor absently shut the door preoccupied with his thoughts and retreated back to the bed.

Luthor played with the polished bone and silver hanging at his neck while thoughtfully staring at the scroll. The seal matching his necklace told him it was from the Church.
He sat up in bed and twirled the scroll in his left hand. He cracked the seal and rolled out the parchment.

After reading, Luthor rolled the parchment bringing a lit candle to one end. He watched as the flame greedily devoured the scroll.Luthor placed the burning remains into the wash basin allowing the flame to finish its meal. Dressing himself in his travelling clothes, he walked out of his room and down to the next room. He knocked twice before the door cracked.

“We have been called to Salex. We leave within the hour. I’ll be having breakfast.”

Inside he could see the glowing embers of Ix’chel’s amber eyes, the mithral glittering on the unnatural composition of her skin made of metal and wood. She stepped out of the room placing a hat on her head. As it rested upon her brow, it shifted to a hairpin and her skin and clothing morphed from the metal and wood to that of a dark skinned woman in a modest blouse and pant.

“I am ready. So are Ixaotal and Mazlan.” She adjusted her pack.

“Right, I forget you don’t sleep. What do you do all night?” Luthor turned and headed to the common room.

“I think about my past. I am still having problems remembering moments of my past since the day you found me.” Ixaotal and Mazlan snapped at each other playfully.

The common room was already filled to maximum with people eager to greet their heroes.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure something will come back sooner or later.” Luthor stared at the sea of villagers and sighed. “Maybe I’ll skip breakfast.”

The wind whipped through the sparse alpines, carrying the sounds of hard labor upon its back. The normal serenity of the majestic mountain range buckled under the sweat and determination of the twelve man team. The men worked tirelessly on a patch of gently sloping rock with pickaxes and shovels piercing the thick skin of the earth. Motivating them was Thedon and Lukas, a pair of cruel taskmasters ready to chase off the idea of loafing with a crack of their whips. Four guardsmen patrolled the perimeter of the dig site in shifts, their sharp senses directed at the surrounding rock and brush.

The Dhugdhurn mountains were known to be infested with beasts, natural and, if the stories are to be believed, unnatural in origin. It was the refuge for a number of goblinoid tribes, fleeing the human scourges after the Horn God war. So far, there had been no sight or sound of any of these threats. This only made the tension greater for everyone.

It was a warm spring day despite the cool wind blowing across the range. The blaze of the afternoon sun felt good on Morris’s face. He looked over the dig site from a large jutting rock and yawned deeply. He remembered briefly the excitement he felt on his first mining survey and how gradually the excitement drained away over the past ten years.

He knew his work was important and served a higher purpose. They were employed by one of the bigger mining companies of Salex. A successful survey of a new vein of ore would determine whether hundreds of migrant workers had work for the upcoming season. Not to mention the nice bonus he received; yet he still felt as something was missing from his life.
His gaze drifted East, following the skyline the Dhugdhurn mountains made across the clear blue sky until it was abruptly severed by an enormous wall of grey mist. It was known as the Grey Wall and not much was known about it except that it predated all known history. It stretched North and South farther than anyone was brave enough to explore creating an unnatural border along the Eastern side of the continent.

This was the closest his work had ever brought him to the wall. He stood paralyzed by its unique beauty and the excitement of the unknown. It wasn’t often that surveys went this high into the mountains. Normally, the ores they were searching for were found deeper and lower in the mountain. However, more and more surveys have been finding large ore veins higher in elevation and closer to the surface the closer they moved toward the Grey Wall. This phenomenon baffled scholars and sages for decades.

“They say it’s because these peaks were not always here – they were created by a great upheaval,” Morris called down to the rest of his survey team. He imagined the great cataclysm as he overlooked the vista.

Down below, Landon nudged one of his colleagues. “They also say that the closer you get to the wall, the worse the smell of death and decay. And that if you stare into it deep enough you can see the faces of dead loved ones. But most of’em are crazy loons.”

“And here I was thinking that smell was ol’ Thedon there.” Rogen said a little louder than he expected.

Laughter erupted from the three remaining surveyors as they walked to the lunch tent. A couple of the laborers chuckled as well but were silenced quickly by scowls from Thedon and his brutal partner.

Morris looked down to Landon and his crew, shaking his head with a smirk. Landon, whom he had known since childhood, was always quick to dismiss the words and visions of sages and scholars. Morris could not fault him, it was the main reason he had requested Landon for the trip. Morris needed someone to ground him from his flights of fancy and he trusted no one more than Landon.

Morris knew not to take what he had read or heard during his youth as nothing more than legend and myth; yet seeing the Grey Wall, even at this distance, excited his sense of exploration and adventure.

So what of it that no one who has ever breached the Grey Wall has never come back? What if paradise lies beyond and they simply did not want to leave? Morris climbed down from the rock before pulling his leather gloves off to adjust his jerkin and apron and stole one last long look at the long wall of grey. It has to exist for a reason. Morris joined his colleagues who were finishing lunch despite the hysterics Landon had put them in. Morris smiled. He would let them have their fun for now.

The sun crawled to midday before the surveying team finally had enough rock samples to begin work. Immediately they became all business with their tools of trade. Landon and Rogen used compasses to triangulate their position, comparing their findings to the land charter given to them by headquarters. The charter ensured their work would not be hindered by land disputes between other mining companies. Competition was high for quality veins and disputes often turned deadly while waiting for the High Courts to pass judgment.

Morris took the remaining teammates and set upon the loads of rocks freed from the earth by the labor team testing them for the metals they searched for and the purity of the vein. Morris focused on his work and if not for the call from Thedon walking quickly towards him, he would have surely missed the commotion happening amongst the laborers. The look on the taskmasters face did not sit well with Morris. Concerned, Morris pulled himself from his alchemical lab and jogged to meet the taskmaster, who was now wheezing and wiping the sweat from his brow.

“What’s wrong, Thedon? What has all the men riled up?” He stared past the taskmaster, searching for something to cool his worry.

“The men – They found something in the earth. You should come see, Mr. Morris.” Thedon blustered nearly out of breath from the short trot.

Morris followed Thedon back to the dig site. He tried to keep himself calm, “Its probably a large vein. That always gets them going.” When he arrived, he staggered backwards, his imagination sparked alive as the other surveyors crowded around him. Landon gasped and it was then that Morris knew he was not dreaming.

The object in the earth, partially uncovered, was definitely not a vein of ore. It appeared to be some sort of worked stone or metal and large. The image generated hundreds of theories within his mind’s eye.

Eyes wild with excitement, Morris grinned, “Dig it up.”

Morris divided the laborers into shifts so they could dig through the rest of the day and through the night. With a little coaxing, a couple of his colleagues volunteered to help dig as well.

Landon pulled Morris aside, “Morris, have you gone mad? We should report this to Salex headquarters.”

“No, we report this and some scholar from Olycor will swoop in and take all the credit for the find.” Morris pulled away from Landon and stared deeply at the object which by then was beginning to take on more of a rectangular shape. “Like an altar or sarcophagus,” Morris imagined.

“Look at it, Landon. This is old – I mean really old. Look at the designs and the way it’s shaped. I wonder what it’s made of.” Morris reached out to touch it and suddenly pulled away, “We should run some tests.” Morris was a mile a minute and was already on this way to the work tent before Landon could give a retort. Landon did not like the way this was progressing.

Morris finished gathering his supplies and was heading out of the work tent when he spotted Landon entering the main surveyor tent. He desperately wanted to work on the object, but he was suspicious of the way Landon had been acting earlier. Morris moved towards the tent, “What are you up to, Landon.”

Pulling back the tent flap he saw Landon and immediately understood. His friend finished whispering to a wooden token shaped like a bird and tossed it into the air. Magically, it transformed to a living version of visage and fluttered south.

Morris felt as if his heart was trampled on, “I know you are trying to protect me, Landon. This is not Waysfair or Tenton – this is real. It’s not junk like all the others. You’ve got to know that. Why are you not supporting me on this?”

Landon’s face twisted with rage, “Support you, Morris? Do you remember how many times have I had to pull your head out of a pool of your own depression-induced-drinking-binge vomit? How many lies have I told? How many excuses I have given to cover for your ass after you crawl into that dark hole of yours after another failed ‘adventure’?” Landon pounded his fist on a nearby table. “When are you going to accept that you are a surveyor? Just as your father was and just as his father was before him? A surveyor and that’s all!” Morris clinched his fists, seething with anger but Landon continued, “Kaeruna help him, the Sisters have bewitched another poor soul with the will’o’wisps of fortune and fame.”

“I should have never asked you along, Landon. You are through here. This is my dig and I want you out. Pack your things, you leave in the morning.” Morris said bitterly as he marched out of the tent and back to the dig site.

The laborers now had the entire top and first foot of the sides uncovered. It stretched ten feet long with intricate designs and hieroglyphs etched into the stone and metal. Stone-like vines swirl across the top and sides like a real vine would creep up a tree trunk. Morris stood amazed at the level of detail and bizarreness of the hieroglyphs. He was sure given enough time he could decipher the story it was attempting to tell him. Time, however, was not something he had a lot of at the moment so he had to work fast. He dismissed the laborers for the night and set up his lab upon the top of the container. He quickly arranged his tools and was soon lost in documenting his findings.

“Damn you, Landon. Damn you all. They don’t realize what you are to me,” Morris traced the top designs with his hand sliding it down the side closest to him circling a spiral design of stone vines.

Suddenly, the design clicked and Morris quickly pulled his hand away, examining it. Blood trickled down his palm, “Cael take me. It’s trapped.” He took a step back to grab a bit cloth to bind his wound when the spiral design lashed out encircling his leg tightly. Morris attempted to cry out in hopes of alerting the evening watch. He was promptly silenced when another stone vine wrapped around his waist and throat crushing the air from his lungs. Morris struggled for freedom and air. Fear grappled him as tightly as the vines did, slowly devouring his sanity. The container’s designs began to glow a deep green, slowly melting away leaving exposed what appeared to be a humanoid made of the same material as the container itself. Morris could feel the vines tighten and tear into his flesh with razor sharp thorns, draining his life’s blood. The vines absorbed the flow of blood, strengthening the green glow of the shifting container.

As his life ebbed away he watched the glow of the container feed the glow that was now emitting from the humanoid. He thought he heard the clang of the watch bell as the humanoid sat up and stretched its body of living wood and metal. As his vision blurred and he slumped to ground, he thought he made out Landon brandishing his sword charging the thing he awakened.

Thought and fantasy began to blur together for Morris as he prayed, “Always the valiant one, Landon. A true friend to the end. Kaeruna protect us – forgive me for what I have wrought.”

Slowly the world faded to darkness.

The following is a composition written in a three-four sentenced paragraph rotation between Crayon, Parabolist, and myself.

All rights and stuff are ours and will freely share if asked in the right way.

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His fingers fumbled for the remote, the resounding click of the television threw the room into sudden darkness. He mentally sighed, writing a list of things he wanted to accomplish the next day. It was late and he should go to bed, he thought to himself. The phone rang, shattering the peaceful still of the night. He turned towards the phone and then to the bedside clock which read two-fifteen AM.

The phone chirped again, annoyingly gargling its cacophonous tune. Two-sixteen in the morning, in a city Sam had never visited before, in a sleeze-bag motel where no one knew him or that he was staying there and it was his room receiving a middle-of-the-fucking-night phone call from Fuck-knows-who. It has to be a wrong number. The phone fell silent as the clock kicked over to two-twenty. At two-twenty-one it rang again.

He silently cursed the caller who obviously had fuck-all to do on a Sunday night, no, it was Monday now, five more hours and he would be on the road again heading further into the city to complete the tasks set before him. He imagined all the biting and sarcastic comments he wanted to say to this low-life worthless piece of whore-jizz who had taken it upon himself to annoy the ever-fucking-life out of Sam at two-twenty-two on this FINE Monday morning.

Cursing to himself, he reached for the phone. “What the hell do you want?” Sam was not about to even give this infernal wretch the decency of a hello.
Sammy, Oh God, thank God, Sammy! He’s coming for me Sammy. I don’t think I can get away this time. You’ve got to help me Sammy. Please he’s – oh God, Sammy, he’s- Her panicked voice echoed in Sam’s head.

“Muriel? What? Who?” God, he had not seen nor heard from her in five – no, ten years. “Muriel?” Only breathing – breathing or static; Sam could not be sure. “Muriel?!” The line was dead, an agonizing beeping filled the silence of the room. Sam jumped when the clock clicked loudly to two-twenty-five.

Muriel – oh how he had pined away for Muriel all those fifteen years while living in Brooklyn. He almost hated his brother for finding her first, it was jealousy at first but he had slowly convinced himself that his brother, Jonas, had purposefully paraded Muriel around Sam to provoke him, to make him fall in love with her only to marry her away from Sam. It was what convinced him to join the company and the extensive travel it advertised.

Dial tone quickly gave way to the touch tones of his mothers phone number. He knew it was late but she would get over it and this was important. It rang a few times, the waiting seemed endless. There was no choice though. He knew there was no way to trace teh call from the motel. Who is this calling at this time of night? his mother always did get straight to the point. “Its Samuel, mom, listen I don’t have time to explain.” Sam? Is something wrong? Are you locked up again? Sam winced, “Mom, just listen. Jonas – I need his number – I think he’s going to hurt her!” Hurt who? What? Muriel you mean? Honey you are out of it, didn’t you hear? Muriel was in a car crash, she’s been in a coma for two months now!
“What? No, no, mom, I mean I just – I just talked to her.”
Sammy, you had a nightmare or you’ve been drinking. Shush now. Where are you?
“Listen to me Mom. Jonas is going to hurt her, Mom. You have to listen to me!”
Jonas is dead Sammy, you know that. When are you going to stop with your hurtful games? Sam cringed as his mother hung up the phone.

The memories slowly crept out of the cornders of his mind, his mother was right about Jonas – he had been dead for ten years now. The last time he saw Muriel was at his funeral. He had thought about staying in town to help console her and maybe catch up but it was too soon and just a little creepy. Besides I had company work to do on the West coast, he reminded himself.

This did nothing to shake the feeling he had of Jonas hurting Muriel, whom he just found out has been in a coma for the past two months. The thought of it all made his head spin with questions.

Sam collapsed against the cigarette smoke stained wall in the cheap dand room. Maybe he was having some sort of waking dream – maybe this ‘life’ was taking its toll. He started to rationalize the phone didn’t really ring, it was simply not possible. He arighted himself and went to the small dirty bathroom to wash his face. The faucet flowed with cool water which he splashed on his face, and then the phone rang.

Sam cringed and quickly patted his face dry. He charged at the hone, leaing across the bed ad snatching it from the receiver.

“Muriel!” he gasped.

Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, rasped a cold but familiar voice. Tingling lanced up and down Sam’s back. He threw down the phone, backing away slowly. Crimson covered the receiver.

Sam recognized Jonas’s voice immediately but in that same instance he realized how impossible it was for it to be his brother. Jonas was dead, he attended his funeral, saw him in the casket, the whole kit and kaboodle. Sam focused on the bleeding receiver, then down to his hands which were the same crimson of the phone. Horror drained him of color as he absent-mindedly wiped his hands on his denim jeans, tripping over an arm chair on his way back to the dingy bathroom, scattering roaches and other nocturnal insects at his staggered approach.

Flipping on the light switch his body wracked with incoherent sobs, there ws no evidene of the blood but he stripped down anyway and crawled into the rusty bathtub and showered, scrubbing and sobbing.

Sam soaked up the water with a hopefully clean towel He stumbled toward the bed, jarring in mid-stride toward the tiny circular table near the curtained window. His to-do list rested with his pen next to a cheap bottle of Scotch. One drink would take the edge off. Just one drink. The burn was delicious, spreading down his throat, releasing the tension. Sam glanced at the list.

Item 1: Kill Muriel
Item 2: Kill Muriel
Item 3: Kill Muriel

Sam gagged as he read line after line, the same repetitious horror.

Sam sank into an armchair next to the table, staring at the list with disbelief. He hadn’t remembered writing those words but he could not disput that the lettering was in his own handwriting.
“What is happening to me,” he thought aloud, raking a free han through his thinning hair; the table side clock erupted in sound as its numbers annouced the coming hour – 3:00.

The old clock’s numbers then continued flipping, loudly, pulsing like thunder in his skull. All at once he found himself, sweat drenched, underneath a vehicle, blade in hand, brake line about to be severed. He could still hear the clock, the violent clip-clapping of one number being discarded as another number crashed on top of it.

The numbers clicked over again and again. The cool smooth tube was pinched between his fingers. The pen knife blade rested against it, digging in. Drip. Sam blinked and his eyes were filled with sunlight. He held the knife for the wedding cake. Jonas reached for the knife. A drop of rain splattered against Sam’s forehead. He sat up quickly as simultaneously the clock clicked to 3:01 and the phone rang again.

The ringing echoed in Sam’s mind, distant at first slowly growing louder reverberating like church bells. Sam reluctantly let Jonas take the knife shaking off thoughts of plunging it deep into his brother’s chest. He didn’t want to answer the phone but he knew he had no choice.
“No choice at all” he murmurred picking up the reciever.

Finish what you started, Sammy, was the only reply.

My submission (#46) to Jason’s writing contest.

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The Last Mile
by Karlan T

Lenny was using all cylinders as he throttled down the highway. Like most
that ran this stretch, he had a long way to go and a short time to get
there. The heat of the highway radiated unbearably even at the witching
hour.

He scanned the horizon under the moon, searching for the landmark that would
tell him he was nearly home.The trio of plateaus was a beacon haloed by the starlit
sky but the obnoxious flashing neon lights of a gas station grabbed his attention.
Nothing would be better than home, but now the uncomfortable call of nature
gnawed at his mind.

The journey is almost over, one last rest stop won’t kill me, he decided.

Suddenly, lights flooded the air around Lenny. He panicked, glancing back
to see headlights bearing down on him. Some insane instinct, beyond
rationalization, compelled him to donut around and run head long into the
paired beams of light.

Breaking free of the siren song, Lenny leaned into the last mile before the
station. He strained to not look back. Behind, the growing thunder
heightened his fear. The fear snapped his head around. A flash of
reflective chrome grill was all he saw before everything went black.

The thunderous roar pulled into the gas station, rolling to a stop. Its
engine idled with a guttural growl. “Damn Bugs,” it muttered as it pulled
Lenny from its chrome capped teeth.

Man measure wood Man cut wood

 

Man get Manfriend help hammer wood Man and Manfriend find that Man not cut so well.  Man not care so much.  Wood go together good.

 

Man get Woman take picture of wood thing. Man think of dancing round fire beating chest. Woman remind Man of Great HOA god that no like big fire in village.

Man see netfriend next time.  Man build table for Woman.

More cut, more hammer, more man beating on chest.

I was born a poor white child in the bayous of Lake Charles, Louisiana approximately thirty-three years ago.  My lineage dates back to the original colonists on both sides of my family.  When I was younger, history didn’t mean a lot to me and thusly didn’t hold a lot of my attention.  This of course did nothing to stop my older relatives from giving me an earful of folktales and readings from the family memoirs.

The Talkingtons and The Chances both left England for reasons I have yet to discover to begin a new live in the savage lands of America.  My father’s grandmother’s on several occasions claimed Sir Francis Drake was her great-beyond-great uncle.  The evidence to this was in that her maiden name was “Drake”, so make of that what you will.  Beyond that I know from family records that both families moved south after the Revolutionary War.  The Chances were awarded parcels of land in Georgia while The Talkingtons ended up in North Carolina.  The Civil War prompted another story from the Talkington annals.  My father’s mother told a story of her grandfather who fought in the Civil War.  He fought for the South and his brother fought for the North.  Blood proved thicker than anything else in the world when they would meet each night to share coffee and food with one another.

After the Civil War, the stories and memories seem to be lost until the Second World War.  My father was named after an uncle he never met.  His uncle was shot down by German anti-aircraft artillery while performing bombing runs over the African Coast.  My mother’s father lived up to his surname a couple of times during WWII.  He was present at Mussolini’s execution when they strung him upside down to let him bleed to death.  This was after nearly being killed when a mortar shell exploded beside him leaving him unharmed but killing the guy next to him.  His most extraordinary story to date is of a German incursion with his infantry regiment.  His regiment was stalemated against a regiment of Germans.  Both sides were cut off from supplies, and the waiting game began.  Days went by until finally his group had run out of ammo.  The Germans, tired and hungry, didn’t notice or care as they raised their white flag in surrender.  A charmed life indeed, and coincidentally his nickname back home was “Little Boy”.

My father’s father missed the war luckily due to him taking up the calling just as four generations of Talkingtons had done before him.  Casting off his career as an up and coming minor league baseball player, he joined the ranks of a different army.  He was an ordained minister, a soldier for God.  He served his country and his congregation through ministry, keeping hope and faith alive in America.  My father’s mother did her part as well by working as a general worker building schools and sweating as a factory worker just as “Rosy the Riveter” asked of all women during that time.

As I grew up and began to put these stories into their proper context, history became more personal to me.  History was still boring but I at least felt more a part of it.  Now I find myself reconnecting to my country’s founders through the writings of Thomas Jefferson and the unsung patriot, Thomas Paine.  I am discovering that history, as cheesy as it might sound, is more a part of me and who I am than I had ever given it credit for.  I look forward to exploring more of my past through family stories and examining how they fit into the bigger picture of American History.

 

Last night I fulfilled the dreams of not one but two princesses. Yes, I am THAT good. I took them to see the Queen of Rock, Pat Benatar.  She’s still pretty hot and can still wail! It was an awesome show.  The opening act was Lennon, who played her music on piano beautifully despite being a metal act.

 

I think the best part was sharing it with my daughter.  She was SO excited to see “Benatar” and Lennon she screamed for because she thought the piano was great! We danced and sang along, it was a blast.

My son was a little bored with the concert but he managed through it.

We are looking forward to INXS at the end of the month, maybe he’ll enjoy them more.

Overall, it was a great time and it was truly fantastic to be able to fulfill the childhood dreams of both my beautiful princesses.

I am a self-professed Jack of Trades.  I had a pretty decent southern upbringing; just short of seasonal hunting trips, I was taught by my dad to be self sufficient when it came to home repair.  I can install a ceiling fan, install a toilet and sink complete with plumbing, wire an electrical outlet and can even float dry wall.  I amaze my wife on a regular basis with what I can do. *nudge nudge* *wink wink*  On occasion, I wow my land lord who thinks its a godsend to have a tenant that doesn’t need to call out for a repairman for every little thing.  “Imagine all the money I’m saving,” I can hear him think when I tell him I fixed this and that.  I’m ok with that because otherwise I would have to wait for him to call someone, then take a day off of work to meet with the guy.  It just saves everyone a lot of hassle in the end.

Anyway to the point of all this.  I wanted to share a glimpse into where I’ve been hiding myself the past few days.

In addition to being a novice-class handyman, I am also a self-professed member of Geekapollooza.   And one of the most coveted items that a coterie can have bragging rights to is The Ultimate Gaming Table!!  Of course there are several out there claiming to be the ultimate but thus far, NO ONE has beat this design.

Building such a table would require several heavenly bodies to align themselves just so and until I can master the powers of the universe to make this happen, I will have to settle for a smaller design.

One of those “heavenly” bodies would be my wife who has a list of items she would like built before I set my sights on the table of adventure and splendor.  A coffee table and a curio cabinet top the list.

Also, building such an artifact of dorkish proportions would require tools of the carpentry trade, time to build it and a workspace away from little children.

As you can see the table has become a long and arduous journey likened to that of a certain ring carried by a certain young man with hairy feet.

So with the help of Parabolist, my Sam to his Frodo, we took up the task of creating a workshop to build all these wonders in the hopes of ushering a new age, aligning that heavens as we could.

First on the list was the workspace.  I needed a place to work and put all the tools needed.  Scouring the webbed lands of the internet, I came across this handy handyman’s site with a design that seemed to scream, “BUILD ME…!!!”  And with a failed Will save I am doing just that.

The design presented above was to fit into a 16 ft. garage, nearly twice the space that I have in my current garage, so we had to scale it back some.  I decided to go with a 9 ft. tablespace and keep the other variables (depth and height) the same to save me some sanity.

Parabolist being the CAD whiz that he is came up with this:

 

And so, I’m turning this:

with these:

into this:

Results May Vary… 

A few days ago in an enchanted land far far away, a group of adventurous pirate princes and pirate princesses gathered on the Dread Pirate King’s ship, The Mini Pearl, to celebrate his daughter’s fifth year on the open seas.

At the climax of this celebration, the Dreaded Pirate King presented to his princess his most valued possession outside of his lovely children and his Queen.  A map of their island and marked upon it, the location of riches beyond their imaginations.

The “X” was coffin rock, a well known spot to his children as they spent many days watching the sunset there. Before they leave, they retire to the royal palace to prepare for their adventurous journey.

Coffin Rock “Within My Tomb, Lies A Pirates Boon.  Free It From My Deathly Grip By Going On A Daring Trip. Search the Land Far And Wide For the Keys Numbering Five Seek Ye First A Pirate Curst.  Play His Game To Set Him Free And For Your Prize, A Skeleton’s Key.    ~ YAAARGH”

Upon reaching coffin rock, the adventurers scoured the area for clues to the location of the treasure. Finally, the first mate came across an etching in the rock accompanied by five keyholes. After digesting the riddle, the group eyed each other with excitement and wonder. A cursed pirate held their first key.  “Only one pirate I know of that fits that bill,” The first mate declared.  With a wave of his arm, “To the Mini Pearl!”

The Mini Pearl

Aboard the Mini Pearl, the first mate took them to the brig.  Dark and dank and smelling of rotten fish, the brig was empty.  The pirate princesses bravely stepped forward into the darkness.  Suddenly a ghastly visage appeared to them.  It was the Pirate Curst!  “Play my game or join me here forever!” he cackled.

Frightened at the thought of spending their days in this smelly brig, the group cheered each other on as they mastered his game of ring toss. Victorious, the group was given their first key. But not without a few words of gratitude from the Pirate Curst.

The Pirate Curst

“Lads and Lasses, Thank Ye For Lifting The Curse To Free Me.
Now Here My Tale of Woe.  The Captain’s Key I Stole And Hide It I Did In a Clock.  Swallowed Whole By a Wicked Ol’ Croc, Off He Swam Without a Trace To His Home; A Boggy Place”

Looking at the map, they find only one place where this Croc with the Clock could reside.  The foulest place on the island, Black Bog.

“Ewww,” cry the princesses but they trudge on for the greater good.  They can buy new dresses with the treasure that lies in wait for them.

The stench of the bog was only slightly overwhelmed by the vast swarms of mosquitoes, flies and other bugs.  Sloping through the bog, the group searched for the Wicked Ol’ Croc.

“This is hopeless, we are never going to find anything in this mess.” One princess said slinging off a clump of swamp from her feet.  As if on queue, the growl of a crocodile was heard in the darkness accented by the tic tock of a clock.  “ITS HIM!” they all whispered loudly.  Creeping closer to the sound of the Ol’ Croc, they find it stretched out on a bed of moss and peat.  Its yellow eyes scanning the bog for its next meal.  Hoping it didn’t spot them, the group hid behind a log.  Finally, it slid off into the swamp in search for dinner.

Quickly, they search the Ol’ Croc’s bedding for the key.  “Got it,” one of them whispers.  Wrapped in a cocoon of moss, they find the key secured to a piece of parchment.

“Brave Must Ye Be, In Search of the Next Key.  Along the Coast of Shipwreck Shore, Enter Ye Must Through Death’s Door.  Your Fear Ye Will Face For In Davey Jones’ Locker, Yer Hand Ye Must Place.”

Shipwreck Shore

Off to Shipwreck Shore they set, to the two spiraling spires named  Death’s Door. At the foot of these spires is a swirling pool of black.  The local legends say this is only one of many “portholes” to the land of the dead. Bravely they each stick their hands into the pool searching for the key.

The color drains from each of them as Davey Jones sucks the life from them.  “Be Brave” they say to one another scrambling to find the key. A boy dressed in green and goes by Peter Pan jerks his hand up out of the water.  A tentacle is wrapped around his arm but in his grasp is the KEY! They make short work of the tentacle with their magic wands and dirks. And examine the key for another clue. While they look,  A ghostly voice echoes from the pool.

“At Table Rock Collect Your Debt. To Find The Key, A Wager Ye’ll Bet. Throw the Bones With Davey Jones. Three Changes to Stay Alive. Win the Game, Roll a Five. ~ARRRGH”

“Last Key to Find in a Ballroom Divine. A Princess Bride Full of Dread Her Greatest Fear Ne’er to Wed. Without Her Slipper Made of Glass The Prince’s Test She’ll Not Pass. With Closed Eye Numbering Two Make This Princess’ Dream Come True”

Off they set for Table Rock and the fourth key. After a short climb they reach the top of Table Rock and find a feast waiting for them along with a sealed box and a pair of bony dice. “I have a bad feeling about this.” The first mate says as he chomps down on a piece of cake. While they eat, they each take a turn at the bones.  Three rounds go by and soon they begin to worry if this is the end. The Dread Pirate’s daughter makes a wish and with the final throw of the dice….  a five! The seal on the box cracks and inside is the fourth key and a parchment.

Finishing their feast, they cry in unison, “The Royal Palace!” After a quick march down the rock and to the palace, they slowly enter the ballroom not sure what to expect. In the center of the ballroom is a Prince at the feet of a beautiful Princess frozen in time. Several slippers of glass and shiny quartz lay around them.  Closing their eyes they each pick up a slipper and try to place it on her foot.  With uncanny accuracy Princess T slipped her slipper on the princess.

The Royal Palace – Ballroom The Prince and Princess released from their spell thanked the brave pirates and gave them their final key. “Back to COFFIN ROCK!!” they sprinted.  The princesses remembering their manners stopped to curtsey on their way out.

Each of them took a key and inserted it into the keyhole.  With a grinding turn, the sound of a lock opening could be heard. With the final key, the Princess E opened the final lock. Together they lifted the coffin opened and peered inside.

“A TREASURE CHEST!!” they screamed with excitement. The Dread Pirate King and his first mate lifted the chest out.

The glittering of gold and jewels was blinding. The treasure was legendary. “We should take this back to the palace to split it up.” They all agreed and headed back to the palace…

Where they enjoyed the rewards of working together, facing their fears and overcoming great obstacles. Happy Treasure Hunting and Happy Birthday!! Princess E!! Special Thanks to the Curst Pirate for assisting on creating this magical day.  I think we had just about as much fun building the adventure as the kids did running through it.

Creative design by Mr. T (The Dread Pirate King) Mrs. T (His Queen) Parabolist (The Curst Pirate) Map work by Parabolist (The Curst Pirate)

The last rays of the day glinted off the polished barrel of the Smith
& Wesson .45 revolver Gary held securely to his temple. Gary licked
his lips. The tear-salted taste mentally reinforced him of his resolve
to pull the trigger.

“Soon, this would all be over.  I’ll finally be free,” he reassured himself.

Gary tensed his index finger gently applying pressure to the trigger.
He listened anxiously for the inviting click of the hammer of the gun
but instead the grating shrill of the phone was all that he heard.

Grimacing at the interruption, Gary tried to ignore the relentless ringing.

“I should have unplugged the phone from the wall,” though he seemed to remember he had.

Begrudgingly, Gary released the hammer on the pistol and set it on the table.  The tarp he had laid out crunched beneath his feet like dried dead leaves as he walked across the room to rectify his forgotten task.  As he reached for the phone, something inside of him urged him to answer it.

“Curiosity?” he thought.  “More like sadist intentions to endure yet
another ‘generous’ caller wanting to save me loads of money on long
distance.”

“Inconsiderate pricks,” the words reverberated through the bare
kitchen. “I’ll give them something to remember me by,” and yanked the receiver from the cradle of the phone.

“Listen here you miserable FUCK! I don’t want whatever you are
selling. After today I won’t be much in the market from much of
anything short of a mop, a bucket, and a pine box. And I already have
two of the three.”

He was answered with silence. He stood puzzled for a moment, almost taken back. He hadn’t meant to be so abrasive but the swell of emotion took over and erupted from his insides. He suddenly felt guilty.

“Hello?” he squeaked.  “Didn’t mean to give you both barrels.”

Still the reply was dead air. He slowly hung up the phone and a
chuckle bubbled up inside of him which escaped through his nose in a
snort.

“Both barrels,” he smiled at his own joke, “I’d be happy to be getting back to my one.”

He walked back over to the table straightening a crease in the tarp as
he went. He wanted this moment more than anything but he was not
inconsiderate of others. He had planned this event out with a
meticulous mind ensuring that his actions would not cause whomever found him a lot of work in cleaning up. He had set out a large blue tarp on the floor of his kitchen and even hung an orange tarp on the wall opposing his chair to catch any bone or brain matter that might explode from his head in the next few minutes. A mop and bucket were set next to the back door with a gallon of bleach and a hose. A box of rubber kitchen gloves completed the ensemble. He was generally a tidy person and he wanted to be sure that he provided the means to keep his home clean after he was done fulfilling his destiny.

He sat at the table and picked up the pistol. He felt the weight of
the piece in his hand. He particularly like the way the pistol molded
in his grip, reassuring him that he was on the right path. He felt at
ease. Placing the barrel against his right temple, he rejoiced at the
coldness of its touch.

“Death’s finger upon my brow.. Sweet darkness take me now.” He had practiced the cheesy lines many times and now that he was speaking them at the moment of truth, he felt reinforced.

“Did you unplug the phone? Did you check?” The random thought jarred him from his daydream of quietus.

He snarled and placed the gun down on the table once more and trotted over to the phone. He followed the cord of the phone to the jack. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the phone blared into his ear.  Catching his breath, he ignored the ringing and continued his search for the end of the cord.

“Not this time, mother fucker,” he grumbled as he followed the cord to its end. He pulled the cord quickly through one hand and stood erect as he reached the plug. Holding the plug in his hand he turned and eyed the still ringing phone.