Monthly Archives: June 2021

Blood Money (Part 2)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Blood Money Part 1

Foy plucked a dried fragment of brimstone from a carpet fiber with a pair of tweezers and dropped it into a plastic vial. “All right, Detective History Channel, if we can’t touch the coins…”

“Or the pot,” Elodie added.

“Okay…or the pot, then how are we supposed to bag them as evidence?”

Elodie pulled out her phone, scrolled through her contacts and dialed a number. “This is Detective Elodie Arcement, Badge One Point Six One Eight. Suspected religious artifact at the scene, possibly cursed. Requesting Pure Soul dispatch as soon as possible.”

Foy raised an eyebrow. “Pure Souls are immune to religious curses?” she asked.

Elodie shrugged. “More immune than you or me, I reckon. If it turns out they’re not and the smotening happens to them as well, then it’s their fault for not knowing their limitations.”

“First of all, smotening?”

“I don’t know how to conjugate smote, do you?”

“Second,” Foy continued. “Your regard for the preservation of human life is astounding.”

“I know. It’s my gift and my curse,” Elodie said, inspecting the living room. “When your team comes in, make sure they collect any phones, tablets and computers they find, as I don’t see any in here.”

“We know how to do our job, Detective Arcement,” Foy said, the arctic front blowing off her shoulder dropped the room’s temperature by ten degrees.

“I know you do, Mara. I was just thinking out loud, that’s all,” Elodie offered her friend and colleague an apologetic smile, before leaning into the foyer to call for the uniformed officer guarding the front door of the house.

“Yes, Detective?” said the baby-faced cop, Nelson by his nametag, mid twenties at best, green as grass.

“Gather up all the available uniforms to question the crowd for witnesses and do a door to door with the neighbors to see if they’ve noticed anything suspicious going on in the neighborhood recently,” Elodie said.

“On it,” Nelson nodded and left to carry out his instructions.

“You’re treating this like a murder investigation,” Foy asked. “I thought we were classifying it as Divine Misadventure?”

“We are, I’m just covering my bases in case this entire thing was staged to make it look like an Act of God.”

Before Foy could comment, a man with a briefcase appeared in the living room entryway. He was at least a head higher than what society considered to be tall, and was undoubtedly the recipient of thousands of the air up there must be thin comments throughout his life. And even though he was too tall for his build, looking like he had been stretched on a torture rack, the isolation suit fit his lanky frame perfectly. Elodie groaned at the sight of him.

“Elijah Richardson, Eleventh Level Pure Soul, ID Number 937781, reporting as requested,” the man said.

“I know who you are, Richardson,” Elodie said.

“I am required by law to state my name, rank and identification number when first entering a crime scene,” Richardson replied.

“And you’ve done that, so can we please get on with this?” said Elodie, exasperated.

“I should have known you would be here, Detective Arcement. These types of cases have a way of finding you, don’t they?” Richardson said, giving Elodie the once over. “Still ignoring regulations, I see. Pity your shoes have to pay the price for your independence.”

Elodie was about to respond when Foy chimed in, “Marabel Foy, Forensics.” She proffered her hand and Richardson glanced at it a moment before ignoring the gesture completely.

“Where is it, then? This potentially cursed artifact?” Richardson asked.

“Can’t you sense it?” Elodie asked with a wry smile. “Aren’t you attuned to the vibrations of objects replete with religiosity? Or is all that rhetoric you spew a load of bunkum?”

“The only vibrations I can feel are the jealousy and shame emanating from you,” the Pure Soul retorted. “Must be hard for a lapsed Catholic to have to rely on someone else to do a job she was deemed unworthy for.”

Foy’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “You were a Pure Soul?”

“A novitiate,” Elodie corrected.

“Who couldn’t make the grade,” Richardson added.

“I found some of the teachings hard to swallow.”

“Too bad that was the only thing you found hard to swallow,” Richardson said, extremely pleased with himself.

Elodie’s temper flared from zero to sixty. “That’s a dirty sticking rumor with no basis…”

“Enough!” Foy interrupted. “You two can get a room later and hash out your differences. We have business to attend to. The artifacts are right this way.”

Kneeling before the clay pot and coins, Richardson set his briefcase down on the carpet, careful to avoid a smoldering brimstone puddle, and inspected the items. “Shekels of Tyre,” he said.

“And take a look at the pot…” Elodie said.

“The clay looks to be circa AD 30 – 36 and it was obviously smashed and pieced back together,” Richardson said.

“Can someone please tell me what the significance of this pot is?” Foy asked.

Elodie was about to explain when Richardson beat her to the punch. “There are several contradicting accounts of what Judas did with his payment when he learned the price Jesus paid for his betrayal. One version stated he was commanded by God to give the money to a potter to create a clay pot. When finished, the potter smashed the pot on Judas Iscariot’s grave.”

“So, you’re suggesting that this pot may be the only vessel that can hold these coins?” Foy asked.

“The only logical explanation as to why anyone would go through the trouble of gluing the pot back together,” Elodie said.

Richardson opened his briefcase, revealing a smaller case inside, and in that case was a pair of white gloves embossed with an ornate cross. He said a prayer under his breath and touched each glove to his lips before slipping them on.

“And if these artifacts are cursed, you can safely handle them without retribution?” Foy asked, gesturing to the charred body that Richardson seemed to ignore entirely.

“I suppose we will find out soon enough, won’t we?” Richardson said. “I advise you both to stand back.”

Elodie and Foy took two giant steps back from the coins and the Pure Soul.

Richardson recited another prayer under his breath, blessed himself by making the sign of the cross, and reached for the coins.

To be continued…

©2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Blood Money

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Detective Elodie Arcement arrived on scene shortly after 3 a.m., the so-called hour of the wolf, when things of this nature usually occurred. She flashed her credentials to the uniformed officer standing at the barrier of black-and-yellow crime-scene tape and was intercepted by a second officer attempting to hand her a forensic isolation suit, which she waved off. Those things never fit right and she found them difficult to walk in because they always managed to bunch up at her feet.

Arcement entered the victorian terrace house, and the air stank of sulfur, largely due to the drops of brimstone that fell through the shattered skylight, creating puddles in the remnant of the living room shag carpet. Although avoiding the puddles as best she could manage, her shoes were getting ruined. She cursed herself for not slipping on the isolation suit when she had the opportunity.

In the center of the living room, Forensic Scientist Marabel Foy, in her isolation suit, was kneeling over the charred remains of a body, conducting her preliminary examination.

“Someone took their sweet time getting here,” Foy said without looking up from the corpse.

“Give it a rest. I wasn’t on call tonight. Shumway called in a family emergency and guess who gets to pick up his slack?” the detective said. “What do we know so far?”

“It’s early days yet, but I believe I can officially list the cause of death as: Smote,” said Foy. “Don’t you just love biblical crime scenes?”

“Gotta give Shumway credit for ducking out on this one. Can you ID the victim?” Arcement asked.

“Ellie, I can’t even tell you if it’s male or female. I need to get what’s left of the body back to the lab.”

“Everything been photographed?”

Foy nodded. “My team’s been over the scene twice. I always find it odd that a bolt from the heavens can reduce a human body to ashes and leave everything else undamaged.”

Tell that to my shoes, Arcement thought, before noticing that the corpse’s right arm was extended and just beyond its reach was a clay pot lying on its side with coins spilling out of it.

“Has anyone touched these?” Arcement asked, gesturing at the pot and coins.

“No. Like I said we were waiting on you…”

“Good. Tell them not to,” Arcement cut her off.

“Why not?”

“Because these coins bear the likeness of the Phoenician god Melqart along with the Greek inscription ΤΥΡΟΥ ΙΕΡΑΣ ΚΑΙ ΑΣΥΛΟΥ which, if they’re genuine, makes them Tyrian shekels.”

Foy waited for an explanation and when none came, asked, “Meaning…?”

“Tyre is a Phoenician city in what we now call Lebanon. They issued silver coins from roughly 130 B.C. to 70 A.D., but no two are alike due to their primitive minting process.”

“And you know this how?”

“By having a theologian and coin collector for a father,” Arcement answered. “Like I was saying, shekels were struck by hand with a four-foot-long hammer whose head had the face on it and the minters stood four feet back and struck the coin and even the most skilled minter wasn’t able to get a perfect strike every time, making the images off-center.”

“I’m still not following,” Foy said.

“Okay, how many coins do you see?” Arcement asked. “I count nineteen on the rug and I’m willing to bet the number still inside the pot is eleven, which would bring the total to thirty. Think about it, thirty pieces of silver.”

“You’re not saying that…”

“This may be the blood money Judas Iscariot received for betraying Christ, and if I’m right then these coins are cursed and may be the reason our victim is now a charcoal briquette.”

To be continued…

©2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Can You Meet My Conditions?

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

You tell me that you love me and desire nothing more than to be with me, but I must make you understand that entering into a relationship with me is a job you must be on call for 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, regardless of prior personal commitments, non-life-threatening illnesses, and sensitive family matters including death. You must be highly trained in a form of self-defense, be in excellent physical condition, and be ready at a moment’s notice to defend not only my life but my honor as well.

I only date the very best of the best, and my dating pool is so elite that less than 20 percent of all potential suitors are excepted for training, and only a fraction of them make the grade to become applicants. Applications are submitted to my parents, and to have their applications accepted, potential suitors must be highly motivated and disciplined, and possess a strong history of long-term infidelity-free dating, as well as an immaculate husbandly appearance.

If appointed, a potential suitor is assigned to one of my aides for a 2 week training period where they will be trained on the particulars that will be expected of them, which includes following strict rules, training guidelines, and the need for complete dedication and commitment to the relationship.

The training cycle is intense, consisting of a series of 5 exhaustive tests over 6 to 12 months. These tests focus on ceremonial performance, wardrobe preparation, and knowledge. If the potential suitor completes the training cycle and passes the tests, they are able to flawlessly conduct 7 different types of ceremonies, meet the highest standards of small talk preparation in a variety of subjects and recite 35 pages of my background and family history without error.

The successful suitor is awarded the title of Inamorato, and will be from then on referred to as my consort. To understand how serious this is to be, the title of Inamorato can be revoked for any act that brings disrespect to myself or my family. If this happens, charges will be filed, remuneration will be sought, and an active attempt will be made to ruin your life forever.

Do you still find me attractive?

Of Things Read About and Dreamt

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

In spite of the pleasant weather forecast prediction, a rogue thunderstorm struck Friday evening, the likes of which had not been seen since the days of Noah and the flood, ruining the plans of revelers looking to get a headstart on their wild weekend festivities.

Titus Shelton’s plans hadn’t been affected by the unexpected downpour in the least, as he had always been a bit of a homebody. Even as a child, he was perfectly comfortable being alone with his books, preferring the company of fictional characters, and losing himself within their fantasy worlds. Sometimes, he would even combine the characters from different novels and create better stories and more exciting worlds within his own vivid imagination. And now, this weather, considered ghastly by most, provided him with the proper backdrop for a perfect evening spent at home.

Entering the spacious high-ceilinged living room decorated in dark wood furniture, Titus strode across the carpeted floor, past the curio filled with odd knick-knacks, and the baby grand piano, to the inlaid mahogany bookcase. Running a delicate finger across the numerous title-embossed leather spines, he made a selection, and carried it to his favorite seat, the plump armchair positioned closest to the fire burning in the hearth.

He loved this chair because it contoured to his shape, offering maximum comfort as he read, which he did this night until he dozed off, and as happened on many an occasion, he brought aspects of the novel with him into dreamland. This particular book had been a gothic horror tale about an ancient nocturnal creature who feasted on the evil that existed in every human being since the original sin was committed. In the dream, he was alone in a dark, foggy petrified forest, being chased by a figure he could not see clearly, who traveled from shadow to shadow. Through dream logic, he knew his only hope was to reach a well-lit area, for the illumination would have provided a barrier against the darkness. But the creature was gaining ground…

There was a noise.

Titus woke abruptly, confused. Was the noise a part of his dream, or had it come from within the house? He pricked his ears, listening in silence for the noise to sound again. Nothing. When he tried to move his head, to verify that he was alone in the room, Titus discovered he was locked in a sleep paralysis.

The noise again! A scritchy-scratchy sound, like nails clawing at the inside of a coffin lid. Something was definitely inside his house…and it was coming for him! Rationality abandoned him as his mind, overtaken by his imagination, grasped at straws. He wondered if the book he was reading contained some sort of incantation and had he unknowingly summoned something from an ancient dark realm? And, in dreaming it into existence, had he brought this nightmare into the waking world?

Titus looked at the burning logs in the fireplace. Surely they cast enough light to keep him safe within, he thought. But the security of that thought was short-lived, for a fog impossibly began to roll into the living room, and when it touched the logs, the flames dimmed. Then, the temperature in the room dropped drastically, becoming so cold that he saw the condensation of his breath that was coming in frantic little gasps.

Although he could not see behind him, Titus imagined a creature slinking from shadow to shadow, drawing closer and closer…

He struggled in his mind, his brain commanding his body to stand up and flee to the safety of a place filled with light, but nothing moved, not even a pinky. He was still in the thrall of the paralysis, still locked to his favorite armchair.

More scratching noises, this time closer, and the cold air filled with a hot, sickly sweet, fragrant cloud of burning sulfur that singed the edges of his nostrils.

From the corner of his eye, he detected movement! Impossibly long white fingers crawled in a spider motion across his shoulders, and he felt a mouth crowded with sharp teeth kiss the tender flesh of his exposed neck.

“Oh, it’s you, Mother,” Titus breathed a sigh of relief, as the sleep paralysis finally loosened its grip. “Welcome home.”

©2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Greetings from Europa – Fifteenth Transmission: Death and Rebirth

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

First Transmission * Second Transmission * Third Transmission * Fourth Transmission * Fifth Transmission * Sixth Transmission * Seventh Transmission * Eighth Transmission * Ninth Transmission * Tenth Transmission * Eleventh Transmission * Twelfth Transmission * Thirteenth Transmission * Fourteenth Transmission

Greetings from Europa!

Meis’lo is old, even by Europan standards, and has a tendency to speak in alien hyperbole, simile, metaphor, and analogy, most of which I understand, some of which I have to extrapolate the meaning from the surrounding story, and others that I take wide stabs at in the dark. I need you to keep this in mind as I translate and paraphrase what he told me he witnessed as a young child at the highest point of the mountain Pwyll, the day the spiritual prophet Nes’Tim was slain.

Before the arrival of Nes’Tim, we, the land and the people, were not as you see it now. We were…less. Different in form, different in thought. Our thoughts were simple: Find food. Find shelter. The world was ice. Food lived in the water beneath the ice. We were not strong enough to break the ice, so we searched for cracks that led to crevasses in the surface to the water below in order to reach food. Many died while trying to capture food and became food themselves.

And then one day a being appeared in our sky. It was unlike anything we had ever seen before, above or below the ice. We had no concept of what it was but it moved as if it was alive, so to our hungry eyes, it was food.

It streaked across the sky and landed on the peak of Pwyll with such a tremendous force that shook the ground. We climbed the mountain and found it lying still, but alive. Whether it was injured before or because of crashing into Pwyll, I could not say, but we all knew it was dying.

When we entered Nes’Tim, I could feel its torture, its struggle to survive. I wanted to feed but I also wanted this being to survive, the others, the Sel’Tab, did not. They wanted to feast on the parts that gave Nes’Tim life and I alone stood in opposition, but I was not enough.

As they began feasting on the heart, Nes’tim released a scream, a noise ringing with tremendous power as it bounced off of the rocks and echoed through our bodies. That was the beginning of Alum’Vedca for us all. This wise and powerful being had called forth its heralds, despite being devoured by we lesser entities, and they covered the lands and all who lived above and beneath the ice with the prophet’s grace. From that moment on, we were changed.

When Meis’lo said they entered Nes’Tim, although I had no visual reference, I pictured him and his people walking into the mouth of a giant space whale. But when he placed a finger to the ground and scratched out in the dirt a rough image of what Nes’Tim’s heralds looked like, my entire perspective changed. His crude drawing resembled one of the terraforming pods launched from Earth.

Then I was hit with a bizarre thought. Meis’lo said that before Nes’Tim, they were less. What if he meant that they were microbes, or some other tiny organisms, tapeworms, even, trying to make a home in a body, the way bacteria does. What if, as they were attaching themselves to Nes’Tim’s body, the terraforming pods landed on Europa and released their biological nanotech payload, which bonded to the predeveloped Europans and the space whale and combined their genetic codes on a subatomic level and repurposed them, initiating the evolutionary process that eventually matured into the beings I have come to know and love?

What if the connection I suspected between the Europans and the land was due to the fact that on a fundamental level, there was no separation between them? Just like the astrophysicists on Earth believe we’re all made of stardust, what if the developed life on this moon was a genetic combination of land minerals, indigenous microscopic organisms, the space whale they called Nes’Tim, and NASA funded terraforming nanotechnology?

My mind hurts. I need to rest and process this.

Until next broadcast, this is Captain Edwards, signing off.

Text and Audio ©2014 & 2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Glossary of Terms

  • Abogzons – Gynecological engineers.
  • Agvann – Translation: The will of Nes’Tim; an accident.
  • Alum’Vedca – The day marking the new solar cycle of Peace and Maturity; a tribute to the era when Europans evolved from their primitive prey state.
  • Arcek – A spiritual theologian
  • Biem – A time to show respect for the aged.
  • Biss’ore – Travelers, nomads
  • Bokloryn – An unrepayable debt; an act that places the receiver in a lifetime contract of servitude.
  • Cu’nal – A biological storage unit.
  • Denpa – An envoy equipped with an audiographic memory that can store and recall spoken messages at will in the same voice, tone and inflection of the original person who spoke it, who travels from village to village to deliver messages from other communities both near and far.
  • Egami – A docile mineral-based creatures primarily used for family transportation due to the fact they are virtually inexhaustible.
  • Gates of Juh’holl – Europan afterlife; where souls are released from the flesh to become stardust and rejoin the universe.
  • Grahas – A gerbil-sized creature, resembling a stone armadillo, that emits heat when stroked.
  • Homnils – A warm, yet sad, reminiscence about something in the past.
  • Ipu llqr mwyll xfrr – Abogzon credo meaning “success or death”; satisfaction guaranteed.
  • Isogoles – Europan monthly day of pay.
  • Jampi – Captain Edward’s son.
  • Jbwqnadb – The Europan spelling of lemonade.
  • Jhisal – Meis’lo’s home village.
  • Klanea – Translation: unknown to us; stranger.
  • Mecot’ra – Unterraformed areas of Europa.
  • Meis’lo – The only surviving witness to the murder of  the prophet Nes’Tim.
  • Micdow yl – The vessels of new life; children.
  • Nes’Tim – The most revered spiritual prophet on Europa, slain by a heretic tribe who call themselves Sel’Tab.
  • Pwyll – Europa’s highest mountain.
  • Qik’climajh – Depending on its usage in a sentence, denotes either the act of telling a story, or the storyteller themselves.
  • Sel’Tab – A heretic tribe responsible for the death of the prophet Nes’Tim.
  • Shig’umfu – “Interesting world of another”; a documentary qik’climajh in which neighbors tell the story of a person’s life as learned from casual conversations.
  • Spo – Food.
  • Uz Cu’nal – A biological storage unit used primarily for food preservation.
  • Uz – An unspeakable sexual act; a derogatory term; an insult.

The Pier

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Trigger warning: The following post is a work of fiction that deals with the subject of suicide. If you have been affected by any of the issues raised here, or are contemplating suicide, or worried about a friend or loved one, or would like emotional support, click this link for U.S. and International Hotline phone numbers for immediate help. Someone is available to help 24 hours every day.

The pier was considered an eyesore by local residents. Missing and broken dock planks and wooden posts jutting out of the choppy waters at odd angles, led the pier to being declared unsafe and it should have been destroyed ages ago, but the funding wasn’t available and most likely wouldn’t be until it resulted in a tragic death. As a deterrent, the city posted several warning signs, which went virtually unheeded.

It became a local hotspot for midnight teen make-out parties, as well as a junkie shoot-up spot, and today, it was the place where Lucas Warren decided to make the biggest decision of his entire life. He parked himself on the edge of the rotten wooden dock, with a six pack of beer on one side, and a handgun on the other.

All of 16 years old, he reached the end of a hysterical crying jag, his breath hitched as he wiped tears and snot from his face. Lifting the pistol, he pressed the cold metal muzzle to his temple, took a deep breath, and began to squeeze the trigger.

“Hey!” a voice called out behind him.

Startled, Lucas jolted and his finger jerked on the trigger.

Click.

There was a brief instant when the world made no sense. He should have felt something, surely. There was no way in hell that death was this painless. When the instant passed and he realized that nothing happened, Lucas spun his head around, locked eyes on the old man standing behind him, and shot him a dagger stare that would have taken down Godzilla.

“What the hell’s your problem, sneaking up on people like that?” Lucas raged. “Somebody coulda got hurt!”

“Wasn’t my intention to scare you,” the old man said. “Just trying to get your attention. As far as somebody getting hurt, seems to me that was your intention, but I knew it wouldn’t happen.”

“What are you talking about? You made me pull the trigger!”

“Get it straight, kiddo, I didn’t make you do a damned thing,” the old man said, and gestured at the gun. “Besides, the safety’s on. Don’t know much about guns, do you?”

Lucas looked at the gun and the entirety of his being deflated. The moment was gone, and his will and determination to see the act through had departed with it. Once again he could feel the tears coming on, so he shoved his face into the crook of his arm and tried his best to suppress his emotions.

“No need to hide your face,” said the old man. “Tears are nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Go away and mind your own goddamn business!”

“Well, that’s what I was trying to do, but you’re in my spot.”

“Your spot?”

“Yup. Been coming here before you were a gleam in your daddy’s eye. So, if you don’t mind finding another location…”

“You’re not going to try to stop me?”

“How can I? If you aim to do harm to yourself, there’s nobody in the world that can prevent that.”

“If this is some kind of trick, some reverse psychology thing, you’re wasting your time.”

“Son, if I were trying to talk you down, I’d be asking how you are, and telling you how you don’t seem like your usual self, which wouldn’t make sense because I don’t know you, do I? Then I’d bang on about my terrible week before asking you about yours, in order to show you you’re not alone in struggling with the crap life tosses our way. And I’d let you know that these things that appear to be insurmountable at present will seem minuscule in the rearview mirror of your life, all while using non-verbal cues like making eye contact, nodding while you’re talking, you know, things like that. And then we’d get to the tough bit, where I ask you if you really want to hurt yourself?”

“I hurt all the time,” Lucas admitted.

“I definitely know what that’s like, been there a few times myself,” the old man said. “Speaking of which, my legs are getting a little stiff. If you’re not going to move, I’m going to need to sit down.”

There was a space on either side of Lucas, by the six pack and by the gun the teenager placed on the pier. Without getting permission, the old man sat next to the beer, tapped a finger on one of the condensation beaded cans and said, “If you aren’t interested in these bad boys, I know a fella who’ll take one off your hands.”

“Go ahead,” Lucas said.

“Much obliged,” the old man tipped an invisible hat, pulled a beer free from the plastic yoke, popped the top and took two sips before saying, “I’m going to tell you a story.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what people do when they drink. They sit around and tell each other stories. Now, shut up and listen.”

A man is walking down the street one day, not paying attention to where he’s going, and he falls down a hole. The hole is too deep and too steep to climb out of, so he begins yelling for help. People pass by and ignore his pleas but eventually, a doctor walks up.

The man yells, “Doc, I fell in this hole and I need help getting out.”

So, the doctor writes the man a prescription, tears it off his pad, tosses it into the hole, and goes on his merry way.

The man goes back to calling for help, and a little while later, a priest walks up.

The man yells, “Father, help me, please! I fell into this hole and I can’t get out.”

So, the priest says a prayer for the man and goes about his business.

Just when the man’s voice is about to give out, his friend shows up.

“Buddy, am I glad to see you,” the man says. “I’m stuck in this hole and I can’t climb out!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, his friend jumps down into the hole, and the man is furious.

“Why the hell did you do that? Now we’re both stuck down here!”

His friend smiles and says, “Yeah, but I’ve been here before, and I know the way out.”

When the story was done, the old man looked Lucas squarely in the eye, proffered his hand and said, “My name’s Lowell, I’ve been down this hole before, and I know the way out.”

Lucas stared at the old man’s outstretched hand for a long while before saying, “I knew you were lying to me.”

“You can believe what you want to, son, but this is the spot I come to when I need to get a little perspective,” Lowell said, setting the beer down and retrieving an old yellowing piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it carefully and ran a finger over the the ink that was smudged from old tears and faded with time.

“I was your age, maybe a little bit older than you when I wrote this. My life was a toilet and everyone had their turn taking a dump in it. You’re supposed to be able to turn to your family for support, but my folks had no time for me, they were too busy fighting one another because my mother loved betting the ponies as much as my father loved whiskey. I had to drop out of school and get a job just to make sure the bills got paid. Instead of appreciating the effort of me chipping in, they took advantage and stuck me with all the bills while they blew their money on gambling and cheap booze.

“Then one day, I reached that point, you know, that breaking point and I took a long hard look at my life and decided it just wasn’t worth it. So, I wrote this note, to nobody in particular, it’s just a page full of pain and anger directed at the world. I meant to shove it in my jacket pocket so they’d find it when they found my body, but my head wasn’t right and I wound up leaving it in my bedroom.

“Now, this next bit is going to sound like some hippie-dippie nonsense, but sometimes life has a way of showing you just how wrong you are regarding the things you’re absolutely certain about. Brooke stopped by my parent’s apartment, she was a girl I was seeing, absolutely out of my league, and I couldn’t provide for her, not the way she deserved, so I avoided her. My parents let her in because they didn’t care if I was home or not, and she found the note.

“How she thought to look for me on this dock, I’ll never know. I never brought her here, never talked about it being the place I came to think things through. Somehow, she just knew. And there I was, seconds away from doing what you were trying to do, only I had a piece of crap .38 special that I bought off of a guy named Creepy Pete for a carton of smokes. The thing was so old and busted up it probably would have exploded in my hand.

“And Brooke shows up telling me she’s pregnant and wasn’t going to explain to our baby that her father was a quitter. Not her baby, she said our baby, and something in the way she said it, hit me like a locomotive. Suddenly I felt like I had something to live for, and I started making positive changes.

“It wasn’t an easy journey, believe me. Moving into a fleabag studio apartment with Brooke and the baby, working crummy jobs and barely scraping by to get the bills paid as I made my way through night school in order to get a degree so I could land better jobs and move my family into better places to live. But I did it, as well as making Brooke an honest woman and we’ve been happily married for nearly 50 years. And my son graduated magna cum laude, landed the job of his dreams, married a wonderful woman and has two daughters of his own now. Prettiest grandchildren to ever walk God’s green earth.

“So, no, I didn’t lie to you. I come here every year on the anniversary of Brooke saving and changing my life and I re-read my suicide note as a reminder to be grateful for my second chance.

“But enough about me. How are you?” Lowell asked, making eye contact as Lucas shared his story, and nodding to show that he was listening.

Songs As Stories: The Unspeakable Act

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

*Inspired by the song “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” by Paul Simon

It all began with a sound.

Mama Pajama knew every sound her house made as it settled at night, which was why she jolted awake when she heard an unfamiliar noise. She rolled out of bed without waking Papa, slid her feet into her sheepskin slippers, and stepped into the hallway.

The odd sound, human, yet somehow alien at the same time, was coming from Alfred’s bedroom. She approached eagerly yet cautiously, resisting the temptation to call out to her son, especially if it turned out to be something harmless. She didn’t want to be accused of being an overprotective mom, or even worse, a nosy parker. She was about to rap lightly on the door when she found it was slightly ajar. Before she realized what she was doing, her hand was pushing the door open.

Later, Mama Pajama would attempt to describe what she had seen, several times to several different people and each time she would fail miserably. In the room, her son and his best friend, Julio and a girl she couldn’t identify facially but knew her instantly as Rosie because of the Queen of Corona tattoo on her left shoulder, were all stark naked doing…

She simply didn’t know what. Applying logic to the reason why what she saw was indescribable, she cited the invisible ships phenomenon relating to the myth of Captain James Cook’s 1770 voyage off the coast of Australia, in which the indigenous people were unable to see the 106-foot long ship, Endeavour. Popular belief was that the huge ships were so alien to everything the natives knew to be true, that they were mentally, and therefore physically, unable to register it. That was what happened in her son’s room. What Mama Pajama saw defied perception, which meant it defied description.

It wasn’t sex. That was something she needed to clarify each time she explained that the trio was naked in her son’s bedroom. Or if it was sex, it wasn’t like any kind she had ever witnessed, even when she found herself down bizarre internet pornography rabbit holes, on the odd occasion she required inspiration for her self-pleasure.

But she knew it was against the law. Against Newton’s Laws of Motion, against the law of physics and against the law of Nature. Not that she could have cited specifics, it was simply something she felt in her waters.

She had no choice but to wake Papa, more than for him to bear witness. Perhaps he could see what she clearly could not. It turned out he couldn’t, but the image, instead of conjuring confusion as it did for her, filled him with rage. He saw a wrongness in the architecture of their bizarre union that sent his mind spinning toward the outer fringes of sanity. He attempted to storm into the room but was barred, as if by some invisible wall of force. He raged against the barrier, and screamed obscenities at Alfred, but neither had any effect. Papa raced back into the master bedroom, picked up the phone and dialed 911.

By the time the squad car arrived, Julio and Rosie had long departed, leaving Alfred alone and naked in his bedroom, that still emanated energies of the unspeakable, unknowable act, so though Officer McCorkle had no idea what to charge the teen with, he knew it was in the best interest of the family and the whole town, to lock Alfred up and somehow convince Judge Comstock to place him in solitary confinement somewhere far, far away and throw away the key.

But on their way to the station, the squad car was sideswiped by a black 1986 Buick Regal and forced off the road and into the fence of the local schoolyard. The driver, a middle-aged man dressed in a black robe and dog collar, bolted from the Buick and wrestled the pistol and handcuff key away from the officer, but not before McCorkle managed to put in a radio dispatch for back up.

Alfred was confused and terrified until he saw Julio and Rosie climb out of the Buick and rush over to the squad car to release him.

“Who the hell is this guy?” Alfred asked, pointing at the priest wrestling with McCorkle.

“Father Adeptus,” Julio said matter-of-factly as if that explained everything.

“Don’t worry, he’s on our side,” Rosie said, catching the handcuff key tossed by the priest and freeing Al’s wrists.

“How did you find him?” Al asked.

“Actually, he found us,” Julio said. “When we left your house, he was waiting for us, like he knew where we’d be.”

“Says he’s got a lot to teach us about who we are and what we can do,” Rosie added.

Alfred looked dubious. “And you trust him?”

“Yeah,” Rosie nodded, without even thinking about it. “Don’t ask me why, but I do.”

In a lucky wild swing, Father Adeptus managed to strike McCorkle’s temple with the butt of the pistol, knocking the officer unconscious, just as the sound of a distant siren filled the air.

Adeptus turned to the teenagers, “We have to leave!”

“You go,” Rosie said. “I’ll create a distraction.”

Adeptus wiped his fingerprints off the gun, returned it to McCorkle’s holster, and he and Julio made their way to the Buick.

Alfred grabbed Rosie by the wrist, “There’s no way we’re leaving you behind. Come on.” He attempted to pull her along, but Rosie planted her feet and wouldn’t budge.

“Relax, hero,” Rosie said, kissing Alfred gently. “I know where you’re headed. I’ll catch up.”

But there was a connection between them, perhaps it was always there or maybe it was due to how they had joined in his bedroom, and Alfred found that he was physically unable to walk away from her. Sensing his desire to stay, and thereby fouling up her plan, Rosie frog-marched Alfred to the Buick and shoved him inside, slamming the car door shut behind him.

Alfred pressed his hands against the car window, his face full of embarrassment, anger, and maybe even love, as he asked, “Are you one hundred percent sure about this?”

Rosie tore her shirt sleeve, revealing her tattoo, and rubbed dirt from the soft shoulder on her face and clothes.

“I got this, trust me. See you in a few,” The Queen of Corona said, tossing Alfred a smile and a nod before running toward the sound of the sirens, waving her arms frantically.

“Goodbye, Rosie,” Alfred said as the car pulled off.

The Buick was on its way and although Father Adeptus told him the meetup destination was the corporate offices of Newsweek, Alfred had no idea where the journey would eventually take them.

To be continued…

©2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Challenge Accepted

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Shari found herself standing on the veranda, the sun having set without her realizing, and the cold cigarette butt between her fingers burnt down to the filter. The party in the ballroom behind her wound down some time ago and only the stragglers who dreaded returning to the dullness of their home lives remained, desperate to make any sort of connection with another human being. She, of course, was not one of those people. She had simply gotten lost in her thoughts, but couldn’t recall, for the life of her, what she had been thinking about for all those hours.

“Certainly is a nice night,” a man said, stepping onto the veranda. His voice was kind and jovial on the surface but the undertow of his desire was evident.

“You’re wasting your time, my friend,” Shari said without turning around, because she had no interest in his appearance. “I don’t keep up with current jargon or buzzwords, so forgive me if this phrase is outdated, but you should consider me to be self-partnered.”

“I see,” the man said, halting in his approach. “My name’s Drew, by the way. And you are…?”

“Single as a dollar and not looking for change,” Shari flicked the cigarette butt onto the street below, fished a fresh one from the open pack in her handbag, struck a match on the stone railing and steadied her hand to light it. The man was too close for her comfort and his own good.

“Well, I didn’t mean to bother you,” Drew said. “You just seemed like a perfectly nice person, in need of a little company, to me.”

“That’s because you’re too young to know what warning signs to look out for,” Shari smiled wanly and let the smoke stream out in lazy snakes.

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“Am I? What do you see when you look at me? I mean, really see.”

“That’s easy, and this may sound cheesy, but you’re a beautiful woman, I mean, beauty beyond compare, who’s probably been alone so long that she’s become lost in her loneliness, someone, I think, who is in desperate need of the right person to pull her from the depths of her despair.”

“And you think you’re that person?”

“I could be.”

“But what if you’re wrong? What if what I actually am is a thing you should not ever invite into your life?”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“I would so destroy you.”

“Challenge accepted.”

Shari took a long last pull on her cigarette, flicked it off the veranda to join its partner, and turned to face the brazen young man. She let out a long, slow breath, and when the smoke cleared, she let this Drew see her for what she was.

Rooted to the spot, confidence beading on his flesh and evaporating like sweat, Drew stared into the pools of obsidian that were Shari’s eyes which were set beneath the veil of willows that was her hair, and those eyes announced very clearly that there were no sweets left to taste in her garden. But it wasn’t only her abyss-eyed stare that rocked him to his core, it was this woman’s entire demeanor which cast such a somber moral hue filled with vice and disease over the patch of paradise that was his soul.

Among her sisters, Shari was considered the black sheep, because she actually felt remorse when feeding, especially when she wasn’t hungry, but this fellow had been well and truly warned, and she had never been the type to back down from a challenge.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

When it was Joanie Hayden’s turn, she strode proudly to the head of the classroom with her school writing assignment written neatly in cursive in blue ink on lined loose-leaf paper. Despite her confident posture, she looked a bit of a mess. She was noticeably thinner and paler since last semester, and her hair wasn’t quite as neat, her dress was on the rumpled side, and her patent leather shoes lacked their normal shine.

Nevertheless, she stood straight-backed, feet shoulder-length apart, cleared her throat, and read her assignment in a voice loud enough to be heard in the back of the room, “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.”

Familiar with the rules of engaging the audience, rather than remaining stationary, she moved while speaking, walking around the open space and using active hand gestures to show how passionate she was about her topic.

She told a story of being locked in the cellar, nearly starved to death and having to survive on the cheese taken from rat traps, as well as enduring the occasional beating in silence so that she didn’t make her mother’s new friend mad, whenever he came around to visit.

The last page of the assignment she held up so that her shocked teacher and classmates could see. It was a detailed map done up in colored pencils, indicating where the bodies of her mother and her new friend could be found.

A girl could only take so much, after all.

©2021 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys